Frostchild [Eve, ST'd by Mindy]

[Love like diamonds]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2

[Love like diamonds]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 7

[Drew Roscoe] The city had only housed Drew Roscoe for a week now, but the Kin did not waste time in settling back in. She needed her roots down, she needed to make herself stable, to reinforce everything that she'd left behind when she'd traveled to the West Coast, to find some semblance of what she'd up and abandoned to chase glory. She'd made plans even as she drove back across the nation in her truck with the U-Haul trailer behind it, calling around, pulling strings, getting herself a job interview set up and a few houses to view to rent out all by way of cell phone.

Charisma got you a long way in life, they always say that you attract more bees with honey than vinegar.

Today she was viewing a house within the vicinity of Cabrini-Green, just outside of Last Watch's territory (though she wasn't aware of territorial boundaries anymore, she'd need to refamiliarize herself with them). Her truck was parked against a curb across the street, and she stood in front of a house with a 'For Rent' sign staked in the snow-covered yard, half-obscured by snow stuck to its slick waxy paper surface. The lights were out, the paint on the shutters was a chilly shade of gray and ivy grew on the bricks of the one story building.

Drew stood in front of the walk to the front door, hands in the pockets of her red winter jacket with the hood left down, ears covered instead with a gray knit hat. Her jeans were dark colored, and her brown winter boots went up past the center point of her shins. She wore scant make-up, just what would be considered prudent for a young lady to wear when meeting new people-- she'd had to shake hands with the home owner when she picked up the keys from his residential house.

Her expression was blank, not entirely present. She was staring at the house without seeing it, drifting back to the better times of last spring.

[Love like diamonds] Eagles don't patrol the north side anymore. Not that Eve knows that. Eve doesn't know who patrols any of this territory, truth be told. She's given her gues to the caern of Maelstrom. She' given away her pink cigarettes. Eve has reached into her pickets and pulled out a camel. She liked the ones she had. She had a pack of cigarettes- one or two from whoever she could bum one from. The economy of cigarettes. The buy and sell and trade of these items. Eve can barter anything.

She's not sociable. Not in the typical sense. Eve, however, is a nomadic creature. One who hunts differently. This isn't hunting, though. This is fate, or something like it. We digress. Eve's been going through the garbage around here. There's the benefit of being walking trash; people don't notice when she shows up randomly or unexpectedly. Being nomadic helps.

---

"Can I help you?" Drew hears. There's the sound of booted heels making their way across the pavement. Down the way, there is a woman. She doesn't have long legs of shapely thighs, but she walks like she's an authority figure, her makeup could use some work. her lipstick is prominent and her eyes are dark, dark, dark. She's bundled up in a coat and she just... can't... stop inspecting the Fenrir.

"Are you here for the open house?" She asks.

[Drew Roscoe] Drew's gaze had drifted toward the chimney on the rooftop, had been gradually floating upward to the overcast sky. If left alone she probably would've realized she'd been lost for the past ten minutes when the burn of the sun through the pale gray sky had caused her to squint and blink and her eyes to water. She isn't left to these devices, though, and her wandering thoughts are reigned back in by the clack of heels and a question asked.

Dark brown eyes blinked and dropped from the roof, swept to the right to find the woman wrapped up in a heavy coat, like anyone with sense would be in the winter season in the midwest. She sniffed some against the cold and looked at the woman as she approached, neverminding her body shape or how she chooses to wear her makeup. What she's more curious about is how intensely she is being stared at. She glanced down briefly, some self-conscious flicker of eyes to make sure she hadn't spilled anything on her coat or not adjusted her clothing correctly, then back up again.

The smile she put on moved across her face with all the smoothness and warmth of honey butter spread, it was polite and welcoming and as attractive to good feelings as sugar water was to hummingbirds. "I am, but I already spoke with the home-owner. I think I can show myself in."

Polite as her exterior may be, friendly and easy and innocent, that didn't mean that she was near so trusting on the inside. She kept her gun holstered at the back of her waistband, covered by her winter coat as usual, and in her Dodge Ram was the very same shotgun that had put an end to the first Fomori she encountered.

[Love like diamonds] [how bad is this? (result /3, round up)]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 10

[Drew Roscoe] [Perception+Intuition]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 6, 8, 8, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Love like diamonds] "Well, darlin', go on right ahead, if you talked to the homeowner," she says.

The woman looks at Drew, and she looks at her long and hard and nods. Her lips upturn again, and she takes in that sugar sweet smile and those dark eyes and that too-comfortable countenance. Nothing really happens there. Nothing happens for a long while. The woman waits to see what happens after this, to see if Drew really is just going to check out the house or not.

The woman follows her in and very, very carefully. Makes sure to close the door behind her.

The house has been taken care of. There's new carpet on the floors, the hardware's been replaced, even some of the glass window panes have been. but it doesn't feel right to Drew. The window panes feel too solid. The corners are too sharp, and she has a feeling that, down one of her hallways, in one of her rooms, there is something waiting, and, instead, she doesn't need to be in this house right now.

Something doesn't feel good about this. Not at all.

"It's a real beauty," the agent remarks.

[Drew Roscoe] Before entering the home, of course, Drew would ask if the woman was the agent, double check to make sure. She knew Chicago on a nearly intimate level, she understood that you had to upturn every stone because it never failed that something would be lurking under one of them. Once reassured, she allowed the woman to enter the home with her, and though she wasn't terrifically pleased that the door closed behind them she couldn't insist that it stay open or cause a scene over it. It made sense that the door closed, it was winter and less than freezing outside. As much as she would like to sometimes, Drew also recognized that if you let your suspicions guide your every action, as sure of them as you may be, you would eventually wind up stuffing your gun down the throat of an innocent person, and that one simple mistake would ruin your effort to hold up a human life. You could say farewell to income and a home because no one hired you after aggravated assault went down on your record.

So Drew stepped into the front room of the house, an open space between a potential living area and the kitchen. It was spacious, it was pretty and well maintained, despite what the front of the house suggested-- a renovated old home, no doubt. However, everything seemed... off. Hard and sharp, inorganic and stale. It was like standing in a model home that would never be anything more, if there was food in the house it would all be wax. It felt hollow. It felt dangerous. She stared down the halls, leaned to the side to make a show of inspecting the room she stood in, then shook her head and smiled politely to the woman with the heavy makeup.

"It is, it is. I was looking for something more rustic, I suppose, though. I'll be on my way."

It was curt, it was against all etiquette when it came to viewing a home (you were supposed to tour the whole place, let the realtor lead you and have a solid chance to sell the home since they took time out of their day to be there with you), but the place... hell, not just the place alone but the entire situation as a whole had all the fine hairs prickling at the back of her neck, and the sensation continued down to stiffen her spine and tense her muscles. She may come across as rude, but something in her gut told her that manners were irrelevant in this situation and she needed to get back to her truck.

[Love like diamonds] (crash!)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 4, 5, 5 (Botch x 1 at target 6)

[Love like diamonds] [ow, damage]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 3, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Love like diamonds] [Oww!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 4, 6 (Failure at target 8)

[Kristiana Coleman] (Just being nosy. Don't mind me)

[Love like diamonds] "Darling, are you sure you don't want to look around? We probably have other things in your price range," she assures the Fenrir kinswoman. She smiles and her teeth aren't white and rounded. Oh no, something about them is Canine. Something about htem is sharp-too sharp. Something about her appearance is at once too muscular, too visibly hirusute to be human. Maybe she wasn't that way before. but the woman's kicked her heels off and she looks at least half a foot taller.

