[Fons Van Der Noot] His muscles more than just tightened as the beast threatens to break free and bring the old ways back with this. Maybe the Imperigum was not such a bad idea after all. The rage seemed to seethe within him, boiling up and warming the air about him unnaturally. For the moment it seemed that Gabriella had placated the beast with her touch.
And then Izzy has to get the last word.
“Ik zal scheuren haar keel uit en voeden het haar, totdat het bloed stopt Spurting uit haar nek.”
He looked back to Gabbie, a part of his still wishing to run off and inflict as much pain upon her as humanly possible for she passes out. Then healing her just to punish her again.
“It seems that the crap rises quite quickly in this city.”
And then comes the man, grasping at his coat. And once again he is almost at the edge again. The rage shimmering to his breaking point.
“3”
That is all he said, waiting until he can count down to zero and let loose the suffering.
[Delmar Meister] He looked at Gabriella with a bit of bewilderment, as if he didn’t realize he was holding on to a strange and obviously dangerous man’s coat. Which he still was, at that time at least. The same odd stare gets cast toward Fons. Its only after he calls out some random number that Delmar looks down at his hand and the fabric held there that he seems to realize what his hand has done, apparently without his even being aware of it.
Delmar stares at that naughty, naughty hand. And then he rubs the fabric between his fingers.
“Uhhhh…this is a nice coat. Where’d you uhhhhh….where’d you get it?”
And then he drops it, and takes a stiff-legged step backward.
[Fons Van Der Noot] “2”
That was all, just 2.
[Gabriella Bellamonte] Delmar stared back and forth between the young woman and the enraged, looming man. He rubbed his fingers at the tail of the trenchcoat, complimented it, and then stepped away. Fons kept his countdown going, and Gabriella looked from him to Delmar, appearing distraught, not emotionally, but professionally. In the way that someone looks when they have a week’s worth of paperwork that they need to finish by the end of the day.
She was reluctant to be anything but sternly, obviously platonic with Fons. She didn’t want to encourage anything, to have him approaching Kate or Edward with plans for a future. She was still determined to live the life of a childless old maid, after all. Another quick glance was cut to Delmar, then she turned her attention back to Fons, turned her body to face him directly instead of having him at her side. Reluctant she may be, but she knew her responsibilities on the level of being a Kinfolk, not necessarily because she was Silver Fang. This is what any good Kin ought to do. Her gloved hand traveled down Fons’s arm, from his elbow to his hand, and she grasped at his fingers, squeezed to try and draw his focus.
“Not. Here,” she reminded him, and nodded her head indicatively toward the building that Izzy and numerous other cops were holed up in. “If you brawl in front of police, you will be arrested for assault. You think that the woman in there isn’t itching for an excuse to shoot you and put you in cuffs? Don’t involve them, please.”
Don’t turn my day to madness.
[Delmar Meister] “Ey uhhh…take it easy, Rhya. I was just uhhhhh…admirin your duds. I’m uhhh….big fan of coats m-myself.”
He looks nervously between the two. A worried glance up to Gabriella. A pleading look up to Fons. But not at his eyes. Dear god, do not look him in the eyes.
“Big fan.”
[Fons Van Der Noot] “1”
Fons was near the edge of his countdown, the rage almost exploding from his form. Looking to find purchase in the flesh of this horrific creature that had disrespected his territory. And then he came to notice, through the haze of his fury, that this man held the blood of Norse as well, the air charged even more with Rage. He was going to take the punishment due Izzy from this one, a just cause.
Gabriella was trying her hardest to placate his ire, to draw down the beast and, as Izzy said, ‘put him on a leash.’ Even with her soft and somewhat comforting touch, with the logical and understanding words, he was focused on this man still.
“Ze….”
And then Delmar spoke and he stops himself. For the moment he seemed to be stuck in pause, his chin rising slightly at the comment of rhya, eyes still locked down on him.
“I was going to take the punishment reserved for your kin within the flesh of you. But it seems improper for one who knows proper respect to be punished for the sins of those that don’t.”
He pulls his coat from the man, moving slightly.
“But it is wise to respect the territory and goods of another.”
A sage nod to the man, and then a glance back to Gabbie, his face falling to her hand locked on his own. A quizzical look offered to her now, her words seeming falling on deaf ears.
[Gabriella Bellamonte] Fons didn’t even blink when she brandished logic and soothing tones at him, simply continued to bear down upon the Get of Fenris that Gabriella did not know, did not recognize, but was aware of being Garou by use of the word ‘-Rhya’, and by his not fleeing from or visibly quailing under the Silver Fang’s threat to attack.
…Well, more a promise than a threat, truly. Everything about Fons’s body screamed of restraint, slipping restraint at that. Gabriella was flinching, muscles tensed, torso pulled inward in anticipation of the worst. But then something locked, brakes squealed and gears ground for a moment, working backwards to bring the ire to a halt. He tipped his chin upward, his nostrils flared just a little, and pride swelled up like a pleased, preening bird’s would. Gabbie relaxed, tension slipping out of her shoulders, and the sigh of relief that she exhaled was visible in the frigid air in front of her.
Delmar seemed to be off the hook, but Fons was now looking at her curiously, glancing at their linked hands before looking into her face again. Her brow creased in a fine mix of frustration and displeasure, and she released his hand with a quiet huff. “You didn’t hear a word I said.”
[Fons Van Der Noot] (I swear I heard you. Honest)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Delmar Meister] “Heh.” Is all he manages, and with a relieved and timid smile, he shrugs, holds the posture, and lets his hands come up with a motion of surrender.
