Let’s Jam!

[Kora] “You’ve seen the mucus glands of a moose, have you?” Kora returns, casting her packmate a – deeply doubtful look – as she pushes her winter gear into the booth and folds herself in after it. There’s a certain ease to the motion, though she does not bend perhaps as deeply as she ones might, and her center of gravity has already started to change.

“Don’t tell me your grandpappy raises them on the farm,” she finishes with a doubtful expression that would be a smirk on someone else’s face. There’s something lighter though, about the expression, that keeps the darkest expression of irony at bay. ” – because that I won’t believe.”

The street outside is dark and the windows here are tinted. It’s such a cold night, with swirls of flurries fallen from a dull orange, that the cold leaches through the insulated windows, making these booths chilled and rather less popular with the patrons. She likes the view, though, the comfort of it. Her packmate can watch the entrance, and she can watch the street. She glances out, now, dark eyes lilting over their reflections to the street beyond before looking back at Roman. Quietly, a furrow of speculation between her pale brows.

“Heard from Sparrow, lately?” Her eyes remain fixed on the younger Garou’s face with the question, quick and watchful and sure.

[Bridget Geroux] [Cha+Perf + PB 3]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 3, 3, 5, 5, 5, 7, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Roman Turner] “Raised Buffalo too. Steaks are pretty good if it’s a fresh slaughter and not over cooked.”

He got situated and started fiddling with the salt shaker while looking all over the place like he’d never seen such a place. Kora asked about Sparrow and for a split second something akin to pain flicked in those faded denim eyes of his.

“No, I guess she’s busy or something.”

[Izzy Montoya] Not many people would figure Detective Montoya for a music fan – let alone for Blues. Or Jazz. Or anything other than head banging screaming metal. Fact is, she has a healthy appreciation for all things music. So she’s hear tonight, already in a booth, not far from where Kora and Roman decide to sit.

She’s in the shadows of a booth, though it is certain that won’t hide her for long, as Kora has the uncanny ability to find her in any crowd. She has a beer in front of her, though she has yet to order anything to eat. Her hair is down, her dress business casual, as usual. Even off duty, she looks to be on alert.

She watches as Roman and Kora take their seat, and should they turn this direction, lifts her beer slightly in hello, before tipping it back to drink deeply of the icy cool liquid. Sometimes this is as good as it gets. sometimes that’s all she needs.

[Kristiana Coleman] The blond kin walks in dressed to impress in a shortish skirt and soft lightweight sweater. Maybe not exactly appropriate for the venue, but it’s not club wear. Her hair is pulled back with clips at the sides, and she strides in after being carded and once again successfully passing. Phone out, she texts Bridget rather than spend the time and energy to look for her.

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon takes the time to look them both Over. First there is Bridget, and his eyes slip all the way down and then back up before meeting her eyes.”I just got your call, sorry I am late.”He says before turning his head in the direction of Patrick. His smile grew and he nodded his head.”You like? I thought it’d be nice to dress up a little, you know look nice and pretty?”He asks as he holds out his arms and spins a little for Patrick. When he turns back around he looks in the direction of Bridget.

“I think I saw Kora and Roman but not too sure… I mean I was just passing through. Not sure who else might be on their way.”He says this with a nod of his head and a tiny little grin.”So am I umm… Too late? You already done?”He asks before glancing in the direction of the minibar.”I suppose I should get myself a drink.”He says.”I’ll umm… Be right back.”He says excusing himself for just a moment to wander past and grab himself a drink.

[Bridget Geroux] Downstairs, the next band finally starts in. They make a slow start, but maybe it will pick up. Some of the more inebriated patrons attempt to dance. The smell of fried southern food is mouth-watering. Soon enough, the waitress will return with their appetizer and ketchup.

Upstairs in the lounge, Simon finds the kinfolk and Galliard drinking bourbon and making small talk. She slowly sips at the bourbon, sets the glass on the table, and picks up her harmonica. The metal instrument gets polished briefly while the kinswoman looks off.

“I’m not going to even ask what you mean by Howard’s porn stash. So no, I haven’t seen it. He’s been acting weird lately, and I kinda lost my temper and said some shit that Hunter had to kinda kick my ass for. Figuratively. I deserved it. But anyway, I’ve been keeping myself busy working.”

She blinks a few times at her own rambling. Simon’s attire is… well, it gets quite the appreciative look from Bridget. She shifts a bit in her seat as she sits there. Bridget is a performer, but she doesn’t like to hear herself talk, not ramble on like this. The Canadian lifts the harmonica to her mouth and starts to play, following that same urge of movement as before.

Bridget starts to play a rowdy tune, George Thorogood’s Madison Blues. It’s quite the rendition, considering it was made for electric guitar. She leans into Patrick at some point, gesturing with her eyes at his guitar.

[Ivers] By the time he remembers he was supposed to be somewhere tonight he’s already had most of a pitcher of beer and Christ knows how many doses of drugs not worth mentioning in polite company; there’s no telling what reminded him, after all of that, but he looked at a clock or heard a song on the jukebox or maybe just took the world’s most head-clearing piss, but at some point he said to himself, “SHIT!” and then hauled his skinny ass out of wherever he was and started over to Buddy Guy’s.

Whereupon he realized that American assholes card for entrance into places like this.
Whereupon again he realized that breaking and entering isn’t terribly difficult.

Though he did not come in the front door like the rest of the world, Howard stumbles out of the bathroom as though he has been in there for some time, a curly-haired twenty-something Rip Van Winkle. Stumbling is never indicative of intoxication for him, being as he walks like a sloppy drunk even when he hasn’t touched a drop all day, and he looks worse than he smells; he does not reek, though he looks as though he does. He wears probably the worst outfit anyone has seen him in yet: black Converse sneakers, seafoam green twill pants, a bright orange t-shirt likely older than he is advertising Reese’s peanut butter cups, a black-and-blue scarf, and a black leather jacket. It goes without saying his hair is a mess, and his sunglasses are in place.

Patrick was late for undisclosed reasons; Howard’s lip is split.

He stands still a moment, looking around as though he’s attempting to figure out where the fuck he is, where the fuck he’s supposed to be. There are Fenrir everywhere, an underdressed Fang kinswoman nearby, and Howard starts aimlessly wandering in the blind hope he’ll find Patrick before he gets into another fight.

[Kora] “No way,” Kora returns, with a snort of disbelief. “There’s no way you raised moose. I’m pretty sure they’re like caribou, you know? Or reindeer in Lappland. They need cold weather to live, yeah? They’re adapted to it.” At the end of it, she offers Roman the slow, brief curl of a half-smile and drops her voice by a good ten decibels, finishing softly, ” – like Fenrir.”

The waitress has returned by now, with their drinks and the huge basket full of appetizers – chicken wings and fried oysters, fried okra and fried peas, fried pickles and fried twinkies.

Well, maybe not the twinkies.
Or the peas.

The woman has that harried look to her, bruises underneath her eyes, her hair flat from the heat in the room, from her sweat, from the long night of work. She puts the beer down in front of Kora and the milk down in front of Roman thoughtlessly. Kora does not switch them until the waitress leaves the booth, but switch them she does, picking up that tall glass of whole milk to return the quiet toast to Izzy.

Underneath the table, she bumps her toe against Roman’s calf; acknowledging that frisson of pain without indulging it.

[Patrick Llewelyn] [Per + Charisma: Guitar playin’.]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 2, 4, 4, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1

[Patrick Llewelyn] [That was just depressing, Patrick.]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 6, 6, 8, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 7) Re-rolls: 1

[Roman Turner] “Yessum, my family’s ranch has all sorts of odd things on it that ya don’t expect to find. Ostrich, Llama’s, even some of them fainting goats. Course, after a while I wasn’t able to get too close, so ended up shoveling stalls when they were empty.”

He might be pulling Kora’s leg on the Moose part but he sure wasn’t admitting it if he was. The waitress returned and got an even bigger smile when she absently put the milk in front of Roman. Though Kora snagged the milk before he managed to stick his tongue in it or anything. Still receiving a beer in exchange was a good deal in his head. About the time Kora saluted Izzy was about the time she bumped his leg beneath the table so he thought one had something to do with the other and was twisting in his seat to locate the recepient of the salute to which he saluted too with his beer. Izzy got a devilish smile with the beer salute.

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon finds himself watching. Settling in and watching when the two of them start to play. His eyes shifting as he pulls up a seat and settles his glass on the nearest table and just decides to watch. Patiently and quietly, let the Fianna do what the Fianna do best right?

I mean you wouldn’t want them barging in when you are torturing or betraying someone ruining your fun now would you Simon? So let them do their thing and they will let you do your thing and in the end everyone wins.

[Izzy Montoya] Kora salutes her with milk, which makes the corner of Izzy’s lips lift in the briefest, smallest of smiles. While she has no wish for ankle biters of her own, she knows Trent is excited – and that’s enough to have her at least appreciative of Kora’s condition. That devilish grin of Roman’s however – that twists the smile into a huff of amusement.

She must be tired to let it be seen like that.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Simon is twirling and speaking of feeling pretty and the Fianna glances at him and simply —

pauses for a moment, mid swallow. He stares at the Shadow Lord from under a furrowed brow and then simply nods, and samples what might once have resembled a friendly smile but honestly rather looks more like an awkward grimace. That might also have something to do with, truth be told, the large amount of whiskey he just imbibed. Bridget responds with something about Howard’s behavior and her own and then starts up with her harmonica.