Int he background. Drew hears glass breaking, she hears a wince of pain, and a dry, dull hiss.

That's all she hears before she heads the sound of things rustling, she hears wood clattering and bone shredding and cloth tearing and ripping and sinew stretching. The sond is horririf and terrible and sounds so much like home that some part of Drew's spirit sings for blood and cries for home.

This was home. This could have been home.

This was a house, now. Her boys weren't in it. But something else was. And this was hers. She just had to deal with that jackal-mouthed woman first.

"I suggest you flee, frostchild, lest my housemates proove to be overzealous with whatever was in the backyard."

[Drew Roscoe] [Init + 6]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4

[Love like diamonds] [Jackal woman:+5]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2

[Love like diamonds] [Eve:+6]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2

[Love like diamonds] Larry: +7
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1

[Love like diamonds] Curly: +8
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1

[Love like diamonds] Moe: +7
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 5

[Love like diamonds] Moe: 12
Drew: 10
Curly: 9
Larry: 8
Eve: 8
Jackal: 7

[Love like diamonds] Jackal lady:
1a: claw at Drew
1b: do it again?

[Drew Roscoe] [1a. Shoot between the eyes +WP
1b. Shoot again, anywhere's fine]

[Drew Roscoe] [Shot 1: Dex + Firearms, +2 diff called shot, -1 diff range, -2 dice split]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 3, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 7) [WP]

[Drew Roscoe] [Damage 1: Base 6 + 1 suxx + 2 headshot (L)]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 6, 6, 6, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Love like diamonds] Head soaking: owww (yay glabrosoak!)
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 5, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Drew Roscoe] [Shot 2: Dex + Firearms, -1 diff range, -3 dice split]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 2, 3 (Failure at target 5)

[Love like diamonds] [Sorry Drewby. Pwned by a theurge, -2 dice]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 3, 5 (Failure at target 6)

[Love like diamonds] [NO SERIOUSLY]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 4, 5 (Success x 1 at target 6) [WP]

[Love like diamonds] DAMGE!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 4, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Love like diamonds] [Jackal lady: seriously. Same song and dance
1: claw
r1: again again]

[Drew Roscoe] [I have a better idea...
1a. Run for the truck
1b. You better believe I'm hauling ass out of range]

[Drew Roscoe] [Run: Dex + Athletics, -2 split]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 6, 6, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Drew Roscoe] [Run pt. 2: Dex + Athletics, -3 split]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 3, 9 (Failure at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [action change!
1: pursuit!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 6, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [Rage action: pokey pokey clawy?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 6, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [damage?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] Eve:
1: Haul ass away from window
R1L: run like Hell

Jackal lady:
1: try to slash a tire (tire claw?)

[Drew Roscoe] [1a. Get in truck
1b. Stomp on the gas]

[Drew Roscoe] [1a. Dex + Athletics, -2 split, -2 damage penalties]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 1, 8 (Failure at target 6)

[Drew Roscoe] [Trying again with 1b.]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 3 (Failure at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [Eve: Iiiii'm runniiiiiiiin...a nd just realized she sucks at it!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 6, 7, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6) [WP]

[Looking like diamonds] [Aaaaaand poor tire]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 5, 6 (Failure at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] (Eve: R1: action change, shouldercheck the jackal lady, +1 diff)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 7, 7, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 7)

[Looking like diamonds] [Owjesus, damage]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 4, 5, 9, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] Soak?
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [let's see if they stay standing. Eve?]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 2, 8 (Failure at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [Jackal lady?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 6, 6, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] This is how Drew Roscoe seems to meet people.

She wanders into a completely harmless situation, like coffee shops or supermarkets or bars, and leaves with someone trying to pound her face in or trying to eat her soul or trying to sell her off to the highest bidder. Hell, she's even been accosted as the direct result of trying to be a good samaritan. All things considered, Drew needs to come up with a better way to meet people. It had all been simple enough, look at the house, go see if it's somewere she wants to be and-

and then there's glass breaking.
Then there's stuff rumbling.

Next, she's nursing stomach wounds and feeling lightheaded from blood loss and feeling her muscles tear and instead of laying down she's coming up with a plan. Her body is failing her, though. It's not exactly cooperating when it comes to getting in the damned truck. Her keys are in her hand.

The jackal woman tries to slash a tire, but ends up missing in her fervor to get things going. This, of course, is when the first part comes into play- how Drew Roscoe meets people. She meets people through adversity, and right now, she's met with the sight of a blonde woman. We use the term woman loosely. She's more female than woman. It's not that she runs fast, it's that she wants to get the fuck away from whrever she was. There's blood on her left hand, there's glass in the wound-

Explains the sound.

She shoudlerchecks the jackal woman, and Drew knows a solid hit when she sees one. But when the already admittedly solid female hits a brick wall and ends up on her ass, she might be thinking the same thing as Drew is.

"Fuck."

Gotta hand it to the little homeless shit, though, she got a distraction.

[Looking like diamonds] [Eve: ack!
1a: get up
1b: Eye gouge
r1: go for the other eye!

Jackal lady: look! prone target!
1- claaaaaaw at the face
r1: yeah, same thing

[Drew Roscoe] [1a. Get in Truck
1b. Get Shotgun]

[Drew Roscoe] [Dex + Athletics, -2 damage penalty, -2 split]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 2, 5 (Failure at target 6)

[Drew Roscoe] [DREW ROSCOE YOU GET YOUR ASS IN THAT TRUCK]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4 (Success x 1 at target 6) [WP]

[Looking like diamonds] 1b: Go for the eye! +2
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 5, 7, 7 (Success x 1 at target 8) [WP]

[Looking like diamonds] [Damage?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 3, 4, 5, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [Eyes don't soak well...]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 1, 3 (Botch x 1 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [Rar!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 5, 5, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [Damage]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 4, 4, 4, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [Eve: WTF?]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 6, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [Eve: srsly.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 7 (Failure at target 8)

[Looking like diamonds] [Jackal lady: RAAAAR]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 5, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [Damage]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 6, 7, 7, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [Eve: QUIT IT]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 6, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [Round... uh... something]

[Looking like diamonds] [Eve: fuck this noise. Off to breedform
1a: claw
1b: bite
1c: bite again.

Jackal lady:
1a: shift to hispo
1b: bite!

[Drew Roscoe] [Grab shotgun, roll down window]

[Looking like diamonds] [rar! -3]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 1, 8 (Failure at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] Nom: -4
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 5, 8 (Success x 2 at target 5)

[Looking like diamonds] (-1 Wp: resist pain)

[Looking like diamonds] [Damage?]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 6, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] Ohshit- soak?
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 2, 6, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [Seriously, you die now.]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 5 (Success x 1 at target 5)

[Looking like diamonds] [damage]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 3, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] Soak?
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 6, 7, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] Jackal lady, shift? -2, -2
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 3, 6 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] Bite
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 6 (Success x 1 at target 5)

[Looking like diamonds] [damage]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 4, 6, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [Eve: soak]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Drew Roscoe]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4

[Looking like diamonds] [Eve: SERIOUSLY
1a: go for the eye!
1b: seriously
R: JUST DIE ALREADY FUCK! BITE

Jackal lady, -1 gnosis, yay healing talen!
1: Clawing!

