Newfound Friend [Combat: Francis]

DREW ROSCOE
Drew Roscoe didn't have to go into the city too often.  She lived out in Browntown and worked from home, and she liked that just fine.  The little town was in some sort of odd crisis-- there had been a death within the Sutherland family that treated her so well, there was an All Hands Meeting for the kinfolk there, directed by an unfamiliar Garou woman that was tense, on edge, and aggressive toward the lot of them.  This place was in turmoil, Drew had come to understand.  That didn't scare her away though, didn't deter her.  She was resolute in her decision to stay, and this, if nothing else, was simply evidence that she was needed here more than back on the West Coast that she had come from.

Tonight, though, she'd had to abandon her hometown for the mundane instead.  Her employer had called a meeting, set for 5 pm, do discuss 'new directions' and she absolutely had to be present.  So she'd put on her business clothes, hopped in her truck, and driven the hour and some-odd journey into town.  She'd sat politely and taken notes throughout the meeting, added input when it was appropriate, and participated and was a good employee across the board.  Even if her mind was back home, she at least put on a good front.

Now, though, the meeting was out and Drew was walking away from the corporate office, up in some skyscraper in Downtown D.C., in search of the parking lot some five blocks away that she'd had to park in.  She was dressed in a pair of gray slacks and a nice white-cream colored blouse, color added by a pair of yellow pumps and turquoise-themed jewelry.  Her hair was curled and pinned up, make-up done nicely without being overwhelming.  She knew how to clean up and make a good impression.  She had to, it's mostly what let her boss allow her to do most of her projects from home-- oh look!  She is professional, truly, and she gets her work done on time so I know she's not a slacker.  I sure am glad I hired her.

She'd paused in front of the building, though, to pull out her cellphone and make a phone call.  She stood there, several feet away from the steps going into the tall glass building, with one hand holding her phone to her ear and the other cupping the phone-arm's elbow.  Mundane night, with very out-of-the-ordinary concerns for if it was okay to return to home or not.
FRANCIS LEHRER
Men that look like men but are not men are very rarely not monsters either. Existing outside of the realm of humanity by means beyond conscious choice have a tendency to twist the noble and the eager because those who start out noble and eager tend to start out young. Even those with heroic blood in them have that danger and the greater the deeds of their departed the greater the distance to fall and the ones who do fall rarely get back up.

But men who are actually men who know nothing of the turmoil and the trauma that the world can inflict upon a psyche that can handle no more warping than an oak-tree branch cannot stand in the presence of men who are not men. They feel as if they stand beside a monster even if they have never known themselves to have met a monster before. The hairs on their arms stand straight up in the presence of beasts and the beasts only notice if they are hungry.

This particular man looks like thousands of other men. He is an unobtrusive sort of tall and his build is the sort of sturdy that fits the work boots and the carpenter's jeans and the flannel shirt and the fact that he doesn't look altogether comfortable walking down the street. No one in his presence is comfortable walking down the street. His cornsilk hair is long enough to graze his chin and he has not shaved his face and he looks like he belongs in the appalachian corridors of the state like he belongs out in Browntown with the rest of Drew's kin. Not in a city.

And he's staring around at the towers downtown like he can't believe man could build things so tall. Like he can't believe they're benign. He's not looking where he's going exactly but no one is suicidal enough to get to where he can walk over them. His Rage is like its own presence trailing after him like a fire swallowing up gasoline.

She knows the type.

DREW ROSCOE
Whatever call Drew was attempting to make seemed to have failed.  She took the phone away from her ear, looking slightly distressed and a little disappointed, but not much more.  The disconnect button was pressed before the call had a chance to go to voicemail, and the phone was then tucked into a medium-sized purse that she had over her shoulder.  She stood still for a moment, thoughtful, then turned to go find her truck.
 
Well, she thought, if I do go home to a war at least I've got the shotgun in my truck.

She'd walked less than a dozen steps when the click-clack of her heels slowed and stopped.  A man cut through the crowd (metaphorically, not literally) and caught her attention.  She immediately recognized him for what he was.  The furnace of his Rage was familiar like a grease burn to a line cook, or, more appropriately, napalm to a Vietnam War soldier.  The look about him, the way he cut through the crowd like it barely mattered if it was there, the way people edged away from him...  Everything, right down to the angle at which he held his shoulders was recognizable.

He was walking in her direction.  She stood facing him, eyes on his face.  She'd give him time to notice that he was being stared at, but if he was too busy looking up at skyscrapers and causing himself mild cases of vertigo, she'd let him get near enough to almost pass her and reach out to touch him at the crook of his elbow when he made his way by her, and would catch his attention with a simple: "Hey."

FRANCIS LEHRER
And she held herself with a purpose that was lacking in kin with more years behind them than she could boast. Her height would lock her in youth until lines creased her face and ghosts wove white into her hair but that she watched him without quavering was as a shout in a silent room.

Dozens of other sets of eyes averted themselves lest their staring draw his ire but they were not of the Nation. They were not even aware of the Nation's existence. They slept at night or they laid awake at night but their concerns and their futures were kept safe because young women carried shotguns in their trucks because young men could turn into nine-foot-tall war machines with the strike of a match and they were none the wiser for the wars being fought beyond their windows.

The spirits in her blood whispered and they would whisper louder as he drew closer but as their paths coalesced and he became aware of the weight of her eyes on him it was not her blood that spoke to him but her bones. That brush of fingertips against his elbow.

Were he wound half as tight as the weak-spined believed him to be he would have wheeled at the touch but he did not start or swing or show her his teeth. He stopped walking and pulled his eyes back down from the Weaver's showcase and blinked as if roused from daydreaming.

Hey she said like they knew each other and he canted his head at her a crease stitched into his brow and then that recognition came for him slower than it did for her. When he answered no accent leapt out to declare his origins to her.

"Hey..."

DREW ROSCOE
The Werewolf with the long light-colored hair and the tall, strong build that was so common amongst those he shared blood with had stopped when her fingers brushed his arm.  She had indeed greeted him like she knew him, as though they were friends-- current, not old, like they talked on a weekly basis, not like they were reconnecting after a few years gone by.