And, well, it’s easier for Patrick to play, then try and figure out why an Ahroun would tell a Galliard he feels pretty. He takes up his guitar, and starts picking up the chords to accompany Bridget’s tune; it takes him a moment, perhaps two, and then he has it — he taps his foot against his leg in time to the beat.

Downstairs, his Alpha has arrived and Patrick feels the familiar tug at his senses telling him he’s nearby: We’re upstairs, man Howard hears, along with a mental projection of the room, and the staircase leading there.

[Ivers] “Whoa.”

This, out loud, as though Patrick had sneaked up on him and not projected an image of where it is he’s supposed to be going rather than yelling it in his ear. As tempting as it likely has to be for him to go over to the seated kinswoman who insisted he call her Detective Montoya instead of whatever obnoxious nickname he would have come up with for her, or to the pregnant Skald who had threatened to geld him when last their paths meet, the brightly-colored Theurge does not wander over and attempt to ruin their nights.

Either he can be taught, or he has simply reached the point of being inebriated where his perception of his surroundings is completely nonexistent.

Up the stairs he goes, grabbing the railing so he doesn’t wipe out attempting to ascend, and when Howard arrives at the VIP lounge he identifies himself in a relatively sober-sounding voice. Patrick and Bridget have started playing already, and there’s Simon, parked at a table dressed like a 70’s flashback in his denim jacket. A grin of forewarning comes over his lips, the barely-formed scab on his lower lip threatening to crack and bleed again if he isn’t careful, and he ambles over, bumping into a chair before hauling it back and dropping himself down right next to Simon.

“Dear Jesus are you handsome tonight,” he says, and reaches out to steal the Ahroun’s beer.

[Kora] Kora shakes her head doubtfully, somehow imagining Roman’s family ranch as a cross between Noah’s Arc and Dr. Doolittle’s lab. Her laughter rises underneath her breath, and disappears just as quietly – brief and charming before she dives into the giant basket of deep fried – well, deep fried anything on the table between them.

“The Sept where I fostered – Vindur und Ringing – it’s off on the north Atlantic, on this barrier islands, my people call it Hjaltland, right? And the only thing that could survive on that turf grass, in the winter conditions, was sheep. So the kin there raised sheep, and fished for a living. Winter was pretty much mutton or dried fish, dried fish or mutton in endless combinations. Every piece of both, too. It was – ”

There’s a brief, far away look – though her ruminations are interrupted by the vision that is Howard Ivers – and when she looks back to Roman, her dark eyes are shot through with a certain ironic light, the nostalgia subsumed beneath the surface of her pale skin, bleeding through only in the shape of her half-smile. “Stark. And so far north that winter was dark and long. Sometimes you could see the northern lights, though – scintillating across the sky.”

[Bridget Geroux] Indeed, Simon. Indeed.

The Fianna make child’s play of the song collectively. Even if it takes a second for Patrick to get into gear. Somewhere towards the end of the song, a cheap black cell phone on the coffee table buzzes, vibrating against the glass. It lights up with the name “Kris” on the outer screen.

Bridget eyeballs the cell but doesn’t go to pick it up until they’re done. Howard, man of the hour, stumbles in the VIP lounge in a drunken stupor, collapses on a chair, and starts flirting with Simon. This elicits a throated chortle from the young woman a few seconds after the last note.

She grabs the phone with one hand, then bumps Patrick with her shoulder lightly.

“You’ve got some mad skills there, Slick,” she says before punching some letters into the phone and clicking SEND. The phone gets dumped back onto the table, the glass of bourbon goes to her lips. A deeper sip warms her belly.

Bridget stretches her legs out, kicking off her black kitten heels. “So, what’s next?”

[Roman Turner] For his part, he was working on draining the beer as Kora talked about home and cold and fish and sheep. Boy he had some sheep jokes not fit for mixed company that he had to keep to himself. In the middle of talking Kora paused to look at someone and that had Roman turning to see who it was. He didn’t know Howard from Jesus, so wasn’t so sure that’s who Kora looked at when she did that little pause in her story before continuing.

“I miss flat land with an unobstructed view. All this traffic, snow and folk rushing around is just plum crazy. I would of likely ended up in love with a Sheep if I’d lived where you grew up and that would of been baaaad.

[Patrick Llewelyn] As Bridget’s song tapers out, the Galliard’s fingers soften on the chords; he grins despite himself when Howard makes an instantaneous bee-line for the Shadow Lord and starts hitting on him and keeps his head lowered so as not to distract himself from the riff he starts evoking out of the strings.

Bridget nudges into him and he mmphs, glancing across at her without ceasing in his gentle, aimless play. “Back at you, I don’t think I’ve seen someone elicit those sounds from a harmonica since — ” he looks momentarily blank — “Well, ever.” Patrick then returns to his bluesy playing, alternately his time with thumps of his palm against the side of the instrument for a dull, rhythmic backing.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] The perpetually grinning one slips through the door, stepping into the establishment. Perhaps surprisingly, she’s not dressed in the same motif as she usually is. The duster’s been left at home tonight, with a brown leather jacket replacing it. She’s got a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses on, a white tank-top that reads “Destination: Grassy Knoll” with the o in ‘knoll’ consisting a crosshair target. Torn, well-worn blue jeans and a pair of cowboy boots complete the the ensemble.

She steps a few paces inside and then off to the side, so as not to block traffic to and from the door as she looks around the place.

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon was watching Bridget mostly, transfixed by the kin as she and Patrick play so he didn’t notice when Howard came wandering up to join him. His eyes shifted towards the Theurge and his smile grew a little. He pulled the hat off his head and nodded back to him before looking back in Bridget’s direction.”Thanks… I thought I would at least try to look decent seeing as how I got the invite and all right?”He asks before flicking his eyes back to Howard.

Simon wasn’t the kind to be weirded out or creeped in the slightest by comments like this.”You get your lip bit?”He asks him with a little smile as he watched Howard steal his drink.”It’s rum… I thought you kind were more the scotch sorts.”He says before looking back up to his face and finally back to Bridget.

“It’s nice just to get a chance to settle back and relax now and again.”He says, those green eyes just watching, admiring, the kin as she played. Quiet and reserved. The full moon wasn’t terribly talkative or speechy at the moment it would seem.

[Kora] “The dude with the bad fashion sense is Fianna,” explains the woman who wore the same blood-stained jeans for six-months straight, and had a no more than two other changes of clothes until a kinfolk espied the lack, and brought her a new wardrobe she usually eschewed in favor of her dedicated things. She further explains: “Loudmouth.” – with a brief, narrow little smirk.

“Anyway, I didn’t grow up there,” returns Kora, making that clear distinction between her fosterage and her childhood. She is making steady progress through all the deep fried treats delivered to their table, employing Roman’s hard-won ketchup only sparingly. “It was an accident of circumstance, really. I was in Edinburgh when I changed, and that was the closest Fenrir Sept. Linus and I, we moved around alot when we were kids. Sort of like military brats, without being in the military, yeah?

“Lived almost anywhere you can think of. Florida, Kentucky, upstate New York, southern California. We were in Missouri when I graduated high school. Then they moved up north somewhere. I think they were in Montana when Linus’ dad came looking for him.”

[Ivers] Here’s the joy and beauty of being in the presence of the Ahroun of this Sept: they will talk and talk and talk and eventually forget having asked Howard a question in the first place, eliminating the number of instances in which he could potentially be caught fabricating some wild story to be teased apart and dissected as his companion searches for the truth amidst all the bullshit that comes out of his mouth every night.

Simon asks if his lip was bitten, and while it’s a nasty cut, the Theurge doesn’t answer the question. There’s a question as to whether or not he was a scotch drinker, and Howard flicks his heavy brows up over the edge of his aviators before tossing back a mouthful of Simon’s drink. To his credit he doesn’t put his cut lip on the glass or straw, although that may be more due to a desire to avoid the sting of alcohol on exposed tissue than to avoid getting germs on the other man’s drink.

“You should do it more often,” Howard says, to the matter of settling back and relaxing. “Take that stick out of your arse, yeah? Although if you did that I don’t know what I’d do with myself. That whole uptight prick thing really works for you.”

[Izzy Montoya] When the waitress swings her way again, Izzy still does not order food, though the scents of the cooking are enticing enough. Maybe she’s already eaten, or perhaps the more plausible truth is she has decided to drink her dinner tonight. Thus, it’s another drink she orders – another beer, this time with a friend – whiskey, neat – to keep it company.

She doesn’t change tables, doesn’t move to interrupt Kora and Roman’s conversation, doesn’t move upstairs. If she saw Howards entrance – and she did, she misses very little – it doesn’t get more than a glance. Instead, most of her attention seems to be for whoever is on stage – right up until she grabs a file folder from the briefcase beside her, opening it up and littering her night off with work.

[Roman Turner] “I lived in Clearwater my entire life till I came with Sparrow to here. Who would of thought I’d still be here and she ain’t?”

For a moment his face screwed up like he bit in to something sour. The beer was polished off and he waved down a waitress to shove the leftovers in a box before he rose and started replacing his winter wear. One hand was held out to Kora to pull her out of the booth.

“Ok, back to the grind. Here, let me help ya with your coat.”

He made sure Kora was bundled and grabbed the box of leftovers with a wave to Izzy before the pair made for the door. They stuck close together, touching now in the familiar way of Packmates.

“I think we should get some ice cream on the way home, watcha think?”