[Drew Roscoe] [Headshot]

[Drew Roscoe] [Dex + Firearms, -2 wound penalty]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 3, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 8) [WP]

[Drew Roscoe] [Damage: Base 8 + 2 Headshot (L)]
Dice Rolled:[ 10 d10 ] 2, 2, 2, 3, 4, 4, 5, 5, 6, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [maybe?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 6, 7 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [That's frenzycheckworthy. So much damage-related anger]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 5, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] 1a: SERIOUSLY
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 2, 6 (Botch x 1 at target 8)

[Looking like diamonds] [Ow.]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 9, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [OW!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 2, 3, 9, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [SERIOUSLY?!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 4, 5, 7, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6) [WP]

[Looking like diamonds] [damage]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 3, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [soak?]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 4, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] [Iiiiiincaaaaaap!]

[Looking like diamonds] [Rar!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 5, 6, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 5)

[Looking like diamonds] [damage]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 5, 5, 6, 7, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Looking like diamonds] soak?
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 6, 7, 7, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Drew Roscoe] The battle had made its way out into the street when the Kinfolk burst through the front door of the house, sprinting toward the truck. She slapped against the truck door, but wasn't fast enough to get in for the monster of a woman tearing across pavement after her. Drew had twisted to face her enemy and took claws that gouged deep into her belly, spilling enough blood on the ground that it hit with a splack! sound and began to steam immediately. Escape, reinforcements, a weapon with all the power of a Dodge Ram and protection of a metal cab were all on her mind, and as she fought the daze and the cold numb of her body trying to shut down to forget the pain, she slipped and stumbled trying to haul herself one-handed up into the truck.

Mercy came in the form of a woman with long blonde hair and shabby clothes, checking her shoulder into the monster woman and initiating a fight that was precisely the distraction the kinfolk needed. Claws went for eyes and faces, blood splashed the ground and the clothes of either female tearing into the other in the middle of the street. After four solid efforts and with boots slipping in blood dribbled onto the truck's step, Drew all but fell onto the bench seat of her truck, scrambled for her shotgun and rolled down her window. The barrel of the gun rested on the window, the shot was lined up, and fired. Buckshot skimmed the back of the Spiral's head, but to little avail.

Thank goodness for that Metis, though, her teeth and claws were too much for the woman and down she went-- chest still moving, breath gargling in her throat, body maintaining its Glabro shape, but prone and no longer an immediate threat. Drew threw open the passenger door and yelled in a voice that was drained of strength, tapered at the end of the exclamation with exertion and exhaustion both.

"Get in the truck!"

Welcome Home [Kora]

[Drew Roscoe] Drew didn't know what sort of greeting she was supposed to expect when she sought out one of the remaining people in Chicago that she knew, that she regarded as trustworthy and family. People had a tendency to die and vanish around here, she was pleasantly surprised to find Kora still intact-- pregnant even, she realized when the statuesque Skald turned around.

This was met with a pang that she chased away and didn't acknowledge, and the smile on her face didn't falter until Kora's did. It slipped from her mouth and was replaced with faint confusion and concern when Kora's reaction was to curse, grow serious, and seize her by the wrist to drag her up the apartment hall and into a bedroom. Drew went along willingly, easily, but with question written all over her face.

Once in the bedroom, Drew had the idea that whatever they were going to talk about was supposed to be private, she could only guess that it was going to be in regards to the Boys, so she closed the door behind them and settled to stand nearby it, unless gestured to sit or settle elsewhere by the Skald. She had a good idea of Wolves and Territory, so she wouldn't dispute with one in their own home, not over something so small as standing or sitting or leaning on a door.

The Kinswoman's arms would fold loosely over her stomach and she'd try that smile again, an easy and small thing that pulled one corner of her mouth a bit higher than the other the other. "You look well." Not avoiding the topic, just being friendly while waiting for it to come up. To be too serious was to damn herself just yet.

[Kora] The apartment is small enough that there's nothing down the hall except for a bathroom and a pair of bedrooms. The doors are both closed for privacy among the guests, but Kora opens the first bedroom door and gestures Drew inside. There's a bed, low, made, and a pair of bedside tables, a dresser - everything is neat and orderly, the the closet doors closed, the shoes neatly aligned, the colors muted earthtone, the possessions and extraneous toiletries mostly male, except for a few of her things scattered about.

That first impression, that quiet curse, is nothing more than a chasing surprise, the moment between seeing something and recognizing it when the creature's dark eyes narrow, her pupils contracting as Drew's familiar features swim into focus.

When the bedroom door clicks shut behind them, Kora turns, her generous mouth still, her dark eyes flickering over Drew - not impersonally, but observantly, her focus intense as it ever is.

"Where's Joe?" she asks, that faint frown of thought still framed on her expressive mouth, her hands coming to rest on her hips, her elbows out, her body language unconsciously animal.

[Drew Roscoe] If there was one thing you had to become used to if you were going to live your life around Werewolves, it was that while they may look human they never ever acted like it. She had grown used to being stared at with eyes that were too intense and honestly focused to belong to anything but a predator, better suited over a muzzle rather than set into the soft face of a human's. So when Kora squared her body, elbows out and hands on hips, posture ready and demanding both, Drew did not quaver. She was far too accustomed for that.

Of course that was the first question.

The smile on Drew's face faltered, the warmth and sparkling confidence in her eyes dulled like flames dashed with sand. She leaned more resolutely back against the door, moved her arms so they were crossed more snugly, higher up her stomach so they were under the modest swell of her chest. One corner of her mouth pulled back, the same that had lifted with the smile, but now it appeared uncomfortable.

"He's... not gonna make it tonight." True, but not nearly the entirety of it, and Drew didn't have the energy or motivation to put an effort into a lie.

[Kora] The room is dark. There's just the soft glow from the lamp on the bedside table, the gleam of the city's light through the filter of wooden blinds to illuminate them. There's Drew - the sparkle in her eyes dying abruptly - and there's Kora, her nostrils flaring as if she could somehow scent the truth from the air between them, even in her soft, utterly human skin.

She's pregnant; four and a half, maybe five months, and athletic enough that she did not show early. Some women seem softer, somehow, billowy - but there is nothing soft about her, and the animal inside is somehow brighter in the discs of her keen dark eyes.

Outside the door, down the hall, the murmur of voices, of music in the background, something low on the stereo, the echo of voices as the radio announcer inserts himself for the top of the hour news. Kora's attention is entirely fixed on Drew. The wide neck of her argent-white tee revealings the solid architecture of her shoulders. The downslope of her trapezius, the hard, jut of her clavicle against her pale skin. The muscles are taut underneath her skin, with a sort of tension that seems both - liminal and electric, that could be read about her as a halo energy for all that the young woman is unmoving.

Some other night the dimming of Drew's brightness might make her soften. Or, not soften, but shift to accommodate what she might read as grief or sorrow. Tonight, the generous line of her mouth just - hardens. Minutely, but it hardens.

"What does that mean?" - low-voiced, even. Without quarter.

