[Marrick] [How’s it going, Blondie?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 3, 6, 7, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Elliot] [1-2-3 not it!]
[Marrick] It was three degrees above freezing.
Those were three good reasons to be outside.
When she ran, she moved because she liked the feeling of cold air in her lungs. It burned when she inhaled, when she moved and raced against something that wasn’t there. Marrick ran because it was cathartic. Sh moved because it felt right, and in turn she made her way through the park at a speed that was not phenomenal, but rather, it was inspiring because she’d been running at that pace for hours.
Marrick had passed the fountain twice now. At night, the City lights it up in such a way that Marrick almost thinks it looks like a birthday cake. It’s golden, with cascading falls and tiers of water falling downward.
Not a birthday cake. A wedding cake. It’s topped by a manmade guyser instead of a bride and groom.
Instead of running by it, this time she stops, and the Fry wonders, briefly, why she hasn’t taken a picture of it yet.
It really was quite pretty.
And this, ladies and gentlemen, is where we start our scene, with a blonde staring at a tourist attraction, wondering when she stopped being a tourist and started being a transplant.
[Ethan Yates] Last night was the first time in months that Ethan had returned to his home with blood on his clothing, the smell of it in his hair. It’s relatively well-known that New York is one of the safer of the large cities, the police department its own entity and omnipresent, a Starbucks with large windows and dozens of eyes on every block; Chicago, on the other hand, is the third largest city in the United States and still struggling to keep its crime under control.
Even the most quiet, sedate towns in America find themselves at War, however. The Wyrm pops up in places where even the Weaver hasn’t infiltrated, where humans are not still raging against each other in an attempt to compete for resources, but it has been a considerably long time since Ethan found himself having to sneak into his own home lest his son catch him with blood on him. Never mind that it wasn’t his blood, that it had not been shed during combat. The child is very likely going to follow in his mother’s footsteps, is going to go through a very brutal Change when he hits puberty, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve a childhood before that happens.
Elliot had driven home with Ethan last night, the two of them speaking intermittently as the smell of Chinese food filled the interior of the red Volvo, exchanging small pleasantries concerning their cities of origin and their purpose in Chicago. The kinsman had confessed to being from Manchester, England, to moving to the States when he was sixteen years old, to being affiliated with the Sept of the Green for about nine years. If Elliot had returned the history, he had listened, and intently. If she had had nothing to say, that was okay too.
Somehow one of them got in touch with the other, and they are walking down Randolph heading towards a coffeehouse a few blocks from the park. Ethan had offered to buy Elliot some coffee or hot chocolate or whatever it was she wanted. She’s the first Bone Gnawer he’s met in the city. That much goes without saying.
As they walk, he keeps his hands in his pockets. When he looks at her, it is a brief flick of his eyes to her face. It’s hard to determine how old he is; there is an intelligent gravity in his eyes that speaks of his being out of his twenties already, but the lines around his mouth and eyes are imperceptible. He does not have a frown scar between his brows.
“So how many of us are there?” he’s asking now.
[Elliot] The night chill does not bother the lone woman walking the streets tonight. Elliot knows cold. Cold is laying on the ice on Victoria Island, snow falling gently on exposed intestines, wind biting at a split rib cage. Cold is burrowing into a snow bank, curling a canine body into a tight ball, burying a pointed nose in a bushy tail. Cold is crouching near the banks of the Beaufort Sea, stalking the war wolf that tore into her sister. Cold is watching frostbite creeping along fingers and toes, turning them black just a bit faster than they can be healed.
No, three degrees above freezing is not cold to Elliot.
She had spoken little in the car last night. Elliot answered questions quietly but abruptly. There are times when the metis can talk at great length. Her voice and her manner in those times capture the attention of those listening to her, drawing eyes and attention she hasn’t experienced in years. There are times when such attention is unnerving, and the metis keeps silent.
Ethan was not given much by way of a history of the redheaded Gnawer, not because she didn’t want to. He’s family, the first she’s met in this city that was not a shifter like herself. But the memories are painful, and even though she’s packed with several cheerful, talkative girls, Elliot is not used to conversations. When they arrived at his home, Elliot left him there.
So Ethan knows that she’s from Canada, that she is neither Homid nor Lupus born. He knows that she has difficulty with bright lights, having riden to his apartment with her sunglasses obscuring her face. He knows that she’s an alpha, and that her pack is nearby.