“Never uhhhhh…..never happen again.”
A finger points crudely in the direction Izzy disappeared to.
“And I’ll uhhh…make sure I straighten her uhhhh…straighten her out. Okay?”
[Fons Van Der Noot] He looks at Gabbie for a moment, pulling his attention from the Fenrir born to his own kin. He was not very good at reading much in the way of body language and the like, but it was quite obvious that she was upset at him at this moment. He watched her brow and her eyes to try and get a better understanding of what was wrong.
“Bien sûr que je vous ai entendu, mais je crois qu’il est sage de nous discuter de cette question plus longuement à une date ultérieure. Pas parmi les tribus de moindre importance.”
Then he focus back on Delmar for a second, watching him.
“That is indeed very wise of you, she should learn proper etiquette, before she gets herself hurt from such a brazen tongue.”
[Gabriella Bellamonte] The girl peered at Fons for a moment, then folded her gray coat-clad arms over a chest draped with the excess of her soft, slate-gray scarf and settled her weight back into the heels of her boots. She sniffed once, though it was against the cold rather than because of Fons, even if the timing did lay out curiously, and fell into silence for the time being. He was right, on some level, once you dug past the arrogance in the statement.
Later.
(Hopefully never.)
For now she just observed Delmar, studying him like she was trying to figure him out. Rather than hawklike, as one might expect from a bloodline that followed birds of prey and revered them, her gaze was open and honest as opposed to scrutinizing and predatory. She was far from haughty, didn’t stick her cold-reddened nose into the air or puff out her chill-flushed cheeks in self-importance. Rather, she merely learned.
[Genevre de Provence] Genevre lived in Lake View, and thus, would be good reason why she would be found in such an area. She had just finished up some errands when she found herself walking home in the cold. Her black overcoat tight sharply, and white crochet knit hat placed just right.
It wouldn’t be too long before she would find herself near Fons, Gabbie and the others.
[Fons Van Der Noot] (Post around me, I will be right back)
[Delmar Meister] Delmar was like mouse, cornered in the kitchen. He seemed to be devoting everything in him to making himself seems smaller, insignificant even, and his eyes dart between the two of them nervously, as if expecting either of them to make a move.
When neither of them do, he slowly unfurls from his cowering state.
“Well it was uhhhh…nice running into you. We ought to uhhh….do it again some time.”
And just like that cornered mouse, he gave an attempt at a quick, lateral retreat.
[Gabriella Bellamonte] Fons seemed content to keep still, pull inward, and push his Rage back down into a more contained state. It would take most all of his concentration to accomplish this, what with the Gibbous moon shining so brightly in the harsh, virtually cloudless sky. There had to be a thin layer of them up there somewhere, invisible in the dark sky, because snow had started to dust ever-so-lightly the cityscape, making it closer to picturesque, making the gray and black slush piled up against the curbs easier to ignore, so long as you kept your eyes above foot level.
Delmar was hunting for an escape, eager to take his leave now that the Kinfolk that seemed to have been his responsibility by Tribe relation (though she was unaware of which one this was) was out of the picture. She swore she could see his chest moving with rapid breaths, even though the puff of mist from his mouth and nostrils didn’t match what she was imagining. He droned out a farewell, dismissing himself, and all but scampered away.
She’d never seen a Garou scamper before.
Shivering a little, she glanced up to Fons, tucked her gloved hands more securely between her arms and her sides, and shifted her gaze up the sidewalk in the other direction. …Oh look, that mouthy Provence woman.
[Genevre de Provence] She saw Fons, and then Gabbie, and a sigh came from her. Slowly she made her way to the Fangs, a bow of her head was giving to Fons (when he returns) and then one to Gabbie. ” ‘Ow are you doing this evening?” She sounded much more cordial, more submissive.
[Gabriella Bellamonte] The smile that Gabriela offered came from lips left their natural color this evening. She had not intended to impress tonight, merely to escape, so her make-up was non-existent. Her freckles stood out on her light-colored skin, cheeks and nose flushed red with cold. Her brows were left light rather than darkened dramatically with liner, and her lips were a natural light pink rather than darkened to her favored shade. Eyes were left looking wide and earnest by the lack of mascara and eyeliner to darken them, make them appear smoky.
She parried the bow of a head with a simple, though similarly cordial nod.
“I fare well, thank you. And yourself?”
She wouldn’t speak for Fons, though.
[Genevre de Provence] “As well as one could expect, mon ami.” Although, by most appearances, it doesn’t seem like Genevre has gotten much sleep since their last meeting.
[Edward Bellamonte] Gabbie’d left without a coat. It’s been a while since she left, and Edward stares at her coat; he’s wearing some . . . thing Kate ordered for him, and it’s a bit big. The quality’s fine, but the Ragabash of the dark eyes and darker thoughts swims in clothes that should fit him nicely, easily.
Gabbie’s cold, he tells himself, in an attempt to get out of the door. Slowly, he reaches out to take her jacket from the closet; his hand hovers an inch or three out, as if the fabric meant to keep warm and well might do him some sort of harm. It takes three tries, the taking of her coat does, and then another one or two to get his.
He likes it here, inside and away from everyone and everything.
But his sister must surely be cold.
Eventually, he manages it – he makes his way outside, downstairs, and fumbles with the mobile he’s half forgotten how to use. He’s walking, wrapped in a coat of his own, and he dials.