[Drew Roscoe] "Means...."

A hand twitched where it rested, uncertain, then both hands moved up to pull the plait of hair over her shoulder and onto her chest. Fingers pulled and smoothed the dark strands of hair, and her eyes fell from Kora's-- but not for fear. She could look Thomas and Joe in the eyes even on their worst days, not because she was tough and resolute (if you asked her why, anyways), but because of trust. She trusted them not to attack, not to betray. She trusted Kora similarly, she had no fear of holding her gaze for any length of time.

It was the emotion that had her eyes dropping, sadly settling at the stomach of Kora's shirt without her really realizing what she was staring at. She swept her tongue over her upper lip, took a deep breath and shook her head. "It means he's not making it tonight or any other night at all." Her mouth was grim, set hard to prevent her lower lip from quivering. The last thing she wanted a grip of new family members to see when they first met her was wet, red eyes and a weak faltering smile when she left this bedroom. "He's gone."

[Kora] Something in the tension evidence in the Skald breaks; or shifts rather. She does not slump, but her dark eyes sharpen against Drew's features, the direct gaze, the grim set of her mouth, the way her eyes fall to settle without thinking on the curve of Kora's stomach. She breathes out once, audibly, and though some of that evident tension in her shoulders and arms eases, a span of tendon joining her jaw spasms as she swallows back - more questions, most of them.

"And Thomas?"

[Drew Roscoe] "I don't know."

Fingers work through the hair further, and when they stop a stray strand comes away with them. This Drew shakes off her hand thoughtlessly, lets it float toward the floor. Her breathing is irregular without being erratic. It feels better to take a deep breath and hold it in, like the air could cool the burn of grief in her chest. When she exhales it's a tired sigh that she breathes out almost each time. Her hands stuff into the back pockets of her pants, causing her elbows to point outward, not unlike how Kora's did, but with shoulders rolled back rather than squared strong.

"He was supposed to meet us... He was in the Umbra from what I understood. He just.. never showed up. I haven't seen him since last summer."

It was an odd thing, a curious realization. Since Drew learned about Garou and Kin and what they were to one another she'd always been supporting and supported by either Joe or Thomas, telling stories of them or fondly smiling when either name was brought up. To have both of them removed from the picture, hopelessly so, it made her seem older somehow. More worn out, tired by the day, like trying to get past their absence was a monumental task for her.

One day she would be okay, though, Kora knew that certainly. Drew had a track record in Chicago for strength and glory, enough to be given a Name and revered with Renown. She's sent bullets between the eyes of more than one spawn of the Wyrm, she's suffered through the losses of loved ones on numerous occasions. She would hold the memories dear, but she wouldn't mourn forever. This must have been a recent occurrence, no doubt the entire reason for returning home.

[Kora] "Okay."

At first, that is Kora's only acknowledgment of the news. That the remains of the pack did not survive even move out west, that Thomas never showed and Joe found his end, glorious or otherwise. Her voice is pitched low - if she ever sang, she would be a contralto - but she doesn't make human music, now, not Sorrow. She does not sing human songs.

The creature's hands slip from her hips, until she has wedged her fingers into the front pockets of her jeans. They're new enough that the denim is dark still, that she has not worn the hems to shrews on the streets of Chicago.

"And you're back to stay?" - this is quiet, easy. Made easier, in any case, because Kora has shifted her gaze just away from Drew, so that the kinfolk isn't subject to the full-on, dark-eyed stare. She waits a beat, long enough for Drew to acknowledge with a flicker of a look, with a quiet murmur that she is indeed back to stay.

"I'm still Jarl of the Fenrir." Kora looks back then, begins to move. It's subtle, the intimation of pacing - animal in a cage - "I'm pretty sure you know what that means. You are my responsibility in the eyes of the nation. I have the right to discipline you, and no one else. I will see to your protection, and I'll require your cooperation in that. If anyone - even a son of Fenris - wishes to claim you, he has to challenge me for the right. You understand that, don't you?"

[Drew Roscoe] The pacing, again, wasn't anything new, subtle and in-place or full-functioning and carrying about the room. The sheer amount of beast in her people did not cause her to shy away or fret, as she was Kin and as much theirs as they were hers. Family stuck together, did not harm one another, sought only to teach and strengthen and protect one another. The news is accepted with a simple 'Okay', a question, and then business.

The question is answered with a nod, simple and quiet.

The business is met with a flat stare at first, but it softens into a grin that didn't chase the sorrow away completely. "I do. It's unnecessary to say out loud, but I get the reason behind the disclaimer." The points of her canine teeth nipped at the skin inside her cheek for a second, and she shook her head after a second. "Won't be any claiming for a long time, though. Joe's....," and it's hard here, for a moment, because she hasn't spoken of him in past tense outside of raging and throwing fists at the culprit's head before now. "He's a tough act to follow."

[Kora] When Drew pauses, when her throat closes, so minutely because she means to speak in present tense, not past, because grief is a thing not of stages but moments. The first hour. The first day. The first sunrise. The first snowfall. The first - past tense - Kora acknowledges this with no more than a flicker of her eyes. She does not manage even a neutral acknowledgment of Drew's comment that Joe would be a tough act to follow except for a flicker of her eyes.

They had not parted on good terms, War-Handed and Sorrow, but she will not impugn the dead. Would not have done so in front of Drew even were he living, no matter the names she called him when she founds herself alone - tending their Alpha's grave, walking their just-claimed territory, keeping their compact with the scab-birds scrubbing the damn bell in the watchtower with brillo every Sunday afternoon, the tips of her fingers abraded to shreds - wounds she healed thoughtlessly moments after.

Finally, Kora makes a noise in the back of her throat.

"Are you pregnant?"

Kora does not soften the question; does not try to shape it into something else.

[Drew Roscoe] Kora asks questions unabashedly, drops them like bombs, like a hand in a game of cards, and dares people to protest the fact. She doesn't cushion blows, she doesn't try and cut corners or be delicate or polite. They were Fenrir, the both of them, they didn't need to be coddled with softness, to do so would be a disrespect to either party.

The question is met with a laugh that sounds surprised and just a tiny, worrying bit sardonic.

"Pregnant? No, no, no. Could you imagine?" There's a shake of her head, the question of what Kora was to imagine easy to answer without saying aloud-- Joe Holst, the seventeen year old death machine, a creature of hate and zealous belief, fathering a child. Drew fit the concept of a mother much easier, but Joe was the furthest thing from family-ready. Despite that, and though she'd never say so now that it was impossible, the couple had been on the threshold of trying for a child. Had Joe parted three or four months later, perhaps the answer would be different.

That wasn't the case, though, and Drew waved a hand dismissively of the very thought. "Naw. You look healthy, though. Due... what, in April? March?"

[Kora] The surprised laugh brings Kora's eyes right back to Drew's. The Skald does not join in the laughter, does not make it ring in the dark bedroom. There's a scent in the room of - cleaning products, some natural brand infused with oils. Sandalwood, attar of roses - those sorts of scents, and a strange stillness here juxtaposed against the murmur of the overlarge crowd in Trent's small living/dining rooms. Kora's attention lingers, she reads - well, the skepticism there, that they might have tried for a child - and the hint of wistfulness that must attach near the end, before she waves it off with an efficiently dismissive hand.

