I've Got A House [Yiorgie]

Drew Roscoe
Drew had gotten a phone call somewhere in the mid-morning from an unfamiliar number, with an unfamiliar voice at the end.  He said his name was Yiorgie, and that he'd gotten her information from.. well, it wasn't important.  What mattered was that he'd been referred to her.  He was a Garou, and in need of some assistance in the way of 'human affairs'.  You know, money.  He had some funds that need to be invested and/or kept safe, he was told she worked for a bank, and that she could help.

He didn't quite know what she looked like, but from the sound of her voice she was a younger woman, probably all brightness and sunshine from the chipper tone in which she spoke.  She'd advised, 'of course!' and asked where would be best to meet.  They decided on the heart of the city, it was easiest to melt away into a crowd when those crowds were as large as they were there.  She knew of a hot-dog cart, she told him which corner to meet her at, and advised that she would be there in the evening, at about eight-thirty or so.  She'd meet him from work.

It was a date.


---------------


Sure enough, when Yiorgie found the intersection that Drew had advised him of, he'd find her there.  The woman was petite, dressed nicely in a hip-length brown winter jacket and a pair of dark wash jeans tucked into shin-high boots.  She wore nothing on her head, it was warm enough that the jacket would do just fine, and was just turning away from the hotdog vendor with a hot dog in each hand.

She wasn't recognizable because she'd told him what she looked like.  She'd merely stated that she would find him, and he her.  It was easier to understand in person-- she could sense his Rage, that prickling of intuition and familiarity across the skin of her chest and neck.  He, in turn, could find her as a flickering candle in the wind among the thinning crowd of the weekday night.  She had breeding.  Not much, but enough to set her apart from the rest of humanity.  It spoke of blood caked to iron and frozen into steel-gray fur.  It howled of Fenris.

She paused to hover several feet away from the cart, out of the vendor's small line, and looked up the sidewalk in Yiorgie's direction, hunting for a face and body to match the encroaching sense of death/wild/family that came from that way.


Yiorgie AlexanderThe ability to adapt is any living creature's greatest tool.  Humans evolved to the point to where they needed shelter, so they hid in caves, and even made makeshift homes.  They needed to hunt their food, so they created spears, and bows and arrows.  They needed to defend themselves, so they created weapons.  With their kills, they created clothing, tools, even jewelry.  They needed better tools, so they harnessed bronze.  Other humans needed to defend themselves better, so they made armor.  Bronze wasn't cutting it anymore, so they harnessed iron... then steel.  Then the humans needed to kill vast amounts of other humans... so they created bombs...

Adapting to the city would be easy for Yiorgie.  He has lived in, and fought in cities most of his life.  His heart still cries out for the wilds, though.  The wild places made of steel and concrete just don't do it for him like those made of wood, moss and grass.  But living in a city required money.  With his plans for the Vanguard on the horizon, he would need more money.  Either that, or he needed to ensure that his current resources were steady.  That required knowledge of math and money: skills Yiorgie simply didn't have.  Besides, going into a bank and writing a check is potentially dangerous.  What bank teller would actually serve him, anyway?

The Sept was kind enough to direct him to someone who could help him in this regard.  After calling the girl (and getting a questionable rendezvous point), Yiorgie set out into the thick of the city to find her.  When he came upon the hot-dog cart, he saw the girl in question.

The Ahroun attracted and repelled attention in all the worst ways.  In the human world, Rage is the worst enemy of the Garou.  People gave him a wide berth, and made startled noises when they saw him.  Others put their heads down and walked right past him, hoping that he did not notice them.  He seemed like a nondescript kind of person in his jeans and hoodie.  He had no real identifying markers, save for the terrible scars on his body.  While his face was slightly obscured from a hood, it didn't hide everything.  He had many superficial scars all over his face and neck.  While many seemed characteristic of slashes and gouges, the most obvious were the long streak marks that started near the center of his face, and went outward, as if something had blown up near his face, and the shrapnel cut his skin up.  Whatever good looks this man may have had, they were all but ruined now.  He did not seem to be bothered by that, either.

"You're Drew?" Yiorgie asked.  His eyes were alight.  Rage and fury were his friends.  He was a menacing figure, a true predator.

