[Rory] (123 not me!)
[Gina McClaren] *Chinatown in the rain and ice was a magnificent and dangerous place. Slick slippery alleyways. Flickering lights reflecting neon in puddles and icy patches. Sharp, bright, hard edged. The darkness darker, the light more glaring. Late night carts are packing it in. Too cold and wet besides. The vice district a few streets down is still doing a brisk business however. Cat calls echoing down rain slick corridors and streets as whores ply their wares. Gina’d picked up her work uniform from a chinese laundry, and made to duck through an alley so as to avoid the worst of the brothel overflow. A deep breath as her boots click on wet litter strewn pavement. Hair damp, cold in a coat and sweater, dufflebag looped over an arm and brushing against worn jeans as she wanders homeward. Lost in thoughts of work and her upcoming move.*
[Rory] At once, there’s an unearthly sound – it’s as if every stray cat has suddenly come to the alley, and chosen that very moment to yowl and cry, to caterwaul and carry on… there’s 5, maybe 10, maybe 1232123123235456564 – it’s hard to tell as they move and crawl over one another, all trying to get close to the one that’s fed them, given them treats, cared for them over the past months.
There’s a windchime at the edge of this alleyway, that tinkles and jingles much as the Kinfolk that ducks in does, but none of it brings the Fianna to lift her head. She’s crouched in a corner, her arms wrapped tight around her knees, hugging them close to her chest, her forehead tucked into her knees to hide her face as she rocks.
Rage spikes around her – thunders and demands notice – a barely controlled rise of emotion that shakes her to the core.
[Gina McClaren] *Gina starts, charms shaking loudly as Rage blasts across her like the heat from an opened kiln. Combined with the horrible yowling cacophony of an ungodly number of alleycats, its enough to tease a shudder from her curvy frame. Enough that she’s left pressed against the wall, hands splayed in alarm as she looks down the alley towards the crouched figure rocking there. Rage did not always mean the source was friendly to her kind, and in the dark of a grinning moon, Gina was unsure of how to proceed. Fear holds her stationary as she sings softly.*
Allo? … Loves?
[Gina McClaren] [curiosity]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 9 (Failure at target 7)
[Rory] She rocks n rocks n rocks, her back slamming against the bricks behind her. She hears Gina, eventually, but does not answer, not right away. She lifts her hands, sliding them over her head, dislodging the knit hat as she does so – freeing those blood red curls to fall over her face. She clutches her hat tightly at the back of her neck, before she pulls her hands down again, and tucks them between her chest and thighs.
It’s enough to show who she is – there are few of her kind in Chicago, and fewer still with those curls. She lifts her head, a little – but not much. Just enough to look past her toes – and she says nothing at all… not yet…
[Gina McClaren] *It was not wise to linger when coming upon a garou in an extreme state of emotion. It was further unwise if the garou in question happened to be an ahroun. And it was sheer stupidity to approach a Fianna Metis Ahroun when she was clearly about to lose herself to grief. Concern and self preservation war in the pikey’s breast for several long moments, before Gina McClaren commits to an act of pure stupidity. Her footfalls echo as she moves closer, kneeling beside the creature she now recognizes as the Alleycat she fed several weeks earlier. Head tilted as she singsongs soothingly, expression twisted in worry.*
Rory.. sweet theng. Wha’s the matter darlin?
*Palms up submissively, she moves closer still. Inside the Metis space.*
[Rory] Gina is right to be cautious, right to keep her distance, and likely wrong to move as close as she does, invading Rory’s space. It’s clear she’s not quite in control – though that she hasn’t exploded into furred fury yet is admirable – or would be if anyone else took the time to notice the slender full moon.
Gina asks, and she can’t quite say anything, though it’s clear she’s trying. The muscles of her jaw clench, her lips part, her brow furrows, but all that comes out is a broken sound, a muted, wounded cry. She clenches her hand into a fist, and hits it against her temple
emptysoemptysoempty
and then manages. “….elliot.”
[Gina McClaren] Shh.. shh loves.. *Elliot. The name should probably ring a bell. A pang of guilt that it didn’t. Gaia’s warriors dropping like flies in Chicago. Perhaps this Elliot was “tinydoom” or perhaps she was yet another garou that had fallen back to the Mother. Gina doesn’t know. But the message in that one proper noun was clear enough. Rory hits her temple and Gina gives a sad sigh, stroking the metis arm before opening her own in a jingling invitation.*
My poor Darlin.. Ah’m saerry.. Shh.. come here loves. Cry et oot.
[Rory] She flinches back from the touch, at first, her rage a hot and heady thing – but it’s only a moment, a brief space of time before she leans forward, faster than any should be able to, only to fall into the arms of the pikey with the jingling charms that offers comfort where anyone with Rory’s background should expect none.
