Blow Bubbles Atcha [Erich]

Erich Reinhardt
It's about 7:30pm.  An hour or so after sundown; the last of the dusk fading from the west.  Browntown's few streetlights are lit, a paltry defense against the dark.  At the outskirts of town -- tiny as that town already is -- the headlights of a thirteen-year-old Mustang light the way down one of those long, lonely country roads that etch the landscape here.

This is a hard land.  It wasn't blessed with the dark, rich fertility of the midwestern plains.  It's too far to enjoy the bounty of the Atlantic.  It's not cleared, it's not open.  It's a land of sandy soil, a ground full of jagged stones that need to be pulled out before the earth can be tilled; twisted southern pines scrabbling a gnarled life out.  Anyone trying to farm here -- and there are plenty, it seems, most of them kin to the Fenrir -- have a life of hard work ahead of them.

By night, these country roads feel hemmed in on all sides.  The woods are opaque and tangled and black.  Feels like wolves should live in those woods.  Black monsters out of legend.  Feels like maybe Little Red's in there somewhere, trundling toward grandma's house.  Feels like any moment now you might come around a turn and see some woman in white who died a hundred years ago, still looking for a lift to her dance in town.
Those are just legends, though.  Real monsters don't lurk in the dark.  Real monsters -- like this one in the black Mustang -- sometimes don't behave so very differently from regular folks.  Erich drives on the right side of the road.  He has his headlights on, and sometimes he goes to high beams.  He obeys traffic laws, more or less, even if he's going a little faster than the 35mph regulation.

He looks for the address one of the bartenders in town gave him.  He suspects he only got it because the barman assumed he was one of her tribe.  One of her Family, the way she put it.  He suspects if she found out how he came by that address, and the lie-by-omission he told to get it, she'd put on that disapproving face of hers and think those disapproving racist (tribe-ist?) thoughts of hers.  He's not sure if he's amused or annoyed by the idea.

Tires crunch off asphalt, onto gravel.  Headlights sweep Drew's front windows.  The Mustang pulls up in her drive; its engine shuts off, ticking quietly under the hood.  Still warm by day, but the nights are getting cooler.  Erich grabs a hoodie out of the backseat; a little lidded plastic cup out of his cup holder.  Both hands occupied, he bounds up the steps to Drew's porch and knocks with a couple kicks.

The porch light coming on makes him squint.  She can see him through the catseye, if she's the cautious type: squinting at her, looking a little disgruntled by the wait.  "Just me," he says, muffled through the door.  "No rapists, murderers or monsters out here."

Drew RoscoeThe drive out to Drew's house, just on the outskirt's of town, wasn't a terrible one.  The road to her house was a straight shot from town, no one would get lost winding down gravel roads that wrapped up into hills, like if you were hunting for a farm surrounded by hundreds of acres of fields and pastures, or if you were seeking a summer cabin on some old family's land.  In fact, Drew's house wasn't even too far off the road.  She had a good sized front yard, but it was small enough that it wouldn't be unreasonable for her to put a picket fence around it (not that she would ever need to).  He would end up parking behind a big Dodge Ram truck, with a custom paint job of black cherry paint that sparkled just a little when the light hit it just so.

Drew's house was a one-story, not big enough to be a rambler but not small enough to be considered a cottage either.  Her porch light was on, as was the lamp at the top of a tall post better suited for holding electrical lines, tucked away at the back of her short driveway, shining a dull yellow light across her property and casting harsh shadows on her front yard where the house blocked the light's path.  The front window to the right of the door was lit up, but the blinds were drawn.  She was certainly home.

The knock at the door was not met by a glance out a peephole (because there was none), but rather was answered within several seconds of the first knucklefall on the wooden door panel.  Drew was dressed in an oversized green sweatshirt that dropped past her hip and slouched on her shoulder, a pair of black leggings, and slippers.  Her hair was twisted in a knot under her left ear, and she had pulled the door open with one hand, but kept the other hand and associated arm tucked behind her back.  Her gaze was suspicious and curious both at first, but immediately relaxed when she recognized Erich's face.

"Well, I believe you're not a rapist at least," she answered with a small grin and stepped back, pulling the door open with her and turning her shoulders to indicate an invitation for him to come inside out of the chill of the autumn night.  "How'd ya find me?"

Erich ReinhardtIn the unfiltered, unforgiving light of that porch lamp Erich's bloodlines show all the more clearly.  It's there in his heavy brow; deep eye orbits.  It's there in the angle of his jaw; the solid structure of his face, his shoulders.  His smile is a faint thing, though, a little bit thin at her quip.  "Well, you got me there," he says.
Her question goes unanswered for a moment.  He holds the cup out to her.  He has a way of moving that marks him as an Ahroun: synergized, synchronized, every motion coming from the shoulders, from the spine, from the balance in his feet.  It's not coffee he has in that cup after all, or a soda, or anything of the sort.  It's a fish.

A tiny, colorful betta fish.  Long graceful fins and gills that flare aggressively when it catches sight of Drew.
"Something to blow bubbles atcha," he explains.  "You didn't really strike me as the goldfish kind."

He steps in off her porch then, turning his shoulders just enough that he didn't shove past her.  With his hand free, he pulls his hoodie on after all, zipping it to his diaphragm.  He looks around.  Her solitude is almost palpable in the front room.  It feels like a home in here; not a family home, though.

"Barman gave me your address," he adds.

Drew RoscoeBefore he'd stepped into the house, Erich held out a plastic cup for her to take, which she looked at, puzzled for a moment, then let go of the door to reach out to take the offering.  She looked down into the cup, appearing puzzled, and looked even more so when she saw the little fish inside, all graceful flowing fins and multiple colors-- rich reds and blues and violets.  She stared at it for a second, moving so her back held the door open instead, and glanced up at the Shadow Lord with an expression that was perplexed.

Something to blow bubbles atcha, he explained.

She answered the explanation with a smile, small, but warm like a hot cup of tea on a wet cold night, and despite how it only shaped her mouth a little it still managed to exist on her entire face.  That was the thing to her, you see.  She was about always ready with a smile, and they were about always genuine, rich, and melting.  Like a goddamn puppy, so sweet you either want to hold it or kick it.

"Well thanks," she said, and sure enough the smile carried into the tone of her voice too.  Once he'd stepped inside, she closed the door behind him, but didn't bother to lock it.  Locks were silly out this deep in the sticks.  Out here if something wanted in, it wouldn't be deterred by a deadbolt.

Inside the door Erich will find himself in the left corner of a living room, with a big brown leather sectional up against the wall to his right, under the window the light was shining from, and a modestly sized flat screen TV mounted in the center of the wall to his left.  The floors are hardwood, the room has a vaulted ceiling, and there's a big plush brown rug in the middle of the floor with pale cream leaf-and-vine designs swirling through it.  The walls are decorated sparsely with modest art, but there are no family pictures or faces to be found within the frames displayed.  The sectional has a big square coffee table in front of it, and to the right of the door is a small table, likely intended for an entrance hallway to kill space.

It's to that small table that Drew goes, moving around in front of Erich and setting the beta fish down on the top of the table first, then opening the drawer up.  By this point Drew's let her other hand fall from behind her back, and he'll find that she's casually holding a big .45 revolver.  If he's attentive he'll realize her finger is not on the trigger and the safety is still on.  The gun goes away into the table drawer.