Elliot walks with Ethan, her hands in the pockets of her coat. She’s wearing no more and no fewer layers than she always does, plenty of clothes with plenty of pockets for her to hide Stuff. Her sunglasses are up, the city at night not so blinding as it could be. She’s clean, mostly, but hasn’t washed since yesterday. It’s difficult to tell exactly how old she is. Her face is smooth as marble, and there is a heaviness about her, a weight of terrible hardship that makes her seem much older when truthfully there are nearly ten years between them.
How many of us are there, he asks, glancing to her face once in a while.
There’s a reaction there, a faint twitch of her features that in another might have been a complete transformation.
“Painfully few, at least that have been found. There were only four of us at the last moot. The one Kin anyone knew of was killed.”
[Marrick] She looked at it, and her eyes went over the cake of a fountain, and the Fury smiled. She shrugged, turned, and continued on her way.
She was a simple creature. When she was happy, she was happy, when she was angry, she was angry, and when she was hungry she was ravenous. The Fury listened as her stomach made a rather unhappy groan. It was insistent, demanding satisfaction. She wanted a muffin. She wanted coffee, she wanted icecream and bread and things that were high energy, high carb, high everything.
Marrick had a metabolism that was insistent and downright pushy.
The Fury, however, had no problem hitting the road, and found herself with the same location in mind as Elliot and Ethan: a coffee shop, several blocks from the park. Alas, the Fury had a ways to walk.
[Ethan Yates] He doesn’t appear to have any greater context to place the four Trueborn in. For all he knows, there could be hundreds of full bloods belonging to other tribes and the Bone Gnawers simply make up a painful minority; for all he knows, the Garou populace in general is scant and small, the protectors of this city numbering no more than a few dozen. He doesn’t know. He has only been here a few weeks, has only met a handful of those who align themselves with the Nation.
This is why he asks questions, why he tries to get to know the first Trueborn who he has spoken to since leaving New York. Because he doesn’t know, and he wants to.
When she says that the one Kin anyone knew of was killed recently, no alarm or surprise passes over his features. He just absorbs the information, and reaches out to hold the door open for the metis girl.
“So she was it, then?”
[Elliot] The smell of coffee hits her long before they reach the entrance of the coffee shop. It gives her time to prepare, to brace herself for the wall of sensations that assaults her when Ethan opens the door for her.
They make an odd pair. Both tall, one is darker complected, broad shouldered and clean cut while the other is pale, with vibrant red hair and a terribly thin figure. She looks like one of the city’s homeless population, being treated by a kind citizen with nothing but good intentions.
She enters the shop first, and the people immediately near the door find excuses to leave. It’s not that they want to get away from a filthy street woman. Her rage, higher than one born under a half-moon has any right to be, presses against them. It’s terrifying to those who don’t know what it is. All they know is that the skinny young woman makes their skin crawl, sends shivers down spines, and makes them afraid for themselves and their families. On some subconscious level they know that a monster has entered into their midst.
Ethan doesn’t seem to mind. It’s the blessing of the kinfolk that they don’t fear their monstrous cousins.
Elliot waits for him to come in behind her, looking around the inside of the coffee shop. She squints against the glare of the lights, takes a breath in through her mouth and out her nose, but it doesn’t hurt her. She is not blinded and she does not suddenly feel a wave of nausea.
“She was all that anyone knew. But then our people thrive in the cracks and the hidden places. I cannot believe we would be so outnumbered by the tribes.” Her voice is kept to a low pitch, not that it matters. Those who stayed behind are doing their best to pretend the woman doesn’t exist, that her rage is not pushing against their backs and making cold sweat break out on their brows.
[Edward Bellamonte] (Today I feel . . .)
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 8
[Ethan Yates] [HORNY]
[Edward Bellamonte] (Well, yeah. It’s his moon! =D )
[Aaron Yates] Ethan’s cellphone begins to ring.
It’s his brother, naturally. Out and about and on his way back from his first consultation as a Vocal Coach in the city. Teaching newly arrived immigrants how to properly speak American seemed like small fry work to him, but then again it was honest, and he had to admit, it was sort of cute how his student’s mother insisted on paying him with Tupperware containers of Indian curry as well as cash.
Aaron was wearing his black trench, the collar turned up against the cold, a burgundy scarf tucked around his neck to keep the chill from creeping down his neck and jeans. His hands were gloved where he held his cell to his ear and slipped into Grant Park. When Ethan picks up, the voice on the other end does not resemble his elder brother.