"I'm Yiorgie... " he said.  His lips moved slightly, as if to smile.  He didn't quite make it.  It was much more pleasant than the scowl he had been wearing, after walking among so many humans.


Drew RoscoeBig brown eyes hunted, the eyebrows above them furrowed just a touch with focus.  She was hunting.  She knew he was there, or nearby, could feel it.  It didn't take long to pick up on the pocket in the crowd, no matter how meager it was.  The man in jeans and a hoodie had a wide circle of berth about him.  He wore his hood up, he walked with the same confident stride of a predator that Drew had learned to pick up on.  She could see it in how a Garou's shoulders hips and feet all worked together, no matter how they may hunch their heads and cover their faces to avoid gaining attention.

When Yiorgie came near enough to inquire her name, she was already watching him approach, smiling brightly (and an infectious smile it is, all pearly teeth and nude lips and lively eyes).  He gave his name, and she answered by holding out a hot dog with ketchup, mustard, relish and onions on it.  The other had the same toppings, she figured them universally acceptable.

"I am.  Good to meet you."  She took a moment and a half to look up the foot-plus distance between their faces and study his.  Dominantly, the scars that marred his flesh and the structure that lay under such cosmetic blemishes.  "Warrior, then."  She guessed, but it sounded like an assumption more than a question.  "Good to know.  I've been hearing that that's what we need.  Should we walk?"  Her smile wasn't as domineering as it initially seemed, had subdued into something closed-lipped that was formed into the very shape of her rounded face rather than worn as a conscious expression.  She gestured with the hot dog she planned to keep for herself to indicate the direction they should go.

Better to walk and talk, if you asked her.  Not as easy for eavesdroppers to happen by that way.


Yiorgie AlexanderYiorgie's breeding was powerful, to say the least.  Anyone who knew to look for the features could see.  His was the blood of Kings, of the Tribe That Leads.  Despite the purity of his blood, the man was not dressed well.  He didn't smell very fresh, either.  in truth, the Silver Fang looked more like a Bone Gnawer than one of his own Tribe.  When he reached out and took the offered hot dog, he tore into it with great hunger, and little refinement.  He seemed pleased, and grateful for the meal.  It was not that he was malnourished, or even hungry.  He was simply happy to accept someone's hospitality.  To refuse such was considered an insult.  Even he knew that much.

"Did my striking good looks give it away?" he asked, smirking as he chomped away at his hot dog.

"This city needs a lot of things.  I can tell you this much: it requires a different kind of warrior," he said.  He was not very precise in his description.  To truly describe it to her, they would need privacy.  There were too many prying eyes and ears in this town.  It was one of the most technologically secure places in all the world.  It is the seat of both law and corruption.  This city is no place for a primal creature like a Garou.

"I was told you could help me out with a few things.  The first thing I need is a roof for a night or two until I can get myself set up.  The second is some financial help.  I've got some money to my name, and I've got it in too many places," he said, walking along with her.

"It's good to meet you too," he said, turning his head to give her a once-over.  He had to remember his manners.


Drew RoscoeDrew looked pleased that he was so quick to accept the food she offered.  The young woman was built to become a forty-something house mother.  It was easy to see her twenty years in the future, a few kids out of the house, several still there with her, plumper and more weathered, but with no less spirit.  She was the sort that thrived on the well-being of others, and that was evidenced for just a moment in the satisfied contentment that showed on her face before they were walking.

"Well, that's part of it," was her answer to his quip about his striking good looks.

He was straight to the point, and she appreciated that.  He explained up front what he needed-- a place to stay, someone to help him with resources that he had spread out too thinly, that needed to be consolidated, set someplace that he could access it.  She was pretty sure she could help it to grow, too, if he wanted.
His explanation of what he'd come to her for was summed up with a pause, a glance her way, an up-and-down, and a 'it's good to meet you'.  She had been quietly listening as they walked, the low square heels on her boots thumping dully on the pavement in time-and-a-half with his steps (his legs were longer, she had to walk faster to maintain pace).

"It's good to meet you too, Yiorgie.  Whoever sent you my way sent you to the right place."  She took a bite of her hot dog (the third bite now), chewed, and then continued.  "I've got a house about two and a half or so hours out from the city.  There's a few spare rooms, no kids or housemates or pets or anyone for you to worry about stirring up when you crash there.

