Like a Tide [John]

[Drew Roscoe] This was the sort of blizzard that set records. The meteorologists weren't playing around when they said it would be the worst to hit the area in history. One could argue that it couldn't be, that the land Chicago rested upon had been here for many millions upon billions of years and it had gone through some drastic natural forces before this one. Drew would tell those people it didn't matter, because it didn't change how severe the weather outside was.

Erek wasn't home, but Drew didn't worry. He would manage, he would find a place to bunker down and stay warm and alive. He wasn't her child, he was grown enough to take care of himself. Drew had the lights turned off in her home, for the most part, so she could see more clearly the weather out her window. The shades were pulled, curtains drawn back, and she'd pulled a chair over to the front window and sat curled up in it, knees to her chest and a mug of hot chocolate in her hands. She had a few candles lit here and there, was more than prepared for the electricity to go out (though it wasn't yet, she could hear her old boiler kicking in to keep the house warm every now and again).

Outside thunder rumbled, snow swirled and winds snapped smaller twigs from trees, forced the branches to bend and dance. Before long whole branches was fall, Drew was sure. She was just glad she'd purchased insurance, there were enough trees on this street that it was a good chance that one would damage her roof or her vehicle.

Lightning streaked across the sky, lighting the world of white. Visibility was limited, she couldn't see up the end of the street. But one thing out of the ordinary was made visible by the light, and it had Drew straightening up, rolling her feet under her so she was on her knees, one hand on the window sill and the other still holding her hot chocolate. She squinted out to be sure... but yes, that was a person out trudging through the weather up the sidewalk. Lost, insane, or suicidal. It was hard to say what.

[John] There are storms in the Umbra that see the sky turn colors that human artists cannot conjure up using paint and pharmaceuticals: blues and whites and oranges so vivid they can almost be felt, the lightning so bright it doesn't seem real. Never, though, in all the times that this particularly spiritual Full Moon has traveled the Umbra has he encountered lightning slashing through the sky at the same time that squalls of snow have come careening out of the sky, winds howling, as though Gaia has decided to take out all of her unrealized wrath and righteousness upon the people stomping across her great lands, squandering and pillaging and raping all that has thrived for millions of years prior to man's realization of his terrible capabilities given the gift of upright perambulation.

So why on Earth this creature is out in this weather is anyone's guess.

He is from a part of the country that never sees snow. The mountains, the highest peaks far beyond the reaches or motivation of most mortal men, are coated in the stuff, thick crusted white caps that make conquering most crests nigh unto impossible, but even the coldest desert nights only toe the line between Tolerable and Freezing.

Drew sits by the window, her mind and her home prepared for the brunt of the storm, for the cessation of modern conveniences and the drop in temperature that will come from a house without power. With the lights off she can see with greater visibility; the world outside is lit pink with the cloud cover, the city pushing back against the darkness.

Coming up the sidewalk, he is wearing a heavy winter jacket instead of just a sweatshirt this time, yet the hood is not pulled up to cover his head. Light eyes are squinting against the wind, hands crammed into his pockets, head ducked to keep out the snow. At the next crash of lightning he looks up, eyes searching the sky as if the approach of thunder is something for which to be watchful.

Then he finds the number on Drew's house, and starts up the walkway.

[Drew Roscoe] She's watching the figure intently, and she's not trying to hide the fact. With the flicker of candlelight in the background, she's visible in her window, staring with disbelief as the man as he pauses to squint against the snow blowing on winds fast enough to make the precipitation sharp against his face, to find the numbers hanging vertically along the side of her door. The house he found was a modest affair, with no fence surrounding the small yard, with dull blue paint and white shutters, with a second story that was only half of one-- the top floor much smaller than the bottom. Her truck, the one he rode in, was in the driveway doing a good job of getting buried in snow. The neighborhood was only a dozen or so blocks northwest of Last Watch's packhouse, the kind of place that crawled with crime and desolation.

The kin in the window only confirmed what everything else already said-- he'd found the right place.

He didn't get a chance to knock on the door because Drew, after running back into the kitchen to seize the smaller pistol she kept in the drawer under the envelopes and paperclips and the like, pulled the door open before he made it all the way up the sidewalk. She was holding the gun in one hand behind her back, leaning to the side to watch him through the crack in her door. The snow, the poor lighting, the hood, she didn't recognize him immediately. There was suspicion and caution all over her face, apprehension to boot. She didn't get any words out before he came near enough and lifted his chin from the wind high enough that she recognized him, though, and relief spread across her features instead.