“Och, where nae haave ye gone, son? I ken ye to find me a fresh ale.”
[Elliot] [that should be OTHER tribes]
[Aaron Yates] [just for fun, I wanna see how convincing he’s currently being! Manip + Mimicry]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 4, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Ethan Yates] Thursday is the new Friday. The youth of the city are out celebrating the end of the semester, of the beginning of vacation, of the approach of a long weekend; the coffeehouse is playing indie rock versions of Christmas music, at a quiet enough volume that it is lost under the low roar of several dozen conversations all occurring at a respectful volume. Ethan does not linger outside but quickly steps into the coffeehouse after Elliot, pulling his wind-chapped hands from his pockets and reaching up to unbutton his peacoat. He’s dressed far too nice to be spending any amount of time with a girl like Elliot. People have to be assuming the worst about the tall blue-eyed man and the tall redhead girl. Maybe he’s her social worker or a teacher or someone who just happens to pick up street children and try to take care of them.
Maybe that’s his intention, is to take care of his Family tonight.
“I’m having trouble believing that myself,” he says, indicating the short line with a tilt of his head.
A moment later, his never-silent cell phone is buzzing in his pocket. He halts in his tracks, then steps away from the line so that he can pull the phone out of his pocket and answer it.
A leprechaun greets him.
Ethan smirks at whoever is on the other end, and he says, “I haven’t a bloody clue what you just said. I’m at Java’s on West Randolph with Elliot. She’s Family. Come meet her, you cad.”
Assuming the conversation does not last much longer than this, Ethan claps the phone shut and rejoins Elliot in line.
”
[Edward Bellamonte] This evening is, so far . . . oddly fantastic. Maybe it was because of video games with an old acquaintance. Maybe it was because of Kate’s trip to New York and what she’d done to Lucien (of course it has nothing to do with him winning. Edward is gracious. Edward is kind. Edward is pure). After the visit from Nora, he’d even decided to come out – on his own, without prompting, which has happened all of about twice since he came back to Chicago.
That didn’t involve high stakes gambling, anyway.
Regardless, there’s a finely bred Silver Fang, a Beacon of All That Is Good in the Nation, stepping into a certain coffee shop off of Grant Park. It’s a coffee shop that already happens to be being frequented by a couple of Gnawers and a Fury, not that Edward – the dapper nobleman on the town – knows any of them. He doesn’t bother with ordering anything espresso based, as he knows he’ll be disappointed, but instead goes for a hot chocolate – it’s good for a night near freezing, like tonight. Then, once he has a warm, sweet beverage (“Extra whipped cream, please.”) in hand, he turns to survey the situation, to see who’s worth pestering in some form tonight.
[Elliot] Elliot moves away from Ethan while he answers his phone, but does not yet take up a place in line. She waits for the kinsman to take his phone call, the volume and variety of other conversations keeping her sufficiently distracted from hearing the other end of his phone conversation. All she knows is that whoever has called, is coming here and is also family. It’s strange, being inside a coffee shop, waiting for a kinsman to treat her to something hot to drink. It takes her back a ways. When she turns to look over her shoulder at Ethan, she half expects to see someone, several someones, who will never show their faces to the world again. It makes the corners of her wide mouth turn down and a faint shadow pass between her red eyebrows.
A Silver Fang moves past her to the counter. Elliot turns back to watch him. She does not recognize him from the moot, doesn’t recognize him from anywhere. Her gaze is quiet and impassive as stone. There is no breeding to alert him to who or what she is, only the press of rage
Ethan snaps his phone closed, and Elliot shuffles over to the counter to order a hot chocolate, no whipped cream, thank you. When Ethan has ordered and payed, she inclines her head to Edward. All she says is, “Fang.”
[Ethan Yates] “That was my brother,” is all the explanation he gives Elliot when he rejoins her in line. His brother. He had a name last night, though he had no distinguishing features assigned to him, no birth order or occupation or anything other than relation to give Elliot an idea of who this man might be.
The line is not long, and diminishes quickly. A hot chocolate for Elliot, a hazelnut latte for Ethan, and after he pays for the both of them they step off to the side to wait. The both of them watch Edward as he moves through the coffeehouse, although for different reasons. If the acuteness in his gaze is any indication, Ethan can recognize him for what he is: a monster. He just can’t detect his lineage, his heritage.
Elliot can, and shares it with him a moment later.
“Oh,” is all he says.