"I do technical support for the Bank of America, but I'm in good with a lot of the people here at the main office.  I can help, if you can get me all of the information about where your money is currently stashed away."  Up close, it's easier to note certain things.  She didn't have scars anyplace visible.  She walked beside him comfortably, not put off in the least by the Rage that emanated from him and set even other Kinfolk on edge.  She smelled of other people-- an office environment, someone else's cologne or perfume from a hug.  She used a vaguely floral hairspray to hold the loose but neat curls in her hair.  Her make-up was subtle, but well done.

She didn't smell of other wolves, if he was paying that much mind he could tell.  She wasn't joking when she said that he didn't need to worry about stirring anyone or anything up in her house if he needed to bunk there.
"Well," she added after a moment, paused at an intersection waiting for the light to change so they could cross, "were you wanting that bed tonight?  Did you need to gather things up?"  Drew, the ever-willing to help.


Yiorgie Alexander"Yeah, a bed would be nice.  It has been... a long time since I've indulged in a little comfort.  A shower would be nice, too," he said.

It didn't take him long to finish his hot dog.  He ate like many of his ravenous wolf-born kin.  It was messy, and wholly without refinement.  The food itself is little more than hammered guts put through a tube, but it sufficed.  At least it wasn't that tainted hammered shit from O'Tolley's.   A hot dog with all the trimmings was like a gourmet meal, especially in the city.  Yeah, he could go to any number of fancy restaurants... but who would serve him?  Also, that was a waste of resources.  The war effort didn't need luxury.

"Two and a half hours?  That's a hell of a long way from the front," he said.  He didn't seem put off by the number, though.  Having some seclusion is good for the Garou.  Having a place to retreat to is even better.  He would keep it in mind.

"You must make a decent living working for the Bank of America.  Or... y'know... not, depending on how you look at it," he said, smirking just slightly.  He had heard enough about the financial trouble the United States had gotten itself into.  He personally did not care.  Society would break down sooner or later.  It wouldn't matter after the Final Battle begun.  The Apocalypse was already here, in his mind.

"I am grateful for all of this, Drew.  What do I owe you?" he asked.  He did not seem to be put off by the idea of owing Kinfolk.


Drew RoscoeA nod of understanding was given in a short bob of the Kinfolk's chin, and she continued to chew away at her hot dog while Yiorgie asked his share of questions-- that far away from the city, huh?  You must make a decent living.  What do I owe you?

Drew still had food in her mouth when he'd asked that last question, and was shaking her head and waving her hand before she had a chance to swallow and speak.  Once the food had gone from mouth to throat to belly she licked a bit of relish from the corner of her mouth and answered:

"Nothing just yet.  I might call on you for a favor somewhere down the line, but I can't immediately think of anything.  I know you're not Family--" yes, stated with a capitol F-- "but you're a cousin and that's close enough.  I don't think of this as me selling room and board.  I just look at it as me doing my part.  Can't exactly contribue in the way you guys do, after all."  She concluded that with a smile and a wink.

The light switched, and her boots clunk-clunked from cement to asphalt as she crossed the street.  She had some kind of destination in mind, it seemed.  She walked with direction rather than meandering.  With her feet on autopilot in the way they were, she was probably headed to wherever she was used to parking her car.

"It is a ways away.  I don't need to come into the city too much, a lot of my work I can do from home.  I just swing by once a week, sometimes more sometimes less, for meetings and appearances and all that."  The now empty hot dog carton was deposited in a public trashcan that they walked past, and her hands were dusted on the sides of her coat before going into her pockets.  "I make enough to be comfortable.  When you're just supporting yourself that doesn't take as much as you'd think."


Yiorgie Alexander"Oh, I've seen cousins like you take a beating and keep on.  There was even a group back on the last front I fought on called the War Dogs.  Damned tough company, they were," he said.  He dropped his trash in the bin just behind her.

"I pay my debts, Drew.  If it is as simple, or complicated as a favor, I'll see it done," he said, very serious for such a relaxed situation.  The Ahroun seemed to carry with him a certain sense of seriousness, and especially of duty.  He knew what was required of him.  He was especially glad to know that Drew knew what was required of her.