"Good Christ, what are you doing out here? Come in." And she's standing back, holding the door open for him to step into the small house's living room.

[John] [Alertness+Perception!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 1, 7, 9 (Failure at target 6)

[John] WRONG GODDAMN WINDOW

[John] Regardless of what it is the weather's doing, Drew's question is a valid one. Despite the persistent press of his Rage, the warmth of it keeping him from freezing, this does not mean that he is a machine, that his body does not feel pain or bone-numbing cold. He does not shiver, exactly, but he's holding himself in a manner that cannot be hidden by the bulk of his jacket. It's fucking cold outside, and the whipping wind and blinding snow doesn't help.

Yet he does not lurch inside like a domesticated animal escaping into the blessed warmth of a home it knows. He pauses to stomp off his boots, his eyes noting with some trepidation that Drew has her hand behind her back, and ducks inside quickly so as not to keep the kinswoman standing in the doorway with the cold air snatching at her skin for too long.

A loud exhalation, something like relief when he realizes he's out of the cold, and he does not immediately snake out of his jacket or pull off his boots. The mute young man pulls a cold-reddened hand out of his pocket, dragging it down his face to clear the snow from his eyes and facial hair, then sniffs. Without a sound, he looks at her. The darkness casts shadows over an already weathered face, but there is no menace in the way he looks at her; the moon is dark tonight, and his Rage is checked.

Even when it had not been, that evening Hunter Matthews broke his nose, he did not seem as though he was in danger of losing his mind. That is little consolation for anyone who was born into this, or even anyone who has witnessed the brutality of a Garou in frenzy. Even the most mild-mannered of Theurges, the most care-free of Ragabashes, are capable of being driven to frenzy.

It's a delicate balance, trusting that the Garou will not harm their Kinfolk when they are calm and the Kinfolk can handle the Garou when they are out of their minds with Rage. Some never find it.

He either doesn't have a notebook ready, or hasn't gone for it yet, but the expression on his face is easy enough to read without his saying anything. This storm is barbaric, and she's sitting in the dark. He looks concerned.

[Drew Roscoe] The question may be valid even if it were a sunny day in May, but Drew wouldn't have asked it, especially in such a tone, were that the case. She knew his face, she knew that he was a Modi and thereby family. She kept track of the moon phases like any smart Kinfolk does, she knew that she wouldn't be able to see the moon tonight even if the weather was clear and virtually non-existent. While that didn't mean it was an impossible thing for his tempers to rise, it meant that they were less likely to surge to the surface when unwelcome there, he was less likely to be provoked by mistake. She was concerned about the cold, about him out in it. She had to wonder how long he'd been walking out there, snowblind and marching.

The Kin was dressed in a pair of heather gray pajama bottoms with little pink flower designs on the fabric, loose and comfortable, flipped down once at the waist so they rested comfortably at her hips rather than bit into her stomach when she leaned forward. Her top was a broken in white long-sleeved tee, loose and soft from being washed several times over. Her hair was left unbound, so the dark brown tresses fell down well past her shoulders-- she was due for a haircut but kept putting it off. Face was void of make-up, the home smelled like the light perfume of candles, each with its own pleasant but muted scent.

He looked concerned that the lights were all out and she was alone in a dark house like this, but she didn't seem too worried about any of that. The house was warm, her electricity hadn't been knocked out yet. She had an electric lantern sitting on the coffee table in the living room just in case. She was getting the cup of hot chocolate, about three quarters of the way full and still steaming, and pressing it insistently into his hands.

"How long've you been out there? I know you guys are sturdy, but I wouldn't trust even the toughest to stay out in a blizzard like that for more than an hour. Jesus, come on, get out of the wet boots and come warm up."

No pressing to find out why he'd dropped by, if he had a message, a question or a request. She was too busy making sure he was warm and healthy first. It was easy to visualize her twenty years from now, plumped from having a couple of children, wearing a skirt and an apron because she'd found a niche in making sure every Garou in the city was fed and happy. She'd make an excellent mother hen one day.

[Lukas] [CRAP.]

[John] A question, a smattering of words indicative of worry, and John laughs the most boisterous laugh he's capable of producing without vocal cords, without a heritage that places great importance on displays of positive emotion: that is to say, it comes out of his throat instead of his nostrils, and teeth are briefly visible, clean and white despite the fact that he could fit just as easily amongst the mountain people of West Virginia as he does amongst the church-dwelling Fenrir of Cabrini Green.