[Aaron Yates] Aaron finds Java’s on West Randolph without much trouble.
He’s an adapt traveler, has been for a number of years and his sense of geography was such that he rarely found himself lost in new places; he simply didn’t. It also helped, that being said, to have a cellphone capable of showing you exactly where you were in relation to other locations. However he does it, soon enough another figure passes in the door, holding it open with his free hand (the other contained Mrs Arjina’s beef vindaloo) to allow a pair of young girls to flit past him, ducking under his arm.
They were too young for his tastes, but the handsome gentlemen winked at them like the scoundrel he was often called, and they tittered down the street, casting the odd furtive glance over their shoulder at the broad shoulders of the tall man now moving into Java’s proper. In many ways, Aaron and Ethan were identical, at least on the surface. But whereas his younger brother tended toward a clean-shaven look, his brother often times let his jaw darken with bristle before he shaved it; casting him a somewhat more rugged, dangerous visage.
Both boys had been gifted with their mother’s blue eyes, and perhaps some elements of their father existed in the angular planes of those faces too, though they’d never admit it — at least, Aaron wouldn’t. He crosses toward the counter and the line, his long legs eating up the distance quickly and unbuttons his coat, untucks the scarf but leaves both on.
The gloves are peeled off before he reaches the counter.
[Edward Bellamonte] Ed can feel eyes on him and – though were it not for Breeding, he’d be nothing special to look at, were it not for Rage he’d be just another twenty-something (with prematurely graying hair) – poses for them. His lips twist into an amused grin, and he shakes it in the way that only a playboy-Ragabash can before, after a minute or so, he turns to meet these looks head-on.
As of yet, he hasn’t noticed Ethan’s double at the counter, behind him now when he faces Ethan and Elliot. “Hi,” he says with a lopsided grin that doesn’t quite reach dark eyes. “Shows every hour, on the quarter hour. I’ll be here all evening.”
He’s . . . less . . . without members of his pack around him. It drains. But he’s here, and he’s going to try to make the best of it.
[Joss Lehrer] There’s no doubt about it, really. The godi is weird and everyone knows it. Hell, she knows it. She revels in the expectation that yes, she’s gonna do something odd from the moment you see her… some things are just expected. Somethings like this:
She’s dancing.
Outside the windows of the coffee shop that is her destination because they serve cinnamon buns the size of her head, she doesn’t approach at a walk, or even a run. No, she approaches in an almost passable smooth waltz step, complete with arms holding her frame, as if she had a partner… or rather, a partner that can be seen.
[the partner does not exist]
She holds her ipod in her hand, an earbud in her ear, the other around her neck, and she’s counting as she moves almost gracefully down the walk, singing softly under her breath…
[Elliot] The Silver Fang male puts on a show for the watchers, makes a crack about being part of a show. Elliot does not appear to be amused. Then again, looking at that cold emotionless visage, it’s hard to believe the metis feels much of anything. She doesn’t speak up when he smiles at them.
Instead something else has caught her eye. If she didn’t know better, she would think the man standing beside her was walking through the door again. Except the newcomer is more rugged in appearance, with longer, wilder hair and a shadow of stubble on his jaw. Pale green-grey eyes follow Aaron’s passage from the door to the counter. This, then, was the brother.
When the barista calls out their orders, declaring them to be ready, Elliot finally turns away from the elder brother. She picks up her cup and sweeps the room with a glance, looking for an empty table. She would prefer someplace quiet, but it’s too close to the Christmas holiday for that to be a possibility, so she opts for a table against the wall, out of the way.
Sitting so that she can see the Fang, she says to Ethan before she takes a drink, “Thank you for this.”
[Taggart] When the door opens again, more than a few heads turn. The man walking in is tall, broad-shouldered, and from the look of his frame underneath his hoodie, he has a physical presence that can be intimidating, alluring, or downright unnerving, but it’s difficult to ignore. It isn’t that, though, that has the bustle behind the counter slowing down a moment while mortals try to remember what they were doing. Nor is it the fact that his features are striking, his skin a light golden brown even in winter, set against pale hair and paler eyes. Even those who don’t find him attractive, per say, find his face compelling.
But that’s not why they’re looking, or why one of the baristas spills a shot of espresso she just pulled. They don’t even notice the scar on his neck yet. It’s the feeling that something intrinsically hateful and angry has just entered their sphere of influence and is looking for an outlet. He feels less like a serial killer and more like a homicidal maniac, the sort of tense fury that will snap at any insult with lethal consequences.