This might be how it would appear to anyone brave enough to cut their gaze through the buffer that was the air surrounding the Garou.  However, they'd never seen one another before in their lives.  The 'Hey' is returned, clear and without accent (immediately pointing him as 'not from around here', because people around here had only the faintest of southern-y twang to their words).  Drew accepts that with a smile, something warm and welcoming like a cup of hot cocoa when you get in from shoveling the driveway in December.  It's not as enthusiatic as it could be, but still well-meaning and worn on her round face in a way that was like a polite knock at the front door.

"I think we might have a reason to walk together, friend.  You look an awful lot like Family."  Family with a capitol F.  This time she means in the broad scope of the Nation, mind you, not within the Tribe.  She had no way of knowing what Tribe he belonged to.  "My name's Drew.  Care to escort me to my car?"

FRANCIS LEHRER
She fell into the role she had accepted or carved for for herself and he had no way of knowing which it was. Any looking at them would think that this was one in a series of such meetings like he meant to be at the steps when she emerged from her meeting. Folks' eyes had a way of telling their brains the things that make the most sense and that this young woman would be waiting for a man for whom the word 'intimidating' was as readily attached as 'blonde' was as far as their minds were willing to plumb.

And he could have been one of the Wretched for all she knew but for the fact that she was bold enough to glimpse his face and nothing in it spoke of malice or subterfuge. All she saw was the contrary and the earnestness of the youth of his auspice is easily mistaken for idiocy.

Her question earned a crooked attempt at a smile and a crooked elbow in offer of an escort as if they were walking down a victorian path and not a crowded crooked cement sidewalk.

"Francis," he told her and that was his name the same as Family stood for something greater than both of them. "I'm glad to meet you, cousin. You're the first person to say more than five words to me since I crossed the border."

DREW ROSCOE
It didn't occur to her to believe that he might be one of the Bad Guys.  She'd never had that experience before, mistaking a bad guy for a good guy.  The only Bad Guys she'd experienced were immediately easy to pick out.  They had boils, or gray skin, or were in their War Forms and charging at her slavering and ready for the kill.  She'd seen two in their human forms before, 'normal looking' if you could call it that.  One had an air of arrogance and wickedness about him, and the other was plain old mad and jittery.  This Wolf, though?  He was none of those things.  He looked fresh-faced to her, and that was enough for her to reach out rather than dodge out of the way.

He gives his name in exchange with hers, and offers his elbow with a half-cocked smile.  Her welcoming smile switched to a grin, finding humor in his gesture, and she played right along by turning to face the same direction as him, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow (though her touch had a touch of caution to it, like she wasn't sure if she was going to be scalded or not.  it felt like a leap of faith when someone pets a dangerous looking dog for the first time, unsure if they're going to be bitten or allowed to scratch an ear) and turning him in the proper direction to head toward the paylot that had her truck in it.

They had walked a few steps, away from the front of the building, when she answered his comment with: "Border?  I figured you were from out of state.  Where you in from?"  This is followed closely by a puzzled expression, and an inquiry.  "How has no one else said words to you?  I was under the impression the first thing you guys do upon entering an Established Territory--" code for Sept, "-- was introduce yourself and have words with the Boss?"

FRANCIS LEHRER
"Having some trouble finding it, right?"

The first and only hint of an accent. He pronounced it rate. It was a fleeting thing and easy to miss and he did not hinge on it for the puzzlement of the expression on her face. If he did not notice the puzzlement he would not be the first full-moon to prove himself oblivious to the subtleties of human emotion. Something in his mannerisms gave him the impression of being more attuned to his otherness than a young wolf would have been but he did not have the scattered skittish bearing of one who had never been amongst civilization before. This was a new city but the City as a concept was not uncharted.

But this city was uncharted. He dressed like one who had come down out of the mountains to investigate reports of infestation and he smelled faintly of dirt as if he had been sleeping in it instead of sleeping in a subway station or on the chewing gum-crusted planks of a park bench.

"Getting over the border's one thing but moving around once you're there, that's another thing. And I ain't ever been to the holy place in a city. It's, ah..."

Ears surrounded them uninterested but not deaf and he did not speak as though they were not present though the rest of the humans' bodies did their civil best to stay out of their way. His way. Drew's way became his way only by guilt of association.

"There's a lot going on. Easy to get lost. I think I might've taken a wrong turn again."

DREW ROSCOE
"There is a lot going on," Drew agreed.  They'd come to a stop at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to turn to allow them to cross.  People standing there, waiting to go the same direction as well, decided it was better to cross the other way instead.  It would get them on the other side of the road from Francis, and it would be well worth the extra minute or so tacked onto their travel time.  They bunched up as far away as possible without looking ridiculous.  Drew ignored this, and instead focused on Francis.

Her hand fell away to press the button to signal the crosswalk they were there, and did not return to his elbow.  Instead she had one hand holding the strap of the purse hooked over her shoulder, and the other simply rested beside her thigh, natural and rested.

"I don't know much about the city myself, honestly.  Don't come here too often, only for work every now and again.  I wish I had a direction to point you in?  But I don't.  Not here."  There's a small shake of her head, and she follows up with: "You look more like the trees and grass, though.  I know where the one out in the sticks is, if you're curious to know?"

And here she is, poaching city wolves for the Sept that she was associated with instead.  More help for the turmoiled Browntown, with its burning houses and kin-napping episodes.  The Sept members here might take an issue with that, but only if they found out.

FRANCIS LEHRER
With his elbow released he could push both of his hands into the hip pockets of his jeans and that took him a ways closer to affecting nonchalance and nonchalance could set those disposed to calm in the face of Rage at ease. It did nothing for those who would rather walk across four lanes of traffic than stand beside him for half of one minute. Though he stood at ease and he did not twitch and fidget like a schoolboy urged to stand still through the force of his own anger humans are not inclined to stand beside death row inmates or psychiatric state-hospital patients or unharnessed zoo animals either.

They still had a sense of self-preservation even if he appeared to have himself under control at the moment. Drew had spent enough time around his kind to know that it could take little tip him off balance. It could take a lot. She did not know him yet.

She knew enough to know that he would not like it here in the city. At her mention of trees the full-moon looked over and down at her and his eyebrows considered lifting in amusement or appreciation or both but then the light changed he had to move. Two of her strides made up one of his and he had a loose-limbed way of ambling like he was used to covering long distances with little rest.</p><p>"If you're going out that way," he said, "I'd appreciate a lift."