Somewhere, Gabbie’s phone rings.
[Gabriella Bellamonte] Gabriella had smiled pleasantly to Genevre and nodded to show her understanding of the statement. As well as one can be. Boy did she know that story. She could chew your ear off with the story of doing as well as you can with the cards you’ve been dealt. She heard people at her university lamenting over stories they read, wishing that they could be princesses, be swept away by someone royal and rich. Gabriella would scoff. They had no idea what they were wishing upon themselves.
She didn’t have much to say, she wasn’t big on idle chit-chat these days, but luckily just when the silence started to become awkward Gabriella’s cellphone rang in her coat pocket. Pop! Goes the Weasel was the ringtone, set once upon a time ago for the sake of irony and a good laugh. She puzzled for a moment, murmered a quiet, reflexive “Excuse-moi,” and retrieved the phone from her pocket. She studied the name on the screen for a moment before putting the device to her ear and turning some so that she was facing the street, putting her back to Fons’s side and her left side to Genevre.
“Ed?”
[Edward Bellamonte] “Where are you?”
Edward’s always been the quietest of the Bellamonte siblings – not necessarily in volume, just in being. That’s been made more obvious since his return, when he seldom speaks at all. Not to his sisters, not to the cleaning woman he’s known much of his life, not to anyone. What he has to say spills out at night, filling the loft with the occasional inarticulate scream of Rage and fear and remembered pain.
His sisters know him well enough to know that much of what his screams speak.
His voice, so seldom used these days, is still rusty, and his thoughts come to his lips slowly, with difficulty; it’s strange and sad, really. Even if he preferred to watch and figure things out, Edward never had a problem with speaking up, laughing. Even a smile is rare these days.
“It’s cold,” he says, after a pause not long enough for her to fill. And then, “I have an extra layer for you.”
[Genevre de Provence] Genevre was polite, and turned away a bit to let Gabbie talk on the phone. Every so often, she would look over and smile. But otherwise, she was patient in waiting.
[Gabriella Bellamonte] “Astute, Ed,” Gabbie said into the little ruby-red device, having opted for something cute and simple over the flashiness of an iPhone or Blackberry or other such popular devices of the rich. The tone was familiar enough, though, that while the words were a little on the side of sarcastic they did not bite or lash. She was a kind soul overall, really.
“Thank you.” She shivered a little, an extra layer certainly wouldn’t hurt.
“Where are you?” She would glance at a street sign and mention her location to him.
[Edward Bellamonte] “In front of our building,” he says, and turns the way that will get him to her; his shoulders hunch up around his ears, and he pays just enough attention to what’s around him to not run into someone, or walk into traffic. This is the first time he’s left the loft since his return, and already he’s wishing he hadn’t.
Somewhere near him a horn blares and he flinches; Gabbie can hear the horn through the earpiece.
“I’ll be there in a couple minutes. You alright?” As much as can be, he means. It’s a common thread.
[Genevre de Provence] Still there, still quiet, and hoping FOns froze to death where he was.
[Gabriella Bellamonte] Gabbie glanced apologetically to Genevre as a horn blared into her phone, and she lifted her other hand to adjust her scarf and rub warmth back into the tip of her nose.
“Try not to get run over… I’m just fine, I have company. Some… cousins of ours. You’ll see them when you get here.”
She paused, then spoke a little quieter.
“Eddie, I’m being rude. We’ll talk when you get here, okay? I’m only a few blocks up.”
[Edward Bellamonte] “Okay,” he says. “Don’t call me that in public, you,” comes added, and there should be a smile. It should be light and teasing and amused, and it tries to be.
It really does.
“See you in a minute.” The call ends, Edward’s phone gets put back in his pocket, and he keeps walking. He has to, now – he’d told Gabbie he was coming, and even as he mentally curses this fact, he knows he’d done it for just that reason. He has to leave the loft some time, after all.
[Fons Van Der Noot] He seemed to be frozen in place for quite some time. His eyes closed, but twitching slightly as if he were in a deep, meditative sleep. Almost as if he was in REM while still standing there. But to those that recognize this, he is not here even if he physically was.
The spiritual link he shared with his ancestors at time called to him, and he responded without fail. To learn from the words of the great ancestors of his line, of his house was an honor indeed. And to be a galliard no less, it would be a wonderful story to offer those that need to learn proper breeding.
And then it is done. And he tries to blink away the potential weakness from his eyes, regaining his composure as he stood there.
And no longer just with Gabriella anymore, but that of his cousin. He blinks a few times more before, to ensure that he was not seeing things still. His words regain themselves as he gains back his form.
“Good evening cousin, I am sorry I did not see you.”
[Genevre de Provence] Hearing Fons, she looked over in his direction, but kept her head down. “Do not apologize, dear cousin. Je tiens à dire que je suis très désolé pour la façon dont j’ai agi night l’autre. S’il vous plaît pardonnez-moi, cher cousin. Je sais que tu veux dire que les meilleurs pour moi.” She stood there silent, waiting for either his answer, or the slap she deserved for the other night.
[Izzy Montoya] The building that’s been blocked with the yellow police tape, where a loud mouthed, brash and quite possibly stupid Detective Montoya disappeared into after tossing a last word toward the Fang, finally sees her stepping out again. She ducks under the tape, and continues to discuss something with the uniformed officer at her side.
When she’s done, there’s a snort as she returns a final comment. She looks up at the sky, and then down to tug her gloves on more firmly. Then she starts walking – she intends to ignore the Fangs on the corner. There’s no telling how well that will go.
