Buddy [Eric S.]

DREW ROSCOE
The night before Drew had come by for a good old fashioned family dinner, but she didn't stick around for very much of it.  Something had distracted her, caught her attention.  An odd figure still in the field had warrented inspection-- this wasn't her property, but that didn't make strange going-ons not her concern.  As it turned out, the odd figure was the Uktena that was taking a room at Sutherland Farm now, a recent addition to the house in the last few days.  She'd had very little to say to Drew, and Drew realized very quickly that there was no conversation to be found there either.  She'd returned on foot to the farmhouse, feeling silly for chasing ghosts in the dark, found she'd missed most of dinner and decided at that point to let the family have the rest of their night and gone home.

The next day Oma and Josie had come by to check on her, make sure everything was okay.  Drew apologized sheepishly, explained in short what had drawn her attention away that night, and, somewhere in the mix, wound up agreeing to watching Trey while Oma and Josie went and ran their rounds to the people of Browntown, seeking out the Kinfolk they knew to pass word that it wasn't safe and they were to be extra vigilent.  Drew had won Trey over right out the gate by looking at him and stating: "Can I tell you a secret?  I'm the world's best tree climber."  It was all tree-climbing challenges and mudpies from there.

Two hours later, though, the mid afternoon had rolled around and Drew decided it was a good time to get Trey back home.  She'd told Josie that she would bring the boy back, they didn't have to worry about returning to her door to fetch him up themselves.  So he was loaded up beside her in the truck and away they went to Sutherland Farm.And so, it was around three or four in the afternoon hours that the big Dodge Ram rolled up the driveway and halted with the crunch of gravel in the same parking space she'd found for herself last night.  The windows were down, and she was chattering at the little ball of energy and moppy brown hair a conversation that could be picked up once the engine cut.

"--and the entire roof came down right on his head.  You know how he got out?"
"How?"
"He dug."
"Nuh-uh!"
"Oh yuh-huh, and he still to this day can't get the dirt and splinters out from under his fingernails.  That's why when he cuts his steak he sticks his pinky finger out."

..This whole exchange while Drew got out of the truck, went around the front, and held open the passenger door for the kiddo to climb out himself.

ERIC SUTHERLAND
Very little goes unnoticed in these parts. It's big country, out of the town and into the hills and ridges the farm is situated in. Enough country to get lost in, if one was unfamiliar and not careful.  Winding dirt roads and side trails with out markers, cool evenings with out lamp posts and city lights, bright days where you could go places and not see some one else if you didn't want to. It's a lot of space, most of it still only half tamed, or untamed, more or less. It's why the locals like it. It's why Browntown is a few miles down the road and the Sept not much farther.

It's a lot of space, but too say no one is watching it would be a slight oversight. Threatened by some of their own and threatened by war, the Godi had set spirt packs of wolves to roam the territory. At least one member of the pack was usually in the area. Some times local kin called ahead when some one strange was coming. Little things, here and there, that spoke of territory and protection.So the semi-familiar truck doesn't go unmissed, and the fact Trey is in it noted as well. A curious thing perhaps, if one was left out of the loop. It happened some times, to him at least, with his odd hours and an actual full time job and other things besides.

So it might come to drew as a bit of a surprise as she lets Trey out the side of the truck, greeted by the big basso rumble of a man that was far too quiet for his stature. A slight chuckle and a gravelly southern twang that fit the stature; amused, at least partially."Well hell, if it ain' lil' Drew Roscoe. Long way from Chicago ain' it?"

From Trey, a quick 'Hey Uncle Buddy! Momma said you missed dinner on account of yer shit wagon likely breakin' down!"

DREW ROSCOE
In every creature, human or otherwise, is a fight or flight reflex that's triggered by surprise and threat both.  After being tossed into the Truth face-first and struggling from that day forth with Wyrm-creatures rising from gutters and shambling out of treelines on a very regular basis, Drew's was ratcheted up considerably.  She hasn't been in a real fight in a while now, hasn't had a need to fire her gun or hit the dirt chest-and-belly first, but with all the blood she's had on her hands-- that of enemies, friends, and herself all alike, it was rough getting a reaction like that to mellow out.

So, a voice rumbles quiet (but still very deep, quite large) behind her, and Drew's spine goes straight, hand spasmically grips at the truck door like she might try and use it as a weapon (hah, yeah right) to defend herself.  She jerks her head to look over her shoulder, expression severe.  This, mind you, all happens and exists within a moment.  She sees the bulk of a large man behind her, one that knew her name, and her chest tightened with nothing more than 'oh shit', like she was convinced something she'd wronged had followed her out here from the city to slay her.  But little Trey recognizes the man, calls him 'Uncle', and Drew relaxes.  Sure, the adrenaline spike from having the hell scared clean out of her left its effects, but she was easy enough in closing the door once Trey was down from the truck and looking up to the Skald's face.