"Barman did, huh?  Well, good to know he's giving that away so readily."  The words feel sarcastic, but she doesn't actually seem particularly bothered that Erich knows where she lives.  Instead, she moved right along.  "I was about to start up dinner, pork chops.  I can make an extra if you wanna stick around and fill your belly?"

Erich Reinhardt"You'll probably wanna put him in a bigger bowl eventually."  She doesn't lock the door, but he does -- the quick flick of his fingers more reflex than considered.  The deadbolt thunks home, and then he takes a couple more steps in.  "Picked the meanest one at the pet shop," because of course he did. "Seems like he'd want a lot of territory to prowl."

Her house is single-story; there are no stairs to peer up, though he isn't too polite to glance curiously at the hall that leads, presumably, to her bedroom and bathroom and closets and such.  His eyes come back to her in time to see her putting a gun away.  That onesided smile is back on his mouth, the same brand of humor as her sarcasm.

"Well now I know why you just pulled that door right open," he says.  "And if it makes you feel better, I asked real nice.  Think he's only giving that information up to polite fellows."

She says she's about to start dinner.  Pork chops.  An extra, she says; it seems to imply she was going to just one, just enough for herself.  Which makes sense.  Still strikes him as an oddly telling thing to say, though.  A kinder man might look away from her now, embarrassed for her sake.  He doesn't.  He doesn't see anything embarrassing about solitude.

"Came to see if you wanted that beer," he says by way of explanation.  "But if you wanna take a raincheck and feed me instead, I won't say no."

Drew RoscoeShe chuckled a little bit and nodded, peering into the cup curiously at the little fish.  "Of course.  I've gotta get into town on Monday anyways, I've got a meeting.  I'll swing by the pet store on the way back home."  There's a pause, and she's rambling on for a moment, musing outloud and probably more for herself than anything else, but probably glad to have someone to talk to for a minute.  "You've gone and solved my pet problem.  I used to keep a dog, Basil, but he had a really hard time when you guys started coming around.  So I figured I'd just go without.  But a fish makes sense."

She concluded her rant about pets there, and glanced over at Erich when she caught a bit of humor in his voice.  He's got a lopsided grin on his deceptively Nordic looking face and has commented on understanding now why she was so ready to open her door.  She grinned a little and shrugged one shoulder instead of both.  "Well, I suppose if you were nice about it," she said in response to his mentioning the barkeep.

From there he says he was going to invite her for beer.  This she contemplates for a moment, then folds one arm over her stomach (flat under that chunky sweater, fit from a still-practiced athleticism) and lifts the other to wag a finger in the air lightly and thoughtfully.  "Well, I've got some pumpkin ales in the fridge.  We could do that along with dinner."  There's a pause, and her finger wagging is now directed toward the now closed-and-locked door, courtesy of Erich deciding that doors should in fact be locked.  "Or we could go out like was implied in the deal in the first place, and that way I get a ride in the Mustang you don't like me touchin'."

Erich ReinhardtErich's humor doesn't last very long.  It seems a thin, wan thing.  Might be the only thing about him that could be described in such terms.  Standing in her doorway -- he never made it in past the first two or three steps, hasn't even taken his shoes off -- he nevertheless seems to fill half the room.  Seethes in it, quietly, like a riptide under a calm ocean surface.

He's watching her as she grins, as she wags a finger, as she contemplates.  Something about her mannerisms seems to puzzle him; leaves him frowning faintly at her.  There's a warmth to her that goes down to the bone.  No one can deny that.  The girlishness seems to ride a little higher than that, though.  It's not so consistent.  It comes and it goes.  Erich wouldn't go so far as to call it an act, but -- something about it feels just a little bit like a front to him.  An interface.  A way, and maybe the only way, she knows to interact with a world far bigger, meaner and more brutal than her.  He doesn't play along, though; doesn't go right ahead and treat her like the cute little girl, the sweet little sister.  Maybe he doesn't really know how.

"I got you the fish," he says abruptly, "'cause of what you said last time I saw you."  A nod around: the living room, the walls devoid of family pictures.  "Something about getting out of the house.  No friends in town.  Just the same walls and not even a fish to blow bubbles at you."

That hangs in the air; feels oddly like a confession.  He's restless in the wake of it, twisting his head on his shoulders, popping his neck.

"I don't care if we stay or go.  You decide."

Drew RoscoeErich suspects that Drew's mannerisms are-... well, not necessarily false or fake, but not one-hundred percent either.  She is sweet and bubbly, warm and full of smiles.  This, he's noticed, is a fairly good contrast to how she'd behaved when they'd met on the street and she was a bit defensive, perhaps even protective of her Tribe and its name.  He theorizes that her smiles and sweetness are a defense, something that she does (maybe even without realizing it) to cope with a world made so much bigger than she would have ever dreamed five years ago.

He might be right.
But who knows?

He explains the reason he got her the fish with a surprising display of memory, recalling the words she'd used when she'd explained to him a couple of nights ago why she was hanging out alone at a bar.  Not even a fish to blow bubbles.  Her smile is a little more relaxed, thankful even, but the space of quiet between that comment and his pushing the decision-making onto her is a brief one.  He tells her to decide, and so she does.

"Alright.  Let's go out then.  Just give me a minute."  And with that said she disappears, not down a hallway but through a door on the right wall of the living room, just to the side of the sectional's edge, into the master bedroom.  He's left alone with the beta-fish for perhaps three minutes, if even that, before she's back again, now with slouching ankle-tall boots in a mixed brown-gray tone with low heels.  Her hair's been tied back a little more presentably, in a higher ponytail that left wavy half-curls falling to her shoulder blades, and mascara's been applied.  That's about the sum of it-- the sweater and leggings stayed.  She's got a brown jacket with her that she's pulling on as she returns to the living room, and her keys are in her hand.

"Let's be off, then," she says.  And they are.

Erich Reinhardt
From Erich, there's a curt nod as Drew, in fact, decides.  He idles in the living room -- doesn't wander around, doesn't poke through her stuff.  While he waits he plays with the zipper on his hoodie.  Tugs it up, down.  Gets bored.  Stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans and watches the betta for a while.

Then she's back.  Boots, mascara: his eyes, pale Fenrir blue, instantly catalogue these additions.  Her heels bring her up a couple inches, but she's still a good ways short of his six-two.  He pulls the door open for her; the gentlemanly gesture seems a little awkward on him, like he's unused to this sort of shit.  When he closes her front door, there's more than enough force applied: a nearby window rattles in its frame.

She locks up.  He precedes her down the driveway, past her truck to his big american cruiser.  He opens her door first, but it might just be because he has to clear some shit off the passenger's seat, flinging it into the back along with what looks like -- what very likely is -- the rest of his worldly possessions.  The seats are folded down flat.  There's a sleeping bag back there, laid down the length of the left side.  A couple duffle bags of Stuff (tm) on the right side.  Toiletries in a plastic bag hung on the coat-hook.  If Drew sneaks a peek, she'll come to the inevitable conclusion that he is, in fact, sleeping in his car.

"You like Mexican?"  He doesn't really wait for an answer, shutting the door on her, going to his side, climbing in and starting the engine.  "Let's get some tostadas or something with the beer.  I know a place."