[Izzy Montoya] .
to Izzy Montoya
[Fons Van Der Noot] ‘S’il vous plaît cousin, pas besoin d’excuses. Nous savons tous deux que je tiens seulement à assurer votre sécurité et votre portection. Si vous avez parlé à l’autre en tant que tel, j’ai peur de ce que sont devenus mai de vous.”
He had only looked down upon her now, his hand had not been drawn up. She was lucky to have come now, as his temper had receded within. Had he not spoken with his ancestors, this outcome may have been different.
“Now then, what ever happened to that… man?”
His eyes seem to search out the environment, looking for the fenrir that had given due respect. Only to take sight of the woman who was quite deserving of the punishment he almost set upon Delmar.
[Gabriella Bellamonte] “Alright,” was the farewell that Gabriella spoke into her phone, smiling faintly, perhaps the first genuine expression of positivity on her face, even if it was tinged with only the slightest note of sadness. The call was disconnected, and Gabriella slid the phone back into her pocket, turning to face Genevre once again while doing so, nodding and mouthing the word ‘sorry’ silently to her. This put Fons at her immediate left again, rather than to her back.
She tugged at her hat and adjusted her scarf, then tucked her hands away into the pockets of her gray trench, designed more for fashion than practicality of warmth, and glanced away while Fons and Genevre conferred in French, pretending she didn’t understand the language.
Izzy was taken note of, ducking under the tape and making her way out the door, back up the sidewalk to move by them. Gabriella stared at her for a few moments, and if eye contact was made the plea of ‘please let us slide by’ would be read loud and clear in her eyes. She didn’t want any more trouble tonight, and certainly no bloodshed. Either way, if the message was sent or not, Gabbie would look back up to Fons once he returned to English and respond smoothly.
“He left. My brother, Edward, will be here shortly.”
[Genevre de Provence] She smiled lightly as Fons forgave her, and finally, she could look up at him once more. At the mention of another man around, she looked around, even as the answer came forth that he had left.
“Fons, what were you thinking about when I arrived? You looked very much deep in thought.”
[Izzy Montoya] By the determined length of her stride, she has no intention of stopping. Gabriella’s plea is noted, and her lips curve into something of a smirk. She doesn’t say anything, though. At least not yet.
It’s clear she intends to simply walk on by.
[Edward Bellamonte] And there’s Ed ambling up, hands in his pockets and a warmer coat of Gabbie’s in the crook created; various presences and Pure Breeds (all) are noted. Everyone is a stranger but his sister, and it’s to her his attention goes first; the coat is held for her to slip her arms into – without Edward speaking a word – and then he kisses her in the traditional way, once on each cheek.
“…..you should have worn this when you left,” he says, reproachful.
Only then does anyone else get any attention – Izzy, unknown and not a Fang, gets a nod, polite; now that he’s not walking, he stands tall and straight, and is roughly the same height as Fons – maybe an inch shorter. He is in his early twenties, and yet there’s age and darkness about him. It’s hardly uncommon for their kind, but Edward had managed to avoid it for so long, and goodness knows for how long it’s taken roost.
“Hello,” he says, making no move to stop the Fenrir kin; she’s not his, and not his business. At least not right now. “I’m Edward.”
[Fons Van Der Noot] Fons eyes fall upon the Fenrir woman once more, even as she smirks and walks by. She would be another that needed to learn the harsh lessons of her place. She was by no means forgiven for her actions.
“Deep in thought? Yes and no.”
He looked about still, pulling tightly at his leather gloves. The bitter cold starting to bite harder now, as the snow was beginning to once again blanket the city in its gloom of greyish white.
“J’ai conversé avec nos ancêtres. Je partage un lien avec eux, car certaines de nos semblables faire. Je voulais demander leur conseil. Cette femme là-bas, elle m’a poussée jusqu’au point de rupture proche. Je voulais savoir ce que je dois faire. Ils m’ont dit que je doit éduquer un jour.”
Half way through the conversation, his head motioned to Izzy as she walked by.
Then over to the man that had just joined them, his eyes looking upon the great vision of the elder son of the Bellamonte line. He watches as the man moves towards them.
“Sir Bellamonte, it is an honor. I am Fons Van Der Noot.”
[Gabriella Bellamonte] Edward rounded a corner and came to join the crowd, passing by a building with police tape hanging from the door almost festively to reach them. He held out a coat, roughly the same length as the one she was wearing currently, but made with a sturdier material, something more suited to insulating, and was black flecked with little bits of gray and white from the natural color of wool that it was woven from. Gabbie slid her arms into the sleeves and moved her hands to button it up as the gray one was, whose edges peeked out from underneath by about an inch and a half.
Her brother kissed her cheeks, frozen and flushed red as a result, and she turned her face to accept this, but did not pucker her lips or make sounds to imitate kissing in response as some will. This simply was not Gabbie’s way. She smiled and shrugged helplessly at him when he chided her about not wearing it in the first place. “I thought I would be home sooner, Ed. Thank you.” The collar was pulled up around her neck, the scarf was adjusted, and once settled again she shifted so she was standing closer to between Fons and Ed rather than directly beside the Galliard.
She fell quiet while the two great potential heroes met properly.
[Izzy Montoya] (alright, if no one’s gonna stop her I’m out.)
[Genevre de Provence] Genevre nodded slowly. She never could understand her cousin at times. She always thought, when he walked to the ancestors, that it was some sort of mental delusion.
