Introduce [Linus, Kora, Roman, Drawn in Blood]

[Drawn in Blood] By this point, the Last Watch has to be somewhat suspicious of anyone who would dare knock on their door during the prescribed dinner hour. It does not matter that whoever comes to call has little to no manner of deciding whether there is anything to be interrupted before arriving; as humans have to worry about telemarketers causing their phone to ring with a jarring scream while the potatoes are being passed, so do Garou have to worry about their peers pounding on their hovel's front portal while they're attempting some semblance of normalcy.

Those who were born into this world, or at least been a part of it long enough to prescribe to a general notion of The Way Things Are and to even make strides towards accepting them, don't so much make attempts at normalcy as they do simply appreciate quiet when it comes. Then there are those who would fight the war twenty-four hours a day, every day of the week, if it were physically possible.

The man coming up the sidewalk tonight does not do so roaring on an obnoxiously loud motorcycle in the dead of winter, or shouting obscenities meant to vex the people inside. He isn't even noticeable until he mounts the front steps and knocks on the door; by Midwestern standards, tonight is a terribly warm night. Above freezing, water is dripping from gutters and the snow piled up on the sidewalks have turned to slush. The streets are running with melted ice, and the man's footsteps patter as he steps on the concrete.

He's tall, though not obscenely so compared to some of his auspicemates. Were one to look at him and be incapable of scenting his breeding, the initial thought most Kinfolk have is that he cannot be anything other than one of Fenris's. His eyes are blue, the structure of his face is strong and sharp; he does not appear as though he smiles frequently, if ever. Pride is written into the cut of his shoulders, how he appears as though he would meet another warrior's eyes were it not socially unacceptable.

Should Linus meet him on the sidewalk or after the door has been knocked upon and opened, that is what he is greeted with: a tall, lightly-complected stranger, dressed in heavy boots and heavy jeans and a heavy zip-up sweatshirt with ghosts of blood stains on the sleeve and throat, no jacket or hat or gloves.

He's silent.

In lieu of a verbal greeting, he hands him a receipt from a North Side cafe, the back of the paper presented first. There have been scratched glyphs that are as near to fluent as one can get using pencil; on the front, on the blank space underneath the itemized order and total, there is the name of Linus's sister and Alpha, and the address they're standing at.

[Linus] "Well...straight forward and to the point. Much preferred all things considered..."

It's his reaction to the piece of paper that the young Modi presents. Even if the Rage and Breeding hadn't given Linus a clue (intelligence and discerning as the Godi is), there would still be the faded stains (War body), the Lack of Proper winter garb (Berzerker Warmth) and the sort of regard you only ever got sizing people up for body bags (Murder Comfort).

Linus, for his part, is a different story. He carries himself, displays himself and puts out an honesty that is less forthright and unbending than the Forseti and more reflexive and effortless than a Rotagar. The Dark circles beneath chestnut eyes are indicative of a weariness, more common than suspect, while the lines in youthful features telltales of sights, sounds and sensations experienced that can't be found in mortal worlds and realms.
His is a life of two sides, from the strange singe marks on the hems and threaded lines of his cargo pants, sneaker shoelaces and black half-jacket to the slim and wire of a shape that splits it's diet between Spiritual sustenance (Gnostic regen.) and Take-out equally. A meal a day in the physical with an umbral snack.

Lean and Hungry.

He answers the door with a grunt, pulling one side of the thick double oaks, never meant to be treated like normal doorways, but more as portals to be left open for mass and closed for every other time. It is not so much a struggle as it is a feat, oddly suggestive of the Last Watch's policies and choices. The Door opens only if you're serious about entering. Serious about taking part.

Hidden meanings in everything.

"...C'mon in."

He motions with a nod of his head, pulling back and leaving the door open for the Modi to step through, turning on a heel to proceed deeper into the church. The interior is a hallmark of 'Construction in progress' and something of the old standards of Human Faith. The Altar up front is empty, the crucified representation of mortal faith having been removed and requisitioned elsewhere. It hollows out the Christian standing and yet seems to leave behind that fortitude, that lends the Church it's hallowedness.

The pews are all there, wood and stone combined into subtle, discomforting things, while bundles of clothes and blankets and makeshift pillows scatter around them, telling tales of their current use as beds and shelving space. A small collection of couches exists off to one side of the Altar itself, coupled with the folding tables one might see at a Church Fundraiser or Bake sale. A distant door on the Dais' other side, is darkened and no doubt leads into the Church's guts.

The smell of pizza fills the church, coupled with the older scents of other take out types. Greek, hints of Pasta, whiffs of Chinese. Pungent aromas, that linger. Droplets of water into buckets stationed around the Pews, where the snow and melting ice on the roof, riddled with large holes that have been covered by common blue tarps meant to keep out the worst of it, falls through with uncommon consistency. The buckets are half full, most of them, and the large puddle in the garden bed outside the front steps tells tales of their emptying.

"What brings you to Chicago exactly?" If the Godi sounds a little sardonic, even suggestive of disbelief, it's because he is. Most of the Tribe would know about Truth~in~Frenzy and Silence. Of the Eagles and the nearby Caern only blocks distant. They'd also know something of the fall from grace the Tribe had suffered here not too long ago.

[Drawn in Blood] Even after Linus speaks, there is no answering quip, no apology for his abruptness, nothing verbal at all. He does lift his heavy eyebrows, the amusement on his face a fleeting and watered down affect, and that may very well be the only indication that he is not, in fact, deaf. That has been a point of inquiry recently, a question that has had to be asked to determine just how much difficulty one is going to have communicating with him in the future.

He can hear. He can hear fairly well, is aware of the single squawk of a siren in the distance, of the melting water sluicing over the roof, of music thumping from a sound system in a souped-up vehicle somewhere in the distance, yet for whatever reason, he does not speak.

Linus invites him in, and the Modi glances at the doorway before he takes him up on the offer. The glance starts from one crook of the doorway, tracing its way around the perimeter of the frame until he comes to whatever wordless conclusion he has drawn, and then he nods, once. It's a strangely solemn gesture, considering, and while he doesn't speak, the expression on his face gives the nod a greater semblance of purpose.

Thank you.

A moment is taken to scrape salt and sludge off the soles of his boots before he steps into the sanctuary, and once inside, the Modi gives another curious look around. Nostrils flare with the scents lingering in the air, between the stratosphere of culinary ghosts and the ongoing construction, sweat and substance. His olfactory system, in this form, is imperfect. Only the most obvious smells come to him.

It's no matter.

The dweller of two worlds wants to know what brings him here. What on earth is he doing here. He is the descendent of great warriors, and in this world they're living in, the climate they find themselves inheriting, the strength of his blood alone is something of a rarity. Less of them are being born this way. That isn't what he says, but the implication is clear: with everything the rest of the Nation knows about this place, why the hell is he here?

Unlike a nervous young warrior with something to prove, the Modi does not fidget or flinch before answering a question from a stranger in this new city. He has no reason to, that anyone can tell at a first glance. Stepping into the Godi's space, he points to the back of the ticket, where the glyphs live. They were not written so long ago that they've started to fade. The transaction only occurred yesterday.

Drawn in Blood
Cliath Modi
Pack gone

That's not an explanation to one who finds purpose in riddles. It could be enough; it could just be a starting point.

[Linus] Linus is honest. It isn't so much obvious as a statement of fact. Lying is a game and Fenrir rarely play. With tribe, it's honesty, rooted or otherwise. When the Modi steps into his space, Linus receives it sideways. Not directly (challenge) or even indirectly (distraction), but as a question (riddle man). The Modi points at the ticket and Linus lifts it to shake between them (refusal of full contact) like it was the answer for both unasked questions.

His was Isn't that enough?
Linus' was Should it be, Brother?

The Godi meets his eyes, dark circles like clockwork enigmatic. He's kept up many hours, the kind of exhaustion that comes without a set sleep schedule. A soldier's designs, catching a few hours every so often without any real chance for the body to regulate. Selling parts and pieces of himself and his services. Draining the body and re-charging again with whatever was handy (Take out and Meditation).

"Bone~Writer. Cliath. Godi in service to Hermodr-" Pronounced with an accent. Like it had been practiced a thousand times, that name. That spirit "-and the Last Watch. Kora's the Jarl here, but you know that already. You'll be wanting to talk to her about the specifics and details of how the Tribe works here, now-" As in what came before no longer applies "-but in the meantime, you should understand a couple of things..."

The Godi steps away from him, without any real sense of...consideration. Wolves meeting usually put themselves in positions and standing. Alphas, betas, omegas. It's a reflex. An instinct and yet...the Godi is not so much immune, as he is outside of it. The Other world is a demanding part of things and it is recognizable in the way he seems to carry himself on his way to the tables and the couches, where a couple of pizza boxes sit, closed and yet pungent with the aromas of meat and more meat. He doesn't seem to care-...No. He doesn't seem to mind the Modi's Rage. Breeding. Recognized place in the Tribe as Leadership.

He has his duty. So does the Modi. So does Kora and that was Jarl. That was for the two of them to hash out. That didn't mean he didn't have something to say.

"This place is fucked. Not fucked as in history, but fucked as it, not normal. They've set up some of their own laws. Own decrees and...some would call it heresy. Others would call it unorthodox. They seem to think it's ok. We...?" The Tribe "...Well, the Tribe's important here. Whether you know the history or not." Nodding, leaning against one of the tables, flipping open a pizza box to showcase a steaming meat drenched pizza, with a slice missing.

"...You coming here says a lot of things your ticket doesn't." He flaps it again, against his thigh. "...Also tells me nothing about your intentions. Which I'm curious about but..." His eyes go into the pizza box, to pick out a slice. "Silence~Rhya's not here anymore. Neither's Truth~rhya. Eagles are dead. So if you've got some idea in your head about that, dish it quick and start asking questions."

He shoves the box a little ways down the table. Away from him. Toward the Modi. An offer.

[Drawn in Blood] To take in that the young Modi does not speak, and to extrapolate from that that he has nothing to say, would be careless. One would say it would be unbefitting of their tribe, or of Bone-Writer's auspice, to assume that because for whatever reason he is not using spoken word to communicate that there isn't a thought inside of his skull, that there isn't a purpose beating beneath his breastbone, that he is content to coast through life allowing others to assume his intentions or to speak for him.

Linus had not been present yesterday when, even with the towering presence of his auspice leader making impossible demands of him, the Modi had refused to ask his tribeswoman for help. He did not ask her to speak for him, to explain who the hell he is and what he was doing in Lukas's protectorate. He'd looked around for something to write on himself, and the Rotagar had grown frustrated with the silence and the Shadow Lord's mounting irritation and had thrust paper and pencil at him.

Looking at Drawn in Blood, one could readily suspect he comes from a place where the way of life entails hard manual labor and being out of doors for the majority of the day. Even beneath his clothing, his physique can be made out. He's strong, even if he is not a hulking feat of masculinity, and he has hands that appear capable of greater tasks than pulverizing humans in bar fights or punching Bone Gnawers in the throat because they call him by a nickname he does not like. The intelligence in his eyes is not stamped out by his Rage, and he does not struggle with the latter; he is not slavering or champing at the bit for something to destroy.

The moon is darkening, though. He has not been tested recently. All of them, even the most mellow of No Moons, has the potential for mindless depravity, senseless violence. They are all of them inhuman, whether or not they have accepted it. Not being human does not equate to being a monster, yet the line is thin enough to be overlooked.

That's neither here nor there. Despite his silence, despite the intensity of his Rage, he seems resolute. Bone-Writer introduces himself, asks a question, explains his interpretation of the events in the city, and the Modi stands still and attentive, listening with some degree of detachment, nodding in places, frowning in others.

When he's told to dish it quick and start asking questions, he gives no impression that that is impossible, or even difficult. There's a beat to pause, to consider, and then he glances towards the ceiling as though searching his brain for inspiration.

Having found it, the Modi points to the ticket. He has to believe that given how little is written on it, when he draws a line across his throat--unscarred, for what it's worth--and grimaces, it can only apply to the third line. His pack isn't just gone; they're dead.

Another pause, and he draws a mirrored set of lines in the air with his index fingers. It vaguely resembles a typical house. He mouths Home, his expression questioning, searching to see if the Godi understands what he's trying to intimate. Home, he mouths again, without the illustration this time, and shakes his head. That's gone, too.

As for why he's here: he realizes that such an abstract, intrinsic explanation is not going to be clarified using vague gestures and body language. He falters for a moment, visibly mulling over his response, and pauses to draw a breath.

[Linus] The Line across his throat-

"Yeah I heard you the first time." Linus hadn't assumed. A long wolf in a city claiming to have a pack that was Gone. It wasn't hard to extrapolate.

The indication of a Home.

The Godi nods. Apparently whatever further explanation the Modi was searching for was unnecessary. Pack Dead. Searching for a Home. Chicago was...a good place for that. A fucked up place, but a Good place nonetheless. Linus motions at the pizza on the table and finally slaps the ticket down next to it, as if the entire moment had been closed.

The Godi is used to conversing with things that speak with the crackle of fires. The rush of water. The bubble of oil. The click of the mechanical. The english language is hardly something he deems necessary for communication. The abstract of the Modi's thoughts and explanation, simple as they may be, difficult to deliver, are understood.

That doesn't make Linus' words any less relevant however.

"You're here for a good reason. Lots of Wyrm to fight. Shit load, actually and we're low on competence. Tribe's taken a huge hit in this area, like I said. Like you probably know or if you didn't, you do now. We could use an arm and a leg and a pair of jaws that know War by birth and if you're Modi, then that's you." Certainty. Nothing of question or even suggestion. Modi was War. Like a translation.

"...We're three strong. Myself, Kora and a strong CoG No Moon, Roman. Good kid. Great Ragabash." A pause, brows furrowing together, taking a bite out of the slice of pizza and munching absently.

"Take a slice." Hospitality. Lone Wolf invited to dine. Brother to the Tribe. Linus continues to munch, watching the creature, all Scrutiny and consideration.

"Kora's policy's pretty simple. This turf is open to the Tribe. Come and go and she's always got an ear for any of Fenris. She'll tell you that again, but it's important you take that seriously. Too many idiots from other tribes and one or two of our own, thinking they can make it on their own out here."

[Kora] "That's the truth."

The small door set into the stone wall by the chancel opens. It's dark back there, but warm enough that the pack can walk the halls without needing full winter gear. The same isn't true out there, there a wintry chill pervades the vast stone hall except for the small living space - beneath the choir loft - scattered with couches, chairs, those folding tables. There's enough correspondences between Linus and Kora - something about the line of their noses, the set of the eyes beneath the brow - that kinship can be read plainly between them. They are nearly of a height, close enough that the different disappears with distance, appears only when her path through the chill sanctuary - quickstepping, here - through the ruins, the chancel, across the alter - closer to the tribe: stranger and brother.

Which is to say: she's a tall creature, with pale blond hair that haloes her features in the uncertain light of the interior, pale northern skin and quick blue eyes, darker than the shadows around them, that fix on Drawn in Blood and remain there, steady. Narrow shoulders are set straight and level, and her long limbs move in a steady sweep. The power of her body rests in the promise of movement; long legs, long arms, long-fingered hands, thumbs hooked into the belt loops of her dark jeans, new enough that there are no bloodstains; that blood has not yet worked its way into the seems, become a fixture as much as the thread used to stitch them.

New because she's pregnant, the firm swell of her stomach evident beneath simple clothes - a gray t-shirt, boatnecked, over a white thermal, long-sleeved, the cuffs pushed far enough up her forearms to reveal the bracelets at her wrists, a half-dozen on either wrist, all leather or tatted fiber, fishing line, netting, rope. Suede. Skin flayed from her enemies, tanned and cured. The frayed end of a rope worked braided in a quiet hour.

"I'm Kora," she tells Drawn in Blood, a dark flicker of a look, up and down. "Eyjólfsdóttir to my kin. She Who Offers Sorrow, Renders Bone to the Nation, fostern Skald. Fostered in Hjaltland at the Sept of Wind and Rain. Ran under Truth-in-Frenzy-rhya until he died. It's good to meet you." A pause, a ghostly twist of her generous mouth. Like a memory. "Been a while since we had a Modi in town."

[Drew Roscoe] The rumble of a Dodge Ram will one day become a familiar thing, easy to recognize as the diesel engine works the dark cherry vehicle up to the curb along the side of the church-- flanking its stone walls rather than halting directly in front of the double doors that open into the sanctuary. The engine cuts, dies easily and without struggle as opposed to how the old green clunker she'd affectionately named Thelonious would groan and wheeze and protest and creak even after the engine had been cut for over a minute.

Drew hopped down out of the driver's side door, hauling a large laundry sack out with her-- easily half her height in size. It was tossed over her shoulder as her sneakers hit the ground, the truck was locked with the press of a button, and the keys were stuffed into the pockets of her coat, left undone as she had no intent to stay outdoors for more than a minute or two.

She would hop up the front steps easy enough, even with the excess weight of the laundry bag at her shoulder. Her steps had always been light and easy. She'd been called a sprite recently, and while it wasn't wholey accurate it wasn't a far shot either, and easy to see how that would pose as a prominent first impression. She was petite, and while she didn't glide when she walked like some well trained ballet dancer she managed with a certain grace and strength-- nothing compared to her True-Born cousins but more than the average foot-stomping march that people spending their lives browbeaten into the rhythm of the city had to offer.

Knuckles would rap thrice on the door before she invited herself in-- it was more of an announcement that she'd arrived than a request for entry. The Kinfolk would step inside and shut the door behind herself, nudging it with her foot before making a beeline to the nearest pew and depositing of the laundry bag on its bench, followed up by stripping off the winter jacket and laying it across the back of the same bench as well. The girl wore a light purple sweater, fuzzy and comfortable with an open collar so she didn't feel she was being strangled by a turtleneck or crew cut. Matched with jeans it was simple rather than attention-grabbing.

As she did this-- dropping off the laundry sack and shrugging out of her coat, she spoke, eyes having pegged the trio of Fenrir that was a duo just moments before she arrived herself. She's smiling, of course. "Hey." And she's leaning against the bench rather than striding over like she's been a part of this crew for as long as it's been together-- while she may have been here claiming Chicago as her home before any of the three she'd been gone, and things had snapped and shifted and changed drastically in that time.

She would linger, loiter, and give them the chance to dish through introductions before piping up beyond the initial greeting. Her eyes lingered a few moments longer on Drawn in Blood, the side of his face, and she appeared satisfied to see him here. Good, he listened to Lukas and came a'knocking.