Her expression is quizzical more than anything, and her hand rested at her chest, pressing against her breastbone some to quell the slamming of her heart against her ribcage.  His face is familiar, there's a vague recollection of a meeting in the streets, gritty and gray as they had been, and a memory of kinship.  But it was fleeting, she couldn't place a name or much more beyond 'we've met before'.  So she outright says so:"You scared me half to death.  ...And look familiar as hell.  Why do I know you?"

ERIC SUTHERLAND
There's a chuckle from the man, as deep and rumbly as the voice. It's genuine humor at the ordeal however' no impression he's laughing at her. Perhaps it was Trey that caused him to do so, but the sound is  far from patronizing. It comes too easily, aling with the slight grin on the thick set man's bearded jaw. He reaches out a hand (more a slightly hairy bear-paw than a hand) and tousles Trey's hair, which gains the response of a slight snort and small hands slapping it away affectionately.

"Buddy, don't!... I hate that!"
"Hah, you 'n' me both, big man. Sucks bein' lil'" he says, infelction warm. Trey swats at him again a few times before the large man gently gives the boy a shove on the shoulder in a playful, even protective, push towards the house. "Go on in Trey. I put some cartoons on the T.V. Don't tell Oma or Momma ok?" It doesn't take long for the boy to run off.

"I'm downright offended Ms. Roscoe...." a mock sense of dissapointment to the voice, though its very much obvious and still humored. "I've a thing fer names, sorry. Chicago. Few years back if I recall. I was busy handilin' some thin's needed handilin' an' you had me step out of the alley... at gun point if I remember right.... "

DREW ROSCOE
There was good humor in her voice, but no smile had returned to her face.  The man seemed friendly enough, but that didn't always mean much.  He was here on Sutherland Farm, though, and Trey called him 'Uncle'.  That didn't necessarily mean he was Josie or Sam's brother, but it did mean he was Family, or close enough to be considered.  Still, though, she had been startled pretty well and she was now just puzzling, trying to place more to the hazy half-memory she had with this man's shape more than his face attached to it.

Eric sends Trey into the house after a bit of affectionate banter and tease, and the little boy runs along inside on the promise of cartoons.  Then, with a bassy rumble, Eric draws a memory back up to the surface by mentioning that she'd drawn him out at gunpoint.

Dark alley.  Big, monstrous shape within it.  Drew heard sounds, saw the beast of a man, and didn't trust him one bit.  Chicago did that to you, anyone could be anything and she had been in several gunfights within that week, lost more friends than she could count on one hand in a matter of months.  She'd been on edge, and so, untrusting of this big intimidating man, she'd trained her heavy handgun on him with a steady hand and the kind of certainty that was only worn by people who used their weapons on other humans (or pseudo-humans) as a part of life.  Eric had come out, half-impressed half-amused as she recalled it, and somehow managed to convince her he was safe.  The meeting had ended in smiles and 'see you arounds', but the 'see you arounds' never happened.

She answered his recollection with a vocalized 'hah!' and the smile returned to her face as though it had never gone anywhere in the first place.  "Yeah!  Jesus Christ, how long ago must that have been?  Had me worried then, had me worried now.  But I remember you, definitely."  There's a pause, then she inquires: "I can't remember your name, though, I'm sorry.  I could struggle for it but I'd probably make an ass of myself."

ERIC SUTHERLAND
"I'd say about two years, give er take maybe? I don' expect ya to remember. I was only in town fer a few months an' if I recall right, no offense intended shugah, you looked like it was a rough week. Not that ya said so much, but well, wasn' hard ta figure on."

The words are still, despite size or depth of tone, lightly amused and friendly. It's possibly two of the largest contrasts in the man, both of which can have an oddly disturbing or positive quality depending on ones state of mind. The man was far more quiet stepped and light on his feet than his bulk indicated what so ever. The other was that slow Southern charm. The easy use of affectations and pet names, an earnest humor that existed and showed in his features despite who and what he was.  It was there of course. Underneath the skin and the perpetually part of the persona. A possibility for violence at the drop of a pin, if needed. The subtle seething that could drive regular humans away. The man was just more in grasp with his perhaps, or maybe some other reason. A core part of his nature to be as easy going and good natured (its all relatives though mind you...) than many of his kind.