DREW ROSCOE
Her newfound companion looked appreciative when she mentioned that he seemed more like a trees guy than a skyscraper guy.  He looked down at her (everyone had to look down to make eye contact with her when they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, she was convinced it had nothing at all to do with the fact that she was Kinfolk rather than True Born and therefore, technically, of lower status) and she smiled faintly up at him, then looked distractedly to the crosslight when it started to chirp and switch from a red hand to a green walking stick-figure.

They began to cross the street, and her steps were short both due to shorter legs and high heels (which made it more difficult to be quick, to take long steps and try and keep up).  He was kind enough to match her pace, though, and seemed perfectly content to amble along beside her.

If you're going out that way, I'd appreciate a lift.

She nodded to him when he requested a ride.  "Of course.  I was just headed home, and I go right into the town that you're gonna want to be in to get pointed in the right direction.  It's called Browntown, and it's, like, 50% Kin there.  I don't know the exact location that you're hunting for?  But someone's bound to."  They make their way up another two blocks while talking, and have to wait at another light eventually.  This time they're turning right, not going straight.  The lot she's hunting for is directly across the way, and her black-cherry Dodge Ram is parked under a light, making it less appealing to steal from.

"If you don't mind my asking, Francis, exactly which part of the Family do you belong to?"

FRANCIS LEHRER
Beyond the crosswalk they met a second wave of pedestrians who had not yet felt the press of hot anger at their backsides and the talking tapered off only as they hit bottlenecks where food-cart vendors ate up half the sidewalk or they came upon parking-lot mouths where SUVs and luxury sedans barreled past automated yellow bars as if they were being summoned for matters of importance beyond comprehension or explanation.

Once Francis revealed his water-colored eyes to possess properties that enabled them to harden for annoyance flashed through them when a vehicle took a left-hand turn into a side street going fast enough to cut them off but the driver was not aware of the beast it had nearly side-swiped and Francis had been in the city long enough to know that that was not aberrant behavior. He kept his hands in his pockets and did not mutter or spew impotent threats as a human male would have. His nostrils flared and his eyes iced over but it was a moment and the moment passed.

Her truck sat across a river of asphalt and behind a wall of chain-linked metal and they walked toward it with the light as a beacon and he himself as a deterrent to all but those possessed. Mortal muggers would not bother him.

And her question waited until they were beyond the throng of evening commuters. It did not surprise him.

"I don't mind," he said. "And if I ain't mistaken, we're from the same tribe. You're one of Fenris's, right?"

DREW ROSCOE
There were too many people to really continue the conversation.  This was The Rule-- you had to keep your tone low and your words private.  Any spirit, any one, could be listening.  You could be noticed for what you are by the wrong kind of people.  It isn't that they didn't want the general public, the average human, hearing their words.  They wouldn't recognize them or know or care what to do with them.  It was the ears that were listening that they had to be careful about.

So they walked in quiet, side by side, and waited until the crosswalk allowed them to make way across the street and move to the entrance of the parking lot that Drew had chosen for the night.  When he was ready to answer, she was fishing her car keys out of her purse-- attached to which there was a small pewter coin of an ornament, a couple of other keys (house, garage? mailbox? who knew).  He said they were from the same tribe, and she glanced up at him with a flash of... something positive-- joy?  hope? -- in her resolutely brown eyes.

"Absolutely am," she declared, pleased as punch.  "There's apparently been a flux of us coming here.  War's a'brewing, and it seems like it's calling to all of us.  No better place for a Fenrir to be, huh?"  She thumbs at the little remote on her keychain, the lights flash twice on her truck and a small <em>bip-bip!</em> sounds to announce that the doors were unlocked.

"Well, newfound friend, hop on in."

Francis Lehrer
Nothing jingled in his pockets no coins or keys or chains and one had to wonder if he brought anything with him from wherever he called home. Or if he called anywhere home. If he was the sort to sleep in the woods with his own limbs as a pillow. He had that look about him but he did not have the stale scared way of talking that lone wolves married to the idea of staying that way had of talking. The Fenrir were once a wyld-loving lot and they kept their wolf-kin closer than some of the others did. They kept a lot of things closer than some of the others did.

When she looked at him with their tribe confirmed, the warm near-happiness in her eyes was enough to thaw whatever coolness lingered after nearly being run down by a sport-utility vehicle. Experience kept her spine straight but it hadn't hardened her insides and Francis was not adept at reading in any sense of it but her joy was reflected if not in its full strength when she told him she absolutely was.
He hesitated at the passenger-side door like the closeness of the cab would be too much for her. He did not hop but pulled open the door gentle like he could wrench it off its hinges if he was not careful and he climbed in just as mindful.

Once inside he slouched against the door elbow on the handle with the same purposeful lackadaisicalness with which he kept his hands in his pockets and he did not hook his seatbelt.
"How far out you say we're going?"

Drew RoscoeRage had, in fact, twinged a bit when they'd been cut off by an inconsiderate vehicle cutting a quick turn when they had the right-away.  When a creature with that much War in his breast has a 'twinge of Rage', though, it's more like someone dropping a big heavy boulder in a pond-- regardless of the irritant.  The depth to which the resulting impact hits you in your chest is surprising, not painful but something that causes you to pause.  The ripples would reach all the way to the shore of that pond, but as close to the source as Drew was, it could rock a boat easy.

Drew'd handled this before, though.  She'd sucumbed to terror from proximity to such Rage once before, but had grown more calloused to it with time spent with The Boys.  She'd felt the Rage, but she'd taken a deep breath and acted like she barely noticed.

Now, though, to climb into the cab of a truck with him, she was starting to realize exactly what kind of situation she was getting herself into.  Not immediately, oh no.  She pulled her door open and hopped up (a bit more careful as she was wearing heels tonight), strapped her seatbelt and started the engine.  It was when the passenger door closed as well that the Rage had noplace else to go.  A sensation akin to claustrophobia settled around her ears and shoulders and tightened her heart, and she stared forward for a moment like she'd forgotten what steps came next in driving home.