Hustling him, Drew reveals herself to be heading down a path that will have her siring children, caring for others', providing a hearth and a home for those who are without one. As he shudders and starts to acquiesce to her request, John is distracted from looking her over more closely by the numbness of his fingers. He has large worker's hands, strong and likely capable of wrapping around Drew's waist; for being as bold as she is, as sure a shot as she is, when he stands next to her there's no doubting how physically fragile she is. She can withstand whatever it is life has thrown at her so far--and to look at her, even though she smiles and fusses and seems radiant even with the lights all off, in her broken-in nighttime clothes and her hair grown out beyond what most stylists would recommend, she has had to weather her share of blows; no one who has not suffered develops this much compassion and desire to help utter strangers--yet there's the knowledge that if he were to lose his composure, he could tear her apart.

She keeps track of the lunar calendar. She knows when which auspices are most likely to become terrific monsters, knows when the entire Nation is most likely to lose its goddamn mind. The sky is dark, now, but the coming weeks will see their tension growing greater and greater, like a piano wire pulled ever tighter.

Jacket shucked off, John reveals himself to be wearing a long-sleeved gray henley underneath, jeans without a belt. The hem of his shirt only lifts up over the borders of his pants when he lifts up his arms; being as tall as he is, that is rarely necessary. Eyes search for a place to hang his coat, and when he's either found it or Drew has removed it from his hands, he works his way out of his boots.

His socks are thick and black, and despite the cold, they're peeled off as well. He wiggles his toes once they're out of their bindings, seeming more at ease without shoes on, then plants his hands on his hips and takes a closer look around.

Pointing to the candles, he frowns, his expression questioning. Anyone who spends more than a few moments with him can gather there is an innate intelligence within this creature, that he is neither uneducated nor stupid. He knows what a candle is. He also knows that other houses still have their power on.

[Drew Roscoe] The home, despite being dumpy and easy to blend in with the neighborhood on the outside, was clean and decently furnished on the inside. Drew, growing up the daughter of a carpenter who went on to manage his own crew in building homes as a contractor, knew a thing or two about housework. She'd put a group of hooks in the wall behind the door, that's where her blue coat was hanging. This is where John's jacket would go. While he's getting a good look of the house, he'll get a general feel of warmth, the contemporary sort that a twenty-year-old would prefer to the floral sofas and chicken statues an elderly woman would.

The furniture in the living room consisted of a sofa, loveseat, and chair, all in brown leather and slightly overstuffed. A medium-sized television sat on an entertainment center against the wall to the far left, with a few pretty but easy to look over pictures hanging on the walls to fill up empty space. The floors were hardwood, save for the linoleum in the kitchen. Stools were at the opposite side of the kitchen island, and beyond that was a proper dining room. To the right, several feet into the living room, was a hallway that had to go back to bedrooms, closets, a laundry room... things like that.

John points at the candle nearest-- the large one with three wicks she'd lit and left on the coffee table, and appears questioning. Drew glanced back, then shook her head and pressed the hot chocolate mug more resolutely into his palm. "You warm up faster from the inside out," she advised. "Mug'll put feeling back in your fingers too. The candles are just to fit the mood. Makes it seem warmer in here when there's candlelight, I think. Anyway, I'm willing to bet the power'll go out sometime tonight so I thought I may as well just get used to it ahead'a time."

[John] Drew's tightening of his free hand around the steaming mug of strange-smelling liquid seems to draw his attention back from his equally strange fixation on why the kinswoman was sitting in the dark in the middle of a blizzard. A sharp shiver cuts through his form when the heat of the mug registers, and he gives an almost sheepish smile at the realization that she's attempting to insist he drink the beverage.

He'll warm up faster from the inside.

That makes sense, his quick, contained nod seems to suggest, and he pauses to blow on the surface of the hot chocolate before taking a quick pull, breathing heavily with the heat of it on his tongue. Without the ability to verbally comment on the drink, John instead focuses on what Drew's saying: it's mood lighting, makes it seem warmer, is preparation for the inevitability of the power going out. This, too, makes sense, but his nod is slower, more contemplative.

A flash of lightning has him casually peering out the window rather than jerking his head as with the last instance. Outside the city is a war zone, snow heaping up where it's been blown, either by machine or by nature. Besides him, no one else dares venture outside. Everyone has prepared for this, has their alcohol and their gasoline and their sundries for however long this is supposed to last.

Most people are looking forward to a day off tomorrow. With the Garou's luck, the Kinfolk's luck, they'll have to fight in this shit.