[Drawn in Blood] A combination of having very little innate ability nor convincing motive to attempt to lie and possessing a face that is by design open leaves little room for debate as to what it is he's thinking. Thus far he has appeared content to withhold knee-jerk response to anything Bone-Writer has told him, has stood placid and listening to what it is the Godi has had to say. When he informs him, bluntly but not with any discernible malice, that he already heard what it is Drawn in Blood had to say about his pack's fate, the Modi snorts--the sound is unvoiced, air passing through his throat having nothing to do with his vocal cords, if he has any--and flicks his eyebrows, the effect dry.

As the Godi comes to the conclusion of his introduction to life within the tribe in Chicago, a doorway to another part of the church opens. Without startling or flinching, the Modi turns his head to look in the direction of the aforementioned Alpha of the Last Watch. He had been in the process of eating a slice of pizza after the second offer; he abandons the effort promptly and wipes grease from his fingertips. It's entirely possible he was not expecting a small, pregnant female to walk out to greet him; perhaps a female, given the name. If there is anything about her baffling or in opposition to what it was that he was expecting, the blue-eyed young man has the sense not to advertise this truism on his face.

For his part, were he wearing plaid or chewing tobacco, that is likely the only thing that could make more abundantly clear the fact that the Modi comes from a part of the world where life is as far from the city as one can come without dwelling in the deepest reaches of the forest. His skin is not simply tan but weathered, and though he cannot be far out of his twenties if one is measuring life in human years, his appearance is decidedly rugged. 'Grizzled' might be a better word, for his face not having seen a razor in some time. His brown hair is kept short, and he stands still and watchful as the Skald comes closer.

She looks him over, finds him to be fit and whole and healthy. When she introduces herself, he gives a silent nod. His possession of the action shooes aside the idea that he is lazy, or believes himself above physically answering a Fostern of the tribe. When Kora tells him it's been a while since there has been a Modi in town, he looks over to Bone-Writer. It's a fleeting thing, but it allows him to see that Drew has joined them.

The brief smile he gives looks more like a tic than anything else. Back to the matter at hand, he appears briefly uncertain as to how to respond. What he comes up with is an open-armed not-quite-a shrug, as if to say Well, here I am, yet there is no cockiness in it, no bravado, no sense that he believes himself to be the answer to any prayers or hopes that the Fenrir of Chicago might have had. He's here, and by all appearances he is ready to work.

Lowering his hands, he lets them rest at his sides without fumbling for a place to put them.

[Linus] ...the Modi's flickering nod and Kora's entrance are received with the same semblance of calm that he's been so far this night. The tiredness is there (endured, obvious, dismissed) as is the vague sense of distraction that normally shrouds his auspice, but beyond that he seems intent on the pizza slice in his hand steadily being devoured.

He had said his piece to Drawn~in~Blood and as much as he was willing to offer beyond letting Kora deal with opinions and facts. She had her own way of doing these sorts of situations and despite his opinion on some of the facts, the obvious level of respect for her station, place and the blood ties that bound them is obvious.

"Brought some pizza in."

A mention to Kora. Two boxes on the tables, one is full of pizza, another thick with several of the ingredients he'd found she (and the kid) were craving over the last couple of months. Drew is given the same flitting glance that indicates a help yourself and a brief nod that is exacting as much as it is, dismissive. Linus' opinions on the Kin of the Tribe (or any tribe for that matter) seemed to be made of brief and terse sorts of deals; Stay out of the Way, Do what you need to and Make nice when necessary.

Part of that was Fenrir training. Part of it was the cocky young shit of a twenty something year old. Most of it was the Godi, with his head, eyes and concerns in other worlds.

[Kora] "Deep fried cheese sticks?" - Kora queries Linus, casting a glance in his direction as he mentions the pizza he brought in. She circles the tables, not touching the food yet. Instead, she sinks to her haunches beside the table, touches the top of the cooler for a second. A quick - "You want a beer?" Tossed to all and sundry, Drew included. If anyone requests one, she'll drag them out of the slurry of ice and water, set them free on the table above, gleaming with moisture.

That wasn't her objective, though. Instead, she has her index finger hooked over the loops of a dull brown corduroy messenger bag. "Thomas hated that I wrote shit down," she says, a glance tossed to Linus briefly. "My old packmate," she explains to both Garou. "That's how I learned the runes, though. Repetition, like everything else." After digging through the contents, she pulls out a mostly unused notebook, black and white cover, clothbound - a composition book - and follows it with a Bic, setting them on the table beside the pizza. Oh, she pages through the front before she gives them up - only a few pages have been covered, those with a thick set of closely worked runes - the angular lines of the old norse Alphabet. "You're welcome to use that if you need to." she tells the Modi, standing with a certain ease. He has three, maybe four inches on her - no more than that - but the look she gives him is easy, level.

"Our territory's open to the tribe. The Caern's just north of here. Maelstom's the totem, and he demands a sacrifice from those who pledge to him. Something of worth. We'll take you bye, introduce you to the guardians if you've yet to visit it. The city's at war, and has been since before the Caern was raised. There's a Hive in the north, and a fair share of Fenrir dead among the graves.

"We buried a Godi last moon.

"Some Fianna kin run a boarding house, but you're welcome here, too. We've got space enough - and there's always food of some sort." A half-hooked smile, there. "This territory was held by the Eagle's before us. It's been in Fenrir hands since the Caern was raised, I am aim to ensure that it stays that way."

[Drew Roscoe] Introductions, formalities, they appeared to intermingle with invitations to food and beer. Drew decided that the glances in her direction were close enough to an invitation to come join, and so she did. The sleeves on her soft lilac colored sweater were folded back twice and pushed up to her elbows following that-- the folds ensured they wouldn't slide down every few minutes. This she figured out when she wore her long sleeved shirts to waitress in the wintertime, no one likes a messy sleeve cuff on the person bringing them food, after all.

As she approached, she had her head tipped back, chin aimed up, eyes on the ceiling. She noted the gaps here and there, places in need of repair. Made a tally and a materials log in her head, and slowed her steps to a crawl in doing so. Better to idle slowly than stumble over an errant pillow or prayer bench. Attention hopped back down to the three werewolves, though, and she got close enough to draw up a seat across the table from Kora, between Godi and Modi and staring a pregnant Skald in the face.

Thomas is mentioned, he hated the habit of writing Kora had apparently. Something sad and momentary shadows the Kin's face before passing along. Instead of dwelling, she smiles pleasantly and accepts the offer for beer, but leaves the pizza alone for now. "Good to see you made it, Stranger," she offers to Drawn in Blood before looking back to Kora and hiking a thumb over her shoulder. "Donations for the 'my clothes are all bloody and beyond repair' fund."

[Roman Turner] He had the habit of coming in the back way; seldom through the front door. This time as he slipped through the door he smelt fried food and picked up the sound of a voice that wasn't familiar. One of the drawbacks of being the lone Coggie in a Fenrir pack was, well he was the lone Coggie and Fenrir tended to be a bit like a cross between a Mule and a Badger, stubborn and cranky ass.

So he sucked in a breath and slipped towards the sound of voices to take a peek before diving in head first.

[Drawn in Blood] It's hard to tell which is more of a relief: the beer, or the composition book. He accepts the former with a nod of his head, finally deigning to sit down at the table across from Bone-Writer. Though he possesses a degree of dexterity that staves off the idea that he is a lumbering lug, he sits down somewhat awkwardly, as though he is used to taking his meals standing up or hunkering over a fire. The beer is taken with another nod of gratitude, and he drinks deeply.

Outside it's frigid but not inhospitable, yet he has been walking for a long time if the condition of his boots, well cared-for yet splattered and stained all the same. His thirst seems sated once he's drained a third of the bottle. He does not have to watch Kora's lips to get the gist of what she's saying; even facing away from her, he is not deaf. By the time he looks back, she has explained that her old packmate hated her writing shit down. He sets down the beer as Drew comes to sit between him and the Godi, briefly glancing over at the petite female, and reaches out to take the notebook with more than a hint of reverence.

That reverence isn't explained, and he doesn't immediately scribble any thanks onto its pages. He bows his head, eyes lowering for a moment, and then slides the pen closer.

After she's spoken, and only after she's indicated that she's finished, does the Modi pick up the pen in his left hand. It's as awkward as his attempt to gracefully sit down; he holds it like a weapon at first, in a lightly clenched fist, before adjusting his grip so that it becomes an instrument.

I want to stay with Tribe.

This, she can read likely from where she sits without him turning it around; he writes large, his penmanship sloppy yet legible. A glance around the interior of the church precedes his continuation.

Im good in fight. Can do more than fight. Also good with buildings. Fixing things. I help fix if you want it.
Want to help Tribe if I stay with Tribe.

[Kora] "I was gonna say - " Kora says to Drew as she offers an explanation of the big bag o' laundry, her generous mouth curving into a easy half-smile. "Trent takes care of my clothes for me, and Linus likes smelling like a rotting foot, and I'm pretty sure Roman has a special ritual he uses to starch his wranglers."

A glance back toward the half-opened door, for Roman.

"But, donations to the my clothes are more blood than cotton fund are always welcome.

"Drawn in Blood, this is Drew. Drew, Drawn in Blood's a Modi, new to town. There's pizza, but no cheese sticks," a reproachful glance at Linus for this failing. That's what happens when you entrust earthly matters to a Godi.

She's drinking something out of a bottle, Kora is. It's not beer. But she holds it like beer, tips it back to lean over the paper and -

I want to stay with Tribe.

New house guest. she shares over the spiritual connection with the pack. The thought is instant; her expression changes too. It doesn't soften so much as sharp, like a blade drawn over a whetstone, a certain pride underneath her skin, a certain sense of concordance. Drawn in Blood. Cliath modi. The last is for Roman, a repetition like a chorus in an old song.

"When I first came to Chicago, Truth-in-Frenzy-rhya was the Jarl. He invited me to stay with him, and I did until he died in battle. You're welcome here. And - " a flick of her glance upward, the holes in the ceiling. "There's plenty to fix. Roman's been working on this side, Linus the other.

"And there's plenty of Wyrm, too. You interested in a hunt?"

[Roman Turner] He slipped through the doorway. Hat clutched against the chest of his coat and a nod for each.

"Howdy Miss Drew."

And yes, he checked out the new house guest. His own blue-gray eyes were a shade of faded denim. Chestnut hair showed it was more accustomed to being covered by a hat from the shape of it. And as Kora mentioned, his jeans were dark blue and so stiffly pressed it looked like he used a box of starch and a heavy duty press iron on them daily.

"Drawn in Blood."

He nodded next.

"Ya got an everyday name to go with that in public?"

[Drew Roscoe] "Hey Roman, is Drew's response. She's helping herself to a beer, tipping the mouth of it toward Kora in a gesture of thanks, and leaning back more comfortably in her chair to take a drink.

Kora introduces her formally to Drawn in Blood, and Drew's nodding, finishing another swig from the beer bottle and holding her wrist to her mouth for a second before talking. "Met him just the other night, actually. Gave him a ride on out to where he needed to go. I know how hard a taxi can be for you guys not only to get, but to suffer." She shrugged one shoulder and grinned a bit, and glanced at the pizza contemplatively before deciding to accept-- what's beer without some kind of food to go with it, right? She snags a slice and nods to Roman when he comes in, smiling cheerily. It was easy to forgive and forget the wranglers now that she was more accustomed to them. "Hey Roman."

As for being interested in a hunt, Drew's eyes hop to the Modi, the Godi, then up toward the ceiling, once more examining patches that could use work.

[Roman Turner] He was unwrapping. Off came the scarf from Christmas. Off went the sheepskin lined coat. Beneath was a denim shirt that had been buttoned all the way up, allowing just a faint couple of fingers worth of discolored, mottled flesh showing on his neck. Burn scar tissue was never a pretty thing, so he did his best to keep it covered.

"Always up for a hunt Miss Kora."

[Drawn in Blood] Does he have an every day name.

The Modi finds a clean portion of paper somewhere further down on the page, rather than flipping to the back or starting over on a fresh one, and his response comes with the same economy of language and awkwardness of technique that had been seen in his response to the Skald.

John.

He doesn't smile or nod his agreement to the mention of the difficulties of a taxi, yet when Drew grins the thought crosses his mind. Nothing comes of it, and when he's asked if he's interested in a hunt, the answer isn't exactly offered with the enthusiasm of a puppy who has heard its leash removed from the closet, yet he nods quickly and somewhat brightly all the same.

Another long tug off of his beer, and he takes a moment to eat the slice of pizza he has been inadvertently ignoring for the last several minutes.

[Roman Turner] He waited for the response and it took a moment for him to figure out the guy wasn't just doodling. Leaning in to read his response was.

"John? Ok, I can remember that. Ya can't talk?"

Yeah duh, sometimes he stated the obvious.

[Drawn in Blood] That gets a flash of a smile from the Modi. He doesn't appear to be completely humorless, or as though he's simply looking for a reason to get worked up or into a fight. Roman asks if he can't talk, and while it's fairly obvious, it's a valid enough question. There have been Garou within Maelstrom's borders who have taken vows of silence before, against their will or voluntarily; he could just be choosing not to, yet the Child of Gaia asks, and after swallowing a bite of food, he shakes his head No. The expression on his face makes it into a Nope, as though he'd accepted this such a long time ago he has reached a point of nonchalance about it.

[Kora] There's time to finish the pizza; to hang out with Drew and finish the beer. Or root beer, in the Skald's case, which flushes sweet through her senses. She eats a slice of pizza, considers a second, and nixes the idea, reminding herself of the old eating/swimming rule. It must apply to hunting, too.

---

Near midnight, a cold night but not frigid. The temperature's fallen back down below freezing, and all that runoff has started to refreeze.

They walk, a loose group down the salt-stained sidewalks, cutting through familiar alleyways, old workyards, underneath the ruins of an old trestle bridge near the river. Soon enough the familiar territory - the few hard-won, hard-fought blocks earned in the blood of both the living the dead disappear behind them. Their target is a solid third of a mile or more outside the pack's territory. Maybe a half-mile. Six city blocks or more.

The building is an old brick ruin, flanked on one side by a long alley, on the other side by a window factory running a single minimum wage shift, where immigrants assemble cheap vinyl replacement windows from 5 a.m. to 5 p.m. every day.

Some of the warehouses here are in use; one or two were slated for conversion to loft style apartments. Most are used by the homeless, drug dealers, pot-growers, prostitutes, junkies, criminals, and the criminally insane. There's an impromptu market in the parking lot of one of them, every Friday afternoon. Where you can buy everything from diapers that were probably manufactured out of pure lead to knock-off chanels to designer (and not-so-designer) drugs of every name and effect, to men and women of every age.

Call it capitalism.

There's no trade tonight, though. The homeless have drifted away from the neighborhood, those sober enough to still care about their own well-being. No bodies have turned up, but Imogen could hear the concern in the voice of her informant. No, the fear, raw enough to draw her attention.

---

The pack+1 hunkers down outside the old factory, in the shadow of an embankment leading toward the river. The moon's waning, hidden behind the patchy cloud cover, and the light here is imperfect but pervasive - that glow in the sky from the city's lights.

Kora sends Roman off to scout the factory; since Liz is doing this quicklike, he returns with the information they want. The broken things are too inhuman to venture outside except under cover of deepest dark. They're awake now, but distracted by prey, clattering bloodily over a corpse.

Hard to tell how many, because the number of limbs do not seem to match the number of bodies. He counted: two heads and eight extruded arms, like a spider, all fused together in a terrible amalgam. And a pack of lesser things, one-human on all fours, with peeling skin, blunt teeth terrible appetites for flesh. Three, or four maybe, one a runt.

See You Back [Drawn in Blood, Joey, Hunter, Lukas]

[Drew Roscoe] Some days she was able to get off work early, project completed with an hour or two to spare. These days she would take the extra time to run some errands, stop by a market and buy herself something nice, then make her way home to make sure that she didn't have a dying Rotagar in the place of the healthy young pup she was housing for the time being. Other days (like today) her workload wound up doubling in size in a matter of hours and she ended up staying two and a half hours late and working through her lunch to boot.

Drew Roscoe was making her way up the sidewalk that crossed in front of St. Joseph's Memorial Hospital, fingers unprotected from the chill (mild, considering how it has been) of the settling evening working to finish buttoning up the heavy navy blue coat that was cut just below her hip. Her hair was back in a loose ponytail with a few licks of limp curls still remaining in the thick, lengthy mass of dark brown, suggesting she'd had it done nicely this morning but the wear and tear of the day had her raking fingers through it enough that she gave up and pulled it out of the way. She had a pair of gray slacks and low-heeled black boots that were muted along the ice-and-salt sidewalk.

There was a nice little cafe up a block and a half, she figured she'd swing by there before going home. She could use the warm drink for her throat, the smell of a coffee shop for her nerves, and the caffeine to handle a teenaged Garou at home.

[Drawn in Blood] For those who have spent their lives in cities, who have not simply ventured into or passed through one en route to another destination but actually learned how to navigate the intricate labyrinth of a metropolitan area. Most people have some semblance of assistance in this endeavor, but there is a trick to it. The heart of the activity occurs where the greatest concentration of buildings is located, and there are maps, and there are places where people are more willing to offer assistance to those who are looking for particular services.

Then there are those who have never ventured into a city before, who have been brought up their entire lives believing them to be sources of corruption of such magnitude that to have to traverse one for the purposes of arriving somewhere else is so desperately unappealing that it is avoided at all costs. They are death traps, those of higher ranks will say; even if they do not destroy the body they will almost certainly destroy the spirit, that which provides the thickest connection to Gaia.

He can see where all the fuss has come from: a place like this could cause a person to lose everything he has.

The man that starts past the coffeehouse moments after Drew is nothing so physically impressive as to be mistaken for a mountain, or even a wall. He's tall, and his build beneath his clothing--which consists of a thick sweatshirt zipped up to his throat in lieu of a heavier coat, jeans and heavy boots--is healthy and strong but not jaw-droppingly powerful. He does not look as though he could pick up a car and flip it onto its roof, yet there is a strength to him that is as much written into his physical features as it is announced on his frame.

To say that he's more beast than man is something of an exaggeration. While he certainly moves with an awareness of his body in space and a grace that goes beyond what most men of his height possess, it's the sharpness of his eyes and the way that his nostrils flare as if pulling in identity rather than mere scent that lends credence to the notion that--

But that's ridiculous. Of course he's a man. He's simply a frightening one. Attractive and young, there is something off about him. City-dwellers, educated or well-read, would think he has serial killer eyes. They're bright and don't blink too frequently and have a cast that suggests they've seen things most mortals can't comprehend.