Now cut that shit out, you're welcoming Family, she reminded herself, and with a shake of her head she rolled down the window (who cares if it was only 60 degrees outside, she could tolerate the cool for a while) and, with her elbow slung out the open space, she commenced the drive through the city, headed toward the highway.

"Oh, it's a bit of a drive," Drew answered casually.  "Hour and a half to two hours, depending on how easy it is to get out of the city."  There's a beat, then: "I know there's a little bed and breakfast situation in town that's run by Kinfolk-- they'll lend a room to ya for a night or two pro-bono until you find a place out at the Sept's grounds to be.  Or, y'know, if you settle into a house yourself or what have you."

Francis LehrerWould have been rude to offer to ride in the back. Would have been rude and would have not been taken. If she wanted him in the back she sure as hell would have told him to start out there but he wasn't blind enough to think that for all her confidence that she would be right as rain with that door shut behind both of them. When she rolled down the window he didn't ask her what she was doing that for. It let the outside in and it kept her from being close enough to trapped with a monster as she was going to get with the keys in her hand.

He canted his head towards her to give her his attention when she spoke of the bed and breakfast at the town that was their destination.

"I ain't thought that far ahead yet," he said and there was a sheepishness to it like no one had ever heard of a full-moon with poor future-planning skills before. "How long you lived here?"

Drew Roscoe"No offense, but what I'm used to is not many of my Cousins thinking too far ahead when it comes to the mundane."  She grinned at him, glancing across the truck's bench seat as she commented on this.  She rarely fretted over saying the wrong thing to insult a True Born-- not because she knew exactly what it was they wanted to hear so much as she knew exactly how to spin her tone to get her off the hook.  It was something she'd blossomed at since she was old enough to make words-- looking up with big doe eyes and smiling sweetly; it worked for her in a weird, earnest way while most girls were immediately recognized for their attempts.

Let's face it, she was plain old cute without trying.

"You all know why you came, usually.  You know what you plan on doing-- know the kind of people you want in your packs, know what you're supposed to do, your end goals.  It's the stepping stones in-between that tend to slip to the wayside for the bigger picture.  That's what we Kinfolk are here for."  Note, the use of the word 'you' was in the royal sense here, that much is apparent.  She isn't accusing him specifically, just making general observations on what she's seen in the past few years.

"Wouldn't worry too much, though."  Drew assures him of this while waiting at a stoplight to get onto the on-ramp and start the highway drive that would get them out of the metropolis and into the boonies.  "Something will shake out for you, and if it doesn't one of us will step in to make sure it shakes out.  There's too much War here for you to be worried about much anything else."  As frank as frank can be.

Francis LehrerShe meant no offense and he took none. He laughed at her observation and dropped his gaze to his jeans not as if he found a speck there more interesting than her half of the bench seating but as if to say touché to regain his footing before looking back up. In short time he did look back up and swiped a length of silver-yellow hair back behind his ear where it threatened to occlude his vision.

Most of what she said could have come from the mouth of one strung high up on the hierarchy. It could have come from a godi or a forseti someone who knew the way the mind worked when it was drawn to live on four legs with little warmth but what was pulled from the throats and bellies of the slain. But she was not full-blooded and what her blood had to say did not speak of her ancestors' deeds in a voice loud enough to echo through the hall of ages. She did not have to stand on the shoulders of the ones who came before her.

If she paid enough attention to him she could see that he was perplexed. Awed, even. He did not have a face that could hide what went on inside his skull and his thoughts were clear as oncoming headlights to her.
"Alright," he said, like that settled it. "I won't worry."

Drew RoscoeThis petite Kinswoman really did talk with the wisdom of the ages, and it was a little confusing to watch.  She wasn't True, so spirits certainly didn't communicate through her mouth to share their wisdom to the generations so much further beyond their own lifespans.  She didn't even have the kind of pure blood that could give her that kind of leverage in the first place-- sure she had some distant great-grandmother or great-great-grandfather that had done heroic things for a Germanic Sept somewhere in Germany many years back, but let's remember that her Father not only came into the Tribe on his own (rather than being born to a Fenrir family), but he had also abandoned the Nation and left his duties behind him.  That sort of shame was a blemish if anything else.

Yet here she was, twenty-three and speaking of things she observed and figured out as though she were a Soothsayer that had been about for a fistful of decades.  If she were questioned, she'd just shrug and say 'Surviving in Chicago is like living in dog years, all the experience you get packed into one month.'  And the thing is, she'd be right.

So the Ahroun accepts her words as truth and says, slightly awed, that he won't worry.  She glanced at him, but briefly because her attention moved back to the road quickly enough-- the highway required attention, and in a city like these, even if it wasn't rush-hour, there were almost always enough cars alongside her in the driving lanes that she had to be careful to pay mind.  "Don't look too surprised, now.  I don't actually know that much, I'm just saying what I see is all."

The wind picked up, cutting through her window and bringing the settling night chill with it.  She drew her arm in, put her hand on the steering wheel along with the other, but didn't roll the window up just yet.  They'd only just started the drive, after all, and she'd keep that open air available to create space and allow that Rage someplace to go (as though it were a miasma, visible and substantial) for as long as she could.

Francis Lehrer
Once they rolled onto the freeway and joined the throngs of workaday travelers returning to their homes the wind kicked up to such ferocity that Francis kept his face turned into the wind lest his hair whip into his eyes again. He did not roll down his own window and he did not think to roll down his own window. The controls for the window were beneath his right elbow but he left them alone.

Nothing about Drew commanded his attention for reasons that the average man could not understand. She did not have the breeding of one of Falcon's and she did not have the allure of one touched by the spirits. It went beyond that. Sure as not someone bigger and meaner than Francis would not take kindly to knowledge that she gave a strange cliath a ride in her truck. Customs had a tendency to change with the borders but the rules of a tribe old as theirs did not waver much from place to place.

She had known traditionalists before. The ones who spoke of rank and honor before they spoke of mating, who thought of kinfolk as half-bloods. Half meant half-rights and half-rights meant they were treated as chattel and not cousins.

But she explained and he listened and the night along the highway stretched out before them too far beyond the truck's windows to really let either of them breathe.