His words soon swallowed by the howling wind and sound of the street as they stepped out.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She heads to a table as close to the stage as she can, taking a seat and taking the aviator shades off. She smiles at a waitress and orders a tequila sunrise, watching the stage for a moment before she looks around the room, looking for faces that she knows.

[Roman Turner] (( thanks ))

[Kora] (night folks!)

[Bridget Geroux] ((night))

[Simon Zahradnik] He laughs back at Howard and shakes his head.”Dressing to impress is for special occasions. Practicality is for most occasions.”He says with those eyes breaking from Bridget long enough to look back at Howard. His eyes focusing on that lip before he shrugs his shoulders.

“You and Patrick doing okay? No troubles or anything? Life is… Alright?”He asks, small talk was about the best he could hope for with these two. Anything more than that and there was likely to be fists flying and lots of yelling. Simon hadn’t come to fight, and for Bridget’s sake he would play nice with her Tribe tonight. It only seemed respectful.

[Bridget Geroux] The eyes of the Ahroun under the sign of his change–also sandwiched between the two other Garou– causes Bridget to fidget. Patrick strums his guitar, Simon’s eyes fondle the kin, Howard flirts behind his aviators.

The Canadian rises and takes a giant step over the coffeetable, then pads barefoot back to the bar. She grabs the bottle of whatever bourbon they were drinking before, two spoons, then returns with it in a similar manner, sits down, and pours herself another glass.

The bottle of Jefferson’s Reserve rests on the glass countertop before Bridget gets comfortable again. Her fingers clasp around the two metal spoons and she does a couple warm up excercises with them to keep herself from going nuts. Her eyes flick to Simon. The bumpkin is appreciative of his outfit and the way he wears it.

Bridget tries not to look at Howard, whether it is because she doesn’t want to provoke him, or because she might still be angry (which is unlikely, but possible), is uncertain.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She notes Howard at the table that he’s at with Simon, raising a hand to wave toward him before she looks back to the stage. She tilts her head when Bridget busts out the spoon, her usual smile becoming something a bit more intrigued. The tequila sunrise arrives and she thanks the waitress before pushing a chair out at the table she’s at so she has something to put her feet on.

[Ivers] Life is… alright?

“Lemme tell you somethin’, gat,” Howard says, his voice a little louder than is absolutely necessary yet not at a volume that will overpower the two playing, oddly cheerful despite the subject matter he’s suddenly decided to discuss, “life fuckin’ sucks. I don’t care how many times you go ’round sayin’ we have a purpose or the fuck ever. Either you appreciate the things that don’t suck–”

He turns his head towards Patrick and Bridget, his eyeline obscured by black plastic and thus the intended object of his attention uncertain; it could be his brother, it could be the woman he’s scorned this month, it could be the idea of them, the tribe, music, some other abstract concept he can’t possibly articulate at this point in his bender. Whatever it is, Howard only looks at them for a second or two before he looks back and steals Simon’s drink again.

“–or you end up wallowin’ and this whole thing becomes completely fuckin’ pointless. Yeah, sure, maybe you could do what you seem fond of doin’ and pretend life is amazing despite all the crap that goes on and go around wavin’ your pom poms tryin’ to get everybody pumped the fuck up, but that takes way too much effort and if you ask me it’s slightly fuckin’ delusional. If it’s workin’ for you though… cheers, mate.”

He’s got to be high on something. Howard never talks this much.

[Bridget Geroux] Howard’s brilliant and loud tirade makes the Albertan stop short in her practice. She grabs the drink off the table and downs a shot. The first, having been imbibed slowly, is slowly inching its way towards numbing her perceptions. Her eyebrows raise in protest at Patrick, and by the look of the slight clench in her jaw while she moves her lips into a smile, she’s stifling herself from chiming in.

Another flinch of her facial muscles and a slight noise of protest from her throat, and the expression is gone. She turns her head again over at Simon for a second, blinks a few times before looking back to Patrick. She puts the spoons down just as she notices Sarita made her entrance.

“Oh, thank God you came,” she says to the Strider.

Bridget is glad the testosterone quotient in the room is thinning out; she’s glad to know someone here might be holding MJ so that things will calm the fuck down before they even get started. The Canadian smiles and gestures to the minibar before picking up her harmonica again.

She starts to play an old tune, done several times by several people, but made famous by Mister Muddy Waters: I Just Want to Make Love to You.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick is playing almost mindlessly.

Which is not to say that he plays without timing, or a degree of competency, but that his fingers on the strings seem almost a disconnected thing from the rest of his body. He’s listening now to the conversations going on around him; in particular to what Simon is asking and Howard is telling so that Patrick is in fact looking in their direction when Howard turns his head toward them and the Galliard frowns; and his eyes slip away, back down to his guitar and then across at Bridget as the fiery brunette downs a shot.

Picks her way cross the room to allow the Silent Strider entry.

Patrick gives up picking out tunes without starting, and sets the instrument aside in favor of finishing his drink, and venturing to the small bar to procure a second. “Hey, Doc, I say we outlaw talk of anything that is not related directly to getting drunk, or jazz music. Why don’t you play something?”

He gestures at his guitar, then at Bridget. “Do us proud.”

[Simon Zahradnik] He rolls his eyes.”If life sucks so much big guy there’s a way out…”He says this with a shrug of his shoulders.”I for one wake up each day, and take a breath and you know what that feels like? It’s pretty nice… Cause unlike you I have an appreciation for the fact I am still alive right? A lot of folks don’t get that luxury…”He doesn’t look at Howard as he speaks.

“You keep whining… See how far it gets you. I dunno it might be a good approach.”He laughs a little and sets his hands on his glass to take a sip and close his eyes to relax and focus.”Seems to be our approach anyway so what the fuck does it matter right? I’ll get my ass killed and everyone will say some shit and not a single one of you will have learned a goddamn thing.”He settles his glass down.

“It’s the way of the world.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] Howard’s diatribe isn’t completely caught by Sarita, but she does hear just enough to get the gist. She looks over his way, her brows bunching into a furrow, before she looks back to Bridget and smiles.

“Wouldn’t miss it.” The tone is warm and friendly. She looks at the minibar that Bridget gestures to and nods in acknowledgment. She pulls a battered tin case out of her pocket and flips it open, pulling out a filterless cigarette and lighting up. Only AFTER she lights up does she go ashtray hunting.

[Bridget Geroux] Is Patrick trying to make a joke or is he actually inviting Howard and Bridget to jam? Simon and Howard are seriously dragging down the mood of things. Bridget stops playing, sets her harmonica down, and raises her eyebrows at Sarita. Wide-eyed, as if it is a cue for something.

Frustrated, the kinswoman falls back to one side on the couch. She eyeballs Sarita’s cigarette as she goes ashtray hunting.

“Best just use a glass. Hey,” she follows up. “You holding?”

[Ivers] Howard holds up a finger to indicate he hasn’t finished yet when Patrick comes over to intervene. When the Shadow Lord starts talking, the Theurge barks out a laugh and looks toward the ceiling, as though he’s attempting to figure out where he placed something that has no logical reason for being up there in the first place. He pushes his hand up underneath his shades to rub at his face, groaning loudly when Simon tells him to keep whining.

“Jesus Christ,” he says, sitting back up, “Now I’m whinin’. You people just don’t like hearin’ anythin’ that isn’t ‘GAIA IS BLESSED AND WONDERFUL’ or ‘WE’RE GOIN’ TO WIN THE WAR’ or ‘IF WE ALL JUST FUCKIN’ WORK TOGETHER…'”

Howard pushes back from the table, nearly losing his balance as he gets to his feet.

“Maybe if you tried listenin’ to other people they’d fuckin’ learn somethin’ from you you bombastic twat.

And there he goes, back towards the stairs.

[Patrick Llewelyn] I’ll get my ass killed and everyone will say some shit and not a single one of you will have learned a goddamn thing.

Behind the bar, Patrick’s lips twitch. “Careful, Simon,” he notes with idle flippancy and mouthful of whiskey, “you’re starting to sound like me.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She looks at Bridget and nods. “Chica, I’m always holding. It’s just a matter of what I’m holding that’s in question. Smokes, “smokes,”–complete with air quotes–“my collection of vintage Nelson and Heart CD’s, someone’s spleen…” She shrugs, then smiles. “I’m holdin’ what you’re askin’ about though, yeah.”

She pauses in the midst of picking up an empty glass for said ashtray purposes, hearing Howard’s rant. “Whoa. Hey, hombre…wait up.” She gives Bridget a little wink, as if to say Don’t worry…I got this as she follows behind him.

[Bridget Geroux] And that seems enough for Bridget to rise up from the couch, shooting Howard a glance. “Howard!” the voice isn’t angry or overly loud, but enough to get his attention.

“Come on, guys. I’d like to just chill with you guys and not think about this heavy shit for a while. This doesn’t help anything.”

[Izzy Montoya] She reaches for her whiskey, and tosses it back with a grimace. She doesn’t ruin the taste by being a wuss and following it with a beer either. She simply sets the glass to the edge of the table to be picked up by the waitress her next trip around, and goes back to the work in front of her.

[Patrick Llewelyn] “I’ll toast to that,” the Galliard murmurs and takes his glass back to the sofa; sinking down on it, the Fianna nurses the glass idly upon one knee, resting it on the coffee table and staring rather glassy-eyed ahead of himself at nothing and everything at once. Howard has wobbled his way back downstairs and for all the reaction his pack-mate gives to this, you’d wonder if they were truly pack-mates at all.