"You're our most valuable resource, you know.  Without people like you, we would be dead in the water," he said, nodding his head.  He looked around the city as if it was some kind of bogeyman.  In truth, it was exactly that.  There is something about the city, any city, that is hostile towards the Garou, and of other wild creatures.  The Bone Gnawers and the Glass Walkers may make their way through the city, but they probably know best that the city does not work in their favor.

"I understand.  But... enough about this.  Tell me about yourself.  I haven't met many of your people since I got here.  Few and far between... and likely far less willing to help as you..." he said.


Drew RoscoeSo, tell us a little about yourself.

Drew chuckled some and nodded once more.  She was either in a particularly pleasant mood tonight, or this had to be some kind of a front that she put up that she was especially well practiced at.  Well practiced to the point that it didn't seem like a front.  Rather, everything about her, all of the smiles, the questions, the statements... all of them came across as simple and genuine both.  If this was no act, then the world had yet to break her.  That was either a testament to her heritage, or simply a matter of time.

"Well," she started, with a brief and cautious glance from side to side to ensure that people were letting them be and paying them little mind (and that seemed to be the case).  "I'm from Chicago.  Moved out here because nobody seemed to be left that needed my help anymore.  I'm useless sitting on my hands, so I came out here-- heard talk from my kin that there were deep rumblings in this city and the hills to the south to boot.
"Browntown is the town I live just outside of.  Apparently it's, like, at least forty percent populated by folks like us.  There's an established council out there, just like there is here in the city.  Different lands, different folks, though."  She'd gotten off topic from telling him about herself and had instead explained to him the world that he'd introduced himself to in coming to the country's capital.

She led him straight up the sidewalk, then took a turn to cut down a narrow driveway that led to what was once a vacant lot and is now instead a three-story parking garage.  She kept close to the wall of the brick building that framed it, avoiding the potential of unexpected traffic.

"I had a mate.  He passed about two years ago.  Now this is pretty much what I do-- offer what help I can give where I can give it.  Not much else for me to do beyond that.  I got so used to having to fight the monsters off my doorstep back home that I'm almost stir crazy with the lack of action out here.  Weird how that works, huh?  We strive for peace, then when we find it we don't know what to do with ourselves."


Yiorgie AlexanderYiorgie wasn't fooled.  Drew might put on a friendly face, but he knew his people better than most.  To be Kinfolk who works in the name of the Garou means you live a lonely life.  You are constantly looking after people who are suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.  You are constantly caring for people who you know could die a few minutes after they walk out your door.  Those poor Kinfolk who take Garou mates have it the worst, especially if they mated for love.  They are constantly alone, waiting for a partner who may not come back.  Even if they do come back, the interaction can be dangerous.  Even in the throws of passion, the Garou can be a danger to their mates.  Plenty of Kinfolk have died while havin sex.  Rage is stoked by powerful emotions... including love.

"Isn't that always the case?  If there isn't rumbling under your feet, then it is certainly rumbling somewhere," he said, both humorously, and dead serious.

"Browntown?  I know the place.  I've met some of our people there, though I have yet to introduce myself to the community there," he said.  He needed to visit the rural Caern.  His service to the Awakening was coming to an end soon.  He would need to make himself known to the Garou of the surrounding countryside.  He would need to find Garou for The Vanguard, as well.

"It's not weird at all.  I can only hope that we do our job well enough that we become obsolete," he said with a melancholy-laden tone in his voice.

"It's... noble... what you're doing, you know.  I'm glad I found someone to help me out."


Charlotte GrayWashington is a strange sort of American city.  The strangest: every street and cross-street downtown was planned, laid out in radial harmony - with its wide, sweeping avenues and classical buildings, all opening up from the Capitol building at the center.

The streets are quiet just now.  Not deserted, not precisely - so much as suspended.  The Capitol Building is brilliantly lit and packed with legislators and dignitaries.  The lobbyists and minor officials, Hill staffers and journalists, bloggers and gossip mongers, socialites and think-tank interns, and on and on and on are all tucked away in apartments and walk-ups and diners and bars watching the state of the union.  And so: traffic is suspended for an hour or two, as the president speaks and cable news anchors listen and fact-checkers haunt wikipedia and spin doctors work feverishly to find something new, or at least shocking, or remotely interesting, to say about the theater of it.