"Well," he said, begrudging protestation staining his words that did not drawl the way an american's would have drawled, "you don't talk like you're as young as you look. I was surprised, but I think I'll get used to it. Don't you be worrying, either."

Drew Roscoe"I'll try not to worry too much."

The conversation died out there for a time being.  Drew, however, had a way to make the silence that settled between them feel less awkward than what it would between two average people that have just met (especially when they were potentially compatible-- single male and single female alone in a car on a dark drive and all that).  She rolled her window up some-- the wind was bothersome at that speed, noisy and messing with the pressure in her ear drums, but still left it cracked enough that air swirled at the top of the vehicle's cabin.  With the noise of fast wind taken away, she reached to the radio and turned it to something quiet but plain and easy -- generic radio that no one could really argue with or go out of their way to vouch for either.

So they drove for a little while, away from the lights of the city, cutting through the sprawl of suburbia that had cropped up wherever there was space, and then even beyond that, out into the countryside.  Drew drove scooted forward on her seat, one hand loose on the wheel while the other rested absently in her lap.

About ten to fifteen minutes of being lost in thought would be broken when Drew spoke up-- suddenly but without any sharp notes that would cause a start.  "There's a Jarl that's about Browntown from time to time, though I've never really met him face to face or shaken his hand.  Named Cole.  Blood... hang on...  Blood... mane!  Blood Mane, that's his True Name.  Not sure exactly how things are structured out here, yet, 'cause I've only been here for about three or so weeks now, but it probably wouldn't be a terrible idea to seek him out when you find the chance."

Francis LehrerThe silence suited him just fine. With the window gone back up he could take his eyes off of her and he seemed to need the time spent staring out the window for his thoughts were as easily sown as seeds and they took root in Drew's attention before he noticed they left his possession. As the young and the hyperactive are easily overstimulated so does the heat of Rage make behaving in a manner befitting gentlemen or even beasts walking amongst the gentlepeople as a gentleman himself an exercise in endurance. He had rid himself of none of Gaia's curse before climbing into the car and the silence was a temporary blessing.

And the music gave him something to attend to other than the world outside which was strange and sprawling and seemed from where he sat to go on forever. Like the Weaver and the ones who aided it would thread themselves across the surface until the earth until all was metal and synthetics and skittering shining spiders.
Their people had fought for centuries to keep the sacred places of the world green and choked with new life but they could not fend off near as fast as the enemy could spawn. This close to the city they saw no prey prancing through open spaces for there was no open space and they could not see the starlight overhead for the thickness of the clouds and by the time Drew found words Francis was ready to look away anyway.

So he did.
"Bloodmane," he said. Committed it to memory. "I will."

And if she did not speak again he asked knowing as he did that War brought everyone else though she was not everyone else, "So what brought you to Browntown?"

Drew RoscoeHer hand casually reached from her lap to the radio, turning the music down a notch or two so it was still present, but not the most dominant noise in the car.  The hand returned to where it had come from, returned to resting, and she answered his casual 'getting to know you' question as easily as though they were familiar siblings catching up on the events of one anothers' weeks over Sunday dinner.

"Well, where I was before-- out West-- didn't have much need for me.  There weren't many Fenrir, mostly a lot of Glasswalkers, and they were pretty wrapped up in their own business of politics and expansion and tending their City-Sept.  I didn't have anyone to take care of, they didn't ask for me help or have anything for me to do when I offered it.

"Heard through the grapevine that there was a pocket of Fenrir out here, though, in a town that was made mostly of Kinfolk.  I decided I was done waiting for things to happen to me and came out here to... I guess put myself more deep in Our world.  I got tired of my friends all being regular people, of having no one to relate to.  Got lonely.  So I came out looking for Family

"Thank God I found it."

She filled the gap with conversation happily enough.  Talking helped distract her from the tension in her breast that came from being in a speeding metal death trap (if you wanted to think of it that way) with someone that had enough Rage that it muscled over even that of the Modi she'd loved and lost some time ago.

Francis LehrerIf he was scarred from the fighting that the heat of his Rage said he had they were concealed beneath the winter-ready clothing he wore. He did not carry himself like someone who was cut down but Drew also did not ask him to identify himself like she could tell just from looking at him that he wasn't the kind who would guide her into the darkness and turn her skin into a pelt. She had seen enough to know that that wasn't the worst thing he could do to her.

That didn't make weathering his Rage any easier but that was as easy enough an explanation for why he was traveling alone as any he could have come up with on his own. The reticent full-moon was not a recent revelation and if she glanced his way as she spoke she could see a sense of relief in having words wash over him instead of cool air and canned notes.

Her story did not strike him any way other than true and she could see the understanding in not being able to be around regular folks though their inability was mired in different circumstances. If Drew grew not even angry but simply frustrated she would not have to fight to break furniture and bones. She could sit at a table with humans and not frighten them against the wall and out the door. Didn't make her loneliness any less real. Just made it less violent.

"That important to you? Having someone to take care of, I mean."

Drew Roscoe"Not necessarily someone to 'take care of', per-say.  That's not there in the written requirements."  She answered his question with a flash of teeth in her grin, glancing briefly his way before looking back to the long stretch of road in front of them.  "That just tends to be how I wind up helping the most.  I mean, after all, most of the True don't have income, can't buy themselves food or clothing or shelter, and no matter how tough you guys are you all need a shower and a place to sleep every now and again."

The loneliness out in the West had been hard on Drew, not just because there were no True or Kinfolk around to socialize with, but becuase the few that she had managed to make contact with had little concern for her-- found her old-fashioned, obsolete almost.  God-damn city wolves anyways.

"It could be anything from lending a hand in a fight, or making sure that no one's following you guys home after a fight.  I keep lime and bleach in the back of the truck--" she emphasizes this with a jerk over her shoulder to the bed of her truck (encased in a shell, by the way, a better way to hide bodies that needed hauling from Highway Patrol if need be) to indicate what all lay back there, "to clean up when you guys have to cut a chase or handle things on The Other Side.  I'm here for all of that, not just 'taking care'.

"Though I'm happy to do that too.  I just wanna do all I can."

