to Imogen M. Slaughter, Skadi
[Imogen M. Slaughter] (of course. *grin* Liz is posting.)
to AnneMarie Hoch, Skadi
[AnneMarie Hoch] (Whoo! I promise she won’t talk much. *g*)
to Imogen M. Slaughter, Skadi
[Skadi] Mycroft’s is a small bar on an the corner of an out of the way street half-filled with small shops, half filled with empty storefronts with papered over front windows. Gang tags in the alleys, on the dumpsters, suggest that this part of the neighborhood is not so “up and coming” as the realtors like to promise, but the buildings that cannot be rehabilitated into high-end condominiums can at least be rented to students, or the low-income workers who staff the stores at which the upper crust shops.
A neighborhood bar from the days when this was an ethnic enclave rather than a “young, diverse neighborhood full of promise – perfect for the investor!” still has two doors at the front, one marked entrance, the other marked “Lady’s Entrance.” The grammatical error painted across the lintel is reiterated in the much more recent handlettered sign in the window, which promises that “Every night is Lady’s Night!”
Other handlettered signs include: “GO BEARS!” “FREE APPETIZER BUFFET!” “BEST BRATS IN CHI-TOWN!” and “LIVE MUSIC EVERY SUNDAY!” Someone – employee or owner – apparently went crazy with the Sharpie and the exclamation points. A few patrons stand outside, sharing cigarettes in the cool night – more early spring now, than heart of winter.
Inside, the scene is ordinary. A mix of neighborhood people – old guard men and women holding on to their brownstones in the shadows of skyscrapers, young professionals, students and the like mingle in the warm interior, eating, drinking, watching hockey on one of the two television sets bolted above the bar, or listening casually to the acoustic trio on the small stage. Well to the back, in the booth closest to the promised appetizer buffet, a blonde woman sprawls alone in a booth meant for four, or even six.
It’s a slow night, Sunday. Everyone’s regretting the weekend itself, or it’s passing, looking for comfort – a nice buzz rather than a full-on bender – and the bar is not as crowded as it can get on busier nights. And so, because no one has to get close to that booth, no one does.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] There’s a woman who enters the bar who may draw the eye. There’s the flame in her hair, even half-subdued in a clip, the rare hues of true red rarely found outside of dye-box. Her gaze flicks to the music playing on the mildly raised stage, pausing their.
Her gaze then flicks to the sprawled blonde – drawn by the young woman’s sheer presence, or perhaps the weight of her rage, felt even across the room. A beat passes, then Imogen turns away, walking over to the bar, leaning an arm against the scarred and varnished wood while waiting to make her order.
The kin is dressed in jeans, darkwashed and expensive – her jacket chocolate brown and leather. She unbuttons it as she waits, revealing the pale hue of her silk shirt beneath, unrumpled, and sleek on her torso.
When she turns from the bar, she has two beers in hand – and until now it may have been possible that the ex-Fianna would ignore the Fenrir completely; it’s a thought that is dispelled as she crosses the bar to the booth, isolated by Skadi’s burden. She steps with a form of grace – unimpressive perhaps when compared to a Garou’s warrior prowl, but present, nonetheless.
The beer is placed on table near the Modi, “I presume th’waitress hasn’t been by in a while,” she offers in careless explanation.
[AnneMarie Hoch] The more things change, the more they stay the same. She’s on patrol, of course. It is the same, more so then ever. Long legged strides, fluid grace, smooth movements that speak of the animal under human skin. At least it is warm. Well, warmer.
She is not one to frequent bars, which tends to make her stand out even more then usual. The Eagles tend to be down home, thuggish… country. AnneMarie, on the other hand, is well-coifed, put together, expensively dressed, with make up carefully applied, nails done, etc. She stands out, for all her rage makes her a vital part.
She would not have stopped in, perhaps, if not for the tug of something inside. The tingle of pack, the presence of one not felt in some time. A brow arches, steps pause, and after a moment, she too enters the establishment. Fingers smooth the lines of her calf-length coat over her hips, before unfastening the belt and letting it fall open. Underneath, a buttondown blouse, and slacks. Simple, understated – expensive. Boots give a boost to her already impressive (for a girl) height. Ever different, ever the same.
Gaze flicks to the blond that gives bloom to the pull of pack, to the redhead making her way in that direction with beer for two, and to the bar. Detour to the later garners herself a bottle, before she makes her way to the back booth. A nod – up, of course. Bad habits permiate even her controlled facade at times – to both inhabitants.
[Skadi] “I made ‘er brang me tha bottle.” The Modi announces, brandishing a fifth of Jack Daniels, fingers curled around it as if at any moment she might upend it into a weapon. Dr. Slaughter knows better: garou need no such makeshift weapons. They carry around their implements of war, perfectly hidden in plain sight. She continues with a careless gesture, across the booth at the opposite bench. “Have a fuckin’ seat.”
In addition to the bottle Skadi brandishes, there are four shot glasses set out on the table. One shows evidence of recent use, a subtle film of whiskey tinges the glass a faint caramel brown. The others are empty, pristine, set down upside down in a almost perfect row on the scarred wooden tabletop. Two half-decimated plates of deep-fried everything complete the table setting.
If Imogen sits, Skadi upends one of the empty shot glasses and pours her a shot, with the concentrated precision of someone who has already been at the bottle for a while, then accepts the fresh beer gratefully.
It has been some time since either woman has seen the Modi. Over the last three months, she has lost a rather significant amount of weight, the results of a near-starvation diet. Were she not over-the-fucking-hill at twenty-two, she could almost make it as a runway model – except that the persistent muscle mass augmenting her otherwise skeletal frame renders her insufficiently waif-like.