And this is under a new moon. This is him at his least judgemental, his least dangerous.
He saw Joss outside but just nodded to her. It wasn’t friendly. It was acknowledgement, even respect, and whether she returned it or not did not matter so much as long as she saw it. He’s inside now, though, and his eyes are drawn over to Edward Bellamonte almost immediately. His head tips to the side, and then he walks towards the Fang, bypassing the counter completely.
[Ethan Yates] There is no bond greater than blood holding the two brothers together, and yet when the door opens and his twin appears in the coffeehouse, Ethan looks away from the gallivanting Ragabash and raises his hand in a wave that is part greeting and part Get over here. The hot chocolate is finished a few seconds before the latte, and when it comes up he grabs the handled mug and slides it towards him.
He’d have to be insane to give either the Philodox or the Ragabash his back, the two of them being rather suffused with the full anger and fury of their Mother, yet he doesn’t appear to be overly concerned about what is going to happen when he turns away from the worse-for-wear young man speaking about being here all night.
Elliot leads them to a table as out of the way as they’re going to get, and Ethan walks alongside her rather than acting as either her guide or her shadow. There may be some symbolic significance to his choosing to take up her side, but it may just be instinctual, may just be conditioning. Back home there was no real hierarchy, no pecking order, no sense that the Kinfolk were somehow less than even the sin-born among them by virtue of the fact that they could not, cannot, change.
She thanks him, and that’s when the door jingles open, allowing yet another Rage-filled young man into their midst. While people had been uneasy around the Fang and staring at the Gnawer, the Fiann makes people start to come up with other things they have to do besides tap away at their laptop computers or shoot the shit with their friends. Presents need wrapping, dogs need letting out, oh my look at the time. More than a few people leave.
Ethan watches him for a handful of seconds, then looks away to address Elliot again.
“You want a sandwich or something? They sell food here, too.”
[Aaron Yates] There are some theories that suggest that monozygotic twins are capable of sensing for lack of a better term when the other is in danger, or more commonly, in some degree of pain. Research into the theories have been on-going for some time and certainly in his time growing up with his younger sibling there had been instances of instinct surrounding his younger brother’s whereabouts, or what he was experiencing at that point. But the occasions had been rare, and rarer still the older they both got.
Aaron, for his part, never really spoke of it, or these days, considered why he knew just when to lift his head to catch Ethan’s eyes, and cast him a knowing half-cocked grin at the unspoken demand for his presence over on the other side of the cafe. Sometimes, it just happened and he accepted it the same way he did the various degrees of Rage suddenly spiking the air around him.
The Garou were around. Oh well, they usually always were.
He wasn’t moving till he had his coffee, they could just fucking wait their turn in line.
When his drink does come [coffee, black, no sugar] he takes it and saunters over to the table where his brother sits with Elliot. “Making friends, Eth? That’s so social of you,” he quips, and his eyes settle on Elliot; and settle in. “Hello, there.”
[Aaron Yates] [Addendum!]
“Here,” he sets the Tupperware container on the table by his brother. “Compliments of Mrs Arjina, I think that’s gonna be my dinner.”
[Edward Bellamonte] Hatchet approaches as Edward is taking his cocoa – in a paper cup, not a ceramic mug; whether he intends to stay for a while or not, he’s prepared for the latter. It doesn’t do to waste such chocolate-y deliciousness, after all. If he has noticed the Fianna, he pays him no mind until he’s taken the first sip of his drink and sighed in pleasure; only then do unreadable (but undeniably darker now than when he left, not in color, but in . . . well, something) brown eyes come to rest on the Philodox.
“Oh, Taggart,” he says, deadpan. “This. You. My evening, it’s complete. I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t appeared just. this. moment.”
There is no physical roll of his eyes; it’s all in tone. And he is, of course, indifferent – Edward so often is.
[Joss Lehrer] Hatchet had nodded as he went inside. It wasn’t friendly. Respectful, perhaps, but certainly not friendly. Joss simply smiled – she always does – and gathered the edge of her skirts in one hand, spread her arms wide, and dropped him a quick little curtsy as he moved inside. There’s mirth in her gaze, overshadowing a multitude of other things. None of which, however, make her move faster toward that door.
No, she has a song to finish, a dance to complete, a beat to let thrum through her skin, her soul, her… ipod. Whatever.