Francis LehrerNone of what she said was novel to him but he listened all the same. It was the first time he heard it come from her and he may have had the same conversation with a dozen other kinswomen but like as not he came from a place where the kinswomen were disinclined to speak if they did not have to. Where they were able to mend wounds and bleach bloodstains and convince the local law that they did not need to investigate the contents of a home or a vehicle. But where he came from the local law was like as not kin themselves. She spoke of Out West like it was its own place and to someone who has never been there and never seen it the imagery of the phrase itself still evokes the pastoral nothingness of a land before man.

Places like that still exist but they are not without their dangers and Cockroach's brood were close enough to the Weaver that they constituted their own breed of danger to creatures who clung to old ways the way that sailors cling to sturdy ropes and slippery steering wheels rather than disappearing below deck during storms.
He listened and he did not interrupt and when she fell silent so did he. But the silence crept back in and the radio was turned down low and he shifted in his seat for the first time in ten or twenty miles. Roiling as he was he possessed a stillness easily mistaken for maturity. For rank. Like he was stolid enough to lead their people. It didn't work like that.

"Well I don't know as God had anything to do with it," he said, "but I'm glad you came out this way."

Drew Roscoe[Trying to get into Town:  Wits 3 + Enigmas 1]
Dice: 4 d10 TN8 (5, 7, 8, 8) ( success x 2 )

Francis Lehrer[wits + enigmas]
Dice: 7 d10 TN8 (1, 1, 4, 4, 7, 8, 9) ( fail )

Drew RoscoeHer answer to his comment, after a bout of silence (which she was fine to let them slip into), about God not having much to do with anything, is a chuckle and a bit of a nod.  "I'm glad, too.  I met the Sutherlands and Cutlers-- they have this farm not too far outside of Browntown.  They're good people, believe in hospitality and treating family like family.  It's simple with them, goddamn refreshing if you ask me."

They'd been driving for some time now, and Drew was working up a bit of a buffer against the Rage that swelled and stirred in the cabin of her truck.  She'd chilled enough to roll her window up the rest of the way, getting rid of the crack, and weathered the storm that was Francis's presence brave as can be.  The city was well behind them and they'd been cutting through countryside for a while, passing trees and the occasional farm off on a hill in the distance.  Finally, they found themselves getting off the interstate onto a small road that went directly away from it rather than following along its side.

The night had settled resolutely by now, there was no dusk on the horizon.  What they did find, however, was a solid wall of fog that had settled over the land in front of them.  Drew leaned closer to her steering wheel and squinted at it, muttering: "Curious," to herself, but driving forward anyways.  Weather didn't worry her-- are you kidding?  She grew up driving in the midwest, where all weather was mad and fog was as common in spring and fall as blizards were in the winter.  This, however, was thick enough that you'd have to cut it with a knife.

Immediately upon hitting the fog her headlights rebounded up onto her windshield, making it almost impossible to see where she was going.  She kept her eyes on the white line at the edge of the road, relying on that to keep her out of the ditch, and slowed down considerably.

Five minutes later:
Drew stopped the truck at the side of the road and was leaned back, scowling heavily, looking out her passenger window and half-growling half-grumbling her frustration:  "This makes no sense.  It's a straight shot to the city's road, and a left into town.  The only fucking road out here.  I can't have gone far enough to miss it, but it hasn't shown up... The hell is this?"

Francis LehrerAt some point during the two-hour drive Francis fell asleep. Or nodded off. Or simply closed his eyes while he stopped talking. When they pulled off the main road and ran near-straight into a curtain of fog lost their way despite the straightness and the surety of it he inhaled deep and pulled himself out of the darkness.

The frustration in the kinswoman's voice had him abandoning his slouched posture and sitting up straight. His Rage did not lap at the silence like a flame stoked by fury but a tense sharpness came into his features. Like he could see through the fog and see whatever lurked out there. Like he knew something had to be out there.
"I don't know," he said and he had no seatbelt to undo so when he reached for the handle of the door to let himself out into it she had nothing to slow him down. "Stay here."

Drew RoscoeThe Modi (though Drew wasn't sure of his moon yet, she'd guessed he had to be at least close to that because of the sheer brunt force of his Rage, simmering and toiling beneath the skin, ever present and strong as hell) had nodded off and Drew had allowed him, far more focused on the task at hand.  He'd come to when tires crunched on gravel and Drew had pulled off to the side of the road.  He was alert instantly, looking out the window and scowling like he was sure something was out there while Drew grumbled away all the while.

I don't know.
Stay here.

The door opened and the Garou got out.  Drew watched him for a second, contemplated, then decided to leave the keys in the ignition (though she killed the engine) just in case they needed to get gone and quick and twisted around to reach into the space between the bench seat of her truck and the back of the cab.  A faithful, loaded shotgun was produced, her shoes were kicked off, and she hopped out of the truck not fifteen seconds after Francis had told her not to.

There would be a moment of eye contact between them-- Francis's to see why she had exited, perhaps to challenge her to get back into the truck like she was told, and Drew's to meet him directly in the eye and assure him that no, that certainly wasn't going to happen.  Her nonverbal announcement was punctuated with the cl-clack! of her pumping the shotgun, readying it to fire in case she needed to in a moment's notice.  They'd agreed silently, that fog wasn't normal, something was up.

And, sure enough, up the road was a quiet chitter-chitter-chitter noise coming from the distance-- growing more pronounced as it approached, like a sped-up recording of stilletos on tile floor.  With fog so thick, it was hard to see what was coming at them, but soon enough shapes manifested through the gray blanket covering the land.  Something low and large, close to the ground, scuttling in a very disjointed way that screamed supernatural, and when paired with the clatter-clatter that matched its motions, was sure as hell no dog or boar.  Approaching more slowly behind it was a humanoid figure, skinny and about the size of a ten-year-old human, but with a head at least three times too large to make sense on top of its body.  It carried a sharp object in its hand, some kind of short blade or another.

Malice dripped in the air, the stink of unhealth and poor intent wafted through the fog along with the creatures that approached.  Ill intent, no doubt, and a fight about to take place in the middle of the road.

[Inits!]