"Eric. Eric Sutherlan'. I'd be Josie's 'lil' brother an' samuels brother'n'law"

DREW ROSCOE
A name is given, and she accepts it (though he had remembered hers as though he had a cheat sheet that he got to keep tacked to his mind's wall) by holding her hand out for a shake.  Because that was customary, something she learned not just when she learned she was a Kinfolk and how to be one properly, but from her dad when she was growing up.  He met everyone with a big heavy handshake, and she picked up from him that you sealed a greeting in that same manner in almost every instance."Eric.  Yeah, that sounds right."  She beams up at him, apparently forgetting and/or forgiving the small heart attack that he'd caused her a few minutes ago.  With handshake done, her hands jam into the pockets of her jean shorts.  She didn't lean back against her truck, mostly because she didn't quite know if they'd be standing there shooting the breeze for terribly long or not.  Instead she stood in white tennis shoes on the gravel and shrugged a shoulder in response to something he'd said before giving his name.

"Most weeks in that city were hard weeks.  Just the way things go when you've got that much of the Big Bad rolling in the gutters and comin' roarin' atcha from out of restaurant bathrooms and goddamn public park ponds."  There's a beat, and a switch of topics because all of the old Chicago shit was largely irrelevant here and now.  It made her who and what she was today, but it was gone as were all of her attachments to the city.  She was ready to trade Windy City for Small Town anyways.

"So this is where you hail from, then?  Seems like the place where things are exactly the way they should be."

ERIC SUTHERLAND
Her hand was shaken in turn, though he didn't have a habit many men did. Rough calloused from farm work and normal work and lord knows what else, the hand shake was firm and steady. Neither lingered too long on a woman's hand as some men where wont to do nor attempted to prove masculine dominance with that too hard squeeze some guys were fond of it. It was polite, genuine, and over.

"I un'erstand" he drawls, nodding at her rather accurate description. "Place seemed like ah bit o' a shit hole an' not just for  city. Ain' gonna lie. Did what we were there for and packed up quick. Wasn' the friendliest place." Another nod, flicking a hand and thumb towards the large farmhouse "Yup. Raised here, an Browntown. Born here actually. Quit school at sixteen and wen't to technical college a year later though. Alotta time in Georgia an' on the road. Been back fer good a few weeks. Speaking of... as ta 'way they should be' it's actually been mighty hot here, lately. Part of why I'm here... but I'm forgettin' my manners Ms. Roscoe. I holdin' ya up or would ya like ta sit a spell an' have somethin' ta drink?"

Another flick of the hand towards the house, indicating the offered hospitality. In all honesty he wasn't sure how or why she had Trey and who she'd brought him home, but it didn't involve yells or warnings so that was a good sign.  Fact of the matter is while many people assumed size and accent equaled a reduction in IQ, his slow and easy going manner overtly simple, the man was neither. He simply took his time, thought things through, and had more patience than most of his kin... It also meant he had a job, among other things, that occupied his time.This often put him out of the loop, possibly for days on end.

"You passin' through er part of the recently Great Fenrir Migration we seem to be havin'?"

DREW ROSCOE
"Well, you sure as hell ain't wrong.  The closest friends I had there nearly took my head off my shoulders when I first met them.  It's a rough town, not many trust one another, and no one wants to get close 'cause everyone dies too young."

Her commentary on the way things were in Chicago was bleak, horrifically so.  But the warmth on her face, all sunkissed and good, soft humor softened it (or made it worse? depending on who you ask) and she was rolling on with the conversation anyways.

"I guess I am," in answer to his inquiry about the Great Migration.  "I'd just heard of a place out here that was mostly Kin, of a Caern that had declared War, and decided there was no better place for me to be."He'd also offered her a drink and she declined with a smile and a small shake of her hand.  "No, but thank you very much.  I've got work back at home that I need to get done before the night closes.  I was just bringin' Trey back home hoping someone would be here for him to go to-- Josie dropped him off with me so she and Oma could go spread the gospel of 'Don't get yourself killed because times are hard'."

ERIC SUTHERLAND
"Pftt" Snorting at the last bit she speaks first. Too young. "There ain' much a difference between young and old. Dead is dead regardless", shrugging his shoulders as if to say he wouldn't dwell on it long.A nod to the rest, "Makes sense. Few of us come back after a while with the troubles an' all. It ain' a bad place when it ain' bein' on full retard mode. Some of the local tribes a bit riled after the moot. Apparently we pissed some one off not havin' dinner wit' 'em" Another shrug. The man doesn't seem to care, in any real depth that's visible, at least. A sort of 'what is, is' attitude that's one part confidence and one part amusement. Easy going even when its ugly."Josie's good people. Watch Oma though..." pausing, considering. A formulation of thoughts going through his head and the man, kowing she can't possibly be home, glances over his shoulder towards the house any way. Just to be sure. "Oma is the God damned devil, Ms. Roscoe. Sweet as can be so lng as she gets her way. You watch yerself wit' her or she'll be puttin' menfolk on yer porch for pickin'. mark my words the woman is fuckin' snoopy".