"Me?" - the Skald's turn for surprise, etched in her fine, pale brows above her fine, dark eyes. On a human, these might be attractive features, played up with make-up - a smokey eye, mascara to darken the flaxen lashes and frame her eyes. Kora is not human, however - and it is impossible to read something so facile as prettiness in the regularity of her eyes, in the quickened curve of her mobile mouth as she drops her gaze from Drew's dark brown eyes to the sure, subtle curve of her pregnancy against the t-shirt she wears.

That surprise - or maybe just the look, the way her eyes fall half-closed, pale lashes a pale shadow over her pale cheeks, her focus drawn inward - makes her seem - softer, somehow, more vulnerable, though nothing like that imprints itself in her tone of voice. Or even the laugh she breathes out before continue with the answer, quiet and nearly voiceless, as if she were holding it back in her body, swallowing it down.

" - no, I don't know. Haven't been to a doctor for obvious reasons, and don't know any midwives in the city." Kinfolk midwives, she means. "So we're not sure."

Then, a moment later, with something like resolve - "Drew," relentless, but still quiet, as if there was space for both strength and sorrow, grief and stoicism. "I'll ask you for the story of his death, and soon, but you needn't tell it tonight. And I want you to know that we did not - " a pause, her mouth thins around it as she reaches for the appropriate euphemism. " - end things well, Joe and I, but I will not hold that against you."

[Drew Roscoe] "Understandable. It'll come when it comes." This is Drew's answer to what Kora has to say about not knowing her due date. Her shoulders lift and fall in a shrug, and a hand moves to tug the warm red fabric of her sweater back up her shoulder, then settles into her pocket once more. She had no medical skills aside from basic knowledge, CPR and tourniquets and the like, and even if she did have any idea about child birth it was a deeply personal thing to volunteer to help someone through. She'd help how she could, in any way asked, but she wouldn't offer up skills she didn't have.

As for how Kora and Joe parted...

"I know." The answer seemed a little bit short, but not clipped with anger or impatience. She was being matter-of-fact on the topic, in a sense. She already had a pretty good idea when Joe told her they'd be leaving. She thought of Kora, losing Kemp only to have the rest of her pack leave so soon after, content to let her stay behind while they went forth to pursue other cities and adventures.

As for the story of how Joe went... Drew might not have heard it at all for how little she reacted to it. More than likely she pretended she didn't, didn't acknowledge because she didn't want to share the tale, recounting it too soon would be too hard. Tonight she needed composure, to shake hands and drink beer and make new friends, to congratulate some and ask questions of others. But she wouldn't, couldn't do that with tears on her face.

There's a moment of quiet, and Drew reaches back and lets her hand rest on the doorknob, eyebrows lifting in question, a faint smile on her face that looks soft and warm and sweet as honey, but Kora can be pretty sure that there's an effort to put it there and it didn't manifest naturally as it ought to. "Should we go back, then?"

[Kora] Some sharpening of that animal attention, quickening to the resolve, to the effort put into that smile. They've not been gone long. Five minutes, maybe ten at most, their voices low. Maybe no one's noticed that they've gone.

"Let's do - " the Skald says, reaching for the door as Drew pulls it open, holding it for the kinswoman as she goes ahead, then pulling it firmly closed behind them. The hallway is dark, the door to the bathroom half-open, the living/dining room at the end of the hall blazing with light and full of people, strangers mostly.

"Drew," says the Skald, quietly as they walk back down the hallway. Oh, she is what she is, and her voice is soft but pitched to carry with the skill of a storyteller, the surety of someone in full control of her greatest instrument. "Welcome home."

Ninetieth Degree [Howard, Bridget, Nameless]

[Drew Roscoe] Frigid weather and a full moon, that pretty much summed up what the city was doing tonight. The sky was perfectly clear, not a cloud in sight, every last one having dumped snow until they disappeared above the city, leaving well over two feet of snow on the ground where it was left undisturbed, mountains of it against curbs and the sides of parking lots taller than most sedan vehicles. Then came the temperatures that were well below freezing, preserving the remains of the blizzard so nothing melted away.

The city was relatively quiet, for people slept on Sunday nights to return to work in the morning. The air smelled crisp like winter and ice, and Drew had missed that terribly. Out in the Northwest it was soggy and gloomy, there was no snow on the ground, it felt wrong that the weather was so mild, that there was no ice, that it rained and was gray all the damn time. She was happy to be home, even if all of her belongings were waiting to be moved into a home while the credit was run and the paperwork went through, even if she would go to bed in a motel room tonight.

She'd come to the park because it was a short bus ride from where she was staying for the moment, because she wanted to see the ice on the tree branches and the frozen over ponds. She wasn't intending to ice skate as she'd done last winter, not this late at night. She was out to taste the air and see the city, to familiarize herself with it once more. She had many memories of Grant Park, so it only made sense to come back.

She was dressed intelligently for the weather, in a big red winter coat with brown faux fur lining the hood, even though the hood was down she wore instead a multi-colored hat on her head with flaps over her ears and strings that trailed beyond that to rest on her shoulders, and a pom at the top. She wore long johns under her jeans, and the cuffs of them were tucked into brown winter boots. Gloves were on her hands, a scarf was wrapped up around her neck, and her hands were stuck into her pockets to aid in keeping them warm.

She hadn't forgotten what Chicago was like, though. She kept her gun holstered at the back of her pants, under her winter jacket, which did a good deal to help conceal it from public view. Anything could happen at any time, and it wasn't her plan to go out with a fizzle into the quiet of the night, with only the moon to wish her farewell.

[-playtest-] Well, there's this at least: Drew has more company than the moon. Course, this being Chicago, and this being the rather notorious Grant Park, where all sorts of shit has gone bump in the night, it's anybody's guess whether this is good or bad.

Nonetheless, there he is. Company in the form of a bundled-up creature, age and ethnicity more or less indeterminate under that thick blue-and-silver ski jacket, lower half of face lost in the zipped-up collar, a wool cap pulled down over the tips of his ears. His hands are in his pockets. Drew knows this city well enough to be cautious. He could have anything hidden inside that big jacket of his. Those deep pockets. Guns, knives, garrotte wires, extra appendages. Who knows? He's spotted her, though, and comes at her, his gait the long rolling stride of some sort of athlete, jock.

"Hey!" He pulls a hand out of his pocket. No extra appendages, no gun: just a gloved hand. "Which way to the nearest El station?"

[Drew Roscoe] Sure, there'd be the occasional person that you'd walk past, but really with the temperatures this low and the park having the reputation that it does once the sun goes down she really didn't anticipate much contact. Perhaps someone slinking around with their shoulders hunched, dressed in forgettable dark clothing, waiting for someone to mug. She'd just flash her gun or invite the danger as something of a 'welcome home' skirmish, but she wouldn't worry. She's been confronted by much more than muggers in her time.

Enthusiastic long-legged strides and bright blue jackets, though, she didn't expect. The 'hey!' interrupted the quiet of the park, not eerie silence but with a hum of traffic and sirens and electricity in the background of the city. Drew responded with reasonable caution and surprise, looking quickly to the man jogging toward her and tensing up when his hand came out of his pocket, hand jumping out of her own and moving to her back. Before she can whip out her hand cannon, though, she sees it's only a hand (or so it seemed, anyways, for all she knew there were puckered poison tumors under the glove), and her hands come back into her own pockets.