Drew Roscoe[Bugman Init + 3 Dex + 2 Wits]
Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (9) ( success x 1 )

Drew Roscoe[The Brain Init + 2 Dex + 3 Wits]
Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (9) ( success x 1 )

Drew Roscoe[Drew Init + 3 Dex + 3 Wits]
Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (5) ( fail )

Francis LehrerIf he had not listened to her in the truck then he would have thought he could tell her what to do. He could not and he would not try. He had to have known that she would grab the shotgun that she'd intimated was in the back and when she climbs out of the cab it means he is not alone that he can keep an eye on her that if he dies out here tonight he'll die protecting this woman who has spent her time with the Nation in service to it. She would not die without recognition but neither did she come out here to die, either.

Neither of them did.

He flexed and unflexed his hands like he was readying himself for a fight and then he stepped out of the way of her shotgun's muzzle and the 6'1" blond-haired young man morphed into a nine-foot-tall silver-furred monster and snarled a challenge at the creatures in front of him.

[inits! +7.]
Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (4) ( fail )

Drew Roscoe[Order:
Bugman
The Brain
Francis
Drew]

Drew Roscoe[Drew Declare:
Shotgun Blast the The Brain (because Garou tend to like to attack the big critters instead)]

Francis Lehrer[1: Claw Bugman!
R1: Bite just for some variety why are you fighting in Crinos Francis you're in the middle of nowhere.]

Drew Roscoe[The Brain Declare:
Cut the Girl!  Cut the Girl! With the Knife! HahaHA!]
[Bugman Declare:
Bite the Wolf!  I don't fear Death!]

Drew Roscoe[Bugman:
Bite-- Dex 3 + Brawl 2, spending 1 WP]

Dice: 5 d10 TN5 (4, 6, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 5 ) [WP]

Drew Roscoe[Bugman:
Damage-- Str 4 + 1 Bite Add + 4 Suxx (Lethal)]

Dice: 9 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 5 )

Francis Lehrer[Stamina + 3 SOAK]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (4, 6, 8, 8, 8, 8, 9) ( success x 6 )

Drew Roscoe[The Brain:
Stabity-- Dex 2 + Melee 2, spending WP]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 7, 9) ( success x 3 ) [WP]

Drew Roscoe[The Brain:
Damage-- Str 2 + 2 Suxx (Lethal)]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 2, 3) ( botch x 2 )

Francis Lehrer[Dex + Brawl + 1 (crinos) for to claw Bugman]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 5, 6, 6, 10) ( success x 2 )

Francis Lehrer[Str + 4 (crinos) + 1 (claw) +1 (staging) for to damage Bugman]
Dice: 9 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 5, 7, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 5 )

Drew Roscoe[Bugman:  Cannot Soak Agg, takes 5 Agg Damage, not stunned]

Drew Roscoe[Drew:
Shoot Brain-- Dex 3 + Firearms 3, -2 diff for point blank]

Dice: 6 d10 TN4 (2, 3, 4, 4, 9, 9) ( success x 4 )

Drew Roscoe[Drew:
Damage: Base Damage for Shotgun 8 + 3 suxx (Lethal)]

Dice: 11 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 4, 4, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 5 )

Drew Roscoe[The Brain:
Soak!]

Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (1, 6) ( fail )

Drew Roscoe[The Brain: Takes 5 Lethal-- is Stunned]

Francis Lehrer[R1: It's bitin' time.]
Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 3, 6, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )

Francis Lehrer[Str + 4 (crinos) + 1 (teeth) +2 (staging) for to damage Bugman.]
Dice: 10 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 4, 4, 4, 6, 7, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 5 )

Drew Roscoe[Bugman cannot soak Agg.  Bugman is dead.]

Drew Roscoe[Keeping Inits:
[Drew Declare:
Pump another round of buckshot in The Brain]

Francis Lehrer[1: Claw the Brain!]

Drew Roscoe[The Brain Declare:
Spending WP to not be Stunned
Mind Blast Francis]
[The Brain:
Mind Blast:  Wits 3 + Alertness 2]



Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 5, 6, 7) ( success x 1 )

Francis Lehrer[Ack! WP!]
Dice: 7 d10 TN8 (5, 5, 8, 8, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 5 )

Francis Lehrer[You mother-fucker. Claw!]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 5, 5, 5, 6, 10) ( success x 2 )

Francis Lehrer[Damage +1]
Dice: 9 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )

Drew Roscoe[The Brain, being Fomori, cannot soak Agg and is deceased.
End of Game.]

Drew RoscoeBattle, as ever, is a quick and violent thing.

The scuttling creature, large and broad and close to the ground, becomes more clear in a flash when it lunges toward the Garou with the same kind of mindlessness that comes with insects-- duty, protecting its nest perhaps, or just told by its Queen (whoever that may be) that anything it crosses needs to go.  Either way, it slices dark brown-red mandibles at the Garou with a practiced ferocity, manages to get a good hunk of flesh in its mouth too.  However, Francis was practiced, and his hide absorbed the impact and only bruises lightly (that would heal immediately) and loses some fur.  He answers by ending the Bugman's existence in two lightening-fast blows.  Snap-slash!  Dead.

The smaller of the two threats charged Drew as she raised her shotgun to meet it.  It was dressed in gray rags, once a sweatsuit but gone to tatters.  Its eyes were small, beady and red, its teeth sharp but small, made for tearing flesh while eating but not for the attack.  Rather, it stabbed frantically at her with a long kitchen knife.  Thankfully, though, the blade glanced off her shoulder with the flat side, not so much as slicing a seam on her pretty blouse on the way.  Drew responded with a resounding blam! that was accompanied by a flash of light from the muzzle of her shotgun, and the little monster with the bulbous head flew back onto the pavement.

Drew pumped her shotgun again, and rather than passing out (as it should have), the Creature with the Giant Brain scuttled around on the ground and looked fretfully (yet with glaring intent) at the Crinos that was bearing down on it.  Francis felt something nudge inside his mind, felt the echoing warning of nerve-pain flare in his spine for a millisecond, but it was unable to take root and Francis ended the wretch's life.

Quiet followed the battle.  There were no others in the fog, not immediately at least.

Francis LehrerThey fight as though they were shooing away insects but when one is so skilled and so assured one tends to forget how readily Death comes to claim what he considers his due. A jammed weapon or a stronger foe would have spelled their end out here in the fog but Drew near-eviscerated the creature with the glistening eyes and the glistening teeth and the glistening knife and her passenger who had been asleep mere minutes ago took down the two in a matter of seconds.