But then, how was anyone to know that they hadn’t been conducting their own conversation for the better part of the hour or so Patrick had been hanging about upstairs in the lounge with Bridget. They didn’t; they couldn’t. He does turn his head lazily to one side as first one, then another of the females call out after his Alpha.

The Welshman’s brow creases in bemusement.

“Gotta give him props, he knows how to make an exit,” it appears Patrick is addressing an empty room — or Simon — or his glass. Across the totem link, all Howard hears is his pack-mate’s amusement, and: they’re coming after you, run faster.

[Simon Zahradnik] “If there is nothing in this world worth fighting for. Then there’s nothing in this world worth living for…”He mutters before opening his eyes and meeting Patrick’s as Howard walks away.”We’re not the same Patrick. We’re not even close…”His eyes lock into Patrick;s own and he stares with such piercing, penetrating fury.

Simon was being quiet and reflective right now but there was no hiding a trace of contempt as it grew on his face. He listened to Howard’s footsteps carrying him away and he slowly shook his head.”Never… Ever… Ever run from a predator.”He mutters under his breath before going back to his drink.

Cold, quiet, and dismissive. He wasn’t here to fight.

[Ivers] [And let’s stay Howard somehow manages to evade capture despite being dressed like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade float. Thanks for the scene, all!]

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She sighs as he makes it to the stairs before she can get to him, a chair blocking the more direct route between two tables that would have let her intercept. She watches him go with a frown, but it’s quickly wiped away before she turns her face back to the others. The smile is back on, and she makes her way toward Bridget.

“Just needs some chill time, I’m sure.” She shrugs, picking up a glass on the way and ashing into it. “Happens to the best and worst of us, so whichever of those he is I’m imagine he’ll be just fine.”

[Bridget Geroux] Bridget never really left the couch. She lets the Strider handle it and pours herself another glass. Simon grows suddenly… cold and dark, which honestly is to be expected but not something Bridget has witnessed firsthand from the Shadowlord.

She blinks a few times, slams back another shot, then goes to stretch herself out on the couch. There’s still plenty of room for others, and there’s additional seating besides.

“Tabernak,” she mutters an expression of frustration. She runs her fingers through her hair as Sarita comes back to save the day– or night, as it is.

[Izzy Montoya] She finally looks up, pushing her hair back from her face with her fingers. A last notation on the papers she’s working on, and she closes the file, and places it back into her briefcase. Moments later, she stands, slips on her coat, takes up the case, and makes her way out of the establishment.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Tabernak?” She chuckles, sitting next to Bridget and setting the glass down. She balances the filterless on the rim and pulls out the same battered tin case to open it. Once open she runs her thumb along the inside, pushing down in a spot which causes a click and the false bottom to open. Underneath is the far less legal smoking substance.

“Ain’t heard that particular curse word in a while.” She starts rolling a joint. “Not since I took a quick jaunt north of the border.”

[Kyle] (Mind if I wander in? )
to Bridget Geroux, Izzy Montoya, Patrick Llewelyn, Sarita Ecos de la Risa, Simon Zahradnik

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] [[I don’t!]]
to Bridget Geroux, Kyle, Patrick Llewelyn, Simon Zahradnik

[Patrick Llewelyn] The Shadow is staring across at Patrick, telling this creature, of all creatures that if there is nothing in this world worth fighting for, there was nothing worth living for. He tells him they’re nothing alike and Patrick’s slumped chest gives a sharp exhale of bitter amusement.

The Galliard’s pale eyes glint as he stares back at the Ahroun.
He isn’t shying away, though unlike Simon, Patrick’s Rage is dim; diminished.

“Damn right we’re nothing alike,” he holds up his glass, peering through the amber liquid at the distorted reflection of Bone Grinder. “You care about this War, man. You probably have some great, inspiring spiel about where your deed name came from, hell, I could recite for you about a dozen different stories and make you feel a dozen different ways about our existance.

But it doesn’t change shit.”

He takes a sip, runs the tip of his tongue over his lips, tasting the bitter aftermath of the whiskey. “I care about people, if some dick came up and hassled Bridget, or Howard or anyone I’d fight to help them. But I wouldn’t do it because it’s what some higher than thou entity instructed for me.

I’d do it because it’s the right fucking thing to do. There’s things that I care about, what makes us Monsters, just isn’t one of them.”

[Patrick Llewelyn] [Shadow… lord. Hee.]

[Kyle] He’d intended to arrive a lot early than he has, but other things kept him distracted. Making his way into the VIP room he nods to everyone as he sets his guitar case and trench aside out of the way. It was the lack of sleep that made him look like he was wearig makeup. The black circles around his eyes natural and the pale skin was just how he looked. The traditional top to toe in black included a set of fingerless leather gloves tonight. The other odd thing he’s wearing tonight is a top hat. He’d forgotten to take it off and chuckled as he now realised why people had looked at him oddly on the wander over. Seeing Sarita and the others he makes hiw way over and gives that casual smile and wave as he looks for a spot to sit down.

[Patrick Llewelyn] [Charisma + Expression, for shits and giggles. +1 tough crowd, also slightly drunk]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 3, 3, 4, 6, 8, 10 (Failure at target 7) Re-rolls: 1

[Patrick Llewelyn] [worst. galliard. ever. / ]

[Kyle] (LOL)

[Bridget Geroux] The click inspires the chit’s interest. She rises up enough to rest her head on the Ragabash’s shoulder. And maybe Bridget is just that friendly with people. It’s happened with her Fellowship sisters, the last time she tried with Howard he flipped a god damn bitch, and she went climbing with Victor’s help (although it’s doubtful anyone is aware of that).

So Bridget smiles like a cozy cat curled up in the sunlight, biting a pouty bottom lip. Patrick, the drunk at the bar talking to himself, tries very hard and makes a good point, but it’s just not effective. Maybe he’s slurring more than he things, but it’s just not the grand speech one expects from a Galliard.

A Strider kin not seen in a long time makes his way inside and takes a seat. Bridget’s eyes light up, but she doesn’t take her cheek from Sarita’s shoulder.

“Haven’t seen you in forever. Where’d you blow in from?” she asks, half-interested. It’s not because she’s not interested in seeing the kin so much as the illegal substance Sarita’s about to light up.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She smiles at Kyle, waving him over. “Hey, you. Good to see you. Have a spot to place yourself wherever.”

She clearly doesn’t mind being a headrest for Bridget, looking over at her with a faint smile. There’s a friendly demeanor to her face, something akin to a protective big sister feel to the way she reacts with both Bridget and Kyle around her. She finishes rolling the joint and hands it over to the Fianna kin. “Here you go. You get the honor of first hit on this one.”

[Kyle] “Hey Bridget. Been around you know me.”
Grins at her as he leans back in the chair. His voice soft as usual as he looks at her to ensure she can read his lips.
“Would have bene here sooner but been helping a few guys out. Their drummer broke his hand and they had a performance to do tonight. How’ve you been doing?”
He then looks to Sarita and again that warm smile is given as he adjusts his top hat.
“Same to you. Having a fun night I hope?”

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon took another sip of his drink and his attention fell on Patrick. He waited quietly and he watched, and he waited, clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in thought. Those green eyes were so full of bitter fury as he watched the man quietly. He didn’t speak for some time but his silence made certain the heat of his rage radiated off him like a furnace. He took in every word and each word spoken to him was mulled over within his skull.

What he was hearing was more than upsetting it was downright heretical. Still Simon wasn’t a Philodox so correcting that wasn’t his job, nor was he a Galliard. What he was, was an Ahroun. That alone stood for something to him if no one else.

“My deed name came from the fact I took a man apart… Bit by bit. With a pair of pliers and some other fucking house tools. Plucked, cut, and slowly separated him from his body while he screamed in agony for almost two hours before he died. Terrified and trembling in agony. He begged me… He begged me again and again to kill him, to show him the tiniest hint of humanity. He begged me to be the better man… The honorable man… He begged me to be the thing that he never was to anyone.”He shrugs his shoulders and then looks back at his drink.

“I got my name because I show my enemies the same respect they show the weak and helpless. I’m not a man Patrick, I am hell made flesh and mark my word before long the night sky will reek with the smell of burning traitors. Let them cackle and laugh all they please…”He lifts his drink to his lips and takes a sip as his eyes settle back on Patrick’s own.”Hell will soon reclaim it’s own.”

“I’m not here for you Patrick I am here for them and I will die fighting them. That is all there is to it.”

[Bridget Geroux] Sarita… catches Bridget off-guard with her offer. She blinks, then reaches into her back pocket for a lighter. While Kyle is speaking, Bridget listens, but her eyes drift to the Shadowlord. She flicks the flame into being and smolders the tip of the joint.

Not the classiest thing out there, but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

She inhales, holds onto the smoke, and offers the joint out to whoever. She tries to close her eyes, but the things Simon is saying are going to give her nightmares. Images float up of the man–No, Monster– who has been so courteous and has even served her coffee like a civilized, even hospitable human being, talks about dismembering a dude with fucking house tools like it ain’t a thang.

There’s something about his Rage, his burning stare at Patrick, or about his voice that makes Bridget believe him absolutely. She remains quiet and shivers without realizing it before she nestles against Sarita again.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She grins in Kyle’s direction. “Having as much fun as a barrel of monkeys. Unfortunately, in this case the monkeys are rabid, emo little fuckers that managed to get out of the barrel and had too much to drink, so they’re getting pissy, shouting, stalking off and shit.”