He glances up, frowning, at the jingling that emits from the door when he walks in, and conversation in the immediate vicinity falls to a hush.

[Oliver] The thing about purebred kinfolk is, whether they intend it or not, whether they want it or not, things gravitate toward them. Even the ones whose blood is faint, like the lightest heartbeat, find themselves with company of the supernatural and Raging persuasion. Drew wants to grab a cup of coffee to brace herself for the Garou she has at home, a teen of her tribe.

Moments after Drew enters that coffee shop, a tower of Rage follows after.

And sitting in the back, in a little pocket of solitude, is a sunny blonde woman Drew may recognize. Joey Oliver sits watching the door, elbows on the table, chin on raised fists, looking at the people that come and go. Her straight hair is down today, falling over her shoulders. There are armwarmers on her forearms. today her t-shirt is a deep burnt orange, old and tattered at the edges, with an old Mossimo logo at her chest.

Brown eyes light up when the kinswoman enters. Joey lifts a hand in a wave, then wraps that hand around the lidded cup of something steaming in front of her, lifts it for a sip.

[Drew Roscoe] There is, a few steps behind Drew, a force of Nature just by grace of presence alone. When someone has that much Rage within them, there is a persistent typhoon swirling about them, buffeting away any who dare to come too close, forever twisting and waiting for a body to lash out at. Drew felt it at her back as she walked through the door, glanced briefly over her shoulder to Drawn in Blood's chest, then face, and chest again-- this always seemed the home of that kind of force, the place that drew the eyes the easiest when confronted by it.

She didn't immediately recognize him for what he was, she wasn't so sure of her senses as to presume. She had a sensation of recognizing something, that nagging worry that he was going to put hands about her throat and crush the life out of her before she had a chance to retaliate at all. She couldn't put her finger on what it meant right away.

So she continues inside, hands in her pocket, and idles a few feet back from the counter to eyeball the menu board. She smiles pleasantly at the young woman behind the counter, who pales at the sight of what just walked in the door-- completely overlooking Drew in that Beast's presence.

Suspicious, the Kin's eyes hop back to Drawn in Blood once more, studying him with less caution to her face now, more open study and caution and mistrust.

There's a wave from the corner, a smaller thrum of Rage, and Drew's eyes hop over to the young blond woman with her cup of coffee, smiling and waving as though it's only been a week or two since they'd run into one another last. Drew's eyebrows hop up her face an extra inch, she stares for a second to make sure she recognizes correctly, and then, finally, with a smile she lifts a hand to hail in return...

..only to nudge that hand in the Modi's general direction, thumb first, and keep her eyes on Joey in askance.

[Adrian Sandenberg] Goodness only knows how long Adrian is here, or why (well he is still a Northwestern student, so there's that, though he spends far more time out in the field these days than he does in the city), but that hardly matters, does it? There's a faint whiff of breeding just there, of Fenrir stock, and there's a long and lean blond with roughly chin-length hair in too perfect of disarray for it to be anything other than teased and product-ed into submission talking about some kind of artifact into a mobile that may not even be released in the US yet. His accent and cadence contradict each other subtly, marking him out as Not American, though it's hard to tell much else. W wants to be V and V wants to be F, and his vowels are shaped strangely; words are a different color when they emerge from his lips, when they travel through wind and wire(less) to reach distant ears.

He is quiet, this young man, but that does not make him soft.

One only has to look at the lines of him, at the angles of his jaw and the sharp of his eyes to know that he isn't just anyone - he's not the sort that one generally forgets quickly, with his straight (possibly knock) off the runway style. That has not changed, certainly, nor has the odd roundness amongst the angles of his face that gives an appearance of youth promptly belied by stormy bluegreengray eyes.

"Tschüss," ends the call, and the phone is sent to slumber in his pocket, just before he heads into this self-same (of all the juke joints in all the world . . .) cafedinerrestaurantcoffeeshop currently occupied by not just one but two people he knows at least in passing, and for similar reasons. He was not in line of sight before they entered, but around a corner somewhere over there - easy to miss, he, if not for that bit of It that he holds easily in his posture, in his demeanor, in that spot just there, hidden in the shadow of the fall of his hair. There is no Rage, but there is competence and strength and solemnity and intelligence, and there is Adrian.

He feels Joey before he sees her, and again there's something just there, a very slight tensing of shoulders, or a bite of the inside of his cheek. He knows that feeling, and what it means; he couldn't not, given his upbringing, and the way he's lived since. There's a nod, should she happen to be looking his way (and she is, sort of, in that the Afrikaaner finds himself in line behind Drew), and a slight pulling up of the corners of his lips. It's polite, this acknowledgement.

[Oliver] Adrian's noticed, and not simply for the breeding that sings through the air. The coffee shop is quickly filling with the brood of Fenris, but so far, the ones Joey sees? She knows. The pretty boy kin gets a pleased grin and an upward nod. The last time she saw him, Joey doesn't remember him being terribly comfortable in her presence.

Her attention shifts back to Drew, and Drawn in Blood standing nearby. She catches that look of silent query. Mouth quirked, her eyes drift ceiling-ward a second, then back to the kinswoman with a nod. Yep.

[Drawn in Blood] The kinswoman is so much smaller than he is. That she does not cower away, attempting to put as much distance between herself and this pillar of Rage that comes into the cafe moments after her, speaks of her experience. It also draws his attention in further and closer than it had been drawn simply by catching her breeding as he walked through the door. She looks at him, so much larger than she is, and she has the gall to look not at his shoes but at his face before looking away again.

Anyone watching him, perhaps, would find the expression on his face interested, or baffled, as a novice anthropologist must appear the first time he encounters an indigenous people in the field.

Once the initial shock of the moment passes, it comes to his attention that he's inside of a cafe. Blue eyes travel the interior of the establishment, far different than the diners and the cantinas back home. The espresso machine sounds like a small plane preparing to take off, milk steaming and plates clattering. Those sitting closes to the door are carefully deciding whether to continue their conversation here and brave the potential slaughter that will occur if this young man goes off the deep end, or pick up their cups and head back out into the cold.

A few people choose the latter. It's getting late, after all. They rationalize it. The human brain is conditioned to explain away that which it does not understand by chalking it up to the supernatural, to the all-powerful, yet somewhere in the recesses of their minds, it's understood why they fear Rage. It is entirely subconscious.

The kinswoman waves, and the Modi sees his tribeswoman sitting in the back. Although he does not wave, the cut of his gaze indicates that he's seen her. He looks between Joey and the darker-haired woman before looking back to the former. His eyebrows lift, but he doesn't call out to her.

He also doesn't move from where he'd stopped, either, which makes escape all the more desirable to those considering it because it's more difficult.

[Drew Roscoe] If Drew had a photographic memory, if she didn't have experiences and memories in piles that still haven't been entirely sorted out, she would recognize Adrian-- she'd met him once before in passing. She'd remember what auspice Joey was or who she used to see her hanging around. She doesn't, though, not any of these are recalled. Adrian's glanced at briefly because he's walked in, because his face glimmers something of brief familiarity, but not enough for her to bring anything to mind right away.

Joey nods, confirms what Drew was asking. No words necessary, there was only one question that could really be asked right now.

The Modi, standing still and near the doorway, looking surprised to find himself in a cafe, looking surprised that Drew had risked a glance toward his face rather than watched his shoes while she skittered out of arm's reach, was in for a larger surprise if that was all it took to get his goat. The Kin turned about to face him directly. This doesn't mean she stands right in his path, she's not going to block him from going anywhere, not so much as it means it's unmistakable that she's addressing him and not some person that might have snuck up behind him through the door.

"Stranger," she greets him as. Her smile is small, but it doesn't need to be face-splitting to pour over warmth and welcome. She nods her head toward Joey. "Wanna come sit with us? I'll grab you a coffee, any you like."

Please let Joey be right, please don't drag me outside by the neck and eviscerate me, please be a good guy, please don't let my being so straightforward be my end.

[Drawn in Blood] Stranger, she calls him, and this doesn't strike him as anything other than what it is: a greeting to a person for whom she has no name. He stands with his shoulders back and his arms at his sides, does not fidget or try to find something to do with his hands; they're just there, not even bitten by the cold but enduring, the flames of his Rage beating back the encroaching threat of frostbite in this weather. Though he feels like an bonfire, there is no madness in his gaze. He is not in danger of losing his mind tonight, although those who have spent any amount of time in this world knows that is no consolation.

All it takes is a slight, or an insult, or a genuine upset, to push a Garou's Rage higher than he can handle.

The kinswoman smiles, and though it's tiny, it does not feel any colder or more forced for its lack of teeth-bearing beaming. The Modi's eyebrows lift in acknowledgment, and when she asks if he wants to sit with 'us,' he looks back over her head to where Joey is sitting.

Should she meet his gaze, the tall Garou lifts his chin in a nod before looking back down at the woman. She offers to buy him coffee, and he considers the offer wordlessly. A furrowed brow, indicating thought rather than indecision, and after a moment to roll his lower lip between his teeth, he gives a game yet silent nod.

Okay. Yes. Thank you.

[Adrian Sandenberg] There is this: Adrian was not uncomfortable with Joey because she is one of the most Rage-full Rotagars he's met in his life, but for some other reason entirely. That reason still exists, and the kin still does what he can to keep it hidden from most, despite what Joey'd told him. (I'm from Las Vegas. I don't care who you do, it had been, or something similar.) Too many words (bruise yellow-green-purple-blue-black) ring around and over and through them, and he still makes sure he smiles appreciatively at pretty girls and that his eyes don't linger overly long on men. He is, as much as he can manage being, everything one might expect of a handsome twenty-something foreigner, the last of which he uses to explain a great many oddities of behavior that might crop up. 'Oh, of course. My apologies - where I'm from, that's how things are.'

Including, of course, the one sizing up Drew. "Hallo," he says to the kin, and that upturn of his lips turns up a little more; he hadn't known her well, or met her often, but he remembers her as being nice, he thinks. This doesn't mean he remembers her name or where he met her, though based on the two of them being amongst the few not considering vacating gives him more than a couple ideas on that. It's quiet, though, that greeting, and not at all intrusive in what she has to say to Drawn in Blood; salutation given, he simply moves around Drew, out of their way, and to the counter where he orders two coffees, both black. His own, he has no intention of adding anything to - for Joey, he grabs two packets of each kind of powder-ish sweetener and the pitcher of cream (the barista can yell at him if she feels like it).

"And hallo to you, too. I hope you don't mind," he says, sliding the drink her way, and adding pitcher and sweeteners as well. He doesn't sit, not without invitation. "It's been awhile."

[Matthews] A car, black.

A Gnawer, white.

Together in harmony.

A door clicks shut outside and Hunter drags a palm along the smooth bonnet of his birthday present. He grins at it, walking backwards and nearly stumbles over the side of the curb because of it. But if Hunter Matthews is anything, then it is dexterous, it takes a lot to knock him down. He tosses the keys into the air once, catches them and pockets them before heading inside. He's already talking to Joey before he sees her, has been talking to her the whole time.

So, it's fuckin' FREEZING. Jesus fuckin' christ, I feel god damn sorry for you Joey, is this what it's fuckin' like all the time for you? Muther fucker.

The Muther Fucker ushered as he spots all the god damn Vikings in the place. It's like a family reunion with a family that all hate each other -- so yeah, just a normal family reunion.

He doesn't waste time, makes straight to the back and finds the Rotagar in a little pocket of solitude. He spots Drew, memories come back of a certain girl who lost that lovin' feeling. He grins, then the grin fades away. Memories. Not always that pleasant when you start to think about them too much. She gets a "Yo' girl." The towering silent Modi gets a nod and a "Sup Dibs".

"JoJoJoJo." He says and spins a chair around to lean against the back of it up against the table that she's sitting at. That is all he says.

He is dressed up like an Eskimo. He has a furred hooded jacket and a moment after he sits down he peels it back over his ears. It bunches up at the back of his head. He looks very cozy.

[Drawn in Blood] [INITS]

[Oliver] Joey sits in the corner, sipping hot chocolate about as primly as anyone could ever imagine the Rotagar doing anything. Which is to say she sits at her table, pretty yet distinctly tomboyish, and she holds her cup in both hands while she drinks, letting the heat of the drink warm her palms. She watches Drew, who she has fought with once, maybe twice, who she hasn't seen in ages. And she watches the Modi. There's protectiveness in that look. Though they're all of the same tribe, Joey remembers Joe, the first to call her JoJo. They weren't friends, but they shared a drink a few times. He was the Jarl.

Joey looks out for the former Jarl's girl. If the stranger behind her, or anyone else, laid a hand on her, they'd find a few hundred pounds of angry Fenrir Hispo clamping sharp jaws around their head.

She knows that stranger, though. Well she doesn't know him, but she's met him and fought with him. That's enough for her to place him in the category of Alright by me.

Her eyes unfocus slightly, the sign of a packmate speaking to another by nonvocal means. Or of an airhead. She smiles to herself.

'S not that bad, dude. Quit'cher bitchin'.

Joey sits in the corner, giving every last one of them a come hither look until Hunter plops himself down by her. "Jesus, dude, got enough layers?"

[Matthews] [excellent]

[Drawn in Blood] [+7!]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 5

[Matthews] [+11]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 6

[Drawn in Blood] [Wait for it, this is the most exciting-ass declare you will ever see in your life...
1: Punch Hunter!]

[Matthews] [1 - punch! Let's punch each other this is fun!]

[Matthews] [punchin]
Dice Rolled:[ 10 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 4, 4, 4, 5, 6, 6, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1

[Matthews] [dmg+1]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 5, 6, 6, 7 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Drawn in Blood] [Nice punch blanco niño.]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 4, 4, 4 (Failure at target 6)

[Drawn in Blood] [1: come on Kahseeno you broke my heart last night :( -1 pool (OW)]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 6, 6, 6, 8, 9 (Success x 6 at target 6) [WP]

[Drawn in Blood] [+5]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 1, 4, 6, 9, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Matthews] [soak!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Lukas] Lake View isn't exactly the slums. An affluent, quiet neighborhood of brick townhouses and quaint little cafes, it's not exactly the sort of place you can just ... throw down in without raising a few eyebrows.

Or hairs. Or alarms.

As the Ahrouns go at each other, nearby patrons gasp and murmur. One barista ducks, as though expecting bullets. Another runs into the back to get the manager, as though this might help. The patrons nearest the door get up, grab their coffees, and hustle out --

nearly running into Lukas in the process. The woman lets out a little shriek, jumping so hard coffee sloshes out of her to-go cup. The Shadow Lord furrows at her a moment, mystified, and then steps politely aside to let her and her pale-faced husband past. When he steps into the cafe, the brawl's just getting started in earnest, and Lukas's frown deepens to see it.

He doesn't interfere -- yet. He folds his arms across his chest, leans his shoulder against the doorjamb, and watches.

[Drew Roscoe] Hunter bursts in out of nowhere, rolling in with the strength of presence that every person Drew has met with that much Rage has always had... yet his always seemed to be tinged with the sort of air that a schoolwide-recognized class clown entered a room with. People looked up and expected something wacky, remotely funny, but mostly just boundaries pushing and authority rebelling.

Drew was accepting Drawn in Blood's nods by widening her smile some and nodding over toward Joey to indicate he should go join her, was turning to face the ordering counter, when hell decided to break loose.

Yo girl. Sup Dibs.

Something ignites and the two bodies slam into action, Rage skyrocketing, motions flicker-flash. It's difficult at first to determine what really happened, all that the average person recognizes is that violence erupted, and no matter how brief it could have been, with that much Rage they may as well have pulled guns and shot a few people in the foreheads.

The baristas scream, the few customers that hadn't left yet twitch and flinch and jerk instinctively away (even though it was only one punch each that had been exchanged), and Drew doesn't even hesitate. It seems every time she meets a new anybody they decide to get into a fight. It seemed to her that this Hunter guy (and the people he's usually with) tends to rub people the wrong way without even trying. Drew would later look back and scold herself for being suicidally stupid, but for the moment she didn't hesitate.

Rather, she seized Drawn in Blood by the back of his waistband, because the scruff of his shirt was too high up for good leverage and a centerpoint in the body, like the waist, was easier to manipulate movement by than something as easy to jerk away from as being held near the neck would be. Waistband in hand, Drew marched toward the door and pulled sharply on the Modi to 'strongly suggest' he follow.

The smile was gone, frustration and an end to a line of patience were there instead. It didn't make that face any less cute, though.

[Matthews] There are punches thrown. Hunter gets his cheek scuffed, Drawn in Blood gets his nose cracked open.

Of course it had to go down like that, there wasn't really any other way for it to go down. Still, despite the lack of hesitation from the Gnawer, he can't help but look a bit surprised after it's all done. Not at the outcome, but at the fact that it happened at all. He looks back to Joey at the table like

What I do?

He looks around at the patrons, all scrambling, fleeing and sighs. Then his eyes settle on something far more Ragey than either him or the Modi. The sort of Rage that you can feel on the back of your neck. He looks at the Shadowlord, tips his head then sits down into a chair at the table.

"Shieeeet."

[Drawn in Blood] 'Suicidal' is about the only word to describe what Drew does in response to what happens.

Clearly, the Modi doesn't particularly enjoy being calls 'Dibs' by the Bone Gnawer. Now, he seems, by Full Moon standards, to have his shit together. He isn't bristling with unchecked Rage before the fight starts, but once Hunter nearly breaks his nose and sends blood exploding and then cascading down his lower jaw and the front of his sweatshirt, he loses his balance. That's when his anger flares up, hot enough that there isn't a human being in this room who can stand to be around him after the fight, such as it is, is over.

He made his point: he doesn't like that name. But he appears as though he knows better than to hit someone for no real apparent reason, as though he could have just used his words to indicate that wasn't necessary, but he didn't. He used his fist.

Joey, at least, has some semblance of an idea as to why he might have done that. To everyone else, though, he's just a psychopath.

Which brings us back to Drew grabbing him by the waistband of his jeans and hauling him back. Somehow he has the presence of mind not to wheel on her, and he doesn't snarl and snap his jaws as he's essentially dragged out of the cafe by a woman a foot shorter and sixty pounds lighter.

Without even shooting a glower back over his shoulder at Hunter, the nameless man lets himself be pushed to the door. Although he does slam through it, he doesn't attack it. He's just rough with it.

Once outside, the Modi snorts and spits a wad of blood into the snow.

[Oliver] The reactions of the patrons isn't lost on the Rotagar. Never one to turn her nose down at a good little scuffle, she sighs, finishes off her hot chocolate, and starts gathering up her belongings.