Looking around, John bobs his head in a nod. There's a sort of calm to him, as though he's more comfortable with the natural ambience than he would have been with light bulbs and fluorescents. No television blares, no radio; nothing but the shriek of wind outside. The sound of it makes him shiver again, and he takes a bracing swallow of hot chocolate before taking a seat on the sofa.

Should Drew join him, he offers her the mug.

[Drew Roscoe] The stripping of socks, the bare feet on the hardwood, that's not questioned. His reasons were likely different from what Drew imagined them to be, he was a feral sort, but she'd thought that walking as far as he must have his socks had to be wet from sweat at the very least, and that's presuming none of the snow permeated through his footwear to drench his socks as well. Either way, wet and cold clothes in a blizzard were never the best of ideas, and Drew didn't seem offended by bare feet on her floor. She was wearing socks herself, fluffy and pink, the sort intended for staying at home because they were too thick to fit comfortably in any shoe that wasn't two sizes too large.

He went to sit on the couch, and Drew would join him after tucking his boots off to the side with her foot and locking the door back up. That done, she'd set down on the cushion beside him. She didn't go to the other far end of the couch and force discomfort with distance for the sake of... what? Chastity? Looking polite and proper? Who was there to impress, anyways? She wouldn't snuggle into his side either, though. She just tucks her feet up under her legs so that they're folded indian-style and leans forward to look out the window at the whirlwind of white blanketing the world.

Thunder rumbles, and she glances at the ceiling when it and the rest of the house shudders, then nods and accepts the mug back, blowing on the surface of the liquid before taking a sip and offering it back for him to warm his fingers on.

"...I've seen storms like this in the summer, but never in the winter. When the electric poles go down it's just fine in August, the house's already warm and you can crack a window for a breeze. I've never seen it lightning with snow before... If the power stays out for too long we'll probably end up with looting.. people hopin' to find a house with electric or a generator that they can steal out of a shed."

She's musing, thinking aloud more than anything else. Filling the silence without expecting conversation in return, not asking questions so much as making observations. She didn't seem too concerned for her own safety, electricity going out didn't stop the gun she'd deposited on the coffee table (safety on, of course) stop working.

There's a passage of quiet, and Drew glances up at the Modi's face. She'd been simply accepting of his showing up on her doorstep for some time now, but she was bound to ask eventually... "...What brought you by?"

[John] It's worth mentioning the number of Garou who, should they find themselves bereft of the ability to communicate vocally, would simply abandon the notion of conversation altogether, as though it wouldn't be worth the effort or the annoyance if they could not voice their own thoughts and were relegated to the role of actively listening the majority of the time.

Sitting next to him on the couch, Drew might be expecting him to be pungent, given the effortlessness of his dress, the fact that he doesn't shave or appear to be comfortable spending much time indoors. To say that having John in her home is like having an animal indoors isn't entirely accurate: while there is a primal quality to his movements, a predaciousness that is assured rather than overt, he doesn't snarl or slaver or shy away from eye contact. He doesn't reek of body odor or dirt, doesn't smell like blood or old food. Whatever deodorant he uses is unscented; whatever soap he uses is likewise free from dyes or perfumes that would give him away in another form. His hair, dark with winter's obliteration of sunlight but the sort of brown that will bleach out in the summer, is kept cropped close to his scalp while the hair on his face seems to be allowed to grow wild.

If he isn't careful, if a kinswoman or a packmate does not remind him, it will turn into an unruly beard. Right now he has several days' worth of scruff that lend him a relatableness that seems to be lacking when one realizes who his parents were, when one realizes that normal conversations with him are never going to happen.

He can try. He can seek out companions who will accept that while his muteness does not mean he has nothing to say, he relies on the other person to make conversation. It isn't shyness or laziness; it's just how he is. John, for being a Modi and a metis, prefers to listen than to speak, even if his speech is relegated to print.

When Drew sits beside him, John does nothing so overt as flare his nostrils or take a deep breath; he doesn't seem to stir at the presence of breeding within her, although he is aware of it. There are heroes in her lineage, and her blood would sing more strongly to a warrior within whom there was a drive to breed. He is hardly impotent, yet no matter how many women take him to bed, he will never produce a child. It's part of what makes him an abomination, is his body's being bred for war and not for the continuation of the species. His birth was a form of suicide.

What brought him by?