AnneMarie might’ve felt her presence briefly within the Eagles’ pack territory – just once – on the night of Skadi’s return. She hasn’t been back since then, and has failed to make her presence known to the pack via their shared connection to Eagle.
Now, Skadi looks up, once, eyes narrowing as the smartly-dressed mule walks into the bar. She doesn’t look back at AnneMarie until the other Fenrir has made her way back to Skadi’s table; in lieu of a nod up, Skadi offers AnneMarie a straight, direct look and a subtle curl of expression, her lush mouth twisting into a humorless smile.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] Have a fucking seat.
Imogen pauses for a precise moment, her gaze unmoving from the Modi. In this measured moment of time, perhaps she weighs the detriment of Skadi’s company on her night, or perhaps simply, her ability to withstand the Fenrir’s rage, or her desire to do so. Maybe, she considers how dangerous an inebriated Garou could be to her health. Her weapons are in plain sight – her muscles coiled beneath her skin. Imogen’s weapon is considerably less – slower. She’d be dead before the safety was even off her gun.
She sets her own beer bottle down with a muted clink, and takes a seat across from the young woman. The shot is passed across, but untouched as she resettles the lines of her leather jacket, but leaves it on. The guitarist on the trio begins a fingerpicking solo – the kinwoman’s eyes flick that way, the low light flickering in her hair as her head turns. By now, AnneMarie has come and nodded, and Skadi has not spoken. Imogen glances at the mute Metis and inclines her head – she has no habits that can be associated with the Eagles – but does not invite her to sit. It was perhaps, Skadi’s move.
Imogen’s move is to slide the shot glass back across to the seated Modi, her expression closed.
[AnneMarie Hoch] It is said, that when one loses a sense, the others increase in ability. Perhaps, in losing the ability to speak, AnneMarie gained something in other areas. The ability to listen to more then words, to see more in body language then in putting too much stock in the words that come out of someone’s mouth.
Or the lack thereof.
Imogen is offered a drink, the kinfolk is at the table within moments. She is spoken to, the body language one of acceptance, of welcome. That she does not accept it is immaterial. When AnneMarie arrives, it is clearly different, voiced further in the humorless smirk given birth across the slash of the oft absent Modi’s lips.
There is a moment’s consideration. A pause, if you will, as AnneMarie meets that look head on. Her own lips show a brief flicker of emotion, there then gone within a breath. In the space of the smirk that made such a brief and unexplained presence, there is thought.
And then a decision.
On a heel, she turns again. The untouched bottle placed before a patron seeking that ever elusive buzz, her hand tucked into the pocket of her coat, and she makes her way out, as sedately and graceful as she appeared. Her intentions unvoiced, her reasoning unexplained. Her presence – clearly unwanted by one who knows the least of the metis.
AnneMarie, again on patrol. Simple, that. After all, the more things change…
[Skadi] It’s a strange moment; the pair of Modi, both packmates, share a direct look of the sort often used to settle challenges in the Garou Nation and then one turns away. Neither speaks, and the party line of the totem connection remains silent.
Skadi watches AnneMarie as the latter turns and paces back through the bar, with little care for the humans who turn and shift unconsciously out of her way. The whole time, Skadi’s gaze remains fixed on a point midline in the mule’s back, framed by the tension her shoulderblades create in the fine fabric of AnneMarie’s coat.
In sharp contrast to both her packmate and Silence’s Fiann (as Skadi always thinks of Imogen), the southern belle is not dressed in fine clothes. Her jeans are Levi’s, low-rise and faded – not for fashion, but by long use. The waistband sits on her hips, held only only by a belt cinched tight. Otherwise, she wears a Johnny Cash t-shirt atop what appears to be a small man’s thermal undershirt. The garments, once chosen with an eye toward showing off her figure as obviously and easily as possible, are all too large Fenrir. A much abused shearling coat is cast aside on the bench seat.
“Fuckin’ hell,” Skadi mutters, at last, her attention swinging back to the table as AnneMarie’s path takes her out of Skadi’s line of sight. Abruptly, she picks up her own shot glass, and drains it. Then, she picks up Imogen’s shot glass, and drains it. The double-shot is followed by a chaser of the beer the kinwoman brought to the table, two great swallows. “S’what cowards do.” The Modi continues, speaking thoughts aloud rather than making conversation, with a gesture of the fifth toward Imogen, and then toward the wider world of the club, generally. “Walk tha fuck away.”
A thin line of whiskey begins to dribble onto the table, pooling in the grooves before Skadi realizes that she is wasting alcohol, and sets the bottle down – upright – with a loud, hollow sound.
[Imogen M. Slaughter] As the clash of gazes occurs not even several feet away from her, Imogen remains aloof, her eyes turned away, even as her awareness of the two is spoken through her body language. Which, as has been said, is often louder than words.
It is only when AnneMarie turns and walks out, that Imogen’s dark eyes move. She watches the mute Modi’s back until she leaves. Skadi speaks – Imogen’s attention turns back. Her eyebrow lifts, an expression of skepticsm, or a question unasked. The eyebrow settles.
“Is that so.” It’s a non-commital response to something that wasn’t really directed at her to begin with.
Her beer bottle lifts and tilts, the liquid sloshing within the amber bottle. She lowers it again, untouched, and this time, her eyebrow arch comes with commentary: “Shall I leave you to it, then? Or,” here is perhaps where she should have stopped, “would tha’ make me a coward as well?”