[Edward Bellamonte] “…..Sir?”
Strangely enough, this gets lips curving up, gets an amusement that surprises him; including this, he can count on one hand the times he’s really smiled since his return, if he bothered. It’s strange to be called Sir, however many times he’d heard his father called so, however much he knows it’s applicable.
“You can call me Edward. It’s alright, really. Nice to meet you,” he says, and offers no hand to shake, though they do fall from his pockets so he can take up the posture he should; he is Fostern, he is Bellamonte. For better or worse.
“And your mate?” You know what they say about assumptions.
[Fons Van Der Noot] “Do not bother yourself with that one Sir. Bellamonte, she is unfamiliar with how one is suppose to act around their betters. It is better that she wander off and play with whatever mongrels that had bore her.”
He did not seem to hide these words, in fact as she started to pass by him, he spoke louder, to ensure that she heard him. He just wanted another reason to smack her, and this would be enough.
“Mate?”
He looks at Gabbie then Genevre in utter confusion unsure of who he is speaking of.
“I do not understand.”
[Gabriella Bellamonte] Fons spoke of Izzy as she was passing, words hard and uncomplimentary, and Gabriella took in a deep breath and braced herself, but did nothing yet, so long as the officer did nothing as well.
Edward asked about a mate, and Gabriella opened her mouth to correct, but paused when Fons glanced at her questioningly, then to Genevre second. She blinked, clamped her jaws shut, and frowned. A hand came up to tug at her scarf, to lift it over her mouth and hold it there, and she spoke through that to her brother, shaking her head.
“That is his cousin, Ed. Genevre.”
[Genevre de Provence] Genevre moved over to Fons and tugged a bit on his sleeve. Then she whispered softly. “I think he believes I am your mate, dear cousin.”
[Genevre de Provence] ((Damn, that was suppose to be in french))
[Izzy Montoya] “Oh so that’s fuckin’ mature.”
She stops just past them, and turns to level an even gaze on Fons. “You fuckin’ wish, ya pompous dickwad.”
She snorts, her hand on her hip. Not say anything back? Clearly they don’t know Izzy well.
[Genevre de Provence] She looked back at Izzy and quirked a brow. “You ‘ave a problem with mon cousin, petite souris?”
[Edward Bellamonte] “Enchante, mademoiselle. S’il vous plaît pardonnez-moi mon hypothèse stupide.” The smile died as quickly as it came, and Fons gets a sharp look before Edwards eyes move to Izzy.
He has no idea what happened, obviously, but with a loose shrug, he speaks again. “I’m not bothered. However, as I missed whatever passed between the two of you, all I see now is a pretty young woman who is surely tired from doing her job, and would like to get back to what she must do. Unless, of course, you would care to join us?”
It’s with a curiously raised eyebrow for Izzy; he finds her intriguing.
[Fons Van Der Noot] “Oh please forgive me, but we are not Mates. This is my cousin Genevre de Provence. I am sure you are familiar with with my uncle. If I may? So I may give a proper introduction.”
He taps his forehead and motions to edward’s, his eyes not moving to meet with Edwards. There are few who he would do this to, but for those worthy of due respect.
When Izzy starts to speak to them, Fons turns on her, but stops short as Ed speaks up. And when he turns back to Ed, he holds his tongue. Only to turn and glare back at Izzy once more. Stretching out his fingers to keep from creating a fist once more.
[Gabriella Bellamonte] Izzy stopped and said something. Of course she did. Gabriella’s glanced up to her brother when he played the gentleman, difusing the situation by stepping forth, speaking up, and being polite enough to invite Izzy to join them, defending her as an innocent, hardworking woman. Gabriella wasn’t inclined to chose sides simply because she believed neither Fons nor Izzy was in the right on the situation.
Her eyes flicked to Genevre and she sniffed a little bit, moved the scarf up over her nose now as well as her mouth. They then moved to Fons, dropped to his hands, picked up the tension in his frame and his face as well. The hand that wasn’t holding her scarf up reached out to touch at his wrist. If/when he looks to her, she shakes her head slowly to him, eyes wide and sincere in their request that he contain himself.
[Izzy Montoya] She shoots a look at Genevre. “If I do, I fail to see what fuckin business it is of yours.”
Then, her gaze drops over Edward quickly, the smirk well situated across her lips as she considers the possibilities Her hand remains on her hip, under the edge of her coat. “You see all that, do you?”
He invites her to join them, and there is something malicious that passes through her gaze as she takes a step closer. “I dunno, what’s your boy think about that fuckin’ idea?”
[Genevre de Provence] She narrowed her eyes at Izzy, then looked to Fons with a softer expression. Finally she cast a glance to Edward and smiled. “It ‘appens alot.” Her french sccent just singing out. She looked back to Fons and touched his arm. “Please, mon cousin, not ‘ere.”
[Edward Bellamonte] “I think,” he says, “that you may join if you wish. I’m Edward Bellamonte, and will keep the Fonze . . .” He can hardly help it. “. . . distracted for a moment, at least.”
There’s a pause, and the tiniest twitch of lips towards a smile; they don’t quite make it. “And yes, I do see all that. If you don’t fuckin’ mind,” he adds.
Then, a nod for Fons; there’s a hint of tension in it, unexplained. “You may,” he answers the unspoken question aloud.
[Fons Van Der Noot] He closes his eyes for a brief second, calming himself as the beast starts to roll over in his form once more. He can feel himself start to boil up, even as a bead of sweat start to actually roll down his neck, even in this cold.