DREW ROSCOE
Eric's take on death is accepted with a nod and a one-shouldered shrug, the gesture moving against the shoulder of her blue-and-green checkered button up shirt that she'd worn for the day with the sleeves rolled up just above her elbows.  She didn't argue it, because it was absolutely right.  She didn't agree with it, though, because it made her blue to think of all the young, lively faces that she couldn't hope to see again because Death had come to take them.  Faces she'd loved, belonging to people she called friend, Family, and Mate.

News of someone being pissed off at the Sutherland/Cutler clan was dismissed with a twist of one corner of her mouth and a shake of her head.  "People get pissed for diplomatic nothings," she commented, and left it there.

It was his warning about Oma that got the strongest reaction from Drew.  She laughed and did nothing to restrain the sound, letting it come from chest and belly both.  Her head shook, her hands folded one over the other overtop her flat stomach, and she exhaled the last laugh with a bit of a 'hoo' sound to accompany.  "That's... so different from anything I've ever heard of.  Back in Chicago the last Jarl wasn't concerned about anything besides me honorin' Joe and not so much as batting eyelashes at anything that swings.  Caused some downright scandal, apparently, lending bedroom to some young Rotagar that needed it."

There's another shake of her head, and she straightens her posture some, taking the weight from where it had been dominantly resting on her left leg and distributing it evenly between her feet.  "Your Oma, she's steel and hearth and watchful.  She's what all of us should aspire to be when we're done being young and stupid."  There's a moment to allow the gears to shift, then she's jerking her thumb over her shoulder at the truck.  "I ought to be on my way.  But I'd really like to take up your offer on the drink and the sit another day, if you'd make the time?"  It felt good to talk with someone who's been where she came from.  It felt like catching up with an old friend, even if it wasn't quite the same thing.

ERIC SUTHERLAND
"I don' think I need tah tell a kin woman wha' she already knows, so please don' take me as patronizin'. Ain' nothin' of the sort... Local family here is itchy, Ms. Roscoe. hair pin. So watch yerself eh?", and he leaves it at that. She'll understand, and it isn't meant as an insult to any specific person. The man was Fenrir after all..what was a little violence and spilled beer and stitches between friends and family?

This place had people that were freakishly fast to move towards violence, even by his standards."Small towns ain' no differen'" grin broadening at her actual laughter. He's emphatic enough to know the woman has had a rough time with things. It shows i the pauses between laughter, or the crinkles in the eyes when the mind flickers and selects memories. Scoots one aside for the other, and though not spoken, reveals itself in miniscule. The little things people give away when they don't actually consider or make the effort to hide them. "Tribe er not tongues wag here. Only secrets here is open ones"

Another snort, grin changing..not because he grins less or more... its the cast of the grin. Slightly lopsided and uneven, boyish almost, not because it makes him look younger or softer but because it just looks like something a kid up to no good would do. An old habit, often reflected in Trey."Oh, she's steel and ever vigilant alright. But I tell ya what. I'll bet'cha a gallon of beer, yer choice, that inside the moon I'm proven right. Mark my words. Woman's the devil."

DREW ROSCOE
"You're on."

Her answer is immediate, and riding along with it is a half-smug grin to answer the tilted mischief in his own lopsided smile down the full, what, foot and an inch or two to spare or so between them.  She had, out of habit, taken her truck keys with her when she'd climbed from the driver's seat, though she would bet all the money in her savings account that not a person here would actually steal her truck from this farm.  Still, she was fishing them from her pocket and gesturing at the Skald with the ignition key as a substitute for an index finger to point.

"Next half-moon," she is always and probably forever immediately aware of the moon phase.  It was very important a thing to be aware of in the life of a Kinfolk, "unless she sprouts horns and cloven hooves or I wake up one morning to realize more than one man has come callin' my name, sent by her and not my own wicked charms, you'll be filling my fridge with whatever's good and local."  Innuendo, she hears it as soon as she says it, but rolls right on as though she didn't.  "If you turn up right, though, not only will I be ferociously surprised, but I'll bring you whatever you like in a gallon jug with a ribbon on it."

ERIC SUTHERLAND
"Pfftt... That's the thing. You'll think its yer charms. They'll think its yer charms.. and both may be right. But it'll have her signature," he laughs now and when laughing, fully booming laughing, there is no hiding the slight paunch on his thick frame, the fact that unlike most of his kind the man has a just slightly fleshly look. Like a man that enjoys his beer and his second servings. Not fat perse... think perhaps an athlete, foot ball maybe, that quit working out in an off season and just never took it back up.

"Oma will be writ all over it.... but ,Half moon it is, and a gallon of the best I can find. I win, bring the gallon. Put the ribbon in yer hair. It'll compliment the blush when you learn the truth of Oma"

Chuckiling, bassy and amused, he finally waves a hand in gesture towards her. Go on. Don't let me keep you."Pleasure meetin' you, again, Ms. Roscoe. You need somethin' don' be slow to ask."