So off they go.  Out from the boonies, toward the city.  Capitol of this great nation, and all that jazz.  Lights that glow against the humid night air; not too many skyscrapers though, since DC's all about historical preservation.  They don't go to the touristy parts of town.  They go to what may or may not be considered the shabbier part of town, which is likely also the part of town Erich can actually afford.  As they drive he doesn't say much; keeps one hand on the wheel, his eyes alert on the road.
Just this, about halfway there, as though he suddenly remembered:

"What's the meeting for?  On Monday."

Drew RoscoeErich notes that Drew'd taken a second to fix her hair, add the scantest bit of make-up to her otherwise un-painted face, and select a pair of boots with heels so her attire was less slouch and more 'let's go out'.  He doens't comment, though, so she doesn't make any moves to defend herself (Oh it ain't for you, a girl needs to always be ready to meet the world is all).  Rather, he opens the door for her, something that is met with a "Thank you," that is reflexive to the point that she probably wouldn't remember saying it if she was called out on it, and she locks it up, but flinches just a little first when her window pane rattles from how hard he'd closed the heavy door.

From there, to the muscle car.  She's making sure that her earrings (just little crystal studs, nothing exciting or flashy) had backs so that her hands have something to do while he clears debris from the front seat to make space for her to sit.  When he's done, she gets in the car and buckles up and just can't help but glance in the back seat.  She noticed that it seemed pretty lived in back there, but didn't comment on it.  She knew how the lives of Garou went, and someone certainly couldn't be judged for sleeping in a car when all things about the career path of being a Champion of Gaia were considered.  Rather, she moves on through the conversation by following his questions.  "Mexican sounds great."

The drive would be peppered with conversation here and there, and no doubt plenty of looking out the windows (or windshield) on both parts.  They're headed into the city, and that was just fine.  It was halfway through this lengthy drive that Erich inquires about Drew's meeting that she had mentioned.  Her eyebrows lift in surprise, like she was trying to remember what he was talking about or how he knew about a meeting, but she remembered it had come up in conversation earlier in the evening and nodded her head once.

"Ah, just for work.  I do IT maintinence and programming stuff for a bank, and part of the deal I cut with my boss to be able to work from home was that I'd be there with bells on for any meetings they needed my input or attention for.  So, it's just one of those."  She flashes teeth for a moment in a grin.  "Nothing exciting.  No battle plans or custody battles here."

Erich Reinhardt"Huh."

That rather opaque sound is all the commentary she gets for a while.  The freeway's getting wider.  The city's rising up to swallow them.  Some -- maybe most -- Garou would be uneasy.  Erich hardly seems to mind.  After a while he glances over Drew's way:

"You live all the way out here, but work in the city?  Why not just move closer instead of this work from home song 'n dance?"

Drew RoscoeThe question that Erich presents her with about why she's chosen to live all the way out in the sticks and work from home rather than be in the city with her work isn't an unreasonable one-- or even an uncommon one.  She's been asked it at work plenty, and for the average human associate Drew has formed some bland story about it being safer and that property taxes are lower.

For family (not Family, not anymore) she's more honest.

"Because I didn't come here for my job, or for D.C..  I came here for the little town full of Kinfolk that sits close to the Sept, with a strong Get of Fenris presence and a big need for a lot of help.  The job is inconsequential and replacable."  There's a dismissive wave of her hand when she blows off the importance of her employmant so casually.  "Besides this way I make my own schedule, which is really fucking handy when someone sends you a text message at two in the afternoon saying they need you at a roadside in ten minutes with lime and bleach.  This way I can sleep in a bit later when I've been out all morning looking for a lost Cub or saving someone's ass from a Fomori kidnapping.

"I've done all of that before, and it was exhausting and inconvenient.  Our lifestyles, they don't mesh well with standard human obligations."

Erich ReinhardtErich listens with a faint frown.  Once or twice his mouth quirks - something like a smirk or that thin, wan smile of his - but it doesn't erase the furrow to his brow.

"What the hell did your tribe do for you," he says, "that you're so willing to put them above anything and everything else in your life?"

Drew Roscoe"That's just the way it goes."

The matter-of-fact tone of her voice is about as flat as his half-smiles that he gives every here and there.  She leans back some in the seat, reaches over to fiddle with the lean so that her seat-back is more upright, then rests her right arm on the door panel and her left hand in her lap.  She's looking out the windshield at the road while they talk, watching the city as it grows in front of them, about to swallow them up for the night.

"They're my Family.  They're my Tribe.  They found me, they pulled me in, and they've loved me as much as I've loved them."  She pauses, glances over to his profile for a second, and speaks further.  It's about a sentence in that her eyes slide back to the road and the growing traffic around them.  "I mean, can you imagine not knowing about any of this?  Just thinking that the world is what every other regular person has thought it is for your whole life, then being thrown into the mix?  There's no going back to 'regular'.  So my options would be to become jaded and hateful and bitter and scared... Or to embrace who and what I am and what I can do to help in the War.

"I mean, you said yourself, all that you have is the War, and duty to that comes first.  Aren't my shoes kinda like yours, in that regard?"

Erich Reinhardt"No," Erich says: too blunt to soften that, too hardline to cushion it for the sake of politeness.  Or, for that matter, for the sake of peace and quiet on their longass drive to the city.  "It's not the same.  'Cause if you ask me what the war's done for me, I can tell you.  It's given me purpose.  It's given me fuckheads to let steam off on, and it's given me a right to feel good about the bad, violent shit I do so long as I do it to the enemy.  If you ask me what my Tribe's done for me, I can tell you that too.  The Shadow Lords accepted my way of thinking.  They accepted me, and they didn't care that I was blond and blue-eyed and dripping with Fenrir blood.  They gave me a chance, a way to earn my place fair and square.  They gave me my name.
"That's why I'm loyal to my Tribe.  That's why I fight the war."

It's more than he's said to her in -- well, ever, maybe.  He's not done yet.  He chews on his lower lip a moment, frowning at the road, thinking.  Then:

"I'm not saying you don't have your reasons.  But I'm asking what they are.  You keep going on about Family and Tribe and how they've loved you and taken you in.  All I see is you living by yourself in a house.  No family.  No mate and kids.  No one from your tribe even dropping by to give you a goldfish.  So I just don't get it.  What did the Fenrir do for you?  Specifically?"

Drew RoscoeThe Shadow Lord speaks more than he has since they've met, and Drew is a ready listener.  Her right arm shifts so that her elbow's at the edge of the rolled-up window and her hand cups her jawline and cheek so she can rest her head into it.  He talks about what it is to be an Ahroun in the War, and explains how that duty is different from the one that Drew is responsible for.  He speaks of justification and violence, of acceptance and a Name.

He then went to redirect the question back to her and seek clarification.  He called her out on her vague response, and pointed out how she had no children, no mate, and was alone with no one to visit her or pay her mind within the Tribe that she loves so much.  Her brow creases to this and her lips press a little thinner, but she doesn't look angry or hurt.  His words would be cruel in some hearts, but Drew's in a mood where she's pretty good at accepting the truth without taking things too heavily to heart.  She's thoughtful more than she is bothered.  His question hangs in the air between them for a half of a minute before she answers, and when she does her words are slower, more deliberate.