He looks at Gabriella as she touches his wrist, asking him not to discipline the little cur the fenrir born for her transgressions. Then his cousin begs him not to address the situation at this moment. And in that he does not say a word to Izzy, just looking to Ed, awaiting his permission to speak in a more private manner.
~MS~
I am Fons Van Der Noot known to the Nation as “Dirge of the Covenant” Cliath Moon dancer of our glorious tribe, born to House Gleaming Eye, adept of the Sun Lodge, begotten by Gilam “Cleaves Shadows from Flesh” Adren Ahroun, begotten by Ludolf “Invokes the Ways” Athro Philodox. Cousin to Genevre de Provence here and nephew to King Calvin de Provence, king of House Gleaming Eye.
[Izzy Montoya] “Issat so.” A beat. “Detective Izzy Montoya. CPD, Homicide.”
She can’t help it, the corner of her lips twitch briefly as he calls him The Fonz. She notes the womens disapproval, the way they seek to calm the Garou, and amusement dances in her gaze as she watches.
[Edward Bellamonte] “Go home, Gabriella,” he says, immediately before the more intimate sort of speaking begins, “you’ll be ill.” And so she does.
Then there’s a voice in his head and Edward pales ever so slightly; another thing unexplained. But the answer comes back soon enough even as, with distracted eyes, he offers Izzy his hand for a shake.
I am Edward Christopher d’Albret Bellamonte, Heir to the House of Bellamonte, known as Silver Jester, Fostern Ragabash, son of Christopher Adrien ‘Grey Claws’ Bellamonte, Galliard Fostern, grandson of Gerard ‘Striker’ Bellamonte, Adren Ahroun of the Nation. He’s from House Wyrmfoe, of the Sun Lodge, of the Steadfast Court. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.
Edward makes no moves to soothe anyone, or to be ruffled (beyond that bit of tension). He is, in fact, about as friendly and open as a Silver Fang gets.
[Genevre de Provence] Genevre remains quiet, the ‘now obidient’ little kin she was. But it was more, for the first time, she actually feared her little cousin. She may be older in years than him, even closer in royal heritage than him, but he was the true blood and she was just a kin.
[Fons Van Der Noot] He nods to Gabriella when Edwards tells her to leave, offering her some parting words as she leaves. She had kept him out of jail this evening, well so far. It now was an honor to speak with her brother as well.
“Are you cold as well, cousin?”
he all but ignores Izzy when she introduces herself. Until she had learned proper respect, or he beat it into her. He was all but going to seemingly forget her existence. Even if he wnats to beat the her to a bloody pulp, watching as her dishonorable breath escapes her, leaving behind a shell that would one day nourish the land once more.
[Genevre de Provence] “A touch, mon cousin. I live around the corner if you both wish to get out of the cold.” Her invite was sincere enough. As long as it kept her cousin from yelling at her and scarying her again.
[Izzy Montoya] She drops her gaze to Edward’s hand, and then gives him her own, briefly. Her grip is strong, confident, without overpowering. It’s the grip of one who’s worked in a male dominated field for a very long time.
Fons ignores her, and on some level it amuses the hell out of her. It’s an exercise in control, and she’s doing him a service by making him exercise it. Or something. Her hand returns to her hip, as she simply observes. Not privy to the rest of the introductions, she doesn’t have anything to add – though it’s likely she would, if she could.
[Edward Bellamonte] It is a polite gesture, and as soon as Edward can have his hand back, he does; now, it’s placed safely in his pocket, again. He leans closer to Izzy, and with just a tiny hint of amusement but no smile, whispers in her ear.
So very briefly – and hopefully it’s not enough to get him shot in the foot or something. That would hurt.
Then, he is wry. “I am honored by your invitation, Madamoiselle. But I think it remiss to leave Miss Montoya out of what is sure to be pleasant conversation, should she wish to join. Perhaps we may have coffee or wine someplace instead?”
[Edward Bellamonte] “Silver Jester, Fostern Silver Fang Ragabash. Brother to Katherine and Gabriella, son to a list as long as my arm. We good?”
to Izzy Montoya
[Fons Van Der Noot] He nods to the offer from his cousin, a nod of gratitude. But there was some things that he needed to take care of before the night was over.
“Thank you for your offer, cousin dear. But I must decline, I must be off to further get my bearings in this city. There are still several areas, both this side and the spiritual side that I must look into.”
He turned to Ed and bowed before him.
“It was a pleasure to meet with a such a glorious and illustrious individual as yourself. Please excuse my departure.”
And then to the woman that almost had him snap.
“Miss.”
That was all he had to offer to her, and that took a great deal of control to even do that.
[Genevre de Provence] She grabbed lightly, on Fons’ arm. “You ‘ave a pace to stay, oui?” Just so she knows her cousin is safe.
[Izzy Montoya] He leans closer, and her gaze narrows, briefly, until he begins to whisper. She smirks, slightly, and crosses her arms over her chest. She doesn’t add anything to her own introduction, as it’s obvious to those who are there.
When Fons deigns to call her miss in a form of goodbye, it’s an exercise in control. Her smirk widens, and she arches a brow, slightly. She considers it exactly what it is…
Victory.
[Fons Van Der Noot] “Yes, I have set up a place to stay that is not far from here.”
[Genevre de Provence] She nodded. “I just wanted to be sure you ‘ad a safe place, cher.” She moved in and kissed his cheeks as the french do. She bows her head to Edward then, to say good night.