She stopped walking to face the guy, and looked at him with an expression of invitation-- go on, say what you need. He asks where the nearest El station is, and she lifts her eyebrows some, surprised by how mundane the question is perhaps. Her mouth curves into a smile that's half-relief and half-humor, and she points diagonal of his shoulder, out toward the busy street that framed the length of the park. "I haven't used it in a while, but if I'm right it's gonna be right across the road near the north end of the block."

[Howard Ivers] It is far too cold for creatures composed mostly of water to be out walking around. Unfortunately, the weather doesn't much care about the wants or desires of the people who are stupid enough to have taken up residence in parts of the world where 'lake effect snow' is part of the daily vocabulary, so rather than sitting around bitching and moaning for the entirety of winter's blustery existence, people either choose to stay inside, or they choose to enter into a state of hibernative inebriation for the duration.

Caldera's Alpha finds the latter tactic to be sufficient.

Questioning him on how he came to be walking through the park with a tall, thin kinswoman with breeding dripping off of her like dew drops from a glassy glen at dawn would result in bullshit. Howard likes to ask questions but he has an infuriating tendency to make light of whoever has the gall to return the favor. As they mosey through the park tonight, he dressed in his usual color-blind assortment of clothing--tonight it's boots, black jeans, an absolutely hideous multicolored sweater with polar bears and trees and shit on it. Aviators are clipped to said hideous sweater. It's not bright enough that he needs them, and Bridget can see his eyes.

He's significantly less wound-up when he's stoned.

"So," he asks, apropos of nothing, "what's up with you and that Simon prick?"

They aren't the only ones out tonight, but he's focused enough on the question that he doesn't look away from Bridget.

[-playtest-] The lost guy -- newcomer to town, christmas tourist, something -- stops a non-threatening distance away, a good five or six feet. Near enough that Drew can see his eyes, dark but brilliant, alert. Local successfully flagged down, his gloved hand lowers to snap open his collar, exposing nose, mouth, chin: a face, more or less symmetrical, nothing bizarre or otherworldly. There's something about him, nonetheless. An intensity, the eyes that don't waver even through the periodical huffs of steam on every exhale.

"Thanks. New in town." And since she pointed over his shoulder, "You headed that way too?"

[Drew Roscoe] Her smile was an incredibly personable thing, welcoming and genuine. She was probably class president in high school, she probably worked with the public and legitimately did well at her job, rather than glaring sullenly at every customer to walk through the front door like the mass of retail workers did. She made warm the frigid air with a smile, and she was easy to trust right off the bat.

Charisma was a powerful thing.
It made you believe she couldn't possibly be keeping a gun under her coat.

"I guessed." In response to his explanation about being a new kid in town. He asked if she was heading his way, and she glanced up at the moon in the sky, as though she could judge time off it like people do the sun, then huffed out a breath that hung in a semi-opaque cloud in front of her face. "I suppose I should be, this time of night and all." Her head nodded forward, shoulder rolled to indicate they should walk as well, and began forward up the path, leading him back in the direction that he came from rather than cutting through the trees and the snow. Her boots could handle it, but she was smart enough to know better. She'd walk with the man along the path, but not out where passer-bys wouldn't be able to see her.

"I'm going to guess.... University of Chicago? Freshman year?"

[Bridget] The bitter windy city is nothing like Canadian mountain country, where the only way to stay warm in a drafty cabin is to light a fire and bundle up next to the nearest giant fuzzy chainsaw who happens to be family. The Canadian Fianna in-tow with Howard is used to this weather, and she almost never complains to begin with, but honestly she likes this sort of weather. Less people out and about, less noise from technology-- only the howling winter witches and the muffled echoes of solitariness.

The year is nearing its darkest night, but there are plenty of things to be thankful for, plenty of light. Tiny artificial ones play at warding against the nightmares, but they also serve as reminders of brighter, warmer times. Gaia's promise of spring. So there are things to be celebrating, indeed.

The Fianna kin walks alongside her newly-found friend with the same Army surplus coat as always, a Calgary Flames hoodie underneath, jeans, and two layers of socks jammed into old combat boots. It's hardly glamorous, but at least she's warm. Her blood speaks louder than her attire ever could, and the only distraction is Howard's sweater, which is pretty damn loud. They're both bleary-eyed from imbibing of the same substance.

"Je ne sais pas ce que vous parlez," she says with a mischievous giggle.
(I don't know what you're talking about)

"Why?"

[Howard Ivers] Howard could not walk a straight line if he were being paid to do so. He's trying; not because he's overly interested in trying to impress Bridget by feigning sobriety but because he's too tall and possesses too little body fat to survive a crash landing in this weather. Those benches, man, they're fucking tricky, and the goddamn ground is just trying to trip him. It's a treacherous walk.

He stays close to the kinswoman in case they're after her, too.

"Was that--"

Walking towards them are a miniscule young woman bundled up for the cold and a man who draws the Theurge's attention without too much effort. The Fiann, for his part, only draws attention because of his appearance, because of a magnetism to his personality; he has unapologetically curly hair, big green eyes and a sense of fashion that would have him arrested in certain jurisdictions. Without breeding, without much Rage compared to his heavier, meaner comrades, he could pass for human. He's loud, even if he's not ranting about something, and his dialect, while faint, is not American. It sounds as though it could somehow be related to the UK in some fashion, but it's too distilled to nail down.

"Ah, Christ, you're doin' that not-speakin'-English thing again." He's bitching, but it's lugubrious, without real fire in his belly. Like most of what comes out of his mouth, it's not remotely serious. "You think that's funny? Huh? What if I just started ramblin' on in fuckin'... I don't know. I don't even know what that was. Quit fuckin' with me, man..."

[-playtest-] Quick onesided quirk of a smile at that. "I look eighteen to you?" To be fair, she can't see much of him at all, what with the hat and the coat; what she can see is obscured by darkness and the wan, pale light of the streetlamps. For all she knows he's bald as an egg under the wool hat. "Guess I'll take it as a compliment.

"But no." He zips his collar back up to his chin, far enough that he can duck his mouth behind the barrier when the wind gusts. "I'm actually here as part of a more, uh ... selective organization. Suspect you know what I'm talking about, actually."

He turns his face away, coughing once into the wind: a huff of white. Then back with a quick sniff. "Smell like you do, anyway," he adds.

[Drew Roscoe] The scuff of flat-soled boots on the pavement, crunching quietly on the salt that was required to be there to protect the city from lawsuits slowed but didn't stop completely when the man coughed and suggested that she smelled like she knew what he was talking about. It only took her half of a second to understand what he was getting at, if that, and she stared at the side of his face with a new intent to study. If he was Family she'd need to know him, she wanted to. Family was what she came back for, and it was exactly what she needed right now.

Solitude was the killer of remorseful souls, after all.

One eyebrow quirked higher than the other, and a faint smirk tugged one side of her mouth a little higher than the other. No longer keeping in mind the presence of the gun at her waist, doubting that she'd need it now, she relaxed a little more, though it wasn't a visible shift. Her breathing changed to a more natural, relaxed pace and her shoulders rounded a bit.