"Recently, nothing.  Not for about a year and a half.  But a while ago...  They taught me strength and direction.  And they gave me a family, which I didn't really have a lot of before.  They had faith in me, and I didn't have a lot of that before either."  She ran her tongue over her lips to moisten them, brow still furrowed but her expression otherwise calm.  "I had a Mate.  And we were going to have children.  But he died too soon."

Her explanation ends abruptly, but not because of the pain of remembering a loved one lost.  It's more like she seems to realize, suddenly, that she may have gone too far into personal and revealing territory, and had realized that whatever she was about to say next might have been too telling, or too heavy, for a night of Mexican food and beer.  So she cut herself short, clicked her boot heels awkwardly together, and shifted her gaze from the windshield to out the passenger window instead.

Erich ReinhardtIt says something about her courage, or maybe her character, that Drew doesn't immediately ruffle up.  Get defensive.  Tell Erich to go get fucked, what right does he have to question her loyalty to the Fenrir tribe just because he apparently had none.  It says something that, when called on those ready responses she's trotted out so often and so easily that they must roll right out like reflex now, Drew pauses.  She thinks.
She answers.  And it's brutally simple.  Nothing, recently.  But before that -- a sense of belonging.  A sense of being believed in.  A mate.  Dead now.

Erich understands the first two.  Knows it firsthand.  The last; less so.  That's the one that makes his brow furrow again, though; makes him flick a glance toward her, taken off-guard.  She seems too young to be a war-widow, but then again, these were desperate times.

"I'm sorry," he says.  For her lost mate -- for the absence of her tribe -- for opening this can of worms in the first place.  Hard to say which.  A few moments go by.  Then, to fill the silence, he turns the car stereo on.  Some generic top-40 station plays; it's just background noise.

Fifteen minutes or so later they're getting off the freeway.  They're navigating the broad but shabby boulevards of Columbia Heights, passing Goodwills and dollar stores, laundromats and adult video shops, corner markets where all the signs are in Spanish.  The restaurant they pull up in front of seems chosen at random, but Erich seems to know where they are.  "This is it," he says.  It's the first thing he's said since that paltry apology a quarter-hour ago.

He kills the engine, pulls up on the handbrake.  Stepping up to the curb, he waits for her to close the door before he locks his car up.  It's really less a restaurant and more a diner.  Handwritten signs in the window proclaim daily soups and specials.  It's all Spanish here, too.  Another sign in the door declares that they're Abierto las 24 horas!

Erich pulls the door open; as he had the last time they met at That Bar in Browntown, he holds it open behind him til Drew catches it.  Not a big place.  There's maybe eight or ten booths in here; another dozen seats at the counter.  Self-seating, looks like, with barely-bilingual menus tucked in a holder near the door.  Erich plucks two out, handing one to Drew as he makes his way toward an empty booth.

Drew RoscoeHer... what, would you call him?  Date for the night?  New friend?  Acquaintence?  Erich, we'll just call him that.  Erich accepts most of what she says, but is taken aback when she brings up her Mate and the fact that he had passed away.  He looks at her, just for a moment, then returns his attention to the road and apologizes in a low tone of voice.

"S'alright," is her answer, soft and easy.  Erich turns on the radio, and Drew is content to listen until they reach their destination.

Upon pulling up to the diner, Drew steps out of the car and out of the way so the Shadow Lord can lock up his mustang/home.  She tugs down at the sweater, making sure that it was at least making an effort of covering her rear end (because unwanted attention was always found when you had on leggings and nothing overtop of them to hide your ass), and follows him in to the diner.  She doesn't seem surprised by where they wound up-- Drew had spent a couple of years working at a hole-in-the-wall Greek restaurant herself, and the food there was outstanding.  Places didn't have to be flashy to be good.

The menu he holds out to her is accepted, and she follows with a quiet 'click-clack' of boot heels on the floor to the booth that he'd chosen.  Any staff that greet them, in passing or from a hostess stand or from the counter, are answered by Drew with a dazzling flash of a smile (see how quickly she can pull that out of nowhere?  that's a marketable skill, and probably how she talked her boss into letting her work from home).  Once the Kinfolk has settled down in the booth and pulled her brown jacket off to lay it in the booth space beside her, she looked up at the Shadow Lord across from her.

"So, are you joining the Sept out in the country?  Or here?"  Pause, think. "Or at all, I guess?  Or are you just passing through?"

Erich ReinhardtThe Shadow Lord across from her.  Even now that must seem a strange thing to think of him as.  He's such a picture-perfect son of Fenris: his hair that burnished, ripe-wheat blond; his eyes narrow and glacial blue.  Maybe it's getting easier, though.  Every word out of his mouth, every cold, clearcut causality he lays out.
Seating himself, he unzips his hoodie first.  Constant cooking keeps the temperature in here comfortable, and anyway, DC is far from the coldest place either of them have lived.  Erich's eyes are downcast, scanning the menu, as he peels out of the jacket and rumples it into the corner.  With it out of the way he folds his forearms along the edge of the table, his shoulders hunkering, straining the fabric of his shirt.

Her question brings his attention back to her.  His forehead lines with the upward regard.  Another couple years and those lines will be etched there permanently, and with increasing clarity.  Not much in the way of smile lines though.  That can't surprise anyone.

"Think I'm sticking around for a while," he says.  "Barely met anyone from either Sept yet though.  Can't really make a choice."  Pause.  "Don't really care to anyway."

He unfolds his arms long enough to reach over to the end of the table, pull out the drinks menu.  The usual suspects are there: margaritas, sangrias, mojitos.  Also a pretty extensive beer list for such a shitty little hole.  Lots of imported Mexican and Central American brews; some local micros, and even a few representatives from Germany and Austria.

"Pick your prize," he says.  A faint smirk accompanies it.

Drew RoscoeHer question is answered without too much commitment or excitement in tone or content.  He says he's probably going to be in the area, for a while at least, but doesn't know which Sept he wants to pledge himself to, if any at all.  He even goes so far as to say that he doesn't particularly want to meet anybody from the Septs.  This answer has Drew raising one eyebrow higher on her forehead than the other.  She's not yet regarded the menu, but rather seems far more invested in the blond-haired man (visually far more a match to the Fenrir tribe than Drew could ever dream of being) sharing the booth with her.  "Can't win wars alone," she advised, and it's downright insulting to hear battle advice from a Kinfolk that's probably younger than he is.

But that's where she seems content to leave it, and instead looks down at her menu, skimming for a dish that she knows and is sure to like.  The drink menu is regarded first by the Lord, then passed to Drew with a smirk.  She doesn't answer the smirk right away, but rather looks over the drinks menu thoughtfully.
Beer was out, she's got plenty of that at home, and she wasn't driving anyways so she could chance something with a higher alcohol content.

Sangria wasn't really her thing.
Mojitos were out.  So....

"Margarita, I figure.  Wouldn't be surprised if there was a worm in it, this place may as well be on the south side of the border.  Good call, when'd you have a chance to find it?"

The drinks menu is slid across the table back to him.  At this point some poor reluctant waiter has chosen the short straw and has to approach the table, as very little as he wants to.  This makes the exchange very to-the-point when he drops of chips and salsa and asks what they would like.  Drew orders: "A margarita and some tacos de lengua, please."  And does so with a bright smile in an effort to try and balance out Erich's Rage, if only a little, and reassure the waiter that he wasn't going to die tonight (probably).