One punch is thrown, one returned. That's the end of it, but the damage is already done. A manager is being cajoled into coming out and speaking to the rowdy ones in the cafe. Of course she doesn't want to, she doesn't get paid enough to deal with Rage the likes of what's swirling around the tables.

Hunter goes to sit down as Joey's rising. She grabs hold of the shoulder of his coat and pulls.

"Nuh uh, we're gettin' outta here." Drew's already tugging at the Modi. Joey looks that way, watching to ensure tempers aren't about to flare all over again, at least not until they get outside. Whether Hunter goes with her or not, the Rotagar heads for the door, tossing her empty cup in a bin. On the way out, she offers Lukas an upward nod of greeting.

Outside, she looks at Drawn in Blood, brow quirked as she tightens her orange scarf and pulls a black wool cabbie's hat over her blond hair.

"The fuck was that?" she asks him.

[Lukas] The Fenrir don't quite get outside. And Hunter doesn't hunker down quite enough to become invisible.

Lukas puts his arm mildly, almost casually across the door, barring it. He looks past the Modi, pinning Hunter with a direct, pale stare. It's cold outside, and the Shadow Lord looks every inch his tribe: black or charcoal grey from head to toe, newsboy cap to shoes. His gloves are black, too. Hunter can see, because Lukas beckons to him -- a single, firm motion of two or three fingers.

When he's come over, quite possibly with Joey in tow, Lukas drops his arm from the doorframe and escorts them all outside. Joey wants to know what the fuck; Lukas doesn't quite give him, or anyone else, an opportunity to answer.

"Obviously," he remarks, voice low, tone low, "I'm not keeping you busy enough if you have time to terrorize cafe populations. Who are you?"

That's to Drawn in Blood.

[Matthews] There is another sigh, this one overly dramatic and he lifts his chin to look at Joey as she's tugging on his jacket. "I just fuckin' sat down." He says and then after she's let go of him he gets up of his own accord, he doesn't need to be pulled, doesn't need to be dragged out of there like the Modi had just previously been. He isn't moving because his Beta just pulled on him, he's moving because of that look from the Shadow Lord.

He walks calmly, he doesn't hurry and by the time he gets to the door Lukas is ready to 'let' them through.

The Rotagar has words. Lukas has more words.

Hunter licks over a canine and watches the Modi. Who are you is a good god damn question, what do you like to be called would be a better one.

[Drew Roscoe] Lukas had somehow manifested by the doorway, Drew's eyes flick from chest to face to chest when she passes him. The expression of irritation at the cafe needing to be vacated due to blows between two Ahrouns still didn't sit well with her, but there was a flash of recognition in the Kin, a lingering of her plain brown eyes on Lukas's ice-blue ones. A greeting there, but more of a 'good to see you're still alive' than a simple 'hello'.

Once outside, Drawn in Blood slaps the door closed, even if it flaps open a handful of moments later from Joey pushing her way out. Drew let go of the Modi's pants once they were out on the sidewalk. She's shaking her head and frowning, scooping some of the more freshly fallen snow from the top of a small circular table set up outside the cafe front and holding it out in an offering to him. For his face, to press into his nose to ease the swelling and the hot red flash of pain that would be burning from a broken nose.

"You guys," is all that Drew has to say. It's chiding, lightly scolding, exasperated... but accepting all the same. Like when a mother finds that her children had taken the pink party napkins and wallpapered the bathroom with them by dipping them in toilet water and sticking them to the walls. Boys will be Boys, Garou will be Aggressive.

Joey's demanding to know what that was all about, Lukas is speaking in a low, almost rumbling voice, demanding an identity. Drew doesn't pipe up. Pleasantries for the two could be saved for when Rage wasn't beating against her skull in pulsing waves.

[Drawn in Blood] No one but the Vanguard have ever seen this young man before, and that was only as of yesterday. So far as anyone can tell he hasn't been to the Caern yet, and he's not staying at the Brotherhood; he hasn't introduced himself to the Jarl, and he hadn't received the rundown on Who Is Who in Chicago.

What Lukas can tell of him is that he is Fenrir. Even if it weren't for his blood smacking of it, it being written into his bones, his musculature, the color of his eyes, the way he carries himself even as he's being dragged by his waistband speaks of control. This is a proud creature standing in front of Lukas, attempting to keep himself from losing that control even as it's becoming even more difficult.

He's breathing heavily, through his mouth even as his nose continues to bleed. The blood is slowing down quickly, though it has nothing to do with the severity or lack thereof of the punch that Hunter dealt him. There was a snap as cartilage bruised and torrents of blood for several seconds, yet the latter is gone, now, and the former is difficult to make out with the dark red splattered on his face. His breathing, it's worth mentioning, is not voiced even as he struggles with his Rage.

There isn't much doubt that the Garou Lukas is attempting to talk to has an intact sense of morality, that he understands how things work and why things are the way they are. Yet he looks beyond annoyed to have a larger, more dominant wolf stepping into his path and barring him exit. He tempers what has to be a desire to glare at the Shadow Lord, and when the kinswoman hands him the clot of snow, he uses it to wash the blood off of his face.

But he doesn't speak. He's furious, visibly so, and when Lukas asks who he is, he frowns and throws the sullied snow onto the pavement. Without looking at Joey for assistance, he wipes his nose on the back of his sweatshirt sleeve and looks around. For what, he doesn't say; but he also doesn't immediately answer the question.

[Lukas] The Shadow Lord, a veritable monolith of heat and rage on this wintry day, shifts his weight and draws a breath that comes within a hair of being a sigh. Then he lowers his chin and looks Drawn in Blood right in the eye.

"I'm Lukáš Wyrmbreaker. I am a Fostern. I am the Alpha of the Ahrouns, the Shadow Lords, and the Unbroken pack under Perun. Now I've given you my introduction. It would be a courtesy to do the same in return."

Thus far, he's only glanced briefly at Drew; acknowledged her look with a small dip of his head, a curious look in his eye. For now, though, his focus remains on his younger Trueborn brethren.

[Oliver] It's true. So far only The Vanguard have had any interaction with this strange young Modi, and of the two of them, Joey has had opportunity to learn the most about him.

She stands back, hands in the pockets of her hoodie, head canted, watching to see what he'll do in this situation, how he'll work his way around his...handicap? Deformity? That she doesn't know.

He doesn't look at her as he casts about, doesn't expect help from this particular quarter, and at first Joey's content to let her curiosity win out. And then Lukas tips his chin down.

"Fer fuck's sake," she mutters. Twisting at the middle, she folds back the flap of her messenger bag and roots around for something. What she finds is her receipt for the hot cocoa and a pencil. Stepping forward, she offers these to Drawn in Blood.

[Matthews] Lukas asks him again and Hunter watches the Modi with a strangely raised eyebrow and realisation dawns on his face. He has never heard the man talk. Not even a snarl. Did Joey mention he was mute? Perhaps. Hunter doesn't always have the best memory. "He can't fuckin'.." The words aren't harsh, just stating a point but they are cut off by Joey muttering and searching around for a pencil and paper to which she gives him.

[Drawn in Blood] Insolence doesn't sneak into his bearing or his demeanor, even when the Shadow Lord ducks his head to eat away at the inches between their height and catch the Modi's attention. He still wears an expression of annoyance bordering on outright anger, but he does not act on it. He stares back at Lukas, looking at his nose even though the larger wolf is aiming for the Cliath's eyes, and when he's finished his own introduction, the near-Adren is met with raised eyebrows.

Yet he still doesn't look to Joey with any sort of desperation or plea for assistance.

Drawing a breath that rattles slightly with clotted blood in his nostrils, the Modi steps back and resumes the search for whatever it is that he thinks is more important than speaking up and answering the question that has been posed to him twice now.

For fuck's sake.
He can't fuckin'--

Clearly, the problem isn't that he can't hear: the young man shoots a skin-peeling glower of warning at Hunter, still without snarling or loosing any verbal threat. To his credit, he doesn't attack him again. When he looks over at Joey then, for the first time since he attempted to punch her Alpha, he waits, heavy eyebrows raised in muted curiosity. When she produces a tiny piece of paper and a pencil, he doesn't smile or mouth thanks.

He looks back to Lukas, the trickle from his nostrils now dried up completely, and uses the dry palm of his right hand rather than the slick surface of an abandoned table to write his introduction. The glyphs are as close to fluent as they'll get in this medium, and they are translated as:

Drawn in Blood
Cliath Modi
Pack gone

Try though he might--and does--he can't keep himself from thrusting the paper at Lukas rather than politely handing it to him.

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon was summoned and so where he is summoned is where he will be. Focused eyes looking ahead as he enters into the Cafe at the request of his elder. Young still but a little wiser and more experienced than the punk who showed up in this city nearly a year ago. He was dressed in his typical dark hoodie, coat, and jeans. It was cold enough that his Bandanna was covering his mouth and nose until he walked in, cause walking into a building wearing a hoodie and a bandanna is not generally seen as good news, he also pulled the hoodie down so as not to set the staff's nerves on end any higher than they already were.

His rage boiled over, even moreso than usual lately and he was adapting and adjusting to the changes. Though he still wore that brilliant and somewhat smug little grin of certainty. He was confident in himself and his abilities... When you are asked on a nightly basis to face down overwhelming odds you have to be!

Simon wandered to the counter and ordered a drink, and he even left a little tip... Because he fuckin' felt like it! Are you gonna argue with a homicidal asshole about why he just gave you a tip? Fuck no! Money is money... Who cares if it's got a little blood on it! At least it's not yours right?

When he had his drink in hand he drew it to his lips and began to look around the Cafe in search of Lukas.

[Lukas] The penny drops as Oliver gets out something to write on, and write with. Lukas -- whose direct stare was never quite threatening, but certainly was direct -- is patient, then, waiting for the younger wolf to make his introduction the only way he can.

There are no scars on Drawn's neck. Lukas can only assume he was born this way. A Metis. A mule. He accepts the slip of paper, reads it, and then turns it over and holds his gloved hand out for the pencil. Onto the back of the paper he scribbles an address and a name.

Kora.

"This is your Tribe Alpha in the city. She'll help you get settled, and her pack has no Ahroun right now. She'll find you something more productive to beat on than a Bone Gnawer in an upscale cafe, and maybe she'll even take you into her pack."

He hands paper and pencil over, then turns his attention to the Vanguard.

"As for the two of you -- the Vanguard, right, under Cat? Good fighters, not bad at sneaking. Am I on target?"

[Matthews] Hunter nods his head to Lukas without hesitation, speaking up for the both of them.

"Ya' bout right. Not bad's puttin' it lightly tho' don't mind me sayin' -rhya."

Wait, did Hunter just call someone rhya?

[Drawn in Blood] The look on the Modi's face when Lukas informs him that perhaps the Jarl can find him something more productive to do than what he was doing tonight is easily translated as a dry Oh, hah hah. He cannot vocalize this, and he doesn't come up with any way of attempting to thank the Ahroun Elder for passing along the information as to where he could find the rest of his tribe. Blood-stained fingers take back the paper, then the pencil, which he hands off to Joey. Wiping his face one more time, the still-nameless-to-her young man looks to Drew, his expression briefly apologetic, then steps away from the congregation and starts off down the street without excusing himself.

It isn't for lack of awareness that that is the socially acceptable means of leaving a conversation, but of all the things he is worried about, seeming rude doesn't appear to be one of them.

[Drew Roscoe] Drew had, for the most part, stood near the curb, distancing herself from the whole congregation of Garou without moving too far away, out of earshot, or appearing to be separate from the group from an outsider's point of view. She stood with her hands in her coat pockets, after she'd shaken the snow from the hand that had offered it to the Modi with the broken nose, and listened in. Watched as writing utensils were passed to Drawn in Blood-- realization spread on the Kin's face there, but faded into nothing soon enough.

All goes back and forth, Lukas's attention hops from Drawn in Blood to Hunter and Joey (A pack, huh? Really now?), and the Modi takes the chance to glance toward her, look somewhat apologetic, and then make his way up the sidewalk. Drew pauses, but only for a moment, before nodding briskly to the three left in front of the cafe.

"Joey, Lukas. Glad to see you're both still around, I'll have to catch up with ya sometime. Gonna go... be Family for the time being, though." Hunter gets a momentary stare, a shake of the head, and she's walking after Drawn in Blood with the low, dull clack-clack of utilitarian work heels on the pavement to carry her away.

[Oliver] Joey watches Lukas and the Ahrouns. Drawn in Blood isn't the only one to shoot Hunter a quelling look, though the look from his Beta is less skin-melting. There's no point in pointing out the obvious, once they've all figured it out.

When the Modi hands her back her pencil, she accepts it with a wry grin. He leaves without a word, perhaps in search of the rest of their tribe in Chicago. Joey watches his retreat, nods to Drew and waves. "Yeah, later."

Then, her attention's back on the sept's war leader.

[Lukas] Lukas turns briefly from the Vanguard to nod to the departing Drew, a faint smile turning up the corner of his mouth. "It's good to see you're back, Drew." The polite corollary would be to wish Joe well -- but something, some sixth sense, some intuition, keeps Lukas from saying it. "See you," is all he says before turning back to the Vanguard.

"That's good," he says, "because things have been quiet in the area, but I doubt it'll stay that way. It'll be good to have some advance notice. Where do you guys usually roam? Lakeview?"

[Matthews] "Bronze, southside." He repeats, and he watches the retreat of Drew while he says it. It isn't a look that roams her form or finds appreciation in a beautiful woman. It's a look like, she don't like me much I dun know why!

"Speakin' a which, been in contact with Imogen n'Kora. Got some funky shit goin' down on my side'a town mainly. Some in the green too but mostly my side. Don't know much yet but it seems.."

He frowns.

"S'like corporate fronts n'shit ya' know? But worse'n that, it's them that live out north if ya' catch my drift. I'm sure ya' heard bout' it already but yeah. Keepin' busy with that right now."

[Drawn in Blood] For a wolf who finds himself alone, there is often little more than his Rage to ensure that he'll be able to survive through a night, let alone until he can get himself someplace safe for the night. When that wolf cannot howl, cannot announce his presence in a new place because he cannot lift his voice, the situation becomes even more dire. He cannot draw others to his aid except by chance and circumstance.

One would think that would make him less inclined to hit and glower at every other Full Moon who attempts to befriend him or introduce themselves, yet the Fenrir in general are not tolerant of other tribes. Bone Gnawers are urrah scum who contribute very little to the war effort; Shadow Lords are backstabbing connivers who proclaim, very loudly, to be tolerant of weakness with little to show for it.

Given that he can't speak, whatever the young man's actual thoughts on Bone Gnawers such as Hunter or Shadow Lords such as Lukas can't be inferred. He could be just like the rest of them, in direct opposition to everything that is not just like he is, or he could be an example of tolerance and acceptance in a modern age.

Clearly he doesn't consider his... condition, whatever word it is that can be used to describe it... a weakness. He did not ask for help, and may very well have figured out how to overcome it without Joey's loss of patience and stepping in to help.

He walks away from the congregation after being dismissed, his hands pushed into the pockets of his sweatshirt to keep safe the pencil-covered receipt. Still bloodstained, he appears far less savage with the red washed off his face. After several seconds the clicking of heels on the pavement catches his attention, and the young man looks back over his shoulder to see the young woman is walking if not after him, then at least in the same direction.

So he stops his long-limbed pacing, and he waits.

[Drew Roscoe] Drew wasn't jogging to keep up with the young man. His legs were longer than hers, but most were. She wasn't long and leggy, tall and statuesque like the more purely bred of her tribe tended to be. Rather, she seemed to be making up for invading space at the worst time by offering it now, letting the Modi stalk his way up the sidewalk and giving him the room to do so, following after casually enough, hands in her coat pockets and steps even.

When he realizes that she's following, they've gone a block and a half further from the cafe, the others indeterminable human-shaped figures in front of the yellow glow of cafe windows. He waits, and she catches up within a few moments. Her smile is written on her face now more than it was displayed in a true curve of the mouth or show of lips and teeth. It showed in the warmth of her cheeks, the corners of her eyes. It's more of a presence than a look, she was easy to trust, to open up to. It was nice to have her nearby just for the sake of company alone.

She's quiet for half of a second when she reaches him, but it doesn't last too long. "Sorry I grabbed ya back there. I just don't think the middle of a public place like that is the best place to run the risk of anything getting out of hand. Not too smart of me, in hindsight, but..." She shrugs, and that's that. Depending on whether he starts walking or not, she will join him at his side or just stand there. It was his call.

[Drawn in Blood] Cute girls tend to become caring women. They are given the gift of physical pleasantness coupled with a small stature and cheery disposition that makes other people want to protect them. Guys like him, for as contained and proud as he is, don't know the first thing about dealing with women like her. That she had been able to grab him and steer him out of the cafe before he could potentially lose what was left of his composure and fly into a frenzy says more about her than it does about him.

There isn't much to say about him at the present time. He's a stranger. Her greeting had been apt: he is a new face, clearly lost in a city, and even if he did not ask for it, that he required some sort of help was obvious. A cafe is something he had no idea existed before today. That it is unacceptable to settle matters of personal pride with one's fists was an idea that didn't occur to him before today. As attuned to his wolf as he is, as light on his feet as he is, the notion that he was born to lupine parents isn't entirely spot-on.

'Being human' isn't something he struggles with. Being civilized, though, being polite, is difficult.

That he makes the attempt despite his inability to speak is telling. Many Full Moons either wallow in their unfortunately underdeveloped socialization or they manage to rise above it so thoroughly that they become legends before their time. This young man is going to have to work at it. If he cannot rouse others to action by his speeches, he will have to do it with his actions.

Right now his actions say that even though he's angry, he's trying. He waits for the kinswoman to catch up, and when she does, he looks at her face. His hands stay in his pockets, his interest apparent even under the roiling of his Rage, and when she says that wasn't too smart of her, he tries to smile, shakes his head a little.

No. It wasn't stupid.

A pause to consider their options. He's tingling with Rage right now, irritable, liable to mess up the first person who crosses his path. Even becoming frustrated at not being able to communicate could do it, yet he tries anyway.

He points to her, then points the direction they were walking, his brow furrowed in a question, eyes briefly following his finger.

[Drew Roscoe] He's making an effort to contain the Rage, to act civil and present himself as at least moderately sociable. That way he could be nice enough to interact with the Kinfolk after she'd seen to the trouble of pursuing him after the tense, albeit brief meeting with the three other Garou back there at the cafe.

Drew, in turn, makes an effort not to make his inability to speak painfully obvious. She tried honestly to understand what his hand gestures meant. While they might be difficult, she liked that idea better than forcing a pencil and piece of paper into his hand at all times. She figured that would feel irritating somehow. Like others weren't willing to make the effort to understand and forcing you into a middle ground instead.