She crumples, her cries a ragged and torn thing, her thin frame quaking with the effort to hold just enough back so that she doesn’t destroy this tenuous thread of comfort offered… she can’t find her other packmate, she knows the first is dead, the newest isn’t even bound to them yet – it is her and the cats and a tender-hearted kinfolk…
[Gina McClaren] *Fear winds up Gina’s spine and takes residence in the tension between her shoulder blades. Her arms wrap around Rory tightly, tight as she can. For she knows she’ll not break the sobbing redhead. Her eyes squeeze tight, one hand curling in Rory’s hair as she cradles the metis girl like a child. Rocking with her, charms clinking in the rain and wet of the alley. Soft Strider kin trying valiantly only to comfort, and not to fear the searing rage that has her survival instincts screaming at her to flee, and soon.*
Darlin Rory. Ah’m sae saerry. Shhh.. calm. Shh Shhh… Dinnae fret sae.. Shhh
[Calmin down a cherry bomb! ((cha/emp+1 dice pb VS wp-2 dif ))]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 3, 3, 6, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 4)
[Rory] Some part of her knows, understands how frightening this must be for Gina, as she tries to keep control, to valiantly stop the spikes of rage that frighten the poor pikey, that threaten to overcome her, that beats it’s way from the core of who she is.. wanting revenge, wanting anything but to feel like this, again.
But somehow, somehow the voice gets to her, filters through everything, and bit by bit, slow minute by minute, she starts to calm… The rage is still there, still hairtrigger taut, still ready to explode, but at least she’s not actively seeking some place, some person to explode on….
She doesn’t pull away though, aching for all the times she should have known comfort but never did, and soaking up this moment while she can, before she is alone again.
[Gina McClaren] *The comforting kin tucked close and holding closer is made for such an activity. Physical comfort, through one means or another was something Gina was entirely dedicated to providing. It was simply a fact that one means of comfort made for better gossip than the other. Know one cared to hear “Hear about that kin that holds garou when they’re sad?” over coffee, afterall. A deep breath, Gina’s courage holding fast as she strokes through Rory’s curls, resorting to soft maternal noises, clucking and humming snatches of sweet sounding song. Letting Rory come down.*
[Rory] It takes time – and neither of them could likely say how much time, exactly. Just that gina’s chilled, except for where the heat of Rory’s blood itself warms her. There’s no way to measure time, just as there’s no way to measure grief.
Eventually thought, Rory pulls back, and wipes at her face with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of dirt across her cheek, though she doesn’t notice it, not really. She scrubs at her eyes with the heel of her hand, and wipes her nose with the back of the same, sniffing loudly. “I fan’t cind Chloe, either.”
[Gina McClaren] *A sad frown creases caramel features. Rory looked devastated. Alone. Gina’s eyes fall as she nods. No Chloe. Dead maybe. Captured. A spiral. Who knew these days. There’d been enough Gaian blood spilled in the last months that a pikey could drown in it. Charlie’s loss still fresh. Maija’s a scar never to heal over entirely. Liam and Art and Evan and – A hard shake of her head.*
shite darlin.. Could ye.. send a spirit? tae find her?
[Rory] Her fist clenches, lightly, and she taps temple with it again. “Heel fer. But can’t hear her mo nore.”
So many can talk via their totem, but with the death of Elliot, that connection is gone, and there is nothing left. Nothing. She had gotten used to it, used to being able to find Chloe anywhere, to get to her quickly, tied together by the Gnawer Metis that led them. She’s adrift and scared… and alone.
“Chloe Tirit-spalker. Not me.” a sigh, deep and forlorn.
[Gina McClaren] Ye can feel her though. She’s about. Ye’ll find her soon enough.
*Gina sings, matter of fact. A squeeze of the redhead’s shoulders as the pikey tilts her head. The Fianna wasn’t the meatiest thing. While she couldn’t do anything about the loss of a packmate… perhaps she could do something about Rory’s general state.*
Kain wha helps grief? A hot bloody bath, an tea. Come.. on yer feet darlin.
*A Jingle as the pikey rises, offering a cold hand.*
Let me take care o ye when yer down an’ out. Thengs’ll be a shade less grey taemorry. An sae tae the next day, an the next.. until auls brecht again.
[Rory] She sniffs again, loudly, and wipes her nose with the back of her hand, then wipes her hand on her jeans. Gina mentions a bath and tea, and Rory nods, slightly. She’s not had a shower in a few days, her curls are matted hopelessly, and she’s more than a little smudged with dirt and grime of the streets.
She reaches down to gather an insistent kitten headbutting her ankle. He’s a ferocious one, and one she’s befriended while doing her duty to her Totem. She cradles him to her chest, and peeks up at Gina hopefully. “…can ce home too?”
Either way, she slides her free hand into Gina’s and stands. She doesn’t think that it’ll be ok again anytime soon, but she says nothing, just pets the purring furball that’s burrowed into the center of her chest.
[Gina McClaren] Course ee can. Ye may ‘ave tae hide em come time tae talk tae tha ‘otel man. Tha’s aul.
*The pikey assures. A warm smile. Apologetic for a hurt she can’t mend. Rory’s hand tucked against Gina’s chest much like the kitten the metis cradled to her own. Jingling, Gina leads the way to the nearest decent hotel, to set the redhead up with a hot bath, warm tea, and soft sympathetic company.*
[Gina McClaren] [good deed of the night! fin!]