Soon enough, however, she makes it to the door, and pulls it open. One more source of rage for the poor folks of the coffee shop to handle. And dancing – still – she heads toward the counter to make her order.
“Pleeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaase tell me Darrell made fresh rolls today….” When told that yes, indeed, he has, she actually applauds and proceeds to order one, plus a large mocha – because that’s just what Joss needs. Caffiene AND Sugar.
[Taggart] Tonight the Fiann’s eyes are not the nearly silver color they get when the moon’s full, nor are they hard as concrete as they are when the moon is halved and waning. They’re almost white, reminiscent of another gray-eyed Garou that Edward once knew… and knew well, perhaps. Well enough to be packed with her. Not well enough to come back to Chicago when she died.
Hatchet used to stand next to her while he and the miniscule Shadow Lord flossed. They were both impeccable about oral hygiene. It was, up til the day Mrena died, the only thing they had in common. And then, in death, they had a Bone Gnawer Ahroun in common.
Ancient history, by now. Months ago. Lifetimes ago.
Hatchet just nods to Edward in greeting, then jerks his head towards a couple of seats near the back, away from the humans, though, truthfully, most of the humans are retreating anyway. There’s too much rage in here tonight, too much tension. Little by little, they’re trickling out, finding better places to be. Calling friends, suddenly, as though they want to feel less alone.
“Let’s talk for a moment. I have an offer for you.”
[Elliot] Elliot watches as more true born enter the coffee shop. There’s an increase in the pressure in the room when Buried Hatchet arrives. The mortals are increasingly uncomfortable, more afraid, the more their kind intrude on their space. This is a coffee shop, a warm and safe haven from the chill of Chicago’s winter, and from the hustle and bustle of the holiday season. And yet here there be monsters.
She glances up at the elder of her auspice. If he happens to glance her way, she nods her head once in greeting. He’s headed for the Silver Fang, and Elliot turns her attention to the twins now with her.
Her face remains as impassive as ever when Aaron greets her, stares at her. She’s a pretty girl, but there’s an edge to her. To say that her skin is like procelain would be implying that there’s a softness to her. Her hair is vibrant red, her eyes like chips of jade. Today she is relatively clean, her hair has been brushed and falls in waves to her shoulders. She’s looks like she lives in a box in an alley, which, until a week or two ago, was actually true. She looks out of place with the Yates brothers, and yet for the first time in…she can’t even remember how long, she feels a sense of peace.
“Hello,” she greets Aaron, her expression bland. She watches him intently, but there is no sense of desire there, no interest. She sniffs, and despite the almost overpowering smell of coffee, she catches the faintest hint of spice.
To Ethan she says, “Perhaps later.”
[Edward Bellamonte] Let’s talk, Taggart says and Edward (who is clinging to his good mood despite how hard it’s trying to slip away) raises an eyebrow. It might be surprise, though that’s difficult to tell; any true expression, aside from the socially acceptable shapes his face takes out of habbit, is well hidden. It’s a moment, and a sip of hot chocolate, and after that, Ed gives a nod.
I’m not runnin’
There’s an offer, and it takes quite a bit of concentration for the Ragabash to not leap to the obvious bait. It’s there, somewhere, in the twist of his lips, perhaps, or the breath he takes as if he might say something. He doesn’t, though. Instead, he moves to the indicated table and takes a seat like the privileged son of entitlement he appears to be. That some think he is. He waits, watching, and studies Hatchet’s face as he does; it’s a familiar face, though there have been changes since Ed saw him last. Ed’s changed, too.
He’ll not be the first to speak – Taggart has the offer. He asked for the conversation. Ed can wait.
[Ethan Yates] Ethan idly picks up the Tupperware container, making a brief show of examining its contents with a sloshing rattle of meat within its bath of sauce before handing it back. He’d managed to procure something like dinner with the boy before leaving her in the capable hands of the babysitter, promising him he’d be home in time to read him a story before he went to sleep. It’s still evening yet, just past dinnertime; assuming the city is kind, assuming he is able to survive the walk to and from his car during the various legs of his journey, he won’t break his promise tonight.
“That’s a rather unfortunate surname,” Ethan tells his brother, sliding over to make room for him at the table.
Aaron greets Elliot, who coolly returns the phrasing and parries Ethan’s offer of dinner. He just nods, and glances between his twin and his coffee companion before saying, “Aaron, this is Elliot. Behave yourself. Elliot, Aaron.”