--

Just a few tourists are still out, now.  The ever-present homeless population, the protesters keeping vigil outside this agency or that embassy.  The doormen huddling beneath the awnings of the hotels and luxury condo developments, the valets at their podiums by the city's finest restaurants.

Lights from a passing car sweep over them.  Yiorgie's shadow dwarfs Drew.  Engulfs her, looming over her slight form in parti-colored patterns as the car sweeps by.  Slows to avoid collision as Drew and Yiorgie turn the corner to a narrower driveway.  The driver flicks off the brights that cast them in such stark white light.
There's no real engine noise other than a low hum, the trademark of a hybrid.  An impression of a pale forehead and cheek pressed against the cool glass, and no more than that.  The car hesitates,

[He glances at her profile; her stare at the strangers both startled and intent.  She feels the look and cuts him a mulish one back.  Aren't we late already?]

then begins to accelerate again.  Strangers passing in the night.  Hardly to be noticed at all.


Drew Roscoe"I don't think anyone's called this noble before."  Drew was fishing about in her jacket pockets again.  What she pulled free was a set of keys on a chain-- car keys and remote, house key, some other key (shed, perhaps?), and a little dark gray coin with the Get of Fenris glyph etched into it, and 'Long Shot' on the other side.  Not that he'd see this, but she glanced down for a second with the charm between her forefinger and thumb before shifting her attention back forward to the parking garage they were entering.

She didn't look about cautiously, didn't seem all too concerned about being ambushed from the shadows.  And why should she?  She had one of the more monstrous things that the world could throw at her right at her side, with something to gain from her and therefore no reason to do anything but defend her.  It was with that kind of assurance and confidence that she walked with no break in pace into the dark of the garage, lit only seldomly by flickering burnt-orange lights, tired from neglect and cold.

"I've been called any number of things before.  Hell, had my house called a brothel once.  But..."  She shrugged, and flashed a grin.  "Different management out here, you could say.  So long as I'm not stirring the pot nobody pays much mind."

There's a brief pause, then her tone shifts.  It's lower, softer spoken so that her voice didn't echo off the concrete walls and ceiling surrounding them.  The words aren't intimate, but they are only for their ears.
"I'm sure you know, but I feel it's only proper for a real introduction.  I'm Drew Roscoe.  I've got my own Name-- Long Shot.  Proud of it.  I'm Kin to the Get of Fenris, and I was mated to the late War-Handed, who was a Full-Moon of the Get of Fenris as well.  I can guess your moon, but not much else about you, Yiorgie."

-----------------------------------


Drew RoscoeThe drive from Washington D.C. to Browntown, Virginia is a long one.  It's not unbearable, not enough to be called a 'road trip', but it is still a two-and-a-half hour journey, even with Drew keeping a steady 75 miles per hour (once outside of city limits, of course) along the highway.  She had unlocked a big Dodge Ram pick-up truck painted cherry-black with a clean white shell covering the bed back in the parking garage.  When they climbed in to single bench of the truck, the charitable little Kinfolk had to shuffle a couple of folders and a laptop carrying case off the passenger seat and tuck them back behind the seat.  There they joined a very practical looking shotgun for the drive home.

Drew kept the music on the quieter side of audible, on some radio station that played easily forgetable tunes that everyone had heard at least once before.  If conversation occurred, it did so naturally.  She didn't force words to fill any lapses in silence that may happen.  If the Silver Fang happened to nod off at any point, she'd do nothing to rouse him until they reached their destination.

When the truck finally slowed, it was on a simple two-lane highway that wound out through the countryside in what seemed to be virtually the middle of nowhere.  They'd passed through Browntown to get there, and the town was really just that-- a blip of civilization in the middle of the wilds.  The wheel cranked, and the truck turned onto a short gravel driveway immediately off the road.

"Well, here's home," Drew announce.