She glances in Simon’s direction, rolling her eyes at his story. “Or telling long stories and being especially emo. We gotta do something to lighten the mood around here before an All-American Rejects concert breaks out. As it is, I think we’re about three eyeliner strokes and a little cutting short of a Fall-Out Boy opening act at the most. It’s condition-fuckin’-critical.”

[Kyle] Smirks as he raises a brow and looks at Sarita.
“Well that’s no good. So do we need to play a game of twister or do we need to pick up the tempo of the music playing tonight?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Hey, don’t think I won’t. Bridget here was kickin’ some serious ass onstage with Patrick, but I am ~not~ afraid to get up there and bust out some bad-ass rhymes, Eminem-style.” Is she kidding? It’s kind of hard to tell, considering that she’s always grinning.

[Kyle] “So we going hip-hop or street base or do you have a specific request?”
That constant smile stays on his face as he stands and makes his way over to check on the instruments. Seeing what they had available to use.

[Simon Zahradnik] He hears Sarita and his eye twitches and his attention goes to his drink for a moment. He takes it and draws it to his lips taking a long drink before slamming it back on the table and standing.”Ridicule… Funny…”He says back to her with little more than contempt in his eyes.

He reaches into his pockets and pulls out his gloves, one by one he pulls each of them onto his hands.

“I suddenly find myself overtaken with an overwhelming feeling of disgust.”He says before turning his attention to Bridget.”Sorry I can only take so many insults and stomach so many cowards for one night. If you have another show I would love to come but I can’t stay here.”He says back to her before heading for the door. His hate bubbling up within him, raw seething contempt was all he felt right now.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She chuckles, watching Kyle walk over to the instruments. However, when Simon takes offense, she makes a sound like frustration. Not a growl–she’s not overtly angry, per se–more incredulous and annoyed. “¡Oh, por todo lo que es santo y profano en este mundo. ¿Estás bromeando?

She pats Bridget’s shoulder and gently but quickly extricates herself from under the kin’s head, rising to follow. “Dude. Seriously now, fucking STOP.”

[Kyle] And the spike of rage causes him to stop and simply stay out of the way. Absently watching as he keeps his eye on the situation. Waiting to get out of the way for good if needed

[Bridget Geroux] [Manip+Emp +PB. Dif +1 due to inebriation.]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 2, 4, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 7)

[Bridget Geroux] The girl can do nothing to argue with Simon, so she merely sighs and looks defeated. Since her talk with Hunter, she’s been less bold with the Garou. She’d probably try to say something if he hadn’t just regaled on how he took a man apart with a pair of pliers.

That, and his Rage is enough to make her leery of even saying much. Finally, she sits back in the couch, looks to the ceiling, and sighs.

She draws a shaky breath before a pained sound emerges. While not over the top, her mouth is drawn in a pout that could stop any mortal man in his tracks. Does she know what kind of power she holds over them? Simon thought once. She probably doesn’t most of the time, but that fact makes it no less effective. Her mother was a Class A Heartbreaker (unbeknownst to her), and Bridget definitely has had something of those traits as her birthright.

“S’il vous plaît. Un instant de paix,” the Albertan reverts to her native Quebecois. The inflection of tone is soft, pleading without being desperate.

“Simon,” she continues. “You don’t have to go.”

She looks at him with those brown eyes and whether it is her expression or the marijuana that has her eyes somewhat glazed, it’s just…


The little unpretentious charmer could probably lull serpents to sleep or sly away diamonds from a jeweler with that sort of pout. The thing is, it doesn’t seem at all devious, because it likely isn’t.

[Simon Zahradnik] “Stop…”He says when she gives him an order. He stops and he turns around and looks directly into her eyes.”You can’t tell me to stop. In fact after that passive aggressive bullshit a second ago you are lucky I haven’t put your skull through a wall…”His fury is shining through as he approached her. So much fury in those eyes as he met her gaze directly. So much loathing and contempt.”You don’t have the right to give me orders.”He says as his body tenses and he rises up into his full height fully prepared to lash out at anyone who gets too close. He was a full moon… Whatever he might say with his mouth it was with his fists he expressed himself most clearly.

Bridget, however, gets more leeway. She knows him, he knows her… Watching her, seeing her, hearing her all of these things pull his eyes off Sarita and back towards her. Her voice and the look on her face did appear to have a somewhat soothing effect and he looked back into her eyes. He wanted to put someone through a wall… He wanted to smash someone’s face under a very very heavy brick… He wanted to crush and smash and destroy. he wanted to unleash his fury like the primal force of nature he was meant to be. Yet he couldn’t… Because Bridget was pouting and it was fucking adorable! What a bitch!

“I came to listen to music… Not be insulted at every turn. If I had known this was the plan for the evening I would have opted out of showing.”He continues.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She doesn’t shy away from his stare, his fury or his words. For all that she’s a jokester–and make no mistake about it, she is–there’s something serious deep in those dark brown eyes. And, whether it indicates her insanity or not–she’s showing absolutely no fear as she returns the gaze. Her lips are still quirked upward in a faint smile.

“Listen. I don’t know who you are exactly, because we haven’t been introduced. My name is Sarita. But if we had been, you would know that I have a one storming-out per social event rule, and Howard beat you to the punch. And frankly, I am not willing to let you be unleashed on the world out there with the emotional state that you’re in, homeboy. So the way I see it, you have three options. A, you can sit down, realize that I meant no offense to you and was just trying to lift the mood and we can return to a state of semi-pleasantness. B, you can kick my ass and we can return to a state of semi-pleasantness. C, you can kick my ass and then leave.”

With that, she–wait, she didn’t, did she? Yes, she actually reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder to stop him.

“Leaving without any of those occuring? NOT an option.”

[Bridget Geroux] “But I–” Bridget is almost dumbstruck by his Rage. She may be a part-feral, purebred, adorable bitch, but she’s still human. She blinks, looking hurt for about half a second before she takes another hit from the joint she’s been holding.

Okay, that’s better.

“Simon, I’m sorry. How could I know it would be this way? I can’t do anything to stop you all when you’re like that.”

The thing is, Bridget knows that Killer brooding in the corner has the capabilty of being civilized, or at least doing a damn good show of pretending. Now she’s hoping to call him on it, let him remember that rather than getting violent or leaving, he has a third option to choose.

[Simon Zahradnik] However much calmer Simon might have been, the hand reaching out to settle on his shoulder brings out a flare of heated passionate fury in his eyes. Whatever she had said, whatever she had intended went out the window with the sudden and uninvited gesture. Simon was a wolf and she had just invaded his personal space… She was a Stranger, an unknown, and she was in his territory, among his people and now she was in his face putting her hand on his shoulder. His eyes met her own directly and oh how serious they were.

“Take… Your hand… Off my shoulder and back the fuck away.”That was said between his teeth, that was said in the deep and slow tone that implied there was quite a bit of concentration pushing though him just to maintain that state. He looked into her eyes with all the seriousness of a warrior who was not asking, he was not suggesting, he was telling.

He was doing his best to be civilized but these were not a civil folk. Wolves in sheep’s clothing… Or rather men’s clothing. They were playing at the game of being men and right now one of those wolves was invading another’s personal space.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She shrugs, her expression not changing, and the hand is removed. She doesn’t back down, and from her posture, the look in her eyes and so on, nothing has changed for her. But she gives him that courtesy out of respect. Even if she doesn’t know who he is, she knows that she took a step too far and there is still no fear in her.

“Sorry, Simon. Again, ain’t no offense meant. I wasn’t trying to get all up on your ass and light a fire. I still ain’t gonna let you step out in your state. Wouldn’t be right. So do what you gotta do. No foul, no offense taken. If beatin’ my ass for a bit will chill you the fuck out, I’m okay with that. But again I tell you–and believe me when I say this–you’re not walking out of here angry.”

She spreads her arms wide, fingers moving in to her palms a couple of times as if to say ‘bring it on.’

“So get to throwin’ your punches, or come sit down and have a drink with us. I really ain’t so bad once you get to know me. At LEAST thirty-seven percent of people I’ve ever met can vouch for that.”

[Bridget Geroux] Simon doesn’t respond. This is the call for Bridget to look to Kyle and get up off the couch very slowly. The wolves are about to have a spat and they’re scaring the kinfolk. Bridget pads backwards towards the raised aisle. The back of her legs bump into it. She’s still holding the joint, but she climbs up onto the aisle and tries to put a lot of space between herself and the Garou.

Her bare toes press against the smoothed fibers of the reclaimed wood while the fingers of one hand guide her to the door leading to the recording booth. She doesn’t say anything. It’s gotten beyond words at this point.

[Kyle] Kyle has stayed well out of the way. If he could pass through walls he doubted that would get him away from them. Seeing Bridget heading out of the way, Kyle makes his way around to follow her. Silly really that he’s in fact putting himself between Bridget and the true borns but he’ll mentally kick himself later. That casual smile thrown to Bridget letting her know things would be ok.

[Simon Zahradnik] Sarita speaks and he looked back at her as if she was speaking Chinese the entire time. He just watches her, quietly, looking her over from head to toe. Quiet and rigid… He was powerfully built and his stance showed that he knew well how to carry himself. Simon was, after all, a full moon and this much showed through in everything that he did. He blinked several times before drawing in a deep breath to calm himself.

He notes Bridget skulking back, he also notes the way Kyle protectively places himself between them. Simon was nothing if not brilliant at reading posturing and body language. It was one of the talents of the True Born though with Simon that talent seemed to shine through impressively.