Erich ReinhardtErich's eyes pin Drew for a moment.  "Thanks for the advice," he says flatly.  Picks up his menu again.
She moves on to safer subjects.  Margarita, she says, which eases that smirk back onto his lips.  He holds his tongue, though; doesn't make another remark about good girls, nights out on the town, drink choices.
"Got a lotta free time on my hands," he says.  "Spend some of it wandering around.  Doing odd jobs for money.  Discovering places like this."  The waiter arrives; their conversation - stilted as it is after that too-raw exchange in the car - is interrupted.  Drew gets tacos.  Erich gets tostadas and a Negra Modelo.  The waiter -- this squat, burly, hairy-forearmed fellow that nevertheless blanches a little upon approach, is quick to retreat.

In his wake, Erich leans back in the booth, looking out the window a few quiet moments before returning his attention to his acquaintance/newfriend/dateforthenight -- to Drew.

"And what about you?  I guess from the house you're staying around.  'Joining' the country Sept."

Drew Roscoe"I don't think that Kin pledge alliance to any Sept."

Drew isn't shy about being the first to grab a tortilla chip and dip it into the salsa-- made in house with a lot of cilantro, from the looks of it, and pop it into her mouth.  After a moment of crunch-crunch chewing she continues.  As she speaks, she's rolling up the sleeves of her sweater, fingers busy but operating seperate from the conversation.  Drew's looking across the table to Erich while fingers fold either sleeve up twice, then push them the rest of the way up to her elbows.  It was warmer in here than she'd anticipated, but it wasn't intolerable.

"But there's plenty of Family out in the country, one in particular that's been good to me.  I've already bought that property anyways, so I may as well stay.  From what I understand anyway, there's been some business going on out in Browntown-- sketchy shit.  I figure I better stay around, sounds like they might need me there."

She doesn't mention the fog that somehow got her turned around on a road that she'd driven down literally dozens of times since moving here, trying to get from D.C. to her house.  She doesn't mention that in that dense fog Fomori had come shambling at her-- some big-headed midget with mind powers and a giant armored bug-thing.  She doesn't talk about how she blew them away with the shotgun that she always has in her truck.  This is a restaurant after all, and while they could get away with passing some words about that regular folk might not understand it was probably better not to actually talk about monsters and killing things in public.

"Anyway, I think I may have had enough of the city for a time.  I'd rather be someplace quieter, with trees and gossipy old women for neighbors."

Erich ReinhardtThere are chips on the table.  Appetizers ubiquitous to all Mexican joints.  Drew digs in; Erich just glances down at it, doesn't touch it.  He'd ordered his tostadas with extra-extra meat.  Easy on the lettuce and the salsa and the cheese.  Chips 'n dip seems to hold no appeal for him at all.  His hands are relaxed on the tabletop, palms down and spaced wide, claiming turf.

"And there you go again.  With your talk of 'family'," his index and middle fingers rise just enough to make airquotes, "and people being good to you simply 'cause they aren't being bad to you.  Being all satisfied as somebody's good little kinswoman."

Drew Roscoe"Oh, Erich, I'm terribly sorry."  The Kinfolk's tone of voice is snide, but there's a smirk riding her lips (without lipstick, she's only got a partially worn-away layer of chapstick on them now, doing nothing to their natural color though), showing that she is, if nothing else, in good humor on how he keeps tearing away at her perceptions on life and duty.

He leaves the chips alone, and she's more than happy to munch away at them throughout their chatter.  She does so now, crunching in the gap between her first sentence (the apology) and her second (the challenge).
"Would you rather I rebel against the way of things?  Get all dark and gloomy because people aren't handing shit out to me?"

Erich ReinhardtErich gives that some genuine thought.  She eats chips.  He watches her.  Then he shakes his head, slow, then with growing certainty.

"There's a middle ground," he says, "between being one of those assholes who are always pissed off because life owes them one and being one of those idiots who drift around with rose-tinted lenses on.  I want you to be realistic and quit candy-coating shit for yourself.  Sometimes you say shit and I just sit here wondering if you actually believe it or if you're just so used to saying stuff like that, or acting that way, that you forget it's not always true.

"I'm not out to make you a cynic though."  The corner of his mouth moves, lifts faintly.  "Someone's gotta keep a light burning, right?"

Their drinks arrive.  Hers in a salt-rimmed glass; his in a longneck bottle with a mug alongside it.  Erich leans back to give the waiter space, then reaches out to pour.

Drew RoscoeThere's a middle ground, Erich advises.  He says that he wants her to stop candy-coating life and be more realistic, but that she shouldn't become one of those pessimistic Kinfolk who look like there's a terrible smell under their noses all the time and behave as though the world owes them a favor in return for all of the work that they think they've done.

Drew was about to retort, but the waiter arrived with drinks.  Erich was considerate enough to lean back and give the waiter room to work (to breathe), and Drew flashes that smile to the waiter, again reassuring, and thanks him before he walks away without much of a word.  The Kin takes her margarita, glass rimmed with salt and a lime wedge, contents an off pale green and slushed, and helps herself to a first drink.

"I'm not dumb.  There aren't rose-tinted glasses.  I'm well aware of the way of things, that there isn't always justice, that people will always die young around me while I'm probably gonna keep on going.  I know my house is empty and I don't have friends out here yet, and I'm incredibly aware of that when every day the only sound in my house is the radio and my god damn keyboard.

"Being a whiny bitch about it doesn't change the situation, though.  It just garners pity and, worse than that, makes me look weak and sad.  This helps no one, especially not myself.  So, instead, I smile and I work and I try hard as a can to get back to where I was before.  And I'd rather get there with a good impression, not a frown and a limp."

Erich ReinhardtWhile Drew talks, Erich pours.  His eyes are on the beer rising steadily in his glass, but it doesn't mean he's not listening.  Here and there his lips move; those faint smiles of his, occasionally laced with the very cynicism he says he doesn't want to instill in her.  Eventually the bottle's empty and the glass is full and the head is fizzing quietly, and this is when Erich sets the bottle down and regards Drew again.

"You make it sound like where you were 'before' -- assuming that means with your mate and with tribesmen that valued you and believed in you -- was your happily ever after.  How old are you, Drew?  If you ask me, you seem a little too young to feel like you've already passed the best time of your life."

Drew Roscoe"I don't think I've passed it," comes the answer, straight-forward and honest as most every answer she's given him has been since the day they'd met.  The same policy applied to questions she asked-- she didn't beat around the bush when she was seeking information or trying to understand someone better.  It was just easier to cut to the chase, and Drew had a way of doing so that didn't insult or enrage the people she was speaking with.  Her questions might surprise them, sure, or cause questions of their own, but she's yet to be snapped at to mind her own fucking business.  It was all in how you frame and phrase things, if you asked Drew.  At least that's been working for her for some time now.

Another sip of the margarita is taken, and she licks the salt from her lips and continues.  "I don't think I've passed it, " she repeats.  "Not in a sense that I don't believe it will ever come back.  It's just not here right now, that feeling of accomplishment.  I want it back, and I'm gonna get it back come hell or high water."
Another chip is munched on, and she tacks on:  "There's no happily ever after, though.  I was taught that pretty quick."