It was not enough time to lose his breath but a rush of reaction leaves the taste of metal in the mouths of those with functioning adrenal glands and when Francis slid back into his human skin his clothing remained intact but he wore the blood of the Wretched on his left hand and splattered across his mouth. He turned from the truck to spit red into the bushes and swiped his hand across his beard to clear the blood from his face. More than once was not enough to clean the short battle from his body but his Rage had ebbed and when he turned back to Drew his eyes swept her form not out of lechery.

That creature had come at her with a knife and he trusted her to keep herself beyond harm. Though gore flecks her from the close proximity of her gun's blast none of it is hers.

"Nice fucking shot," he said with the same awe that stained his gaze when she spoke at a length beyond her years earlier. Another pass at the blood on his mouth made it worse. He frowned. "You alright?"

Drew RoscoeDrew'd had her shotgun ready to send another blast of buckshot into the body of the thing that had tried to stab her, but she dropped her hand quickly away from the trigger and let the weight of the weapon that had been relying on it fall forward, so the barrel was pointed at the ground now.  This was when the wall of silver-gray fur had flashed in front of her, bore down upon the littler of the two monsters, and finished it off.
Soon enough the Wolf-Beast returned to the man that was her passenger, but with blood on his hand and mouth.  He spat and wiped his face, and Drew looked down at the blood splattered on her white-cream blouse and sighed.  She should know better than to ever wear white by now.  With a small shake of her head, she reached up and wiped the splatters of black-red blood off her face, hand and arm shaking as she did so-- not from shock or fear, but from adrenaline that still slammed through her veins.

Nice fucking shot, he compliments, and Drew answered with a wild, slightly unhinged grin.  "Thanks."  He asks if she's alright, and she glanced to her left shoulder, the one the knife had glanced off of.  She'd anticipated the bite of cold metal, but she must have been graced that night because there wasn't even a cut to be found on her.  "I'm fine."

The shotgun is lifted, shouldered for now, and she shivered and sniffed against the cold of the wet fog in the autumn night air and squinted through the fog up the highway.  After a long moment of thought, she said: "Well, I have no idea what this is, or how those guys got so close to the town.  Something big must be happening, but I think we're stuck."  There's a beat, then another sniff before she continues.  "Think we should get those things off the road?  Just in case?"

Francis Lehrer"Yeah," he said.

He could have stacked the corpses like cords of wood and cart them off the path, set them into a pile and dispose of them on his own. Drew knew now the power in his body and the speed with which he threw himself into battle. If she could not discern his auspice from the way he walked down the city street like he was walking out of a fable about a man possessed of a terrible and ancient anger she certainly knew now. She did not know what the Nation called him or how long he had known of what he was whether he was slow in accepting it or held out his arms to it like he was welcoming an old friend. It did not matter.

It did not matter and he did not dispose of the bodies on his own. The air is too humid and the fog too thick to build a quick and careless fire but they could build a fire all the same. It would take patience but they could not venture further into the fog without risking losing their way or worse.

In the end he gave up trying to use his hand to clean his face and when the bodies were disposed of he found the grass at the side of the road contained enough dew to wet his palms and he knelt in the grass to rinse the blood. He spat once more and stayed crouched down a moment listening to the fog and the silence in the fog. None of the birds or rodents or insects would chirp too close to him for he felt like a menace in their midst.

But he heard no more of the Wretched either.

"Think you're right," he said as he unfolded himself from the ground and stood at his full human height. "Think we're stuck here tonight."

Drew RoscoeDrew would, of course, help to move the bodies.  She wasn't above manual labor, not in the least, and clothes could be replaced (this blouse would have to go already anyways).  So she's not worried about getting the cuffs of her pants wet in the grass that dipped into the shallow ditch that hugged the side of the road and wasn't worried about getting even more blood and mire on her when she helped Francis to drag the bodies out of the road and into the tall grasses.  She didn't complain about gravel or cold grass on her feet, but did shiver some when she moved from where they put the bodies to return to her truck.  She was shivering some at this point, but dutifully none-the-less took a gallon of bleach from the back of her truck and drowned the blood stains on the pavement.  Just to be safe.

With that said and done, with Francis returning to his feet, back straight and knees no longer bending, face cleaned with wet from the grasses, the pair of Fenrir were left looking at each other-- cautious, unsure, uncomfortable with the fact that they were stranded because of disorientation and a Fog that kept them lost.  The Kinfolk held her palms to her bare upper arms and rubbed warmth back into them.  There's a pause, then she nodded her head to the truck.

"I've got a good blanket in there.  We can camp out in the truck bed and keep watch in case something else comes at us.  Until then, we wait for this to lift.  It has to, this can't stick around for very long.  Wasn't here when I left, that's for damn sure."  There's a pause, like a thought occurs to her, but she explains it away with a shake of her head.  "I'd say you might wanna look for others, try and find the town, I think you'd probably handle yourself just fine out there, but truth be told I only keep so many shells with me..."

Francis LehrerHe unbuttoned his shirt starting with the cuffs to get them over his wrists and then the small white plastic discs running an obedient line up the midline of the thing. The action was perfunctory and did not begin until he saw her rubbing her arms to banish the goose pimples beating back the airish night. If she protested he did not hear it but held out the flannel until she took it. He wore no cologne and what soap he used boasted no dyes and the material soaked up the warmth of his torso and his Rage. It would do better than a blanket until they could get back into the truck.

Though the night was cold enough to kill the weak and the infirm standing in a white undershirt he did not shiver. He did not feel it and he did not complain. He waited for her to take the flannel and then he said calm despite the persistence of his Rage, "I ain't leaving you out here. Sun'll be up soon."

Keys came out of the ignition for the life of the battery and the bed of the truck served as sturdy a bed as either could have hoped for. Dew would cover everything thicker and colder than it did now and they only just met but they were Family. She did what she could when she could but she was small and shivering in her work blouse.

Though he closed his eyes to rest he never fell into a slumber deep enough to lose track of the night and he laid beneath the blanket and his Rage was enough to ward off the night's teeth. They stayed in the truck through the night and they were not harmed.

No birds sang when the sun came but the fog lifted eventually. Everything lifts eventually.