It was watching Bridget shy away that affected him more than anything and his attention shifted once more back to Sarita. Before he sighed and stepped around her making his way back to the Mini Bar while shaking his head.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She blinks, her expression changing to one no one in this city has yet seen, except perhaps her half-sister Amy. The expression is shock. She obviously expected to be crawling back to the couch trying to hold her ribs together…and apparently, she would have been okay with that. She lowers her arms and turns around, the smile ratcheted up a couple of notches and makes her way back toward the couch. A sidelong look is thrown at Kyle and Bridget and she gives them a wink.

“You da man, Simon. Muchas gracias.” She smiles his way, the tone of her voice having lost its usual tease. The girl may be crazy, but she knows when to not push her luck. Aside from that though, there is honest gratitude in her voice. “Now, back to chilling out.”

[Llewelyn] [Let’s play where is Howard?

1-3 Alley
4-6 Bathroom
7-10 Somewhere else]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 5

[Bridget Geroux] Bridget reaches out to Kyle with her eyes and gives each person in the room a long thoughful glance before she decides to drunkenly pad back over to the couch. She drops off the raised aisle onto the lounge inset floor, stops to get her balance.

Soon enough she passes over the remainder of the roach to Sarita and flops down on the couch beside her. The glazed bon bon finds a comfortable niche in the couch to chill the fuck out.

For the time being.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She takes the roach and gets a hit off it, holding it in for a good three seconds before letting the smoke curl out of her mouth and nose. Some of the tension that Sarita hadn’t noticed was there melts away, and she relaxes with a deep sigh. She rolls her head left and then right, a few popping sounds coming forth before she leans in to murmur quietly to Bridget, keeping it low so as not to carry past the couch.

“Sorry, chica…didn’t mean for shit to get intense. Better me than some poor shitbag on the street who didn’t have it comin’, y’know?” A little grin. “I mean…odds are, I have it comin’ for something I did.”

[Llewelyn] At some point after he’d lectured Simon about All The Ways Your War is Fail™ by Patrick Llewelyn, the Galliard had gotten up off his plush little sofa and wandered downstairs in search of his oft-missing Alpha. You would imagine, given their level of connection that locating Howard could not possibly be so hard.

Clearly, if you deem this accurate, you do not know our characters that well at all.

It takes Patrick some time — minus a break to linger outside in the alleyway and smoke a joint — to track down the Theurge, when he does, he finds him in the strangest place imaginable. Or perhaps not, when Howard’s tendency toward long-spanned visits to said plumbed facility was taken into account. Patrick smacks a fist against each toilet stall in order downward from the sinks.

He gets two fuck offs! before saying in an ever so slightly dreamy voice.

“Howard Ivers, get your skinny ass out here.”

[Kyle] Good thing he’s already pale or people might worry since if he had colour in his cheecks they’d have washed out thatnks to the micro rage fest that just happened. Seeing everyone move back to being relaxed he removes the top hat he’s been wearing and tosses it over near his stuff before heading over to the bar himself. That warm smile still plastered on his face as he looks to Simon. When he speaks his voice is just above a whisper and sounds a little raspy.
“Hey I’m Kyle. Nice to meet you.”

[Ivers] The roar of water rocketing down the pipes, and Howard emerges from the stall moments later, buttoning his pants and staring at Patrick with a smile threatening to burst onto his lips. Whatever he was doing in there would probably have him arrested if he were to be caught; he sniffs, wipes at his nostrils with the back of his hand, and plants both of them on his slim hips.

“Oh look at you,” he says, his voice marveling, “you’re so stoned.”

He wanders right into the Galliard’s space, leaning closer to inspect his eyes for redness or glazing, then reaches up to pop the collar on Patrick’s shirt, the action strangely loving considering he follows it up with a playful slap to Patrick’s cheek and a gum-chewing grin. Given how fat the moon has become he ought to know better.

“Last time I gave one of those meatheads the ole big-word-‘twat’ combo I couldn’t walk right for the rest of the night. Made out pretty good that time, yeah?”

[Simon Zahradnik] When he returns to the group he has a glass in hand. Half of which he has downed already. His eyes go to Bridget and then to the others. He stops, however, long enough to acknowledge Kyle and present his hand out to him.”Simon.”He says back to the somewhat shy lookin’ guy. Likely not a True Born… Not enough balls, but that wasn’t so bad. After Howard’s little speech Simon almost welcomed his company.

He then hears Howard and his eyes close a second or two as he draws in a few breaths. Then looks down at Bridget.”I didn’t intend to fuck up your get together.”He was apologizing not to anyone else. In fact he still looked like he could punch someone, but he felt it was appropriate to extend the little gesture back to the kin. If nothing else to ease her fears and worry.

[Llewelyn] Patrick stoned is not so vastly different from Patrick sober, only the stoned version tended to smile more frequently and cared less for controlling his mouth when it came to — well, everything. Howard comes out of the stall buttoning his pants and staring at Patrick, and his pack-mate stares back at him with raised brows. The expression is comically demanding until his Alpha tells him how stoned he is and loosens his black shirt.

It’s long sleeved, and pressed to perfection; though by this point of the evening it’s starting to rumple.

Patrick smacks away the cold hand that slaps his cheek; and grabs Howard by the scruff of his neck, forcefully walking him to the sinks. “Wash your goddamn hands you dirty fuck.” It’s as playful as the slap, and Patrick lets loose his pack-mate without causing him any harm but a few tugged out hairs.

With the amount he had, Gaia knew he could spare a few to rough housing.

Patrick leans against the sinks while he washes up, arms crossed over his chest, a smirk laying heavy over his lips; another stoned feature typically absent. “Yeah, try it now after I told him again how the war sucked.”

[Ivers] It’s almost a given at this point that Howard will shriek if he’s grabbed or punched and the effort does not result in grievous injury: it’s a truncated, quiet sound meant to convey false alarm, and he is easily marched over to the row of sinks despite his height advantage and Patrick’s fuzzy perception of the world around him. Once at their destination Howard sniffs again, then stares at the sink for several seconds before spinning the hot water tap and lazily rinsing his hands, which tremble slightly.

Before he can be reprimanded, he pumps soap into his left palm and scrubs both of his hands. It doesn’t last nearly as long as medical professionals insist upon in order to reduce the spread of bacteria, but he still makes the attempt.

“Again?” Howard asks. “Man, you tell him that story every fuckin’ time.” He rinses quickly. “Maybe you ought’a tell him you’re ready to be a–” Instead of paper towels, he wipes his hands on the empty seat of his pants. “–fine, upstanding–” A pause to flick residual moisture from his fingers. “–give-a-fuck member of the community, yeah? No more nay-sayin’. Bet he’d shit a fuckin’ crow.”

[Bridget Geroux] Simon does his best to be civil, to pass his Rage. It’s a struggle, and Bridget knows it. The expression on her face when he speaks to her with that edge of anger in his voice is somewhat like that of a deer in the headlights. A small thing that is keenly aware of a big thing.

That too, is adorable. The kicked puppy look is not something she gets very often, either. “You didn’t?” she replies quietly. “Nothing’s broken, no one’s bleeding. I think that calls for a toast.”

To that, the girl rises up again like Lazarus, grabs the rest of the whiskey, and pours herself another glass. This one will for sure push her down the sobriety staircase, but Gaia help anyone who tries to take it from her.

[Bridget Geroux] To Sarita, Bridget simply shakes her head. “No, I get it.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] There’s a smile to Bridget at when she says that she understands. She looks up at Simon as he approaches, rising to stand. It’s not an aggressive move at all; she’s not moving toward him, just getting to her feet. However he may take it…for her, it’s a sign of respect. And that’s not something that she extends very often. (Coincidentally, it does slightly happen more often when she has an Ahroun potentially pissed at her. Complete and total coincidence.)

“We should probably do official-like introductions. Sarita Echos-of-Laughter. Cliath No-Moon of Owl’s Brood. She holds out a hand to Simon. “No hard feelings?”

[Llewelyn] Patrick seems sincerely thoughtful on this point, a palm flashes to cover his chest in abject despair. “Oh no,” he laments with very little real sincerity. “Am I becoming repetitive in my mockery and loathing of everything we were created for?”

The eyes widen theatrically.

“The horror.”

The Galliard pushes Howard out the door, and then starts toward the stairs, leading them back up to what is, by this stage, no doubt a full blown party — or something god awful. Either way, Patrick’s guitar was up there and he’d be damned if he left without it. “C’mon, cheesedick, upstairs, if you’re real lucky the Shadow Lord will still be around to flirt with.”

He trumps up the steps noisily.

[Simon Zahradnik] He smiles a little back at Bridget and his head nods a little, he lifts his glass to Bridget and nods his head slowly. The full moon joined her in his toast then downed the rest of his glass. When his drink was finished his eyes fell back upon the Kin. Heavy was the weight of rage especially as his moon rapidly approached. Thinking straight got harder and harder, and it showed especially as the moon drew fuller and fuller.

Sarita pulls his attention away, and his eyes look her over.”Simon… Bone-grinder… Cliath, Ahroun grandchild of Thunder.”He says before eying her hand a moment then reaching out to take it gently enough and shake. She wasn’t so much the focus of his fury as others were. Their faces, their smug little grins, the kinds of grins that would take more than a fist to wipe away.

[Ivers] “You do tend to repe–whoa!