Erich ReinhardtThat draws another smile across Erich's face, faint as all the ones that came before.  He was cursed -- or blessed, from certain Fenrir and Shadow Lord standpoints -- with eyes that never seem to smile.  Narrow and deep-set, hard-lidded.  This smile barely seems to touch his eyes either, but it does.  Dim but genuine, it warms the chilly blue for a moment.

"You're disarmingly honest, you know that?"  He picks his beer up, and whatever his tribe he hasn't lost his taste for a good brew.  Takes a big gulp, his throat moving, thunking the mug back down.  "Once in a while, between the sparkly smile act and the tough Nordic gal act, you just lay it out there.  Hopes and fears and vulnerabilities.  I never see it coming, and then next thing I know I'm bringing you Siamese fighting fish.  It's one hell of a secret weapon, Drew Roscoe."

Drew RoscoeEye contact is made for a moment, and this time there's a warmth to Erich's eyes that Drew's getting to see for the first time.  She didn't believe that it was something that came rarely to the man's face-- he had a good humor about him, despite his decision to leave what Drew knows (was indoctrinated to know) is the best Tribe there is to join the ranks of the Shadow Lords instead.  His face was strong, eyes a chilled ice-chip blue, and his smiles were usually small and controlled things that didn't go beyond his mouth and chin, but this time she found emotion in his eyes instead.  That felt like a hurdle overcome.

His comment on her is answered with a broad, self-appreciative grin.  Like she's proud of what he just told her he'd observed.  "Yeah, well," she answers casually and snacks at another chip.  "It's worked for me so far."

The waiter arrives again with both of their meals and sets them down in front of them-- Erich with his tostadas, Drew with her tongue tacos.  Drew, again, thanked the waiter politely, and immediately seized a lime wedge from the edge of her plate to squeeze into the three tacos on her plate, accompanied by beans and rice.

She eats a taco, content to just put food in her belly and let a quiet settle between them for a minute and takes a drink of the water that had been set on the table when the waiter had first rolled by to take their order.  Then she breaks the silence, and isn't loud when she speaks, but a little abrupt none the less:  "Do you need a bed to sleep in, Erich?"

Erich ReinhardtIf the question seems abrupt, it's because it is.  That's not the sort of thing unmated or widowed kinswomen of one tribe should ask Garou of another.  Flip their tribes around, make her a Shadow Lord kin and him a Fenrir Garou, and you could imagine him being shocked; covering it with some lewd comment or other.
Erich's not a Fenrir.  That much has been thoroughly established.  The corners of his mouth don't even move this time.  He regards Drew for a moment; it seems careful, or at least considered.

"You don't owe me hospitality, Drew.  And your tribesmen would flip their collective lids at the idea of a male Shadow Lord and a female Fenrir under the same unsupervised roof.  'Unseemly'.  'Scandalous'.  'Just what are they up to in there?' "  Even a two-handed airquote seems too much emphasis for him right now: he just wriggles fingers away from the beer glass on every imaginary bit of gossip.  "Maybe that crazy little fuck we met the other night wouldn't mind, but somewhere out there someone's bound to have something to say about it."

Drew Roscoe"I don't think I really owe anyone hospitality at this precise moment."  Well, maybe one person-- a Fenrir Ahroun that had fought Fomori at her side while stuck on the side of the road in a supernatural fog, that had lent her his flannel shirt when her dress blouse wasn't enough to fight the chill of the night.  She might owe him hospitality, at least one night's worth, especially since he was Fenrir too.  But aside from that, no, not really.
"But that doesn't mean I don't like to give it."  She takes another small sip of her margarita, and Erich may notice that she's spinning the glass a little so she's getting salt with every sip, trying to ration it so that none of the margarita goes without its complimentary salt.  "I've got a three bedreoom house, two of those bedrooms I've got set up specifically for guests.  Look at me, I've got resources and nothing to do with them.  You guys fight the hard fight, you can't hold down jobs like we do, and no one expects you to try and find a way to stand on your own two feet when it comes to the simple shit like a bed and food and a shower.

"I'm not inviting you to come live with me.  Ain't even saying you should come by tonight, because that would look pretty scandalous.  I'm just saying-- after a hard night if you find you need someplace for the basic necessities, like a shower and a meal,  you're welcome to my home."

Another taco is halfway gone before she adds on:  "I've had drama with people worrying too much about who's staying in my house before.  It always unfolds the same way:  'Drew, you slut, how can you let all these men stay in your house like that?  Have you no honor?' And then I tell them that they have better things to worry about and that they only really need to get concerned if someone's trying to claim me that they don't want me going with.  And they growl and rumble and get pissy, but leave it alone anyways.  So, all in all, I think you'd be alright."

Erich Reinhardt
While Drew works on her tacos, Erich eats the filling out of his tostada by the forkful, avoiding the lettuce, barely touching the guac, leaving the shell to grow soggier and soggier.  She talks; he listens.  He takes a hefty swallow of his beer.  He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, then catches himself, remembers his manners, and snags a napkin out of the dispenser at the end of the table.

Slut, she says.  No honor, she says.  Or more precisely: her tribesmen said these things.  Have said these things in the past; these tribesmen she's so devoted to.  His eyes flick to her face a few times; his regard is a bit dry, a bit cynical.

"Appreciate it," is all he says when she's done, though.  "I'll keep it in mind, but I'm gonna try not to take you up on it too often.  Wouldn't want to get soft."  There's a wryness there again; a signal that he's joking.  This isn't humor though: "Plus, wouldn't want to be another reason for your tribe to get upset with you."
His fork moves: he paws aside a few scraps of lettuce, digs into the meat beneath.

Drew RoscoeErich picks at his tostada, taking it apart to eat pretty much everything but the vegetation that went into the recipe.  When Drew had concluded her invitation of hospitality to the Shadow Lord she picked up her last taco and finished it up.  Casually enough, apparently not out to impress (but at the same time, not slobbish, just... relaxed, easy, as though she were at her own dining room table and not out for dinner) she picks at bits of bean, tongue and shell that had collected on her plate to nibble on.

"Oh, none of my tribe's very upset with me these days.  Those troubles, that was with a whole different group of people, all of 'em young and worn thin and struggling at politics when a lull in the fight came about.  They didn't know what to do with themselves or where to focus their drive, I think, so they really focused on weird shit."

If you asked Drew, there should have been a lot more focus on preparation, on research and investigation and flushing out the enemy like they were game hens.  If you asked Drew, the War never slept and that shouldn't be forgotten.  If anyone had asked Drew or cared to let her words have weight on the matter (and they wouldn't, for she is a Kinfolk) there shouldn't have been so much focus on Kin and Property, but rather bracing and training for the next move.  Because in Chicago, there's always a move to be made.

But, as to the brown-haired Kinfolk's point, that was then and there, this is now and here.  She takes another drink of her margarita and leans back in the bench, folding her hands into her lap and rolling her shoulders to get comfortable.  She's made her offer, made her point, and has run out of conversation drivers for the moment.  That ball has, apparently, rolled into the Full Moon's court.