"Well hell, in that case..." And she'd pause to stick out one hand swathed in a snug black glove, the fuzzy kind that you could get at the local convenience store in a three pack for five bucks. "I'm Drew Roscoe." Her eyes flick over to the couple walking along the same path, growing closer, and she chose to leave the other key words in that introduction for later. "I've been around for a while-- out of town for a couple of months so faces might have changed? But I hope not all of them, not that quickly. I could probably point you to whoever you need to see, if you're the brand-spanking kind of new."

[Bridget] Another teetering laugh escapes the young woman. She's built similar to the curly-haired Theurge. She's not trying to walk a straight line at all and sort of rambles around like she couldn't care if she fell because it would be hysterical. Bridget's laugh is warm and contagious.

With one arm wrapped around the Theurge's, she manages not to fall on her ass. She does stop and pat his arm with her other hand.

"Okay, okay. Pardon," the last is said with foreign accent, and sparks the kinfolk's snickering. "Sorry. I'll cut it out."

The free hand ruffles the Fiann's mane of curls before she continues walking. She settles down and watches the glistening lights in amazement. She looks as if the distantly screaming wind is trying to speak to her. In other words, Bridget looks worlds away for a moment.

"It's all so fake. You know? It's supposed to drive away the dark and all, but like... it's all so ridiculous because there's no reason to be afraid of it."

Bridget pauses with her brilliantly stoned philosophical moment for a second to take a few steps.

"I know it's supposed to be instinct, but it's stupid."

[Howard Ivers] The taller man wrinkles his nose as Bridget's hand finds his hair, but he doesn't jerk away or vocally protest the treatment. If anything he leans into it, like a dog that isn't pet nearly often enough, and when Bridget is through assaulting him he gives a sharp shake of his head and looks around. He doesn't focus on the lights; if anything, he tries to avoid staring at them.

"Man, seriously, bein' afraid of the dark is stupid."

They don't exactly have a cloud of smoke hanging over their heads, but between the way they look and the fact that the kinswoman's blood practically croons an old Celtic war song as they walk down the path towards the Fenrir, there can't be much doubt that she, at least, is one of Stag's. Both of them, it's safe to say, are stoned.

"Like, what, you can't get just as fucked up durin' the day? People get plenty fucked up durin' the day."

[-playtest-] Drew talks more than he does, this newcomer, this stranger with his half-masked face. That's fine. She seems the sort: charismatic, too young to be the widow she is. He doesn't really seem the reticient sort either, though. The flick of his eyes her way is quick, a twinkle in the dark irises. "Appreciate it," he says, winking, "but I think I'm just gonna lie low a little while, see if I decide to stay or not."

He pulls his hand back out of his pocket, then, holding it out to her. "[INSERT NAME HERE]." Firm grip, the shape of his hand hard beneath his glove. When he withdraws, that hand goes back into his pocket. From the way he hunches against the wind, he's from some warmer clime.

A nod at the figures up ahead, then, "They look familiar to you?"

[Bridget] Brown eyes watch the Theurge as he shakes off the ruffling of his proverbial feathers. There's a wavering smile until he speaks again.

"Nooo." Bridget protests, then laughs again. She bends over and slaps her knee.

"That's not what I mean. I mean like... everything people do-- the society is stupid. There's no dark anywhere."

She gestures at the city. "Like if they keep everything lit up, no one will die. Wife won't leave, truck won't be wrecked, dog will come home."

Dark waves fall around her while she's trying to better communicate her point with body language. In her genious philosophical rant, Bridget hasn't even noticed Drew and the generic Garou (if that is what he is at all).

[Drew Roscoe] Her hand wraps with his for a moment, glove against glove, and both grips were firm-- his because he was masculine, hers because of the people she stood beside. His hand withdrew, hers did as well, and almost in sync they put their hands back into their pockets and turned to look at the people meandering up the path toward them, laughing and musing like a pair of inebriates are ought to do.

He asks if they look familiar, and she looks at them with more focus and concentration than before. The guy looked like he reminded her of someone, but he wasn't the same person. The girl she'd just plumb never seen before at all. So she shakes her head to the man she'd just encountered by a chance to discover he was family, deciding whether he'd want to stay or not, unsure if he would even let people know he was there because he was so resolutely on the fence.

"Nope," she said simply. "New faces. But then, it is a city of a million or so." Her shoulders shrugged casually, and she tucked her shoulders up to push the scarf up closer to her jawline. "If you want an honest opinion on staying... We need all the bodies we can get, and you'll never be bored.... But the place, it can eat up your soul pretty quick if you don't keep your chin above the ninetieth degree, you know?"

[Howard Ivers] "I don't knowww," he muses, actually thinking about it, as much as he thinks about anything, really, particularly when he's stoned.

Now, the pair of bodies walking past don't tell him much about their relationship or themselves because there isn't much posture or language to be read from how they walk: it's fucking cold, and they're buried beneath layers of clothing, and they're hunched against the night to conserve body heat. They shake hands. That's all he has.

Drew is a pretty girl: she exudes Niceness the way the curly-haired beanpole exudes Cocky. However, her blood also exudes At Least Three People Will Kick Your Skinny Ass For Even Talking To Her, even if faintly. Apparently not a damned thing about the newcomer catches Howard's attention; play tests are invisible to stoners.

"I always thought humans kept shit lit up because they can't see in the fuckin' dark. You know? Less car crashes and shit."

[-playtest-] "Hm. Well. Girl's got that smell about her too."

Another moment the stranger's dark eyes look toward the skinny guy and his skinny girlfriend. Or girl friend. They're narrowed a little, wind and thought both: it gives him a keen look, wolfish. Can practically see him scenting the air. Then Drew's giving out advice of the world-weary brand, which makes humor flick across his face like a flame.

"Heh." It's more a huff than a sound, a vague approximation of humor and a sideways glance. "That why you left town? Let your chin drop, got your soul ate?" A tip of his head toward the other couple, then. "You wanna go say hi, or are you in a hurry to get home?"

[Drew Roscoe] "Nah. There's another whole big story behind leaving town." Her hand waved dismissively, suggesting that the story wasn't one worth talking about. She was proud of herself, her expression and posture stayed casual and her voice didn't change one bit when she chased the explanation away.

He seemed to be scenting the air, looking at the two with the sort of directness that was better placed over the top of a muzzle than down the bridge of a human nose, and afterward he asked if she was in a rush. She answered with a loose, comfortable grin, as though she's known him for fifteen years rather than fifteen minutes and nodded her head some. "I'm in no rush to get back to the Motel 8. Let's make some friends."

And with that said she looked toward the couple again and lifted one hand from her pocket, raising it above her head and waving openly to the pair, almost as though she was flagging them down. Her smile was bright and warm enough to melt the snow surrounding her. "Hey!" She says it like she's greeting old friends.

[Bridget] "Don't need to keep the sky lit up dayglow orange," she mutters and stuffs her hands back in her pockets.

There's a beautiful young woman in the sidewalk talking to someone else who is bundled up like Santa's grab bag. There's something she spots in his expression that makes Bridget stop in her tracks, her humor lost.

She keeps her dark eyes square on him suspiciously, posturing closer to Howard. Instead of saying anything, she narrows her eyes and squeezes Howard's arm while moving her fingers back and forth across his bicep. Her combat boots crunch on ice when she stops. There's a feral posture in the way she gauges the male stranger. Simon's words about the open war drift across her thoughts.