“Adeiu, cousin. I will see you soon.” Though she hoped not soon enough.
[Fons Van Der Noot] He moves off into the falling snow of the night, crushing the light dust that was already laid out before him. Shaking his head as the city was starting to gain the gloom and depression that comes with the depth of winter.
[Edward Bellamonte] “Adieu, Genevre. Soon, indeed,” he agrees easily enough. “You will get home safely?” She’s his tribesmate, after all, and better to see her well than not.
And once that’s answered, he turns to Izzy. “I think, perhaps, drinks would be a good thing. Are you on duty, or may I tempt you to join me?” He’s being formal, of course, for the sake of the still-near-enough-to-hear Gen; that will likely change shortly.
[Izzy Montoya] She watches as everyone disperses, and then turns to Edward. “Technically off duty, though since comin home, it seems t’be a 24/7 gig – but it never stopped me before.”
She gestures for him to lead on down the walk, as she’s he has a place in mind. If not. “There’s a joint on the corner. It’s a shithole, but the wiskey’s good enough.” She walks in silence for a few moments, before she tucks her hands into the pockets of her coat, her stride still one of purpose, determination, confidence.
“So what’s your boys fuckin’ problem anyway? Blue balls?”
[Edward Bellamonte] “Never met him before tonight, so I can’t say.” The stiff formality is gone, but Edward’s still a Harvard boy – and well pedigreed in the human world as well as the Garou one. There are some things he can’t hide even when he’s (relatively) relaxed. Except he’s not, really; the minute there’s no one there he thinks he has to play-act for, his shoulders are back up around his ears and he’s tucked into himself.
It really is cold, and he doesn’t have anywhere near enough body fat to deal with this properly right now, even in a coat.
He walks with her, keeps pace though it means shortening his own stride at least a little; one imagines the detective isn’t six feet tall. “Where were you while you were away? I only recently returned myself.”
[Izzy Montoya] She snorts. Ladylike, isn’t she?
She isn’t 6 feet tall, of course. In fact, she stands barely 5’6″, though she is lean, and trim, and carries herself with the air of one who is taller – and bulletproof.
“Miami. Ran into a spot a trouble here and bailed for a few years until things calmed the fuck down. Movin back in the middle of fuckin winter was not one of my brighter ideas.”
[Edward Bellamonte] “You have . . . quite the mouth,” he says, and again, there’s that bare hint of amusement. He hangs out in the high roller rooms, and has well bred daughters and nieces of Silver Fangs thrust in his face from varying sources all the time. Izzy is different. Izzy is refreshing. Like a margarita on a hot day (and she probably tastes as good, too). Regardless, it’s not reproach or criticism, but an observation.
“We came from Boston, my sisters and I, about a year ago. I got back . . . three days ago? Four? Something like that. Spent some time in France, with our mother.” And elsewhere, doing other things, but those don’t get spoken about.
When the reach the bar, he opens the door for her, holds it, and steps in behind her; he knows, on one level, that she doesn’t need his protection from much that they’ll find in here. On another level, he can’t help giving it – wanted or not – even if she is another Tribe. Breeding is a precious thing.
“Chicago’s pretty awful in the winter, yeah. Worse than most places I’ve been. So why’d you come back?”
[Izzy Montoya] You have quite the mouth he says, and she chuckles briefly. “You don’t know the fuckin’ half of it.” She doesn’t seem inclined to clean it up, no matter who she’s with. His breeding, his tribe, has little effect on her. She simply doesn’t automatically bow to anyone – certainly not a fucking Fang. Thus the problem with Fons. That’s a situation that won’t likely resolve itself without bloodshed.
Hopefully his.
He opens the door, and she steps inside, pausing to let her eyes adjust to the dinginess inside, as she peels her gloves off one finger at a time. She doesn’t answer, not right away, taking the time instead to lead Ed through the bar to a table in the back, where they have some measure of privacy from the other patrons. She tucks her gloves into the pocket of her coat, then slips free from it, draping it over the back of her seat. in doing so, she reveals the holster at her side, the handle of her gun gleaming in the low light.
Its safe to assume she has the badge to match somewhere on her person.
“Friend of mine found out we’re sorta related – if ya catch my drift. Meant I could finally fill in some of the missing pieces of the shit I pulled while we were partners. Made it safe to come back. Well, as safe as Chicago ever fuckin’ is.”
[Edward Bellamonte] “I get it, yeah,” he says, and then, “Beer chaser, or just shots?” Either way, he’s buying, is the implication, and drinks will appear. He slips out of his coat, leaves it on the bench with him, and he has no holster – which can come as no surprise. He is, in fact, as unarmed as a Garou ever is. Only when drinks have been served and the one serving them gone does he speak up again.
“I do have to ask about the problem between you and my Tribesmate. Not to take one side or the other, but simply so I know.”
He is no Philodox, but for now he outranks Katherine, at least.
[Izzy Montoya] “Whiskey, straight up.” She scoffs at the thought of a chaser – it’s like he thinks she’s a girl or something.
She settles into her seat, crossing her legs under the table and leaning forward, folding her arms on top of the table, and studies him, unflinchingly. “He’s a fuckin’ pompous ass, that’s the problem.” She lifts a shoulder into an absent shrug. “He expects me to bow an fuckin’ scrape because he somehow has this idea that he’s better than me just because he’s a fuckin’ Fang. I don’t play that shit. He got in my face and demanded respect – respect is fuckin’ earned. Period. He did his best to glare me into submission too – but that shit ain’t happening either, if I can help it, and if he lays a fuckin’ hand on me, I’ll shoot his ass.”