So her brown eyes follow his fingers, hop up to his face to catch the expression to go along with them. Her mouth presses into an apologetic slant and she shrugs one shoulder.

"If you're asking if I'm walking in this direction on my own accord? Not really. My truck's parked back that way--" with a hitch of her thumb over her shoulder, toward (past) the cafe-- "near St. Joseph's. If you're asking if I'll continue walking this way? Sure. I've got no agenda for tonight." The smile does a fair job of making up for the apology that was on her face earlier, for not understanding immediately and clearly what he meant.

"If you need a ride anywhere, though, I'd be happy to help. To the Caern, the Brotherhood... wherever." She'd picked up on his tribe from what Lukas had said about who he should go see, that 'she' was the tribal elder. He didn't look as regal and rod-backed as the Silver Fangs she'd spotted before did. The way Joey had nodded so easily to her silent question... It was a pretty easy guess that he was Family.

[Drawn in Blood] Even if she were not so pretty as to have overshot 'stunning' and landed in 'adorable' territory, there is something about the kinswoman's face that seems to take the edge off of the worries of whoever happens to look at her. The thought of hurting her is almost instantly dispelled, and yet anyone who has experienced anything that could be qualified as 'life' would imagine that there are those out there who would not be above hurting her.

He, nameless and keeping himself together despite the madness of his Rage, cannot say with any certainty that he would never hurt her. It would not take much. Even if she were not so much smaller than he is, so much more fragile by virtue of the lack of size to her frame, that he is a monster and she essentially human ensures that their playing field is terribly uneven. There is strength in her. He'd heard Lukas speak to her as he walked away, but the near-Adren had said nothing about her mate, his fate, where she had gone or why she had come back.

All he has is this: she left. She's back.

It doesn't amount to very much, until he considers that he walked away and she followed. Even if it was simply for her own edification, which she soon confirms that yes, it was... she followed.

Relief, it seems, floods his features when she grasps what it is he's asking, and instead of simply saying 'No' and leaving it at that, she offers to continue on with him. He looks uncertain, although of what isn't readily available. Watching her with something like caution, he looks back down the street towards St. Joseph's, where her truck is parked.

A moment to consider, to think. He doesn't know where there is to go, beyond the address that Lukas had given him for Kora. She mentions the Caern, a place called the Brotherhood, and he wipes at his face again before bobbing his head in a nod. Looking back to her, he lifts both curled hands to pantomime the utilization of a steering wheel and gestures back towards the truck.

Somehow or another, by display of identification cards or drawing in window steam, they'll have a set of names by the time the evening ends.

He gets Drew.
She gets John. And Drawn in Blood. Modi.

Where their destination beyond acquaintance is, he doesn't say. In the end it doesn't matter: they'll go their separate ways.

Loose Tongue [Erek, Gina]

[Drew Roscoe] The house that Drew had led Erek to just a scant handful of evenings ago had been out on the outskirts of the despicable neighborhood of the Cabrini-Green. It was on a small, narrow residential street full of trees that were coated with snow from the recent storms. It was probably shady and pleasant during the summer, in the quiet inbetween moments of turf wars and mayhem. Her house was set in the middle of two others, one of which vacant, foreclosed upon by the bank two years ago and uninhabited since. Hers was a small two story affair, with the upper story being much smaller than the lower. It was blue with white shutters, there was no fence to enclose the small yard, and the garage was too small for her truck to fit in, so she'd turned it into a shed and parked in a driveway with almost as many cracks in it as there were dead weeds poking through.

She'd made food that night, chattered for a little while, then excused herself to bed, going up the flight of stairs tucked back behind the dining room to get there. She'd invited him to the guest bedroom, one with a window that looked out into the front yard. It had hardwood floors like the rest of the house (except for the kitchen with its pale tiles), and was decorated sparsely. There was a full sized bed with blue-and-green checkered bedding, a dresser, a night stand, and an empty closet. The few pictures that she'd hanged up on the walls were black and white shots of landmarks across the globe, forgettable things to take up space on the empty white walls. She'd invited him to make the room his own, he could stay as long as he liked.

So a few days had passed, and this afternoon Drew's truck rolled into the driveway around two p.m. rather than the typical five or six in the evening. She'd finished her workload early, worked through her lunch and sped through projects that she could have taken her leisurely time on, but did not. She'd get out of the truck and walk through the front door, closing it behind her and working to unbutton her way out of her thick blue winter coat, knocking snow off the bold purple high-heeled shoes she was wearing on the welcome mat.

"Hello?" It was difficult to tell when someone was home or not, when they didn't have a vehicle outside to indicate presence.

[Erek Skulason] *Like any displaced Garou, Erek travels lightly, carrying anything that can be stuffed into the dedicated bag that he sometimes carries. It explains why he wears the clothes on his back, and the stench of an unwashed body permeates his scent. At least, it did until Drew took in the stray pup. The first night he had arrived, Erek made good use of the facilities, waiting until Drew had gone to bed to make use of her washer and dryer to clean his clothes and stood for an hour under the spray of hot water. His skin a rosy pink hue from scrubbing every ounce of dirt and funk from himself. It was the first time that he could remember feeling remotely human again, and not living out on the streets like a stray dog.

The days following his arrival signs of Erek's presence could be seen and felt. Like most boys, there were dirty dishes left in the sink, or an empty food container left on the counter and not thrown away. He hasn't yet contributed to any housework as Drew has not asked anything of him just yet. The young Get of Fenris has prowled her neighborhood, shadowing the surrounding streets to get a feel for the gang activity, marking a boundary to warn off any nastiness that might be stupid enough to get the idea that her place was unprotected. It wasn't an official claim to territory on his part*

Hello?

*A voice echoes from her kitchen, clearly Erek's, but distracted as if he might be doing something. She'll discover him leaning against the counter, barefoot in jeans and a shirt, peering over a book. His head lifts up at her entrance, blue eyes darting over her quickly before dropping back to what he was reading*

[Drew Roscoe] Official claim to the territory would be conflicting, seeing as Last Watch's turf began a mere two blocks east of where Drew was living. He could mark around the street corners, but if he got too close he'd end up needing to have words with the Jarl about getting a little too ahead of himself. Yet the patrolling helped. He'd find the occasional cluster of young men, shoulders turned to the world, passing illicit things between hands in exchange for money. There'd be the groups that hung out at the park up the street, glowering at people who passed and daring them to say something.

They left Drew's house alone though, thus far at least, because she kept it unassuming. She didn't challenge them, they didn't challenge her. The night that they may try something, though, she wouldn't have been entirely unprotected. She kept a gun by her bed, her shotgun in her truck, and a spare in the kitchen just in case. With a Garou under her roof, now there was no question of security.

She finds him leaned over the countertop in the kitchen, answering her call. She had to grin a little at herself, he was easily within eyesight, she didn't need to ask with that greeting to find him. "Hey." The coat was shrugged off and hung up on one of three hooks she'd put into the wall behind the entry door. She was dressed in her work clothes, nice and business-casual. A pair of black high-waisted slacks that helped add length to her legs (she could use all the length she could get), and a white button-up short sleeved blouse tucked in. She made sure her shoes were dry on the mat before walking in, passing the Rotagar in the kitchen and getting a glass out of the cupboard, filling it up with filtered water from the fridge.

It was a little early to go for the beer bottles just yet. "Is that one of mine, or have you been hanging onto some reading material on your journeys?"

[Erek Skulason] I think it's one of yours. I snooped around a little, but didn't dare go upstairs when I smelled all that frilly girl stuff you keep up there.

*Erek tilts his head, casting a quick glance in her direction, blue eyes following her movements across the kitchen as she pulls a glass out of the cupboard and went to fetch water from the fridge. He blinks, eyebrows furrowing together as the smooth skin on his forehead wrinkles up into a slight scowl. He stares at Drew, his expression becoming blank for a minute, and then he snorts softly. Shaking his head as Erek just woken up from a dream*

How was your day at work?

[Drew Roscoe] "Frilly girl stuff..." She smirks at him and, after putting the water jug back in the fridge, leans back and takes a few long drinks of water before hitching an elbow on the countertop behind her and crossing one ankle over the other. "It's deodorant, actually. I could bring you some home?" Her eyebrows lifted, but it's all play. Grins have a difficult time fading off of her face.

He's watching her, staring without really seeing her it seems, and drifting back into his own mind, down some winding thought trail or another. She watches him do this for a second, blinks, and shifts her gaze down to the book he'd chosen, reading the cover, thinking back to the content of those pages and what all it'd given to her in the week or so she'd taken to devour it. She remembered doing most of her reading in an apartment about thirteen blocks from here, with her dog's head in her lap, one hand rubbing at his floppy ears while the other held the book, stopping only when she needed to turn a page.

Those days had been better.... She found herself staring blankly as well, at the book in his hand rather than Erek himself, when he snorts a little, drawing her attention back to his face so she could see him shake his head and ask a mundane question. She shrugs and smiles a bit, taking another drink from her glass before she bothered to answer.

"Nondescript. We're testing out a new program in radiology, so I installed it on a few computers down there and we tested it out. Ironed out the few glitches there were, came home early 'cause that was my whole agenda for the day.

"How about you? Any adventures over the night that I missed?"

[Erek Skulason] *There was an air of familiarity about all of this, the way they stood in the kitchen together. Like it was something he had always done with another person, Erek leaned against the counter with the book balanced easily in his hand, its weight barely noticeable as line of muscles in his arms coil and flex. She can see through the cut of his clothes that he must have been an athlete before the change, his body was lean, lacking an ounce of fat, hardened and shaped to be built more for agility and speed, instead of the bulkiness of someone that relies on raw strength.

One corner of his mouth quirks up slightly (always the left side) to give him that boyish appeal. He nods his head slightly in a response to her words, snapping the book shut and gently sets it down on the counter beside him*

Radiology? *She had his curiosity now* Are you a doctor?

*Drew inquires about his adventures and Erek's face suddenly flushes with color, he grows flustered and confused, starting to frown again as he remembers everything that happened. His conversation to Sofie had left him angry earlier that morning when he spoke with great exhilaration about what he had done. The blond kin had seemed disappointed that he hadn't killed anything. Half-heartedly, he tells his story without the exuberance that Drew has seen him express*

Me and some other Garou, a couple of Get, Gwen and Fire Claws, and Asha and Mila, a Fang and Lord, we went into the penumbra and dealt with this huge Mechanical Monstrosity. It looked like a giant tarantula with lazer cannons. It was trapping all these wyrm nasties in its web. Asha got the idea to pull the webbing free to release the wyrm to make it attack the weaver shit. It worked.

*Erek rolls his shoulders back in a small shrug frowning more* I created a diversion when I realized we didn't have time, and distracted the spider. That's about it.

[Drew Roscoe] The Kin laughed and shook her head when he inquired about her career. "No, no, Slaughter's a 'Doc, I'm just an IT gal. I keep the computers running. There's nothing selfless or glorious about what I do." She finished the water in her glass then stashed it away in the dishwasher. "My passion isn't in my job. It's in you guys, the Family, what we all do. This is just to pay for a roof and food."

She turned to lean back against the counter again, resuming the same stance she'd had before. Something they shared was that they were both athletes, or had been at least. They had been involved in drastically different sports, though. For Erek, he looked like he was a baseball or football player. Drew's strength was more apparent in the thick muscles of her legs, in the lean cut of her arms. She wasn't without an ounce of fat, but she was hardly out of shape. She stayed quiet and attentive while he told the story without much enthusiasm about what had gone down last night. Something in the Umbra, a giant mechanical spider, turning it on a pile of Wyrm creatures until they destroyed one another.

She lifted her hands to take her hair out of the loose snare that had it bunched up and tossed over the front of her shoulder, snapping the elastic about her wrist and tossing her hair about with her fingers until it laid loose and natural down her back. She didn't congratulate him on a job well done, it was a part of their life. What she was more worried about was the scowl on his face. It had some of the smile dripping off her own, a slightly more stern flint manifesting in her eyes.

"...Why're you frowning? Who died?" It was as serious a question as any.

[Erek Skulason] *The seriousness in her tone makes Erek drop his eyes from her, too embarrassed to mention it right away. He hesitates, draws in a deep breath as he tries to form the answer in the back of his head. No one had died, it wasn't even glorious if he really thought about it, but the fact they had done what they did, the thrill of victory had the young Get of Fenris wiggling his hips and shaking his tail in a dance*

Aw, fuck. What is it with you girls anyway?

*The words explode out in a fit of teenage angst, his cheeks reddening as he pins a blue-eyed gaze on her. His arms lift up, hands thrown up above his head into the air. He pushes away from the counter, starting to pace the length of the kitchen*

Why's it got to be so damn difficult. It weren't good enough, there wasn't any glory behind it, no one died... I didn't kill nothing and bring home a trophy to drop at her damn feet. And yet she was disappointed... disappointed, Drew!!

*Bare feet come to a halt, pivoting on the balls of his feet to face her as he drops his arms to his sides, hands slapping noisily against his thighs*

All I did was run around like a igit tapping the webs to distract that spider to make sure it didn't go after the others while they unhooked the webbing. I faced it, it was right there only a few inches from me, but... that ain't good enough. I was so excited when we won, when we got them to destroy each other. It was like a victory. I even danced... I hadn't done that since I manage to run the full length of football field to score a touchdown when we were 3 and under last spring!

[Drew Roscoe] Erek's all full of tension and frustration, bubbling under the skin. It shows in his face, in the lines of his body as well. It doesn't take long for it to boil over, though, and soon enough he's half-shouting at her and the walls, pacing back and forth in front of the island counter, throwing his arms around and moving to stop in front of her. He tells a little more of the story in this rant, how he'd provided a distraction, how the webs had been positioned, how many of them there had to be, how close danger had come if it was only a scant few feet in front of his face...

He's yelling like she could have an answer, and she does nothing to stop him. It's safer to let that Rage and frustration out of his system. Safer for the both of them. She's not scowling at him, doesn't appear outraged or afraid. She's not laughing at him either. Her hands are on the counter's edge, elbows pushed out from her sides, and she's still leaned back against the counter but not quite as comfortably as before. She's standing straighter now.

"You know, the last time I checked it's not about the trophies you bring home. It's about what you've accomplished in the end." Her expression isn't stern, but she seems pretty serious about what she's telling him anyways. It shows in how she maintains eye contact, how she doesn't duck her eyes down. This isn't something she does because she's stubborn, but because she's been exposed to enough Rage that she knows precisely when she should be afraid of it and when the ground she walks on is safe. At this moment she knows she has nothing to fear from his claws.

"No one died, and it sounds like that might've well been because you distracted this spider thing. Kept its attention off everyone else, right? Without that, who knows who would've died? I say that's something to be proud of right there." There's a pause, and the bridge of her nose crinkles up in disapproval. "Whoever 'she' is to be disappointed needs her goddamn head checked, because it's nobody's place to be disappointed in that."

[Erek Skulason] *She allows him to blow over, to release the frustration and the tension that had been building since this morning. He couldn't understand what had gone wrong, the sudden change in the other girl's demeanor. He didn't like disappointing people, he had been raised on the praises of family and friends, that performing at his best made them happy, filled him with a sense of pride. Erek feels the tight constriction in his chest as he'd been holding his breath for too long, he lets it out in a sigh. The color draining from his face for a moment, until it's replaced by embarrassment yet again. The realization that he just blew up in front of the woman that was being generous to him*

Ah, shit, Drew, m'sorry. I didn't - shouldn't have yelled at you like this. It's just'a...

*Erek drops his eyes from her, brings his hands up to scrub them over his face, and sliding them up to shove the blond locks of hair off his forehead. He peeks up at her, offering her the smallest of sheepish grins*

She's just some girl I met. Pretty and blond, too much damn breeding that makes my head spin. She's kinda straightforward I guess. Not what I'm used to with kin, they weren't all like that back in the Sept I trained at, hell half of them wouldn't look a Get in the eye.

[Drew Roscoe] "Don't be sorry." There's a faint grin that answers the sheepish smile, and she's smoothing her hands down the sides of her pants, busying them by tugging wrinkles loose and bits of lint free. It could've been a lot worse, he could have put holes in her walls, grabbed her and shaken her, or if the moon was just right (or wrong, depending on how you looked at it) and his frustration running high enough, he could have just seized with the Beast and forced her to fight for her life, draw that heavy pistol out of her drawer and aimed for the eye. That she would've hated the most.

And he's lamenting over some pretty blond girl with a whole lot of breeding, and Drew has her suspicions of who it might be but says nothing. Rather she just shakes her head a bit and glides over to the topic of kin in his home Sept. "And they were Fenrir kin? ..There's a right time to avoid the eye, but to do so all the time doesn't do anything but alienate you guys even more. As for this nameless mystery-woman, there's a difference between being straightforward and being unnecessarily mean. If she's Kin then she has no right in being disappointed in anything you do. So what if you don't have some bloody new wound to be looked after? Like I said, result's the same."

Near the end she seemed to get a bit worked up herself, not flushing red or raising her voice, but frowning lightly and talking a little faster. She doesn't really seem to catch herself like Erek did, either, but instead ends up looking for something to do with her hands, an outlet. She seizes a couple of dirty dishes out of the sink that Erek had left over and rinsed them off, then worked to load them into the dishwasher.

[Erek Skulason] *The way Drew grows flustered catches his attention, it creates a diversion that pulls the young Get of Fenris out of his own slump. The left corner of his mouth starts to crook upward, turning to keep his eyes on her as she moves around the kitchen, searching for something to take her frustrations out on. He trades places with her, slipping by the cabinets that house the glassware, opening and closing doors after retrieving a glass for himself and moves on to the fridge to fetch a glass of water. All along, Erek keeps his gaze on her, trying to read her body language, hoping that whatever the boy can gleen from Drew would offer some incite into the mysterious world of womanhood*

Most of the kin I've met were like that, the Get didn't really associate with them unless we needed to, or they were life mates or family. It was a bit rural I guess, up in the more forested area of Wisconsin just near the Great Lakes. M'uncle Skúli wouldn't let me near the kin, kept me on track with my training and making sure I recovered from my illness.

*It was the first time he had really opened up to a person that he'd just recently met. He folds his arms across his chest, shoulder braced against the door of the fridge and holds the glass to his mouth, sipping from it in-between words. He angles his head to the side, causing blond hair to fall across his forehead and into his eyes*

She ain't as nice as you are, Drew. Sofie that is, that's her name. She's cold and frigid, whereas your warm and homey, least you remind me of home. Though, I can't remember anything about it.