With a jolt, Howard stumbles forward, his sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor as he’s ushered towards the door. He bursts through without pausing to see if anyone will be knocked over, and when he tried to go for the door, Patrick shepherds him in the opposite direction: the stairs.

Whaaat,” he moans, as though this is the last place he wants to go right now.

All it takes is the last nine words to convince him to hustle his ass back up into the VIP lounge, where he reappears with about as much bustle and boisterousness as he had earlier, which is to say, not much at all. He had been almost quiet when he first appeared, as though he was afraid of startling a creature of a moon that grows exceedingly touchy this time of the month. A pause to look around, and Howard rolls his head on his neck, once, before approaching Simon.

This is probably going to result in his nose being broken. He just doesn’t fucking learn.

“Simon, man, I’m sorry. Truly, I am. What do you say we kiss and make up, yeah?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] Her handshake is firm, far from ladylike. She nods a little, a bit of her good-natured mirth returning. “A pleasure and honor, Simon…”

The words trail off when she hears Howard and Patrick come up the stairs, and she quite literally facepalms as she heads Howard’s comment. It’s not tough to see that she’s not getting in the way of this particular ass-kicking. She’s not a peacemaker by nature, and calming down an Ahroun once is against her nature as it is. Doing it twice within the span of a few minutes? Not happening.

[Llewelyn] Patrick, coming in ahead of Howard is smiling, a strange sight in and of itself, when he steps to one side and flourishes the path toward Simon at Howard — all bets should have been well and truly off. He’s clearly not in his right mind, if ever he has been to date. Though generally, Patrick did tend to be the side of Caldera approached for more … rational answers.

Presently, the Galliard is leaning back on his heels and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at Bridget.
Er, right.

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon blinked when he heard Howard. His eyes didn’t leave Bridget’s face, he tried to focus on her eyes. He tried to bite down on his own tongue for a second or two. He took the time to draw in his breath slowly, get his lungs nice and full before slowly exhaling. He tossed the ice around in his glass and looked down at it, before slowly turning to face Howard.

His eyes met Howard’s own, and he took that glass and held it a little closer to him, dumping the ice out at his feet.”I stepped out of my house this morning thinking to myself that today was going to be exactly like every other day and for the most part it was. If your hope is to infuriate me just a little more so I will beat the shit out of you once more… Forget it. Kicking your ass would mean I gave a flying fuck whether you lived or died. It would mean I gave a crap about your feelings or opinion. Kicking the shit out of you would imply you were worth raising my fist in anger.”He says with a shrug of his shoulders. His eyes met Howard’s own beautiful eyes(What? They are pretty!) and his lips curled into a little smile.

The words were spoken coldly and with such bitter contempt for the Theurge. He contained his rage, in fact just letting that out seemed to let out the steam.”Now if you will excuse me I need another drink.”He says once more to him before turning and walking away. Normally he wouldn’t present his back to someone he just insulted like that, but that too was it’s own little message. He didn’t even consider Howard a threat, and while that might not mean much to some any Shadow Lord would understand how deep an insult that was.

[Ivers] Anyone with a shred of shame, dignity, or self-respect would have been insulted or even hurt after what Simon said. He would have sat his ass down or turned around and walked out of there and made an effort not to cross paths with the Shadow Lord ever again. Heir of the Ruined Day has terrible impulse control and an even shittier sense of self-worth, but by god is he stubborn, and anyone who has known him as long as Bridget, or Simon, or Patrick, would be able to state with utter certainty that he just doesn’t know when to quit.

Simon starts off, giving his back to a creature who, were he taking his auspice role seriously, were he taking anything seriously, could have rained down any number of punishments upon him with the opportunity presented to him. There were not a great deal of Shadow Lords in Boston, or London, or wherever the fuck Howard was before either of those places, but he has to know the significance of one of Thunder’s grandchildren giving him his back.

Undeterred, without even pausing to do much more than execute an about face, Howard calls, “Infuriate you? Why would I want to infuriate you? You’re much cuter when you’re calm!” He starts after Simon, following him back to the bar if he has to. “Y’know, if I infuriate you, maybe you ought’a be askin’ yourself why that is, yeah?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] Simon’s response to Howard draws an arching of her eyebrows, and a wide grin. “Nicely done,” she says to him. When Howard decides to push the issue, she rolls her eyes. “Hey, chico. You’re ruining a good party here, yeah? Dial it back down a bit, you mind?”

[Llewelyn] The Galliard’s flick to the Black Fury, he says easily, “Leave him be, he’s not going to do any harm,” a beat and the Welshman starts toward the sofa, and his guitar, to properly stow it.

“Unless Bone Grinder has any reason to be afraid of my pack mate.”

[Llewelyn] [Man, just [insert tribe here] I don’t even care any longer.]

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Kinda completely missed the point there, but whatever.” She shrugs and goes to make herself a tequila sunrise.

[Simon Zahradnik] “A bee…”He says with a soft tone as he approaches the bar.”Is born, and it like does shit. It doesn’t really know why I was born, it doesn’t ask. It was born and it does as is needed for all the other bees and a little while later it dies. In its entire life it processed as much in its tiny little brain as you think every second. Yet that bee stood for something. It believed in something and it might have very well died for that thing… That stupid fucking thing that meant absolutely nothing to any of us cause we just wanted her honey.”

“It’s funny… Cause I’m thinking on it just a minute ago. About the world and all the terrible things in it. Like Black Spiral Dancers.”He says this with a little smile.”You know traitors… They’re turned their backs on everything they believe in. They’ve forsaken everything and everyone in favor of their alien agenda. Yet even they are deserving of a brutal, painful, terrified screaming death. Cause at the very least they have the balls to stand up for something… Forsaken or not at the very least they hold on to something that you know… Means something to them.”He shrugs as he reaches the bar.”They fight for their hive…”

“I think it’s funny cause I mean… I don’t really like… Even pity the terrible disgusting thing you have become. Because you’re not even willing to fight for your fucking honey. You just bounce around in life callin’ people names until they drive your ass off for being a prick.”He pours his drink and tosses a couple more ice cubes in the glass.

He then presents the glass to Howard as well as a smile.”I don’t have to ask myself why you infuriate me… Because for all that everything inside your brain you don’t even have the dedication of an insect. You’re like a little mosquito buzzing around my face only you don’t even have legs or a stinger or wings… You’re more like a really loud earthworm.”He says with an almost warm little smile.

[Llewelyn] “Oh, yeah?” He snaps, the Galliard, not his moon, his personal moon, but the Gibbous none the less in the sky outside, at the Strider female. He’s stoned and his capacity for bullshit is at an all time low. “What was the point, then? That he should hold his tongue so you and Bridget here can play dress up some more about not being a),” a gesture at her, “a Monster in woman’s skin and b),” at Bridget, “in denial of pretty much everything?”

He snorts; snapping shut the locks on his guitar case and lifting it up, setting it against a wall.

“I’d rather be the asshole that ruins the fantasy, sorry to say.”

Then — then, there’s Simon’s speech to Howard and Patrick’s Rage — on a dull to middling simmer all night sparks and ignites. He walks up to the Ahroun and shoves him, without preamble. “Stop fucking presuming you know everything about us, Ahroun!”

He’s shouting, abruptly.

[Hunter] Hunter is late.

Not that kind of late, he doesn’t do shark week, he has a penis. But he is late for the jam night. So late in fact that he’s missed it completely. Except he doesn’t know this of course. He doesn’t know it when he comes stomping up the stairs with something disgustingly resembling a kazoo in his hand. It’s shiny blue, like the kind of blue that a stripper wears. It has sparkles on it.

He blows it loudly, puts it in his mouth and toots the descending melody for Rainy Day Women no 12 & 35.

br brp brp brrP Dooooooooooooo doooooooo doooooo dooo

Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 3, 7 (Failure at target 7)

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She pauses, turning around and giving him a look. That ever-present grin of hers grows, to something approaching maddening levels…maddening both for others around and for her as well. She turns around from making her drink, leaving the half-finished sunrise on the bar. The effect will be ruined by the time she gets back. She makes a slow walk to Patrick, eyes not shying away from him, and something shifts in her, subtly. Without any noticeable or quantifiable change, she’s distinctly less human now. And she doesn’t stop walking until her face is inches away from Patrick’s, her finger coming up to rest on the hollow of his throat.

“And don’t you presume,” she purrs, there something distinctly threatening in the amused tone of her voice. “…to know a single thing about me, Patrick. It’ll be the worst fucking mistake of your life. Comprende?”

[Ivers] He doesn’t have a chance to offer a witty, homoerotic retort to what Simon just said to him. The fact that it took him so long, and so many words, to build up to calling Howard annoying and yet not even worth paying the slightest bit of attention to would only serve as a contradictory counterpoint to everything that the Shadow Lord has said just now, and though the green eyes that Simon finds so pretty are hidden by dark black sunglasses, the light in the room high enough that he would be rendered useless if he were to take them off. No one can tell, exactly, whether he’s stricken or distraught or hernia-provokingly amused.

Drawing a breath to respond, Howard is jostled out of the way by his brother, the buzz of the cannabis not enough to take the edge off of his Rage tonight.


Up the stairs comes Hunter, tooting away at his kazoo, as Howard darts between the shorter yet considerably deadlier Garou and puts a hand out on either side of him, not touching the Galliard or the Ahroun but prepared to–attempt to–push either of them back should they come at each other again.

At which point Sarita gets in Patrick’s face.

The Theurge groans, then drops his arms.