[Joss Lehrer] Soon she has paid, and has in her greedy greedy hands a pastry that’s near as big as her head, and a Mocha. She smiles happily at the girl behind the counter, who can’t help but smile a little back, despite the press of rage that nags even under the darkened moon.
She turns to survey the [rapidly emptying] shop, and then chooses a table that lets her watch all the little parties. There’s the Fang and Hatchet, the Redhead and twins – impressive – and so she chooses a place that allows her to watch it all, while indulging in sticky treat.
[Aaron Yates] Behave, his brother says and Aaron’s eyebrows lift as he takes a seat. “Of the pair of us here, which is the boss of me?” Aaron’s voice was rather genteel, it was softer in terms of any trace of his birth-country than perhaps his brother’s, though the degree by which was debatable. His was the rich, velvety timbre of a man who knew exactly what affect it had on those around him and precisely how to use it for his own gain.
It was, after all, his career tool.
So, he’s introduced to Elliot, who apparently is his family, and shrugs off his heavy leather coat, beneath which the man is wearing a black knit sweater of some sort of a very fine thread and no doubt, reasonably pricey. While his clothing boasted that he was a man of substantial means it was still the case that he was staying at his brother’s house, and didn’t seem overly fussed about finding his own living space.
“Anyone would think he was the older sibling here,” he murmurs toward Elliot with a warm smile that crinkles the corners of his mouth; his eyes and gave him a playful air. “Elliot, it’s a pleasure to meet you. There, see? Perfectly acceptable, and all without even touching her hand.”
Aaron quirked his brows at his brother, and leaned back lazily to sip from his coffee cup.
[Taggart] Hatchet walks towards the table indicated with the long, loose stride of someone accustomed to walking everywhere, and walking far, and walking for a very, very long time. He moves quickly without ever seeming to be in a hurry, eating ground with his steps. His expression is impassive. A little thoughtful. His eyes are opaque.
And flat.
His voice is not, though. He slides into his seat and leans back, one hand resting on the table in front of him, between him and the Garou who has been not so much a rival as a partner in dislike. Neither of them are particularly hungry for power. They aren’t vying for the attentions of the same kinswoman. They are not of the same tribe. They are not even of the same auspice. Edward has nothing Hatchet wants, and vice versa.
They just don’t like each other.
“I’m offering to train you, Ed.”
[Joss Lehrer] She looks at her ipod, and flips forward a couple of songs, before tucking it into the pocket of her skirts, and then happily starts to peel bits of the cinnamon roll and plop them into her mouth one by one, licking her fingers in between. Sometimes it’s impossible to believe she is 18, and a Fostern to boot. Other times, it’s impossible to forget.
Which one tonight is, depends on who’s watching.
She gathers up her skirts, and tucks her feet under her, settling to sit in the chair criss cross applesauce, letting her skirts fall over her knees and to the floor as she bounces a little in her seat to the music only she can hear.
At least she’s not singing out loud.
[yet]
[Elliot] Behave yourself.
Ethan is addressing his brother, but the comment earns him a look from the tall redhead. she tilts her head in his direction, eyes narrowing slightly, but there’s something to that look. It’s not the cold and empty stare with which she usually looks at the world most days. There’s a hint, a tiny spark of humor in her light eyes. As if there’s a possibility that he’s telling her to behave herself. It’s like an inside joke and she has no one to share it with.
It passes quickly.
“You are the elder,” she says to Aaron. It’s not a question, but a statement of fact. Her voice is low. Where Aaron is warm and inviting, Elliot is cold and distant. She shifts in her chair, leaning back and stretching out long, spindley legs. Despite the cold weather, her clothing is worn. Beneath the table her pale knees are exposed. The toe of one of her shoes is blown out. For a moment, she could be a young woman out on parole, grabbing a hot drink with her parole officer and her shrink. Who knows.
She turns her attention back to Ethan. “You have a son.” This could be another simple statement of fact, but given that she found this out yesterday, it’s more likely Elliot is inviting him to elaborate.
[Daniel] Packmates, particularly ones bound as closely to their totem as these, have an unerring sense of one another. Daniel doesn’t even pretend to be surprised to see his Alpha in the Park, nor that he might be here for some other purpose.
No, the Forseti pretty much beelines for Taggart’s table. He doesn’t sit when he’s there. He stands, folding his arms over his chest. Even in layers — a shirt, two hoodies, the thinner inside the thicker, fleece-lined one — he’s a thin, gaunt figure, narrow-framed, nothing but bone and sinew.