Erich ReinhardtIf Erich was expected to catch that conversational ball, to run down the field with it and slam it into the turf with some touchdown of a topic -- well, no.  If Drew expected that, even from what little time she's known Erich, she'd be a much sillier person than she is.  The ball rolls into his court.  He kind of leaves it there, fallow on the ground, while he demolishes the last of the meat in his tostada.

And his beer.  That goes down too, dark fluid dropping in the mug until the last of the foam kisses the bottom.

The meal finished, Erich restrains a burp, grabbing a few more napkins to wipe his mouth.  He balls them up.  He tosses them on his plate along with the butchered carcass of his tostada.  She's still got a bit of margarita left.  He looks at the glass and his mouth moves; his smile is faint and almost wistful.  She didn't get a beer, after all the time they spent discussing him buying her one.

"Do you trust me?"

-- she's not the only one who occasionally tosses questions out of left field.  He's looking at her across the table, his hands once again resting palm-down on either side of his dinner spread.

"I mean.  We talked about whether or not your tribe was going to have issues with you rooming and boarding random Garou.  But it just now occurs to me you made the offer just like that.  So ... that mean you trust me not to get the wrong idea about it, or what?"

Drew Roscoe
Conversation lulls to a stand-still, and Drew seems to be okay with it.  She understands fully that not all space should be filled with words, and companionable silence is precisely as important to building a relationship of any kind.  If the silence was uncomfortable, that said just as many things as learning that the person you were having dinner with stood on the opposite side of the political debate concerning gay marriage or who should be president or other hot topics on the table right now.  Likewise, if the silence was easy, that spoke volumes as well.

Drew couldn't speak for Erich, but she didn't mind the quiet.  She took her hands from her lap to hold her margarita glass (both hands cupping the bottom of the glass's bell) close to her face so she could work on finishing what little was left of the beverage with small sips here and there.

Do you trust me?

The question is met with a raise of eyebrows but no articulation as lips were at the edge of the glass suckling salt from where it was crusted on.  He goes on to explain what he meant, and she tips her head back to finish the last swallow of her drink before setting the glass back on the table.

"About as far as you can throw me, I think," is her answer to his initial question.  And, to be fair, he had the potential to fling her across a field if he really wanted to.  "I trust that you aren't a rapist.  I trust that you're here for the Greater Good.  And I don't think that you're reckless-- you come across as too deliberate to be downright stupid.  I'm pretty sure that you know the rules of respect, and while I don't think that I've really earned your full respect just yet--" note the 'just yet', she sounds so damn sure of herself-- "I'm fairly certain that you're safe enough."

Erich ReinhardtErich smirks.  "So you do trust me," is what he takes away from all that, "because I can throw you pretty far."

Drew Roscoe"You make saying 'yes' feel like a trap."  She cuts him a glance that is suspicious, but without any heart of true worry or consequence behind it.  "But... Yeah, when it comes down to it, I suppose so."

Erich Reinhardt"Nah.  Just a small victory, considering you started out making blanket statements about how abhorrent and terrible we Shadow Lords are."  A beat.  "We are pretty driven to win."

Drew Roscoe"Well, to be fair," she starts off, and something about the way that she begins her statement makes it seem like she's either about to put her foot in her mouth or say something incredibly deep.  It could be the tequila in her drink easing into her system that makes her leave that impression, though.

"I'd met about... five?  Six of you back home?  One of them was alright.  Two of 'em that I remember were pretty mediocre, we didn't interact a lot.  Three of them, though?  Awful.  Conniving, awful, terrible beasts they were.  Sneered down to me whenever we had to speak.  Always left me wanting nothing more than to deck them right in the chin.

"One in particular?  Wild-haired man, nothing but disregard for anyone but himself.  Bastard cornered me three damn times and left me just... shakin' and raw and full of doubt and confusion and fuckall.  He was hanging around a very good friend of mine at one point, and because of him she got all withdrawn and depressive and... then she died.  I'm not convinced he didn't have something to do with it.  Not murder, maybe?  But neglect, easily."

There's a pause, and she uses that to sip from a cup of water that had otherwise gone largely untouched through the meal.  "People like that leave impressions that are hard to shake.  But molds are made to be broken, I say."

Erich ReinhardtThe sideways humor fades from the conversation.  Erich turns his empty beer mug slowly on the table; then he raises it in the direction of the counter, waggling it once or twice to signal for a refill.  When his signal's acknowledged, he sets the mug back down.

"Truth is you shouldn't shake an impression like that," he says.  "We're a driven lot.  We're ruthless, every last one of us.  Shadow Lords will do anything, sacrifice anything for the cause.  And that's a good thing.  It's why I picked Thunder.  I don't think you can afford to quibble or quail when something so big as the fate of the world hangs in balance.  I think sometimes you have to fight fire with fire.

"Problem is sometimes we forget what the cause is.  Sometimes we get so caught up in doing whatever it takes that we forget what we're doing it for.  We forget it's not for the sake of ourselves.  It's not for the sake of being a badass or being a dick or ... whatever.  We forget that, and then -- we're monsters.

"So don't go breaking your molds.  Just don't go narrowing your perspective either.  Remember what we're capable of.  Good and bad."

Drew RoscoeErich had requested a refill from the waiter, and was obliged quickly enough.  Drew, as was her style and habit, smiled friendly and comfortingly at the waiter as she slid the finished plates to the edge of the table for him to take back with him.  He asks if she'd like another, she shakes her head and declines with a 'No, thank you.'

With Erich's beer refreshed and the waiter gone, she shakes her head vaugely at him and takes another sip of her water.  "I'm not the one breakin' molds.  That's what you're doing, getting me to trust you and shit."  This is complimented with a half-dismissive wave of her hand.

"I respect that you all have the end goal in mind-- that's where our heads all should be at the end of the day.  It's just... well, there are things that need to be accounted for.  It's not always 'ends justify the means'.  'Cause the means could get you to the wrong end, you know?"  And in case he didn't, she expounds upon that point.  "Like, what happens if you're doing whatever it takes, but that whatever it takes taints you?  Makes you bad, like Them?  That's why the boundaries are there, the honor and the structure and all."
She ends it there, abruptly, like she's lost the real point that she was trying to make for a second.  Hands go to her hair, tightening and adjusting the elastic that held her hair just behind one shoulder rather than down the center of her back.  "Don't get so sure of yourself that you think you're gonna eclipse all the bad experiences I've had.  You're alright, Erich, but not that damn good."  This return to humor is punctuated with a low chuckle.

Erich Reinhardt"Heh."  It's something like a laugh - a single syllable of amusement.  "That's just begging for a suggestive comeback."

A new beer arrives quick enough, the top already popped off.  He pours about half into his glass, then extends the butt of the bottle across the table to Drew, eyebrow raised: does she want a sip?  Either way, he sits back, serious again.

"You want a real answer to your question?  What happens if I'm doing whatever it takes, but whatever it takes taints me?"

Drew RoscoeThe offered beer is accepted with a small nod, and she reached across the table to meet his offering hand and take the bottle.

"Can I take a guess at what your answer's gonna be?"  This is said with the tone of a wink in her voice but no corresponding physical gesture, and her head tips back to take a decent (but not overstated) swig from the bottle before it's handed back to the Shadow Lord.

Erich Reinhardt"This oughta be good," Erich replies - it passes for a yes.

Drew Roscoe"Well, I think it'll be one of two things.