"Mmm," she makes a noise in her throat without opening her mouth, a noise of mild alarm. Alertness, rather.

The other woman waves them down like she knows them, which doesn't dissuade Bridget's intense stare. Her entire posture and reaction is like something small children and animals make, something less domesticated, more feral. The stare could be construed by other kinfolk as a sort of challenge, but her posture is all wrong for that.

Bridget's feral nature is the biggest reason other kinfolk feel unsafe around her, but at least she seems to get along better with the Garou. The Canadian says nothing and waits for Howard to do something before she takes her eyes off the stranger.

[-playtest-] The fellow behind Drew -- behind now because he's not bounding ahead to say hi the way the pretty girl is -- is about a foot or so taller and proportionately broader. His ski jacket stands out most about him: a silver and blue affair that looks like it belongs on Tahoe's slopes more than midwinter chicago. His wool hat is pale grey, too, pulled down over his ears. He ambles over at his own pace, letting loose an enormous yawn that leaves a plume of white dissipating in the frigid air.

"Hey," he echoes, hands in his pockets, nodding a hello with his chin. "Thought we saw cousins over here. This's Drew. I'm [NAME]."

Maybe it's the we. Or maybe it's how he introduces Drew before himself, as though there was a natural, familial association. There's a sense of faint division: he aligns himself thoughtlessly with the fenrir kinfolk over the pair of fianna they're 'making friends' with.

[Howard Ivers] Here's the thing about marijuana: it alters the senses in such a fashion that paranoia is a very real danger. In the presence of the calm and the collected, a stoned individual can enjoy an entire evening without believing the police or the FBI or the bastards from Area 51 are after him. A bad trip, even just witnessed, can ruin an entire evening. Howard isn't so far gone that he believes everyone in the world to either be his best friend or out to get him, but what catches his attention first is Bridget stopping dead in her tracks.

"Huh?" is the noise that leaves his throat next, as the taller creature shuffles to a stop, she still attached to his arm.

She moves closer, waiting for him to do something, and she's touching his arm through the padding provided by his jacket and really the only reasonable thing to do seems to be to put his arm around her waist in case he needs to--what? Protect her from the Fenrir?

Whatever thought enters into his head makes him snicker as the two pairs' paths finally intersect.

Hey! Drew says.

"Hi!" Howard replies, as though her enthusiasm is contagious.

His eyes are not bloodshot; they're watery due to the chill, but he doesn't have the stereotypical stoned physical appearance. He looks a bit drowsy, but it could very well be that he's sedated by the weather. Focusing on the other male seems to be somewhat difficult; his heavy brow furrows, and he squints, his tongue pushed into the back of an incisor as though it needs an anchor.

"Oh, hey, [NAME], hi, cool." His left arm is around Bridget; he releases her so he can step forward and offer his right. He wears dollar-store gloves with the fingertips manually snipped free; his grip leaves something to be desired, but it isn't limp. "Howard. This here's Bridget." Once his hand's back, a confused expression traipses across his face and he more wags his finger in the Garou's direction than directly points at him. "Youuuu're not gonna ask me where you're supposed to go, are you? Are you new? Stayin'? You good?" He gestures to Drew. "I've no clue who this woman is but I can already tell she'll be a way better welcomin' committee than I would. Am."

[Drew Roscoe] Howard and Bridget approached, Howard with his arm around the kin. [NAME] and Drew did not, they stood reasonably near, enough to suggest that they'd been walking together, but there's no physical contact. She's not near enough to the taller man that her elbow or shoulder brushed his arm when either of them moved. They weren't that familiar, not anywhere close. Yet, family was family, and she looked comfortable and trusting standing beside him none the less.

Howard greets enthusiastically, Bridget stares dead on at the man wrapped in a blue-and-silver jacket as though she expected his face to split into meaty quarter-pieces and spread apart like a grotesque blossom to reveal rows and rows of teeth within. Drew watched the other Kinfolk with an almost skeptical expression on her face, tinged only a little with concern.

"Howard, Bridget," she says, with a little more emphasis on the woman's name, as though she could snap her out of her trance with that. Her hands stayed in her pockets unless Howard went to shake her hand as well, in which case her grip was firmer than his without trying to overcompensate.

"I haven't seen either of you before... New to town?"

[Bridget] Leave it to Howard to diffuse a potentially dangerous situation. He trudges to a stop and puts his arm around her waist, likely for his own interest considering the noise he makes is the equivalent of saying "giggity".

However, it does comfort the Fianna kinfolk somewhat, so she takes a breath. When Drew emphasizes her name, she does come out of the trance and gives the other kinfolk a solid glance. A smile even.

"Town?" she gives a soft laugh. "A bit. I moved here in August. Nice to meet you, Drew."

[-playtest-] The man more or less beside and a little behind Drew has the tall, solid build of a college athlete. Small wonder Drew mistook him for a UC student -- someone who got into a better school than his high school grades predicted on the back of a football scholarship, maybe, though the flashing dark intelligence in his eyes suggests he might've actually made the most of that education. That is, if he had a college education at all. When he steps into the light it's obvious he's a bit past that stage of his life; the rage shedding lazily from him makes it equally obvious that college was most likely not how he spent the four years between age eighteen and twenty-two.

He looks at the skinny Fianna with some bemusement as words come tumbling out. Afterward there's a small silence; then he lifts a hand and scratches his jaw for a second.

"I already asked her," he says, a lazy jerk of his head toward Drew, smiling, "so you're off the hook. Don't know if I'm staying yet. Gonna have a look around and figure it out. What about you two?" A skate of his eyes between the pair of Fianna, both slender on a good day; wiry on a bad. August, Bridget puts in. "You come in together?"

[Drew Roscoe] Conversation starts out pleasant enough, Drew and Howard both, it seemed, managed to snap the tension that Bridget was pulling taut between herself and the new face in town. Bridget was amused that Drew called it a town, and mentioned that she moved in in August. Drew smiled and nodded, moved her hands about her scarf and hat to make sure her ears and throat were covered from the chill of the winter's night. "August was when I left, so that's probably why we never met."

Conversation pushes forward, in a meet-and-greet fashion that was almost almost like a choreographed dance. Certain questions were asked, jokes were made, personalities and boundaries were gauged and pushed both. Eventually farewells were given and the bodies departed to meet again another day.

For Drew the time to depart was nearer than the others, though. She felt around in her pants pockets and pulled out a receipt from a gas station, along with a courtesy pen that she'd picked up at the motel lobby desk. With some effort, and by smoothing the receipt against the thigh of her jeans, she scrawled a phone number, area code included, onto the back and straightened up, folding the paper over and holding it out to the man in blue-and-silver who, she could now see, wasn't near young enough to be a traditional college freshman, but wasn't old enough that her guess had been unjustified either.

"I've gotta be heading," that was to all three, this last was to the fresh Fenrir face. "Here's my number, I'll answer whenever for whatever. If you decide to stick around and need help with anything, I'll do what I can, alright?"

She smiled that full warm smile that won her jobs at interviews and massive tips when she used to waitress, and waved as she headed up the path, toward the street that framed, to find a bus stop and a way back to the motel.