He looks pointedly outside, at the raging freak of a storm, then looks back at her, just as pointedly. A thought, and he holds up a finger before handing the hot chocolate back to her. Quickly, but not bounding like a hyperactive puppy or a teenager, John retrieves a small leather-bound journal from his inner coat pocket, fumbles loose a pen, and returns to the couch. When he writes, his English is sloppy, his spelling atrocious, yet the point comes across. It's hard to make out in the candlelight, yet he writes large enough that she does not have to squint.

Storm lik this 1 tim.
In canada. Bad.
Wanted to see you are ok.

The journal is traded for the hot chocolate.

[Drew Roscoe] She chuckled when he pointed to the window then looked at her pointedly, shaking her head and speaking to fill the space while he handed the mug back to her and dug around for a journal and pen. The house was quiet, perhaps that was why her voice seemed lower tonight than it had been when he'd heard her speak anytime up til now. There had always been background noise, other voices or traffic or the rev of an engine-- something like that. The fact that she was the only one talking and she had no one else's voice to match volume to probably had something to do with it as well.

"Well, yeah. But I couldn't imagine why you'd be this far east of the Church."

She's taking a sip, leaning to the side just a titch to watch the words form on the paper while he writes. His handwriting was poor, his spelling and punctuation would make an English major flinch (but luckily, she wasn't one of those. it was too artsy-fartsy and not nearly practical enough for her tastes.), but the message was clear enough. She smiles, takes the journal and hands the mug back after another sip from it.

Licking the hot chocolate off her lips, she rubs the corner of the journal paper between her fingertips, rolling it to and fro until it was soft, lost the consistency of paper and began to feel more like cloth. "Sweet of ya, I appreciate it. I'm doing fine, though." The journal was passed back shortly after she realized that she was turning his page into a worried piece of cloth, tapping her thumbnail into the pad of her index finger to stab out the resulting hum from repetitive motion like that.

"The gangs kinda overlook my place, it's unassuming and on a pretty mellow street. Even if they didn't..." She points to the gun on the table. "I'm prepared."

[John] His hearing intact, he does not have to intently watch her face or her lips in order to get the gist of what Drew is saying. Even if he were watching the window, or a crack on the ceiling, or his own hands, John can hear just as fine as anyone else; Izzy had posted this question early on, as though the possibility of him both being incapable of hearing and incapable of speaking went together. He hadn't questioned it, or else he had heard the question enough times in his life that it no longer surprised him.

So when Drew starts to rub the corner of the journal's page, the movement idle yet seeming to fulfill some sort of purpose even if it isn't spoken, he can watch her, brow furrowed in curiosity, and still hear what she's saying. She says she's doing fine; without the ability to see past the female of the human species' uncanny ability to say the exact opposite of how she feels and still pass it off as infallible truth, John watches her with some suspicion.

It abates, though.

His eyes flick to the gun on the table, the one she claims makes her prepared, and he nods. The pen begins to move again, etching out a:

Your family heer

When he hands the journal back, there is no question mark on the paper, but the inquisitiveness is written on his face.

[Drew Roscoe] It was a selfless mechanism that Kinswomen had installed in them, either early on or later down the road depending on how much they'd been put through at any given time. If they were honest about how they felt, what was eating them alive and how many ulcers they had from worry, they'd be weaker for it. Because they weren't there to fill their Garou with worry about themselves, they were there to take care of the Beasts they called loved ones. Of course they worried, but it could not be helped. Of course they had periods of sadness, but this too was simply a part of the package. She said she was fine, and on some levels Drew actually meant it, but of course the entire package wasn't-- not just yet anyways.

The pen scrawls on the notepad, and her eyes skim over the letters, pull them together into a question even without the punctuation to confirm it-- his face was a question mark in and of itself. She imagined that he'd gotten to be quite expressive without a voice to communicate with. Awful good at charades too.

"Depends on the kind of family you're asking after. The household kind, mom-and-pop, or Family in a broader sense?" There's a pause, then she answers both. "My dad's the only 'family' I've got, and he's not here but he's not far off." A hand lifts, gestures vaguely toward the southwest. "He's in Peoria, about... eh, four or so hours drive away.

"Family, though, yeah, it's always here. Always has been, I think, and it probably always will be, at least in part. I mean, there's you, Kora, Erek, Remy, Linus.... Fire Claws...." She's struggling to remember all the new names and faces, twirling a finger almost to mimic the motion of gears to go along with her thinking. She dismisses the forgotten names with a shrug.

"Seems to get bigger, then shrink. Like a tide."

[[ Fade!! ]]