[Edward Bellamonte] Again, Edwards eyebrows (plural, this time) raise.
This time, in a very rare moment of good fortune for someone not a sister, his surprise is clear.
He’s not sure what to say for a moment (which doesn’t happen as often as one might think), and so he fills this time with another swig from his paper cup of cocoa. It is, no doubt, too hot for his lips and tongue, but he makes no complaint – it slides past.
“…..I appreciate the offer,” he finally says, with none of the uncertainty he feels; he’s been put off balance, and few people can do this easily. Lucien is one, which may well be the largest reason for the hesitation.
Ed doesn’t trust much of anyone, these days, outside of his immediate family.
“But why on earth would you want to do that?” They don’t like each other. Ed is, as a general rule, indifferent now that Hatchet isn’t mucking around in his family affairs. Hatchet . . . well. Ed’s never really considered the whys, or how deep the dislike may flow on the other side. So it’s understandably confusing, maybe, this offer out of the blue.
[Taggart] The Philodox’s eyes don’t flick upward when Daniel enters and moves straight towards them. He remains still, watching Ed from across the small table, just big enough for a couple of small plates and a couple of coffee cups, maybe a laptop. Their legs would cross and tangle underneath if they let them. They don’t. Hatchet takes up a great deal of space, partly just because he’s tall, partly because he lets himself.
Partly because right now, he’s sort of the eight hundred pound gorilla.
“Because,” Hatchet says slowly, his packmate standing next to him now, “you’re not very good in a fight, Edward.” He explains this without malice, without recrimination: it’s simply a statement of fact, and one that would be laughable if they were to compare Edward to, say, a human. An animal. He is, by his very nature, a creature of wrath and destruction, whatever his moon. But compared to Hatchet.
Compared to Joey, of Ed’s moon but of lower rank. Compared to many Garou, Ragabash or not, it’s possible that there is little denying what Hatchet says.
“I’m not offering because I want you to owe me a favor,” he explains, somewhat dryly. “I would ask for the respect due any teacher, but other than that, I want you to know right off the bat that I’m not doing this because I want something to hold over your head.”
He straightens up a bit. “You’re not the most capable, most glorious fighter, and under your moon, you don’t really need to be. But you could be better. And you should be.”
[Ethan Yates] Aaron asks a question that provokes a knowing sort of half-smirk to come across his brother’s lips, vaguely touching his eyes before disappearing back into the shadows. He has nothing to say to that, no argument or witty retort or apology. He just picks up his cup of coffee and takes the first swallow of the evening, cautiously blowing at the floe of foam atop the drink before guiding it to his lips.
The Philodox correctly assumes that Aaron is the elder of the two of them. One might not have guessed from the speech of the cleaner-cut one or the actions of the rougher one, but there it is: a truth set in place by the passage of a few minutes. There are some cultures that believe the second-born of a set of twins to be the elder. This is not one of them.
They’re an unlikely trio, twin brothers in their late twenties or early thirties and a recently-washed yet still somewhat disheveled young woman. No one is paying them much attention, what with the conglomeration of Rage currently existing at one of the other tables. The place looks as though it is about to close, with only a few far-flung yet nonetheless brave–stubborn–stupid–souls holding onto their places.
He has a son.
That jerks Ethan’s attention back from wherever it has gone. He sets his coffee mug back down on the tabletop, gently clearing his throat before he speaks.
“Yes,” he confirms. “A seven-year-old. Born under a crescent moon. His mother was a, ah…”
Like he needs to be subtle when the entire place has cleared out so quickly.
“… an Ahroun.”
[Aaron Yates] You are the elder.
“Yep,” the twenty-something young man seated alongside her all but pops out the word, swigging back the last of his coffee and setting on the table before him, rocking the legs of his chair forward so that he is no longer precariously perched on the hind two. “By merit of a couple of minutes, I stomped on his head on the way out.” He smirks, and his eyes wander; over Elliot, over the others in the cafe, over every female form within his vision’s range.
Scoping them out.
His brother’s words swivel his attention back, and interestingly, his voice instantly turns harder, like flint: “His mother isn’t the one who’s raised that kid, you have.”
[Joss Lehrer] She tips her head, and then grins. It’s an odd thing, but in the general list of oddities, it’s not much. She plops the last bit of her sticky treat into her mouth, licks her fingers, and grabs her mocha.
Exit one Godi – stage left.