"First:  You get so caught up in the fight, in the war, that it starts to warp ya.  You can feel it right here--" she taps her fingernail to her teeth, "and here," and then taps her fingers together against the top of her abdomen, right below her breast.  "You recognize what it is, and you remove yourself from people that'd be caught by ya in the wrong way by this.  Maybe you share your taint?  Maybe you hurt someone.  Maybe you get outta line with your superiors when you should know better.  Something catalysts and you take off, try and work it out of your system and get back to where you should be.  Could take a month, or a year, and you'll come back older, wiser and jaded.

"That or the second-- you send yourself to the grave in a blaze of glory."  The second is, of course, said in a far more off-handed way than the first.

Erich Reinhardt"Well, shit, that's a good answer."  He smirks at her behind the rim of his beer mug.  "I'll remember it for the next time some overoptimistic Fenrir kin asks me that question.

"Truth is I wasn't even going to answer in terms of what I'd do when I got tainted.  I was just gonna tell you the circumstances where I might let myself get tainted.  And that just depends on risk and reward.  Whether or not it's worth it.  For the most part, no, it's never worth it to take actions that invite the Wyrm into your soul.  But if for some reason I could know for sure that fucking myself up would win the war, or at least put our side ahead?  Fuck yeah, I'd do it.  I wouldn't expect to survive it though.

"That's sort of the deal with any sacrifice I might be called on to make.  Is what I'm giving up going to be worth it in the long run?  Maybe not to me, but to the tribe, the nation, the cause?  Because if it is, then that's a worthwhile sacrifice.

" 'Course that's all oversimplification.  The reality's a lot hazier than that.  Not the equation, but the variables.  It's so damn hard to be sure of anything.  So the decision you end up making most of the time is whether to play it safe or take a risk."

Drew RoscoeThe brown-eyed Kinfolk listens to the answer that Erich gives, smirking in return when he says he'll remember her answer in case someone just like her asks him that question again.  She was just shy of poking her tongue out teasingly, but decided against it.  Let's be grown ups now, Drew.

Rather, he talks of avoiding paths that would result in him being corrupted in the first place.  And if he is?  He throws himself into the mouth of the Wyrm and takes down as many bastards as he can while doing it.  While he told his story, Drew's elbow had found a space on the tabletop and her chin and mouth tucked into the palm of her hand.  By the time he'd finished talking, it was obvious she was smiling into her fingers-- making no efforts to hide the expression (as it showed in her eyes anyways).  It was a warm and half-sleepy half-pleased smile, and she tipped her face to get her lips past her fingers, settling her chin more directly into her palm, to speak.

"You ain't so different from us, you know.  Not the ones I've loved anyway."

Erich ReinhardtThere's something in Erich's eyes for a moment: a sort of spark, a sort of alertness.  It passes.  His eyebrows flick up and then lower again.  He looks unconvinced.

"You think?  Because I've never met a Fenrir who'd say 'yeah, I'd be the Wyrm's slut if it helps the cause'."

Drew Roscoe"That's not what I heard you say."

She settled her face back into the cup of her hand again, and moved her other arm to join the first on the table, this one let to rest on the tabletop though rather than joining its partner in supporting her head.  The heel of her hand was at her jaw and chin now, and fingers were splayed up the side of her face to maintain support when she tipped her head to the side.  She was making herself comfortable while he drank his second beer and they had their getting-to-know-yous (which, to an outsider, may look like a mash-up between old friends catching up and an interrogation).

"'Cause I'm pretty sure I heard you say you'd take the Wyrm face-on and handle whatever consequences came, as long as it benefited your people and your Cause in the end."  Her tongue rubbed at one corner of her mouth for a second, cleaning away a stray grain of salt left from her margarita.

"Now don't get me wrong, I don't think I'm gonna convert you back to likin' who you came from.  You're set in your way, and probably have been for a while.  But, really?  We're not all as stiff-backed and unmoving as you think."

Erich Reinhardt"Guess that's fair enough," Erich concedes.  "If the Shadow Lords aren't a bag of stereotypes, I guess the Fenrir aren't either."

He drains the last gulp of beer out of his glass.  The bottle's still there - a little less than half left in it - but he doesn't bother to refill.  He shifts his weight instead, digging his wallet out of his pants, taking out a twenty to cover dinner and drinks.  Not an expensive joint, this one.

"You wanna head back?  Or there somewhere else I can take you while you're out on the town for once?"

Drew RoscoeErich and Drew come to an agreement-- Neither of them are particular fond of one another's tribes, but that doesn't mean that every member of that tribe is immediately going to fall into the niche categories that they've made in their minds.  Erich had gained an extent of Drew's trust and didn't have her on edge like she expected she would be whenever around this man.  Drew, likewise, between the smiles and the tough girl act, was genuine and perfectly honest in ways that meant her guard was down, and Fenrir never expose themselves that way.

His beer is finished, and the decision comes down to Drew as to whether they head back or have more fun out on the town.  Drew answered this without putting too much thought into the options.

"We should head back.  It's a good drive to get home, and if we don't leave now I'll end up asleep in your car, and then where'll you sleep, 'eh?"  She grinned big, in a way that said 'naw, man, i'm just joshing you, please don't get mad and hit me'.  "That aside, what else would we do?  This late, it's just clubs and bars that are open.  I don't really want to drink any more, and neverminding that clubs are always a poor choice for your kind, I don't wanna hurt your feelings by showing you up on the dance floor anyway."

His money goes on the table, and Drew grabs her jacket and stands up, pulling her arms through the sleeves while standing at the edge of the booth they'd chosen and waiting for Erich to join her.

Erich ReinhardtErich's eyebrows quirk to show what he thinks of that dance comment.  He lets it slide, though, rising to his feet and shoving his wallet back in the back of his pants.  Then he's pulling his hoodie back on, reaching back to tug his shirt down where it had ridden up.  A hand reaches out to snag the bottle of beer as they're leaving their booth.  He tips it back as he follows her toward the door.

"You're about forty years too young to be such a goddamn homebody," he says, only half-joking.  "We could be teepeeing the white house, but you're worried about falling asleep on the way home."

At the door he reaches past her, shoving it wide.  The night air feels fresh and cold after the questionable air quality inside that smoky little diner.  There's still a quarter-bottle or so left, which Erich passes to Drew to finish.

Drew Roscoe"You're absolutely right."

This is her answer about his declaring that she is far too young to be a homebody.  They reach the door, and Erich pushes it wide enough for them both to pass through out into the parking lot.  They stand for a moment in front of the diner's doors and Erich offers her what's left of the beer bottle.  The Kin nods her head in thanks, accepts the bottle, and tips her head back to finish it in one fell swoop.  ...Well?  Be surprised.  She hangs out with Fenrir.

"Problem is..." she adds, pulling the sleeve of her sweater from under the jacket sleeve just enough to touch it to her mouth and dry any moisture from chugging the beer away.  "You and I go out on the town while we're here, and it's gonna actually start feeling like a date.  And I haven't been on one of those in a good long time."  The bottle is discarded in the bin next to the door, and Drew then swings her shoulder forward in a gesture of indication toward the car that Erich called transportation and home.  "C'mon, let's get back then?"

And, no doubts to be had, back to Browntown the pair would go.