[Drew Roscoe] She isn't slamming the dishes around, the Kin's not in a Rage. She's just frustrated in her own ways, at her own points of anger. There were only three dishes left, they were in the dishwasher by the time Erek was leaning against the fridge door and looking over at her with his head tipped to one side, hair casting itself across his forehead. She's not leaning against anything at this point, but standing in the center of the kitchen, listening to his story, then his comparing her to-- Sofie. She'd guessed right.

"Thomas's Sept they wouldn't let you even consider a mate 'till you hit Fostern. To prove you could take care of yourself before you got the responsibility of a Kin." She's got a half-smile, a sort of sad look to accompany it, and is moving on, wiping her hands on the thighs of her slacks to dry them of the water she'd rinsed his dirty dishes with. "Sofie's... Impertinent. That's a good word for it. Only words I've had directed at me from her mouth was an off-handed bit of snide when I was walkin' out the door. If she's any better than that? She failed to show on the first impression."

The huff is half-indignant, a fine show of frustration. She didn't understand why her peers had to continue rubbing her the wrong way. What happened to the days when people like Lonna and Gina were to be heard of and found instead of these guys?

The topic shifts gears, and she's eyeballing the hair on his forehead once more. "Most other Garou I've met keep their hair a lot shorter than that. Doesn't it get grabbed in a fight?"

[Erek Skulason] *Erek laughs then, not at her, but at her question about his hair. He rolls his eyes up, crossing them towards his nose as he stares at a blond strand. He straightens up, cheeks flushed with color as he runs a hand through his hair, trying to push it out of his eyes. It's a bit of a fight as it just wants to lay back down across his forehead again*

I'm used to it, makes me look prettier than a queue ball.

*He shrugs his shoulders, dropping his hand from his face and finishes off the water, turning towards the fridge again to refill his glass. He thinks about what she said, eyebrows dancing up and down over his strong features set into a thoughtful frown. Erek resumes his stance once again, watching her*

I've seen Garou with longer hair than mine, they wear it down to their asses and decorate it up in little plaits and thick braids. Skúli did that a lot. I saw him damn near choke a man to death with his braid once, he wore metal tubes on it that I thought were just decoration, enough force behind it and he crushed a guy's windpipe. I could see the advantage of not having hair, but then again, I don't let anyone near my head when I'm in a fight.

[Drew Roscoe] She chuckled a bit at his 'prettier than a cue ball comment, shaking her head but not commenting. She really couldn't defend the choice of hairstyles that her Boys kept, and she wouldn't try. She just understood the functionality of shorter hair, hadn't seen too many male Garou that left their scalps covered with more than an inch or two of growth. To each their own, she supposed.

He went on to talk about how his uncle used his hair as a weapon, and this has Drew lifting her eyebrows in interest and surprise both. "Really, now? That's kind of crazy." She brushes her fingers through her hair, an idle gesture that took the snags out, smoothed it back from her forehead as he did, but hers had more than enough weight to stay back on its own. "Makes sense, I guess. From what I've seen there aren't a lot of bald War Bodies anyways. It's all the same pelt when you've got your claws and fangs out, right?"

She hadn't seen every Garou she's ever met in Crinos, so she couldn't say this indefinitely, but she'd seen plenty of them close enough to see that for the most part facial features were those of a wolf rather than those of a man. There was a lot more death on those faces than something flat and soft like her's could carry.

[Erek Skulason] *Erek twirls his index finger in a circle an inch from the left temple, flashing her a wide smile that was all teeth and split his face in half. He chuckles, the sound vibrating up from the depths of his diaphragm to rumble in his throat. His voice was settling, but still tried to issue a squeak every so often, forcing him to clear it. Erek pushed off the fridge, still drinking from the glass of water as he walks over to the dishwasher, head tilted back to drain that last of the liquid*

Skúli was all kinds of crazy, he's got voices that constantly speak inside his head. He's always glassy-eyed and doped up on some kind of herb that frees himself from the chains of his mortal body as he likes to put it. I never understood any of it, not when he had dead people talking through him. It was pretty scary if I think back on it.

*He sets the glass inside the dishwasher, turning to bump the door shut with his hip and looks at her. He reaches out to pluck up the closed book that he set on the counter and tucks it under his arm, regarding her with a raised eyebrow*

You know if you need me to do anything around here you could leave me a note or something.

[Drew Roscoe] Her eyes trail after him when he passes in front of her, moving from fridge to dishwasher and tucking the glass away. He speaks of his uncle, of how he smokes some kind of dope-herb to 'escape from the confines of his body'. She managed to suppress a snort of skepticism out of respect for how ranked this guy had to be, what he had to mean to Erek to be his mentor. His communicating with the dead didn't strike Drew as particularly creepy or surprising, though. She knew a young man that channeled the ancestors almost as frequently as his own mind was at the front.

Erek retrieves the book he'd been reading, but pauses to regard her. She looks right back, like she's partly puzzled by his stopping, inviting him to say whatever he had on his mind with an upward flick of her eyebrows and the same warm, open air that she always seemed to keep about her. She'd be a difficult person to keep secrets from, she's too easy to talk to, to tell everything to. That could easily be dangerous one day.

"Well, there's not much to be done. I only just moved in, the place was fixed up for renting before I even got in here." She shrugged and gestured toward the front of the house with the vague sweep of one hand. "There's no yard work 'cause it's all buried under a good five inches of snow still. No leaks, no cracks in the walls, and most of those I could fix on my own anyways." There's a shake of her head to solidify what she was telling him. "You do enough going out on your patrols like I see you do, keeping the Wyrm in check like you did last night. That's more than enough."

[Erek Skulason] *It doesn't seem to be enough for him to just accept what she says, that he didn't need to do anything. Some ingrained need to be of use around the house, to perform chores of the most mundane tasks felt right, it felt normal. Something that he sorely missed most days, the littlest of mundane things. Erek sighs, his shoulders rolling forward as he looks around, trying to grasp for words or a visual of anything that might have a fault in it that he could tinker with. She mentions the five inches of snow out front and he seems to snap to life, lifting a hand to point at the direction of the front door*

I could shovel the snow for you. I mean I can't let you do it by yourself, you've got to be tired after performing all those radiology things that you do. Shit, I'll take the damn trash out if I could find any, or just make a mess to give me something to clean up.

*He offers her a cheeky grin, his eyes twinkling with mischief as Erek promptly changes his expression to a give Drew the saddest puppy dog eyes the boy could muster. Mixed with the blond hair falling into his eyes, and his boyish charms he was cute*

Should I beg for some menial task to perform? I could if you want me to? *As quick as Erek was, it didn't take much to drop down to the floor on his knees in front of the small kin, hands pulling the book from under his arm to clasp it between his hands as he held it up to her, trying as he could to make her laugh*

[Gina McClaren] *The doorbell rings shrilly through the house. Gina McClaren having been chased off by a strange fenrir last time she and Dew got drunk together, it would seem the pretty pikey is here for a do over. Tattered leather satchel hanging heavy at her hip, laden with a bottle of Jack. Half gone. Lets just say the pikey's picked up a habit or two while in Italy. She leans an ample hip on the doorway, watching frost dance under the porchlight well above her head.*

[Drew Roscoe] Drew's eyes widen some in surprise when things flip about and the teenaged werewolf is dropping his knees heavily to the tile floor and scooting forward in front of her, holding the book out toward her like she was a priest and he was a repenting young man, clutching the bible as though to prove how much he meant to abide by it.

It was ridiculous enough for a broad smile to crack across her face, but it's dampened when she squashes it away to play along. She looks to the left, then sweeps an empty stainless steel container that reads 'coffee' on the side of it and lets it clang noisily onto the floor, rolling a short distance to come to a stop against the bottom of the counter length by her ankles. She switches her gaze back to him, wide-eyed and expectant.

...Then bursts into laughter and shakes her head, kneeling down to retrieve the empty coffee container. "Alright. You can take the trash out to the curb and shovel the driveway and sidewalks when it snows. Nothing to do today, but--"

Diiiiiing-doooong

Drew glances up, as though surprised that she'd have a visitor. "Huh, wonder who...," and rises, patting Erek affectionately and thoughtlessly enough on the head as she passes by him to go answer the door, heels that she's yet to remove clacking on the hardwood as she went.

[Erek Skulason] *Erek watches her with a curious flick of an eyebrow, he remains poised in that knelt position looking up at the small kin in her high heels. He tilts his head to the side, much like a dog would watching its master, blue eyes dart to the coffee can, focused on it as Drew reached for it and promptly drops it on the floor. His head dips down, following it with his eyes. Muscle coil up under his shirt, pulling it tightly across his back as the young Get of Fenris was about to go pick it up when Drew looks at him expectantly, and then bursts into laughter, making him pause*

Done deal then.

*Erek chuckles, and promptly freezes in place when the door bell rang. His nose twitches, head tilting up to sniff the air as his eyes slide to the side. Erek rolls his eyes at Drew as she affectionately pats him on the head and goes to answer the door. He rolls back on his bare feet, erecting up to his full height of five feet and ten inches, and starts to dog after her*

[Gina McClaren] *Drew's met with a familiar grin, all trouble and warmth as the little caramel woman at the door is quick to wrap her in a one armed hug. Fingers cold on the Fenrir kin's arm, she chimes in a voice just short of magnificent - and incomprehensible.*

Allo Allo! Glad yer home darlin, ah'm here wi a bit o a belly warmer fer us both! Ye free?

*Strider kin entering the house as though more than certain she's ever-invited. A ridiculous length of long brown hair shaken from beneath a shawl, clumsily bound off the diminutive kin's neck with one hand as the other flaps the garment towards Drew.*

Thes es fer ye tae. Ah -

*Lovely voice trailing off as she realizes they're not alone, kohl rimmed eyes falling on Erek sharply. A moment passes, buxom kin frozen in place warily.*

[Drew Roscoe] Erek follows her toward the door, some part curious and no doubt another part protective.. or territorial, however you wanted to look at it. This was Drew's home, he was a guest in it, but using the bed a couple of times and sharing a few meals with the Kin made it feel more like home for him, which appealed to the territorial part of the wolf mind. Drew opened up the door to reveal a Kinfolk with the whistle of road-wind in her blood and the kinds of curves that rappers rapped about. Drew's face lit up, and she exclaimed happily: "Gina!" and answered the one armed hug in kind.

The Strider Kin bustled into the house, unwrapping the shawl from about her neck and tossing it toward Drew. The Fenrir Kin caught it readily enough, examining the fabric curiously, but looked up when the curiously beautiful, lilting voice that couldn't be thrown off even by the strong and brusque accent in which she spoke, cut off. She looked curious, surprised, but when her eyes hopped between Erek and Gina's faces, realization sunk in. She put a hand on Gina's shoulder and squeezed, smiling happily.

"Gina, this is Erek. Ragabash of my tribe, new in town. He's staying here for now, couldn't let him out on the streets, you know? He's alright." And, to Erek. "This's Gina McClaren. Best damn Kin you can find in this part of the world."

And Drew's eyes fall on the bottle in Gina's hand, her smile turns to a grin, and she's tisking with plenty exaggeration. "You know it's only, like, two thirty in the afternoon?" When has that stopped the girls from unwinding, though?

[Erek Skulason] *The pair of women seemed to intimate friends from the impression he got by the way they hugged and cheerily greet each other. It leaves Erek to feel more like a stranger in Drew's home than something that actually belonged there, like the furniture. He runs a hand over his mouth, rubbing long fingers across the golden fuzz of beard growth that tries to form on the strong, masculine lines of his jaw and chin. Blue eyes peering at Gina searchingly when he can see her tense up. The boy that towered over the pair, nearly resembles the very visual aspect you'd think one of his tribe might represent. Even if they couldn't sense the purity of his viking's blood, Erek wore the face of a dead hero, carried the mannerisms of his great-grandmother, and was as much a warrior as his grandfather had ever been, which left some big paws to fill*

Hello... Gina.

*He is apprehensive at first, cheeks flushing with color the more he takes the small kinfolk in, her accent playing tricks on his ears as he tries to make it out, blinking several times. They can start to hear his voice crack as puberty hadn't quite settled in yet, and he was feeling all sorts of giddy*

[Gina McClaren] *A garou yes, but as easily read as a book. Young. Inexperienced. Ill at ease. Gina shakes her arms and head as though throwing off a bad vibe, and replaces the startled glare that had recently become her default for dealing with strangers. A smile, easy and welcoming as a fire after a snow day is offered to the glorious Get. *

Allo Erek Darlin.

*An offhand gesture to Drew, grin getting cheeky.*

Dinnae lesten tae a word thes harlot tells ye. M' jest nae as bad as tha town likes tae paint me. An as fer drenken en the afternoon...

*A finger points to the Fenrir kin as Gina sashays to the nearest chair and throws herself into it, hair falling around her like a curtain half a second later.*

Ye should consider et! Makes dealin wi' ragey relatives easier!

[Drew Roscoe] Gina's surprised glare is washed away, replaced by the kind of smile and attitude that she filled rooms with before things turned so dark for her. Drew just grins brightly, half-defensively when Gina warns Erek not to listen to a word that his Kin tells him about her, and glances back down to the shawl in her hands, rubbing her fingers over the weave of bright, bold coloring in pretty cool-toned colors. The shawl is hung up on the hook beside her jacket, and she looks back to Gina, folding her arms comfortably over her chest and smiling warmly to see the other Kin so at home, at ease, even in the presence of an unfamiliar Garou.

"Ragey?" She lifts her eyebrows, then pushes air past her lips in a sound of dismiss. "That's no bother, I sat crammed in a truck cab with Thomas and Joe for a good forty-five minutes on the bumpiest, slickest drive of my life. You know Thomas's a nervous rider? Kept trying to seize the steering wheel out of my hands." She lifts a finger to wag it at Gina, emphasizing her point. "That was an excess of ragey."

There's a beat, and she cracks more of a grin once more. "Nothing saying that there's anything wrong with an unwinder, I suppose. I'm not due anywhere 'til tomorrow morning anyways." She looked to Erek, eyed the flush of pink to his cheeks and ears, and chuckled. "You look like you could use it, almost."

[Erek Skulason] But I'm not that rage-y? Am I?

*Young and inexperienced to a fault, but makes up for it with his wit and charm. He blinks, the hand under his chin working the fingers over the jaw muscles, feeling the tiny hairs coating it tickle his palm. He snorts softly at Gina, the left corner of his mouth quirking upward into a devilish grin as she greets him. His curiosity is piqued; Drew mentions a Joe and a Thomas, others that must have been close to the kin of his tribe, but do not live here now. He hadn't smelled another's scent when he came to this place, the scents were too barren, too fresh, like Drew hadn't called this place home for long*

I'll have you know... *Erek clears his throat, mocking a feigned shocked expression* That I am not as rage-filled as most of my ilk. I'm sorely offended. *He pretends to sniffle, pulling the hand from his jaw to curls the fingers shut and wipe a fake tear from his eyes* It hurts my feminine sensibilities, ladies.

[Gina McClaren] OCh jaysus...

*Bawls the strider kin raucously, smoothing a hand across her tank top as she shakes her head and smirks at Drew's retelling of her glorious road trip. She can only imagine. A bittersweet quirk of lips. The old guard, where were they all now? Dead or gone. Dark eyes slide toward Erek's fresh face, a shadow of worry flitting across exotic features, glance passed along to Drew.

Then Erek is playing at being the martyr, and Gina can't help but give him the benefit of a laugh. Digging in her purse to draw out the bottle of whiskey, and showcasing it like a gameshow prize.*

Put yer beg girl panties on, rotogar. We're nae weepin' women en thes house. "ave a bit o Jack wi' oos?

[Drew Roscoe] If he'd put on his wolf skin at all while Drew was out to better investigate the home, he'd find it precisely as barren as he'd expect. The couches have been wiped clean of whatever had been on them, that was the glory of leather. Even still, the scents left rubbed in were so old and faded and mashed together that it was impossible to pull anything from them. The corners of the house, the floors, the appliances... everything was clean and stark. His own bedding had been rarely used, and washed thoroughly before being put onto the mattress in the first place. He didn't go up into her room to check it out, that was too much an invasion of privacy just yet.

Erek and Gina play back and forth with words, and Drew just laughs along with them, shaking her head before walking forward to meet Gina at the chair. She was right, these two Kin were among the most weathered in the city. They've outlasted many other Kin, many Garou as well. Chicago had tried to chew them up before, and they still stood, able to smile and joke and enjoy a drink together and invite someone new in on the festivities as well. They were proof that the city couldn't conquer everyone.

"I'll mix us something up. Feel free to the media, Gina. Got the radio hooked up since you've been gone, and the television too-- just in time to watch the Bears lose but, hey, what can you do?" She shrugged and grinned and stuck out a hand for the bottle that Gina was showing like it were a letter and she was Vanna White.

[Erek Skulason] *Erek brings both his hands up to cup his cheeks, blue eyes widening in mock surprise as Gina showcases the bottle of whiskey and tells the young Get of Fenris to man up in her own sweet-voiced way. He can't contain himself, head flung back to bark out in raucous laughter that echoes through the living room*

You luscious caramel temptress, Miss Gina, you do realize I'm a bit underage for that? You'll be enabling a teenager to drink, how can you live with that notion?

*He is openly teasing Gina, testing the boundaries to how far her sense of humor will extend. Erek folds his arms across his chest, hands tucked under his arms, palms flat over his ribcage as he watches the two women. He had to guess that they were both older than him, by how much he wasn't sure and wouldn't dare ask for fear of getting kicked in the shin. It was rude to ask a woman her age, this he figured out first hand*

Tsk... *Erek clucks his tongue at Drew, the grin playing across his features once again. He drops his arms from his chest, moving over to claim a seat on one end of the couch, trying to find an angle that will comfortably allow him to watch Gina*

[Gina McClaren] Three glasses? Ah've come entae a bit o money, ah can buy us chink food effen we're tae drunk tae cook.

*Cold glass slaps flatly into Drew's palm, Gina kicking off her boots with twin klunks beside her chair. Long gypsy skirt falling away from socked ankles as the diminutive pikey props small feet up on the arm of Drew's furniture. Comfortable as can be, if only by conscious decision not to be less so. Drew and Gina both barely in their twenties, and yet a year or two in Chicago had weathered them. Wizened them, and at least in Gina's case, left a heart a little more jaded and mistrusting. It was an effort for women who cared so much to play at being carefree. Her head lolls against the opposite arm of the chair, voice singsonging teasingly.*

Ask aboot town darlin, ah'm a corruptin influence. Anyhow, yer nae mooch o a Viking effen ye cannae hold yer drenk, are ye? Effen ye let tae wee lassies ootdrenk ye?