Home was modest.  It was a cute little bungalow, a one-story affair that was white with green shutters.  The snow from the last snowfall had melted away, save for a few piles  hugging the edges of the driveway.  There were no other vehicles, and a shed at the end of the driveway, just diagonal to the back corner of the house.
There was no livestock, no fences, no pets.  There were no lights on in the window, no sign of life save the birds in the bare tree branches behind the house.  Aside from the Kin and the Wolf, the place was as good as vacant.


Yiorgie AlexanderYiorgie stayed awake for the duration of the trip to Drew's home, but he was strangely quiet.  The Silver Fang seemed to be caught up in some kind of thought or emotion.  His expression was quiet blank at first, but then it turned somewhat melancholy, even dark.  It was as if his mind turned to darker places, and bitter memories.  He seemed to fight off the urge to succumb to some kind of sadness, and he succeeded.  It was as if he mentally reminded himself that monsters and ghosts weren't real.  After a while, he seemed to calm down, and listen to the music.  After a while, he made a few comments about DC, or asked about the house they were going to.  But aside from that, he was strangely quiet.

Arriving at her home, Yiorgie's melancholy returned.  He looked at the fence, the wood of the house.  He even walked over and touched the wood with his hand.  The fence was obviously new to him, judging by the distasteful expression on his face.

"It's nice.  It reminds me of a place my pack and I used to live in when we were in Colorado," he said.
"Thanks for bringing me here," he said.  His expression was still rather low, but he didn't speak of his feelings.

"So, this is a half-way house for Garou?" he asked.  He was not going to ask why people said that it was like a brothel.  He could gather that for himself, though he would not speak on the issue.

"Please, tell me there is a bath, or shower, or something..." he said, with hope in his timbre.


Drew RoscoeEnough time was taken gathering things up from the cab of the truck that Yiorgie had his chance to get a feel for the property.  There was a small picket fence lining the front of the yard and some of the driveway, but the entire yard was not fenced.  It opened to the field on the opposite side of the house from the driveway.  The backyard was unfenced as well, and simply ended where the trees of the forest began.

Drew tugged the strap for her laptop case over her shoulder and moved up the sidewalk to the front porch.  She paused for a second behind Yiorgie, observing how he felt the house, as though assuring himself of how solid it was, how suitable it would be to rest in.  She had let him be with his melancholy, she understood that they all had their own histories.  She wouldn't bother him when he was quiet and distant if he didn't ask questions if he happened to hear sadness from her bedroom in the wee hours of the night.

"Not a half-way house necessarily.  This is my home, but I did specifically choose this property because I could house people who need a place to rest.  One day when I've got a family started I'll stop opening my doors like this, but until then it'd be downright selfish of me not to."

Keys jangled their way out of her coat pocket, and she moved on past and up the front steps onto the porch.  The front porch was covered, and she had a pair of chairs with a table between them, all wood and all painted the same muted green color, something light but mild, pleasant to the eye.  She worked her key in a pair of locks and chuckled some.

"Of course there's a bathtub.  There's a shower head in there too if you prefer that, but I figure after a hard fight or a long travel a good soak in the bath could do a body good."  The locks clacked clear, and Drew opened the door and stepped inside, holding it open for the Silver Fang to follow behind her and turning the lights on as she entered.


Yiorgie Alexander"I've had plenty of both... " he said.  "I ran to DC from Pittsburgh," he said with a chuckle.  Anyone who knew the geography of the United States would know that trek was quite a hike.  In a car it would take about five hours or so.  On foot, it would take at least a few days.

"Of course, I was on four legs, and I didn't have to deal with traffic, both humans, and vehicular," he said.  Judging by the man's physique alone, Yiorgie was a believer in hard lessons.  His body was obviously scarred.  His physique was trim, but still large and fit.  If he had the choice, he would rather run than take a car somewhere.

"You learn more when you interact.  When you're in a car, you... disconnect.  You put a barrier between you and the world.  Running was a much better trip than taking a car, or a plane... and much safer for humanity," he said.  He knew the strength of his Rage.  Although he had no love for humanity, he didn't hate it, either.  Fighting it needlessly would only strengthen the Wyrm's grip on the world.

"So... you got the money for this place on your own?  Did you inherit it from family?" he asked.  She had Garou ancestors, after all.  It was not uncommon for them to leave money behind.

Yiorgie was already looking for the shower.

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