Simple enough.
[Edward Bellamonte] “If he lays a fuckin’ hand on you,” he says calmly, but with intent, “I would expect you to defend yourself as well as you’re able. And I would expect you to know that it’s quite possible you wouldn’t win, which I can’t imagine you don’t.” It’s wry; there’s no indication of if he thinks it right or wrong or anything in between, just that that’s the way it is. “I also hope you would come to me with your grievance. I am no half moon, but my sister is . . . harsher than I, in some ways.”
It’s with a shrug, and a glass raised to clink against hers before knocking on the table and downing it; whiskey is a good thing, if not necessarily his favorite.
“You have people who have at least a few of your interests at heart, I hope? Of our sort, I mean.”
[Izzy Montoya] “Make sure you tell him that.” She smirks as she drops the second shot as easily as she did the first. She’s clearly someone well used to drinking, and drinking a lot, with the benefit of having a constitution where it won’t destroy her liver, and after sleeping it off aspirin and hair of the dog, she’s as good as new.
“I’ve seen his sort before – think everyone is fuckin beneath him. He ain’t gonna last long if he don’t get that bullshit under control.” He tells her to come to him, and she lifts a brow slightly, then just nods. “Yeah. Whatever.”
Then she grabs a third glass, and tips it back. “Met a few folks. Hear there’s a bigwig somewhere, but ain’t fuckin’ seen him yet – but met his fuckin’ buddy who’s a real piece of work. Couple others. ” She doesn’t suggest that there are precious few who gave a shit about her interests, though it’s likely true. She simply doesn’t care wha they think.
[Edward Bellamonte] The exact interests he means are more safety oriented than anything else; he doesn’t know her, but knows (obviously) that she is pure bred kin, and what trouble that can bring along with its blessing. There’s a second shot, and Edward, too, is accustomed to drinking (and, in a way he hasn’t since college, feels a need to keep up), even if the sort of environment he usually chooses is very different than this.
He’s bought the bottle – it sits between them, and when both their glasses are empty, he pours them each another. “Do you live in this area, or is it just where you happened to be called for work?”
Shot number three, down the hole.
[Izzy Montoya] She arches a brow, slightly. “Why, hopin for an invitation, Edward?”
There’s amusement in her gaze as she leans back, her fingers resting on the glass still, her body a carefully arranged sort of relaxed. She has easy access to her weapon, her gaze often lifts to study their surroundings, to mark the positions of those who share the establishment with them.
“Not far from here. S’why I was on foot.”
[Edward Bellamonte] “I might consider it if you offered,” is his answer, and it’s impossible to tell if he’s teasing or not. “But I don’t make a habit of going to the homes of girls I’ve only just met. Even if they are cute and strapped.”
There’s the rest, and he nods. “I’ll keep an eye out for you, then, until you find someone of your own, or someone of your own finds you. If you don’t mind.” Though, in this, she doesn’t have a choice – and Edward can be a sneaky bastard when he wants to be. He’s watching her as much as he’s watching the rest, but there’s a wariness about him, a watchfulness, that suggests he’d do a decent job, at least.
[Izzy Montoya] She snorts. “Cute. Now I know ya need your fuckin’ eyes checked.”
She narrows her gaze, slightly, studying him. “I get the feeling I don’t have a fuckin’ choice in the matter, though I’m sure the local Jarl might have somethin’ to say about you hovering.” a beat. “if he finds out.”
She’s not exactly telling him yes, or no. She’s certainly been around the block a time or three, Izzy. She tips another shot back, easily enough, though this time when she puts the glass down, she lets her hand fall to rest in her lap, instead. A breather then, between the shots.
[Edward Bellamonte] “Well then, if he finds out,” he (probably) will, Edward is honorable, “he can ask me to stop. And, if you have the support you need, I probably will.” There’s a pause, then, and his constitution is stronger than hers (though he is, at the moment, thin as a rail) – he takes another shot. “Unless I have some reason not to. I don’t tolerate kin-beating, for one.”
Aside from the part where it’s a waste of a perfectly good support system (and in this case, breeding), it’s weak and dishonorable.
Then (it’s completely and totally the whiskey) a grin breaks out on his face. It must be said, he’s far from the most attractive face in his Tribe; he has something, but looks are not his strong suit. That grin, however? It lights up the room. “You are cute, all badass and packing. You walk like a boy, though.”
[Izzy Montoya] “Probably.” She doesn’t miss much, Izzy. She’s quite perceptive, which is hardly surprising in her line of work. He takes another shot, and she smirks, grabs the bottle, and matches his shot count by tossing back another of her own. She doesn’t like to lose. Clearly.
She walks like a boy. “Think so, do ya?” There’s a beat, and another smirk. “That’s alright. I fuck like a girl.” Somehow, there’s the definite feeling that she doesn’t mean the weak and submissive type of girl, either.
She waits a beat, and then with a smirk. “Common. I’ll let ya fuckin’ walk me home. This time.”
[Edward Bellamonte] “I bet you do,” he says, and gets up to slip back into his coat before moving outside and letting her show him the way; there’s chatter, of course, and even as somehow dulled and deadened as he is at the moment, he does have his bit of charm (some of which likely resides in swigging some pretty fine whiskey from a bottle in a paper bag and sharing quite nicely back and forth, if she’s interested.
The door closes behind them, and that’s another conversation begun.
[Izzy Montoya] (pause!)