*A bounce of eyebrows to both get in turn, challenge in brown eyes.*

[Drew Roscoe] "Way I look at it, Erek, is if you're old enough to be out doing the things you did last night? You're old enough to be properly introduced to Jack." She says this as the bottle's slapped into her palm, and she takes it both by cupping her hand at the bottom of the bottle and wrapping the other about the neck, smiling at Gina and bumping her hip into the other Kin's leg as she passed by the chair she was taking up to go into the kitchen and go about making drinks.

"How old are you, anyway?" This is to Erek, sheer curiosity with no ounce of judgment flavoring the question. She's setting out three glasses and taking a bottle of Coca Cola out of the back of the fridge and mixing three very simple cups of Coke and Jack. A little on the stronger side, because while she weathered the storm that was Chicago and all its heartbreak and came out pretty intact, she did like her drinks a bit heavier now because of it. The faster she could feel warm and carefree the better.

And, for Gina. "Where'd you come into money from?" The slur thrown into the mention of take-out Chinese food is ignored or not noticed. Spending as much time with a heavyhanded racist as she did, hear ears had grown numb to such things.

[Erek Skulason] *Gina's voice tickles at his ears, perking Erek's interest. He has never heard a voice quite like hers before, nor had he ever met a real gypsy. They were the stuff of fantasy and movies, or roleplaying games, much could be said the same about werewolves. She tosses a challenge at him that bruises his male ego, and riles the young Get of Fenris slightly to thinking about accepting it. His head dips down, leaning his upper body forward as shoulders hunch. He digs his elbows into his knees, hands cupping under his chin, he steeples his fingers together to tap them against his nose*

I'm eighteen, I think?

*He calls to Drew from the main room, never taking his eyes off the little gypsy kin, he was waiting for her to do something fantastical. All sorts of things racing through his mind as he wondered what she was about*

So, Miss Gina, do you read fortunes and put curses on men that cheat on their wives. You that sort of gypsy?

[Gina McClaren] Where'd ah gie the money? Where ye thenk ah gaw the money!?

*Bawdy laughter, Gina prodding the Get kin with her socked foot, before hollering after her into the kitchen, shoulders arching off the chair as she bellows -*

Ah stole et darlin! Cannae exactly shake me tuppeny bets fer coin en thes weather, sae tha leaves theivin' an whorin.

*Erek's question about fortune telling earns him a wink, as she explains with mock gravity.*

Och, tha's recht, aul o et. Sae mind yer P's n' Q's, oor ah'll throw a curse on ye. Put ye straight back before puberty.

[Drew Roscoe] "Oh." Her answer's as simple as that, for Gina at least. She knew the gypsy to be a pickpocketer, she didn't question her ways or motives or morals. Just so long as she wasn't taking from Drew or her friends then she was just fine with it. Besides, a the people who could afford to carry cash around in their wallets could afford to lose it, if you asked Drew.

She moved back into the living room, balancing two glasses in one palm while holding the other with her other hand, and handed one to Gina first, then to Erek, and sat herself down on the other side of the couch from the Rotagar. She kicked off those deep purple high heeled shoes and tucked them under the coffee table so that they wouldn't get tripped over, then leaned back into the corner of the couch and took a sip of the belly-warming drink. She's grinning over her glass at Gina and shaking her head. She couldn't curse, but she wouldn't tell Erek that. Rather...

"How do you 'think'? Do you even know what month you were born in? Or did you take a heavy hit to the head a while back?"

Eighteen. That's how old Joe'd be.

[Erek Skulason] *Someone was pulling his leg, Ere wasn't sure if it was Gina or Drew, but the pair of kin were doing a fine job of setting the young Get of Fenris on edge. His uncle had warned him about the wily ways of women, how they'd mess with his head if he didn't keep it on straight. Erek snorts, thinking back to what his uncle had said, wondered what he would perceive of the two women in the room. His eyes dance back and forth, content to keep his slouched over posture to watch them interact. Much could be garnered from his quiet surveillance*

No, I can't remember what month I was born in, I can't remember anything past the day I first took shape as a werewolf. Skúli thinks my memories were misplaced for a reason, that I'm not meant to have those reminders of the life I lived before. I don't even know who my mother and father are, there names or where I was born.

*Drew had set the drink down in front of him, he left it untouched for the most part, dropping his gaze down to stare at it. He reached for it, hefting it up to his nose to sniff at it. The bittersweet taste almost makes him sneeze, cautiously he sips at it, his face skewering up as he's never experienced real alcohol before*

It's all blank.

[Gina McClaren] Och Peaches....

*The chair squeaks as Gina's drawn to a sitting position, dark brows furrowing as she looks at Erek anew. How terribly sad, to see a young man whose life would begin and end in war. tawny hands weaving through the air in accompaniment to her words.*

.. Darlin, tha's terrible. Ye dinnae remember any o et?

*A glance to Drew over her glass as she tips the booze to her lips. She couldn't think of anything less fair, and its clear from her pinched expression. A huff of resignation, before the Strider kin lifts her chin and singsongs.*

Well. Fookit. Aul tha moore reason fer ye tae live life tae tha very fookin fullest now? Aye Erek?

[Drew Roscoe] Drew's mouth presses into a sympathetic slash of a line, and she draws her legs up onto the sofa, curling them to the side of her body so her bare feet are tucked close to her rear, kept warm there. The house was small and cozy, but the floors were drafty, it wasn't perfect, nor was it top notch. It was what she could afford in the belly of Chicago's metropolis. ...No, that was a lie. She could afford a ritzy apartment with two bedrooms and one bathroom and modern appliances and plush carpet and reliable heat and cooling...

...but it would be an apartment. She needed privacy, four walls without ears pressed in on either side, room enough to lay out a full grown Crinos if the need arose. With her ties, her family all being a bunch of Monsters that tended to roar and shout and scream and bleed everywhere, she needed an actual house. The hardwoods were a preference because of a memory of a massive blood stain in her apartment, and how she'd struggled and worked for days to cover the stain up. It was lifted from the carpet, but if anyone were to lift it they'd find a shocking surprise on the floorboards of a bloodstain roughly the size of a small trampoline.

"Well... I understand it's a pretty traumatic thing to go through." Another sip from her drink, and she's smiling faintly at the look on his face at what has to be his first taste of alcohol in a long time. It was nearly precious. "How long ago was that for you? Just a handful of years, I'd imagine?"

There's a pause, and she's rolling her head, stretching her neck to glance out the front window at the faint drift of snow that was starting to make its way down. It was hard to tell if it was actually snowing or if the wind was just shaking what was stuck to the tree branches loose into her yard. "Well, what's your favorite time of year?"

[Erek Skulason] *Peaches, Gina calls him that. Her voice strings together like a purr of words that is delightful and surreal all at once. It makes him a little hungry now as he is thinking of fruit, which equates into food. The alcohol he sips burns in his throat, running down into the pit of his stomach. He drains all of it, coughing once with a furrow of eyebrows and sets the empty glass down

Sometime in the spring, I don't remember if it was last year or the year before that. Skúli says I'm a quick learner. I pick up on things well, said I took after my great-grandmother quite a bit.

*He settles back into the cushions, tilting his head back as his eyes slide about the room, first to Drew and then to Gina. He offers the women a small smirk, chuckling*

Winter is my favorite time of year. The world turns white and is covered in ice. It's when the Snow Queen comes out to earth to visit her kingdom of Ice and Snow.

[Gina McClaren] Och, ye would like the winter blondie. Ye've a body like a fookin coal furnace.

*The last of her drink downed with nary a grimace, pikey shaking her hair back from her face and waving her feet in the chill of Drew's little home. It reminded the kin of a place she once had in bronzeville. Before the garou nation decided to explode all over it in a flurry of cannibalism and arson. Lips press thin at the memory, her glass brought to her lips again, only to be discovered empty. The pikey sighs and sets it on the hardwood.*

Tha's why we kin love ye sae. Ye keep oos warm , aye?

[Erek Skulason] *Erek was unsure if Gina's cynicism was leaking through her demeanor or not, his eyebrows shoot upward at her comment, regarding the little gypsy with a half-smirk. He digs his elbows into the couch, pushing himself upright and leans forward again to rest his elbows on his legs. His movements were fluid and agile, the muscles dancing under the bare skin of his arms uncovered by the short-sleeved shirt*

If I had more rage, I would blister hotter than a thousand suns, Miss Gina, it would be more than enough heat to melt you all over, my charming little nightingale.

[Drew Roscoe] "She's got a pretty good point." Drew's smile has yet to be chased completely from her face, it's an everlasting presence tonight, soft sometimes, sad once, mischievous others. They've both downed their drinks, Gina and Erek, and Drew hasn't even cut through half of hers yet. She's taking her time, sipping rather than chugging, enjoying rather than pushing through for the effect the beverage will have.

"Well, we'll have to make you up a birthday then. Sometime in the winter. December's a great month to have been born in." The smile brightens, and she taps an ice cube in her drink with her fingernail, looking between the two's empty glasses for a second before informing them:

"You guys are welcome to refills, of course. Or anything else in the kitchen. Don't expect me to get up every time you run out." She's got the warm touch of humor and kindliness to her voice, but the words are honest. She wasn't obligated to play hostess with either of them, she was too familiar with the both to push being polite and having exceptional manners for the sake of a good impression. Erek was sleeping in the bed downstairs and leaving dishes in the sink, Gina was sprawled out on the plush loveseat like she had been there for years.

Erek, with his last comment, gets a bit of a good-natured warning, but a warning nonetheless. "Easy, tiger."

[Erek Skulason] *The smile he pours on for Drew comes to easily, his voice drops to a husky rumble as he leans back against the cushions once again, flopping over to the side to catch himself with his arm and use it as a prop. It closes the distance between them as he sprawls across the middle of the couch to reach her, but he doesn't stretch a hand out to touch the kin of his tribe*

She started it...

*He purrs innocently at Drew, batting his eyelashes, the corners of his mouth peeling back into a devilish grin that is too full of teeth and splits his face in half. A trickster's grin*

[Gina McClaren] *Drew protests, and Gina smirks. She knew all too well she'd be getting her own drinks. It was a freeforall once the first shot was out of the way. This standard procedure from the merry days when Gina, Lonna, and Drew had converged on each other's homes to get drunk and toast to their exploits in the Nation. Gina and Lonna would laugh and banter about sexy tidbits about the prowess of their current lovers or love interests (often separate, those two.) - and Drew would regale them with rough and tumble tales of "her boys".

How things had changed.

The little brown woman feigns innocence, looking between Erek and Drew as though entirely shocked at the turn of conversation.*

Ah ded nae sooch theng!

*Its her tone thats pure devilry wrapped in chocolate, eyes laughing despite her shocked expression. *

Noow darlin Fenrir, ah'm nae enterested en rubbin against a felly wha's blisterin'. Nae lass es.

[Drew Roscoe] Erek, apparently, hasn't been formally introduced to liquor before. Admittedly this was partly Drew's own fault, she made the drinks stronger than typical, but she figured that if the boy had passed his Rite of Passage then he knew a thing or two about holding his liquor. But he was the one that slammed the drink and let it swim directly to his head. He leaned toward Gina, and when Drew spoke up he sprawled his way across the couch until his nose was a scant inch or two from her knees.

She smiled at him while he purred at her and batted his eyelashes and smiled a crescent moon smile that was too close to baring teeth. A hand went out to smooth the hair from his brow, then returned to her glass (presuming it wasn't stopped on the way back home).

"I'm thinking maybe we should get something in your stomach to cushion the alcohol if you're going to keep going, Erek. Or a glass of water at least."

Completely ignoring the 'who started what' track.

[Erek Skulason] Then it's a good thing, Miss Gina, that I'm smooth like a well-oiled machine without a blister to show for it.

*Erek quips; catching on Gina's devilry without a bat of an eyelash. His body shakes with quiet laughter, something he tries to contain, but is having a hard time doing so. Drew catches the young Get of Fenris off guard with her gesture, her hand smoothed back the tousle of blond hair that keeps finding its way into his eyes. He goes quiet as she does this, tensing his body to remain still, half-wondering if she'll do it again*

You cluck after me like a mother hen, Drew.

*It was true, though, in the short span of a few days that he's known her. He doesn't argue with her about the lack of food in his system, nor does he correct her that he could likely hold his liquor better than either woman in the room. He seems to enjoy the attention, playing up the innocent act as best he can*

[Gina McClaren] Part o' tha job descreption... Goes wi' bein kin.

*Singsongs Gina. rising from her seat to pad barefoot into the kitchen. She'd lost her socks somewhere between amnesia and blisters, baring brown toes with shiny turquoise nails. B-lining towards Drew's pantry to scrounge some crackers, a box of cereal getting a good looking over before it too is tucked under her arm. Jack nabbed by the neck and hauled along for the ride as the pikey does the loop, headed back towards the Get.*

Mother's, sister's, daughter's ... lovers...

*A considering glance to Drew and the blue eyed Rotogar. Gina's smile falling quietly fond.*

Meant tae be et aul, one time oor another. Here. Line yer guts wi' thes.

*Cereal tossed overhand to the young no-moon.*

[Drew Roscoe] Erek states without really complaining that Drew fussed over him, and Gina said all that needed to be said on that topic. Drew just nodded along with the Pikey's words and finished what was in her glass before leaning forward to set it on the coffee table, not concerning herself with finding a coaster. There've been much worse things on that table and it's all washed off before, a ring from a glass's condensation wasn't anything to worry about.

A cereal box is tossed toward Erek, and Drew's leaning back into the couch again, tugging at the cuffs of her pants so they covered her ankles a little better.

"She's precisely right, you know. And I suppose I've got a personal investment out of this-- I don't have to worry about you throwing up in my house and missing the toilet this way." Her grin is easy, humored, and dismissive of the fact that he was exactly right about her clucking after him. She would, in her own ways. She wouldn't worry about him being out, she wouldn't fret over him getting into fights or returning bloodied up. She would just make sure he's got food and water and sterilize his wounds, cover them up so he didn't bleed everywhere, and let him heal at his own pace.

Family's family, and she'd care after any one of them that needed it, even if she found herself not liking them. It was Duty, after all.

[Erek Skulason] Your whiskey is bitter, sharp.

*Erek comments, eventually pushing himself back up as Gina disappears into the kitchen to forage for food. He sits upright, his eyes snapping to the small gypsy upon her return to the living room. The box of cereal thrown his way, he is quick to catch it, hands shooting up into the air, stretched out at arm's length to clap around the box. He pulls it back to him, setting it on his thigh, and runs a thumb along the cardboard edge to flip the tab open*

Mead, fair maidens, is the meat and drink of the Vikings, don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Honeyed-wine is rather nice, carries a better flavor than whiskey, I don't think it's as dry. Haven't been so deep into my cups since last...

*a hesitant pause, a hand diving into the box of cereal to scoop up a palmful and carefully holds it to his mouth, shoving it all in. Erek is not so eloquent when it came to eating with his hands, cereal manages to escape onto the couch and partially falls back into the box*

Last solstice.

[Gina McClaren] *Skirts rustle as Gina sinks back into her seat, an arm streeetched towards the other brunette in offering of Cheesy Crackers.*

Hmm.

*The tawny hand holding snacks aloft bobs as the strider kin is caught in a yawn, elbow of the opposite arm coming to shield her open mouth.*

Fook me. Late nechts are kellen me.

[Drew Roscoe] Drew shakes her head, turning down the offer of cheesy snack crackers. She didn't actually like them that much, she went shopping when she was hungry like a fool and bought a few extra boxes of snack food that sounded amazing at the time, but she realized she wasn't too fond of when she wasn't ravenous. Gina could have at those cheesy crackers all she pleased.

Drew eyeballed Erek as he let crumbs fall back into the box and made a note of which cereal he was munching on, then straightened up and stretched out her shoulders some before leaning forward, planting her now bare feet (no nail polish on those toes, not for the moment) on the floor and stretching across the coffee table to snag up the bottle of Jack and pour it straight over the ice cubes left in her cup. She didn't fill the glass up, only enough to surround the ice cubes, and leaned back once more to take a small sip that had her making a little bit of a face before relaxing again.

"Well they don't exactly sell this Mead stuff at the local grocer, so you find me one of your Godi spirit-brewers and I'll hook you up gladly." She grins at the Rotagar, then switches her attention to the pikey. "If you need a nap, Gina, you're welcome to my bed upstairs? We'll hold up the party 'till you're rested, I swear."

[Erek Skulason] Then it's settled, Miss Gina. You're staying here. I and I'm sure Drew, won't accept a refusal.

*Spoken around a mouthful of dry cereal as Erek's hand continues to plunge into the depths of the box, scooping out more of its contents by the second. He gets about four to six handfuls shoved into his mouth, and partially chewed and swallowed before losing interest in the box. He sets it down next to the empty glass, dusting the crumbs from his mouth and his lap with little regard to them falling on the floor*

Do you have a place she can stay, Drew? I can give up my bed for the night if not, I don't mind passing out on the floor, or the couch. Hell I may go out in search of trouble in a little bit.

[Gina McClaren] We're lasses darlin. We curl oop en the same bed, n'giggle tell we fall asleep.

*She teases, rising to her feet again and setting the box of crackers down beside the rotogar. If he were anything like Delmar, he could eat a body's entire pantry and still have a hankering for more. Fucking garou metabolisms. A gentle ruffle of Erek's hair, fingers finding the places that are like to itch, and giving them a good scratching. Gesture intimate as an old friend. A wink to Drew.*

Aulrecht, ah'm gintae sleep fer a few minutes, gi' me soome gusto fer tha walk home. Dinnae party tae hard wi' oot me, aye?

*A wag of her finger, before the pikey is sashaying towards the stairs for a quick nap.*

[Drew Roscoe] Gina jests about she and Drew curling up together in the same bed and falling asleep, no doubt to tease the imagination of the Rotagar. Drew had no troubles sharing a bed with Gina, it was true, but it wasn't nearly as intimate as the teenage boy's imagination would lead him to believe. She pauses to scratch lightly at Erek's scalp for a second, bats a wink toward Drew, which the Fenrir Kin answers with a bright, beaming grin, and the Pikey is making her way to the back of the house to ascend the staircase into Drew's room, which took up the entire (scant) area of the second story of the house.

Erek set his cereal box back down, and Drew sipped a little more at her drink, letting the sound of Gina's bare feet padding up the staircase soften up into the quiet that settled between herself and the Rotagar. A few seconds pass, and Drew adjusts how she's sitting, shifting her legs so that they're folded to the opposite side now, making sure no one leg ends up getting squished longer than the other, so that way she doesn't end up with a dead foot.

She breaks the silence easy enough, casually and with the kind of fluid flow to conversation that paid tribute to how easy she was to keep company with. "So, up until the sun fades off the horizon and you're gone searching for the things that bump in the night... What would you like to do? I could put you to work helping me unpack the last few boxes, or we could veg out."

[Erek Skulason] Maybe when you're about six shots into falling over your panties coiled around your ankles.

*Erek snorts at Gina when she tousled his hair, the smile never leaving his face as he peers up at her. It makes him shake his head a little; blue eyes follow the sway of the little gypsy's curve out of habit, he was young and male after all. There is a look of appreciation expressed in his eyes, but he doesn't vocalize it or make crude remarks*

I don't think we'll party too hard, Drew's likely to pass out before I will. Don't think she has the stamina to beat me.

*Erek laughs then, calling out to Gina* Have a good rest.

*He turns to glance at Drew after Gina is gone upstairs, slouching back onto the couch once more to sprawl across the middle and bring his head closer to the Get kin's lap. His blond eyebrows dance up and down over blue eyes, shifting his sprawled position until he was on his back and staring up at the ceiling. He can feel the shift in Drew's seating when she adjusts her legs, his eyes turning to look at her from an upside down angle. He is quiet until she breaks the silence, pondering an answer for her question*

I'm not sure really. There's a bit more to the city I'd like to discover, usually best to do that at night when I can skulk around in the shadows more. I'm interested in finding out the hideouts of some of the local shit heads that live in your neighborhood and scaring the piss out of them. But, I'll hang out for as long as you can tolerate me.

[Drew Roscoe] Erek made himself right at home, eating dry cereal on her couch and sweeping the crumbs off his lap and onto the floor, not being self conscious about making a mess that's as simple as that to clean up. If he was breaking furniture that'd be another story, but crumbs were nothing. The only disappointment was that she didn't have a dog to clean up the mess for her anymore. She'd had to give Basil up, she couldn't keep putting the poor dog through his terror fits whenever a Garou walked through her door.

The Rotagar lay across the couch so his head was close to her legs, then squiggled so he was on his back rather than on his side. He mentioned terrorizing the 'local shit heads' and she chuckled into the rim of her glass and shook her head some. "Just don't lead them back here. I'm confident about protecting my home, but I don't necessarily want to have to. It's quiet here, for now, I don't need people driving by my house and breaking my windows with bullets."

As long as she could tolerate him seemed to be an indeterminate length of time. She propped her left elbow up on the arm of the sofa, keeping a hold of her glass in that hand while the right fell to Erek's head, fingers threading their way idly through his hair in the same thoughtless, comfortable motions that a thumb might swirl on someone's hand while holding it.

"Better to relax before the evening comes, if you were to ask me. The nights can get too stressful, too sad. Batteries need recharging in more ways than one."

[Erek Skulason] *Drew can feel the twitch of an eyebrow lift the moment her hand fell to his head, fingers threading through the tangled mess of blond hair unconsciously set him at ease. Like a mother soothing a child of a nightmare. He hadn't felt such things in a while, but it was starting to have another affect on him. He clears his throat, his body shifting on the couch to get more comfortable, legs stretched to allow his bare feet to dangle over the arm, toes wiggling as he flexed the muscles in his calves to ease a budding tension that grew.

This close to Drew, Erek was aware of her femininity. Her scent permeated his nose, her warmth felt through his skin as small creases form in his brow when he frowns. That faint musk of her breeding tickles in the back of his mind, and the wolf that lays deeply under his skin almost awakens from its lethargic sleep*

You had a mate at one time didn't you? There seems to have been a male or two that were presence in your life. What became of them?

[Drew Roscoe] The smile on her face doesn't slip away when he asks That Question. The expression saddens some, it's impossible for it not to, but it's also fond. The memories were good ones, at least. Her fingers continue on autopilot, easing tangles out of his hair until it was completely smooth, then simply bushing it from his face and ears rhythmically.

"Yeah, I did..."

For the second question, the fuller story.

"Thomas 'Gut Song' Weist was the one that introduced me to the fact that I'm a Kinfolk, in the roughest way imaginable. He's a Skald. He knows every hero to have walked the earth, he knows my heritage even though I don't. He's... intense. But incredibly intelligent and devout. I love him greatly. Joe 'War Handed' Holst was a Modi, a bull-headed kid about your age, outwardly horrific and brutal and merciless, but smart as hell and... just inherently good. Joe was my mate."

She takes another drink from the glass, sipping lightly. "...Thomas, I'm not sure where he is now. He left for the Umbra about.... eight or nine months ago now? Some mission or another, I never got the full details. He never came back. Joe and I left for Portland, he caught wind of something going on out there and wanted to go join the movement. I packed up to go with him." She's wrinkling her nose, scowling at the cup now, fingers shifting movements to smooth their way across his forehead and over his temples now. "The Fenrir there murdered him for his Camp. They refused to look past it at who he was, what all he'd accomplished. He was Jarl here, he gave Kora a pack, a home, a start. She took over when he stepped down to leave. He's done so much for this city, and they murder him and don't even have the good grace to tell me he's gone. I go looking for him a week later and get the most casual answer imaginable."

There's a beat, and she kills off the rest of her glass, sets it to rest on the arm of the sofa, and smirks a bit. "I got kicked out of the city after I beat and tried to kill the man responsible. Broke my hand on his face. I feel a little better for that, at least."

[Erek Skulason] *The motion of Drew's fingers massaging through his scalp, untangling the mop of blond hair sends shivers down his spine. It's hypnotic and relaxing, making him lethargic as his eyes drift shut and all he can do is listen to her voice with his ears. His senses become more honed with the lack of sight, he feels the slightest of tension that might run through her fingers, or the way her voice will change in tone as she spoke about the one's she loves. The clinking of the melting ice in the glass sets off the watery smell of whiskey, he knows when she sets it down, when she moves by the shift of the cushions under his back. Her story is painful one, one that she tells to a strange no moon resting on her couch with his head near her thigh.

It was all so surreal for Erek.

He doesn't disrupt her, doesn't want her to stop what she was doing. The wrinkled lines in his forehead smooth out as he no longer frowns, his head slides until the top of his skull touched against her outer thigh, feeling the hiss of fabric against his scalp*

You've got the resolve to continue on, Drew, it has to be hard for you? Yet you manage to wear those smiles, you continue to give aid, you seem happiest when you can help someone.

[Drew Roscoe] Erek relaxed under the administrations of one hand thoughtlessly working its way through his hair and along his scalp, never scratching with fingernails but always rubbing and working lightly with the flesh of her fingers instead. His hair offered no resistance to being run through after a time, it had been smoothed as it could, and when that point hit, when he scooted up so the top of his head pressed to her leg, she was massaging his scalp, fingers moving slow and on their own accord.

She didn't lean forward yet to set the empty glass down on the table, but kept it in her left hand, tapping a fingernail lightly on the side, light enough to not generate a lot of noise in doing so.

"Yeah..." She smiled a bit and glanced back down at him. The alcohol warmed her up, fogged her mind some and made it easier to let happy memories drift to the surface, to let go of the bored expression that Fenrir whose name she couldn't even remember wore on his face when he told her he'd killed Joe and wondered aloud what she was doing with 'cowardly trash' like him. "Well, it's what I'm here for. I can't fight the good fight, I support you guys however I can instead. I know the kind of stuff you see, that you feel and go through. If I can get you guys to sit down at a table for a hot meal or sleep in a warm bed rather than out in the open? Well, y'all deserve it."

"Anyway, Joe wouldn't want me wasting my life and potential crying for him. He always seemed to be waiting for me to move on, even when he was alive. We both knew how short the life expectancy for a Modi is, especially one as bloodthirsty as he was."

[Erek Skulason] Would you move on? Could you, even with Joe still fresh in the grave, find yourself gravitating to another Garou that would likely end up in some fate different from your mate's, but still dead?

*They were thoughtless questions, given rise to his curiosity of her, wanting to absorb knowledge, to dig deeper into the young kin's history and mind. It was the role of his auspice to question everything, so he does it now, to rest her resolve*

What makes you think that Joe was waiting for you to move on, did he not love you?

*The administration of her fingers upon his scalp manage to find a sweet spot that makes the young Get of Fenris tense suddenly, he squeezes his eyes shut, and bit down on his lip. It was a pleasurable feeling, like when you rub a dog behind the ear, or scratch him just under the chin. It makes him grunt softly, his left leg twitches for a few moments until Erek can't stand the sensation any longer. He brings a hand up to seize Drew's wrist, gently pulling it away from his scalp, and tilts his head back to open his eyes and look at her*

[Drew Roscoe] "Oh yeah, I'll move on sometime. It's just rough that no one's ever gonna be him, and it's not fair to compare to him either." Two glasses of whiskey had loosened her tongue some. These kinds of things she probably wouldn't be so honest about. More than likely, she'd be closed up and vague with her answers, smile brightly and switch the subject to something else entirely. The second question is greeted with a shrug. "He always thought that I should be with Thomas, since he found me first. He never believed me when I chose him, and I think a part of him always waited for me to change my mind and go find 'someone better'. He didn't ever think he was good enough or believe fully that I would stay." She frowned softly and shook her head, fingers finding what had to be a sweet spot that had his back and shoulders tensing up without her really realizing. "But he loved me as much as I loved him."

His leg twitches, and she glances curiously down the length of his sprawled out body to the funny motion. Then he seizes her hand and pulls her fingers away from his scalp and hair, and her eyes find his. She blinks once, like she's confused, then grins a bit sheepishly and shrugs one shoulder up close to her jaw. "Sorry. That was just kinda second-nature I guess."

And she leans forward to put her empty glass on the table, finally.

[Erek Skulason] *From this angle, he can't exactly hide his expression from her and Erek seems so unguarded with his emotions, that they read so plainly on his face. She will notice that his cheeks have darkened to a rosy hue, he squeezes her wrist gently before letting go, and pulls his arms back down to rest them on his stomach. He waits until she isn't looking to make a slight adjustment by tugging on the waistband of his jeans and sighs.

Two glasses of whiskey have gotten the kin to open up to him, he ponders how much more would loosen her up even more, but then snapped his tongue against the back of his teeth in a chastising cluck, and snorts*

You'll never find another Garou like this Joe. It ain't going to be easy to replace him, and you shouldn't have to. If that day comes you find someone else to let in, you'll have new memories to create. Just look at it like a book, one chapter ends as another begins.

*Erek can feel the rise in his body temperature, the flush was spreading down into his throat to burn at his collarbone and shoulders. He turns, digging his elbow into the cushions, using the leverage to prop himself up slowly. His head bowing down to cause blond hair to fall across his eyes, hiding his expression. He shakes his head, breathing in and out as he puts distance between himself and Drew*

I knew a girl once. I see her sometimes when I sleep at night, I don't know who she is or why she's there. I think she's connected to the things I don't remember. I've manage to stamp down the pain that came with her image, the confusion. It was rough the first couple of months after Skúli found me and I was sick. The change had left me pretty fucked up.

*He stands now, giving Drew his back as Erek stretched his arms above his head, rolling up on the balls of his feet, and then drops his arms to his sides. He seems slightly uncomfortable as he steps around the table, half-turning to bend and pick up the boxes of crackers and cereal, and his empty glass. He winks at her before walking away to head into the kitchen*

[Drew Roscoe] Drew's a pretty attentive girl on an average day. It was one of many things her paranoid (rightfully so, though) father instilled in her, made sure she was sharp about so she could survive more effectively when he was no longer there to shelter her. This was why she was a sure shot with a gun of any sort, why she knew how to sneak through the shadows and walk so her feet didn't make any noise. It's also how she became accustomed to keeping constant watch on her surroundings.

He adjusts his pants, and on a typical day she'd notice that, but with a solid buzz of alcohol humming in her mind it slips by. Lucky him. She's leaning back, he's letting go of her wrist after a bit of a squeeze, and she smiles warmly at him before stretching out, propping her heels up on the coffee table and sinking back into the couch comfortably. Her eyes followed after him as he started to clean off the coffee table and head into the kitchen with everything in his arms. An eyebrow quirked upward, and she shook her head and spoke clearly enough, with no slur to her words just yet, but quiet enough that she wasn't bothering Gina upstairs.

"You're pretty sharp for an 'eighteen, I think' year old. Your uncle Skúli was right about you." There's a beat, and she's closing her eyes and resting slumped comfortably into the corner of the couch. "This girl. You think she's a sister or a lover?"

[Erek Skulason] *Drew can make out his rustling in the kitchen, might even see his tall form moving back and forth as cabinet doors open and close. He deposits his glass in the sink, bending over to rest his elbows on the counters' edge and rubs his hands across his face when he leaned over. Fingers slide up into his hair, gripping it tightly as Erek squeezed his eyes shut and forced his body to relax. The reaction that sparked from her massaging his scalp, doesn't seem to surprise him once bit. He's had situations like this before*

What makes you say that?

*Erek calls from the kitchen, finally pushing away from the sink when he thinks he's calmed down enough, and decides to return to Drew in the main room. He doesn't return to the couch, just stands with his arms folding across his chest, blue eyes peeled to the small kin*

What makes you think I'm so 'sharp for my age? *a wry grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, she mentions the girl and the smile disappears quickly*

Not sure exactly. I just know she was important somehow, but I can't see her face. And I know if I see it, it'll come back, like a flood.

[Drew Roscoe] He spends some time out in the kitchen, trying to force himself to ease up, let some of the tension wrapped up in deft fingers that had detangled his hair and rubbed at his scalp run free, simmer down away from a boiling point. She was as good as a landlord, after all. Upsetting her could easily be a fast track back out onto the sidewalk

--though she didn't seem the type to kick someone out, not like that.

Her eyes are still closed when he returns to the living room, but one opens up when the pad of bare feet stop short and he doesn't sit on the couch or the loveseat but instead opts to stand, hovering in the space between the two pieces of furniture, arms over his chest and eyes stuck to her. She surveys him while he stares her down.

"Because most people wouldn't really understand where I am after Joe. You picked up and understood even with some whiskey fogging the way between us. Hell, when I got back into town the first question on most peoples lips was whether we had a chance for me to get pregnant or not." She frowned faintly, thumping her barren abdomen with the flat of one hand before letting it rest there. He moves on to express that he's sure if he finds this face, if he can see it in real life and everything that surrounds it, it may trigger his memories.

To this Drew answers with cautious skepticism rather than rushed encouragement to go chasing chance. "...You ever wonder if there's a reason you forgot, though?"

[Erek Skulason] *A muscle ticks in the right side cheek, spreading up into his temple and into his eyes. He squints at her, narrowing them into thin slits. It isn't a baleful glare Erek gives Drew, nor an angry one. The smooth skin of his forehead puckers and wrinkles with a frown, contemplating an answer to her question as he desperately tries to unlock the heavy doors that close off certain memories. A growl that isn't quite human, and nowhere near rageful rumbles in the base of his throat out of frustration*

Call it instinct - a hunch. I ain't good at reading people, and yet I can sometimes think up the right thing to say. Maybe it's my moon, or Brigid's fine perception aiding me from beyond her grave. I ain't got a clue, darling.

*The frustration intensifies as Erek lowers his body into a couch, swaying slowly until he stands on the balls of his feet in perfect balance. Muscles clenched tightly in his thighs and calves press against the fabric of his jeans*

Since the moment I became a Garou, my life's been upside down. I don't know how or what triggered it, except maybe that ghostly face I see is a part of it. My mind may not be able to handle what happened, because it was so horrific, could that shutting down like that is the only way to keep from going insane.

[Drew Roscoe] He's scowling hard now, crouching down on the hardwood floor rather than moving to sit in either piece of furniture. Drew's content where she is on the couch, in her dress clothes still, one arm up on the sofa's arm while the other hand stayed resting on the bottom of her stomach, staying where it'd fallen when she'd tapped herself in the abdomen for emphasis on her aggravation with the question most thought suiting to greet her with when she came back home mateless.

"Right..." She's moving her hand from the sofa arm to scrub at her eyes, rubbing away some of the eye shadow she'd applied for work in doing so, fading the light violet color on her eyelids to more of a natural nude tone. "It's gotta be frustrating not to know... I can't even compare, or begin to understand. But to speak of it from an uninvolved standpoint... It just seems like it might just be for the best. The mind doesn't blot things out all willy-nilly like that, there was probably something that would've snapped you. In an effort for self-preservation, you blocked it out and everything involved with it too."

She groaned some as she sat up, planting her feet on the floor and leaning forward, tucking her hair back behind her ears before sitting up straight and plucking some of the stray hairs that had come loose from brushing her fingers through Erek's hair and letting them fall to the floor to be swept up along with his cereal crumbs later. "I can't say I know if it was overkill or not, and it wiped out too much.... but... I don't know. I just personally wouldn't go sniffing for something that could very well ruin my spirit."

[Erek Skulason] *Drew had a point, Erek could see this through the haze of frustration that was attempting to cloud his judgment. He grunts once, running his hand back through his hair to shove it out of his eyes one final time and stands up. He settles his eyes on her face, allowing them to travel over the little woman. The hard edges that had drawn them into slits softens as Drew was pulling pieces of his hair from her fingers to let them drop on the floor*

I must be shedding all over the place. *he mutters to her*

You look tired, or drunk. I'm not sure which, I know a hot shower would perk you up, and Miss Gina's got to be getting all lonely without someone to cuddle with.

[Drew Roscoe] She chuckled a little and shook her head when he informed her that she looked drunk and/or tired, letting the last bit of hair she found on her black slacks drift to the floor. "Maybe a little of both. I went in early this morning so I could get done as fast as I did."

So she stands up and tucks a hand under the long, heavy mass of dark brown hair to scratch at the back of her neck, the other hand at her hip while she did this. Shoulders pulled back, her chest pressed out, and the vertebrae in her upper back crackled quietly, releasing tension and stored up stresses carried in her back muscles when she stretched them out like that. She returned her gaze to the Rotagar after closing her eyes to stretch, and smiled lightly.

"Gina's a wonderful girl, don't let her tell you otherwise. There's a reason I trust a pickpocket alone in my bedroom." She walks by him on her way to the kitchen, but pauses to scrub a hand along the backs of his shoulders, scratching gently with her fingernails through the material of his shirt so that the touch could be appreciated rather than stinging. She got awfully touchy after a drink or two seeped from her stomach to her mind. "Thanks for the talk, though, Erek. First time I've been able to admit how much I really do miss those boys since I got back home."

And that said, she'd make her way for the staircase to ascend and join the other Kin for an afternoon nap.