“What’s with all the fuckin’ cock waving? Christ!” He points at Simon. “That was the sweetest fuckin’ thing anyone’s ever said to me.” He points at Sarita. “You need to calm your tits.” He points to Patrick. “You… you.”

And then he sees Hunter, towards whom he bolts.

[Llewelyn] His fingers reach out, snap lock around that finger.

“Then make it the last one I make,” he (begs) taunts; his eyes dilated with drugs and adrenaline and Rage. “Finish me off, c’mon. I won’t even fight back.” He spreads his arms wide, beating his chest once at both the Shadow Lord and the Strider. Howard begins to — and then doesn’t — and Patrick’s voice catches in his throat, turning hoarse.

“He isn’t gonna stop you. Do it. Obliterate me.” He pants.

[Hunter] The horrible tune from the kazoo comes to an abrupt halt, dying off in a quick, wallowing and disheartening shriek that ends with a rather depressing sad little


He removes the ‘instrument’ from his mouth when Howard starts talking and puts it in his pocket. Something is definitely wrong here, tempers are high. Anger is almost palpable in the stale bar air. Patrick starts telling people to obliterate him and Howard starts running in Hunters direction.

He crosses his arms over his chest and frowns.

“The fuck??!”

[Simon Zahradnik] “You know my mom was a pretty tough lady. I used to whine about things and she would tell me to suck it up and accept it. She was one hardcore bitch… Then one day about this time last year I earned the rank of Cliath.”He shrugs his shoulders.”When that happened she cried for the first time in my life. Cause for all her hardcore tough love bullshit she was still a mom and her baby boy was about to go off and get his ass killed for some stupid war she never understood. But even she knew that this was who I was, and like it or not this was how things would be.”He says sideways to Patrick, his voice was almost soft.

Howard’s response gets a little smirk and he watches him walk away. A slight smirk taking shape as he makes his way away. He doesn’t bother to say anything more. He looks at Sarita and he smiles as he looks at Patrick.”Do not suffer thy people… Tend to thy sickness.”He mutters softly at the man in a dark and cold tone. He was not a Half Moon. In fact no Half Moon was present. In fact! IF EVER there was a Time for a Half Moon to be present it should be right now. He was simply reminding the Galliard.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] The shift in the dynamic is so sudden, Sarita practically gets whiplash. She rolls with the punches easily, though, and just shakes her head. “I said worst mistake. I didn’t say last. I ain’t that nice.” She puts her hand on his chest and pushes him, gently, backward toward Hunter and Howard.

“I also don’t do suicide by Sarita, and you aren’t that good of a goader. Go…best you get out of here. You can thank me…well, probably never, but I ain’t used to being thanked, so you won’t be hurting my feelings none.”

[Ivers] As he’s done several times before, Howard tears ass towards Hunter and then uses him as a shield between himself and the rest of the world. His outfit is, in all likelihood, the worst one Hunter has seen him wear yet: sneakers, seafoam-green pants, an orange vintage Reese’s cup t-shirt, that blue-and-black plaid scarf that matches nothing he owns, and his leather jacket. When he claps his hands on Hunter’s shoulders, it’s the thickness of his jacket that keeps him from feeling how cold Howard’s hands are.

The fuck??!

His left arm stretches over Hunter’s shoulder, continuing to point as he explains what the fuck’s going on.

Simon. “I pissed him off–”
Sarita. “She’s snarkin’ up a storm–”
Patrick. “He’s stoned–”
Simon. “He thinks I’m cute–”
Sarita. “The Great Cuntrag Shortage of 2011 takes another victim–”
Patrick. “I’m about ninety-nine percent certain he’s tryin’ to commit suicide without actually havin’ to do it himself.”

At which point Sarita pushes his brother back in their direction. Howard sighs, quick and loud, and lets go of Hunter’s shoulders with a harsh sniff. For the first time… well, likely ever, Howard gives Patrick a command that leaves very little room for argument, if one is willing to ignore the fact that Patrick could beat Howard’s ass in a heartbeat.

C’mere!” he says, in a hoarse stage whisper, waving his arm. His tone, though his volume is disastrously low, has an edge to it that none present have ever heard before.

[Llewelyn] “My sickness is simply that I don’t want to fight for what you do,” the Fiann says, still panting, sweat dripping from the ends of his hair.

“You all… you just don’t want to stop and think that maybe, maybe I’m not fucking sick. I just don’t agree with with your principles. God forbid those chosen by Gaia stop and think for themselves.” He mutters, and as Sarita pushes at his chest he swings, grabbing up his jacket and guitar.

“I’m so gone.”

He confirms, and glances at Howard as he passes and he hisses c’mere in actual challenge.

Patrick keeps walking, down the stairs.

[Hunter] Hunter listens to Howard with a face that changes emotions rapidly. RAPIDLY.

I pissed him off — Orly? Feigned surprise.
She’s snarkin’ up a storm — Don’t be a dickhead Howard
He’s stoned — Contemplative.
He thinks I’m cute — Sigh. Ugh.
The great cuntrag.. — HOWARD!
Ninety-nine percent — Concern.

And the concern stays there when Patrick ignores his Alpha’s commands. Truth be told, Hunter Matthews doesn’t really care what happened at the bar now, he looks at Simon, looks at Sarita, sees no threat. His attention goes back to Patrick and Howard.

“You gotta’ make em do it man.. one way or another..” He says the words like he doesn’t really want to have to say them to Howard, but feels it’s necessary.

[Bridget Geroux] Like Lazarus, the Fianna kin suddenly takes a sharp breath in and sits upright. A few adorable blinks and wide doe-eyed looks around the room causes the Canadian to grimace. A blink pushes back emotionless tears– her eyes are watering from the case of Drunk.

“Jesus! the young woman cries, it’s not pained, but soft and high pitched.

“I can’t leave you guys alone for a second! What’s going on? Why is Caldera here, and Hunter?”

It’s damn adorable, that fucking Canadian bitch. She rubs her eyes and frowns.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She spins around and tenses, reacting to the exclamation from Bridget like it was a gunshot. When she sees and hears Bridget, all the residual hostility she may have carried and what was left of that other-than-human look she had flits away. She puts on a smile and sighs. There’s something about the kin being conscious that certainly invokes that change.

“No worries, chica. Things just got a bit intense. We’ll be good boys and girls, promise.” She heads toward the minibar. “Who needs a fuckin’ drink?” And she raises her hand. “That’s right…I do, I do!”

[Simon Zahradnik] He keeps his smile as Patrick speaks now. He watches quietly and he shrugs his shoulders.”Believe what you like… I am honestly past the point of caring. I put my life on the line because I believe in something. You choose not to believe in that thing. That’s cool it just means I can be a little more selective on who I put my ass on the line for.”He says with a nod of his head as Patrick storms out.”Night princess!”

He then turns his attention to Bridget.”I think they are leaving.”He says before giving a little smile.”Well I can’t speak for Hunter. You wanna stay man? Grab a drink?”He asks the Full moon, inviting him in. Hunter was… Well he didn’t know him well but one Full Moon can respect another usually.

[Ivers] This is the longest any of them have known Howard where he has been absolutely silent for this long.

Patrick not only doesn’t C’mere but he keeps right on walking, carrying his guitar case and his jacket without stopping to collect his Alpha, and Howard just watches him, skinny shoulders slumped, hands at his sides, lips parted as though he’s attempting to find the words but can’t get them to line up properly. There’s the totemphone, of course, but he utilizes that far less frequently than he utilizes, say, prophylactics or language appropriate for all audiences, and he’s silent there, too.

It’s shock. He’d joked about it, had tried to make light of it, but having Patrick walk away from him like this doesn’t seem to have any previous mapping in his brain. It isn’t as though they’re in the living room, or the common room, and he’s storming off to their bedroom after Howard has sufficiently annoyed him. He just attempted to goad two Garou from other tribes into obliterating him, and then ignored what was, effectively, an order.

With his back to the room, his attention on the empty space where his brother was a moment ago, when he answers Hunter he doesn’t attempt to hide, at first, the fact that he’s confused.

“I can’t… I’m not…”

A hand goes to his forehead, kneads the wrinkle-free flesh there, and then the realization that there isn’t a single person in this room who he hasn’t pissed off in the last twenty-four hours strikes him. He draws a breath, effectively pulling it together.

“The fat fuck just can’t handle his weed, is all,” Howard says, his voice a degree of cheerful that is so forced it bears no resemblance to his typical brand of not-a-single-fuck-given speech; he even adds a forced Hah, hah! as though it’s in the script and he just doesn’t feel the damned line during this particular rehearsal.

Without waiting for anyone else to speak, he starts after Patrick.
Unlike every other time this has happened, he doesn’t shout for him.

[Hunter] Hunter stands there looking at Howard, he sees the confusion, the hesitation and Hunters face falls. He shakes his head slowly and after a few moments he just claps the Theurge on the shoulder, gives him a friendly smile.

“Good luck.” And it sounds sad.

He can’t follow, he can’t help him, what would be the point? He has to do it himself, and if he can’t do it himself then he shouldn’t be the one giving orders.

Howard bolts out after Patrick and Hunter looks around the rest of the room. He sees Bridget, gives her a wave. “Guess I’m late ye? Shit. Night ladies. Oh you too Simon.” He sighs, gives a wave of his hand and then he’s heading back out. He won’t stop to find the Caldera’s, he won’t stop even if he walks right into them.

Home time.

[Bridget Geroux] It’s her own party and people don’t even say goodbye to her. Bridget is, however, strangely used to this. It doesn’t surprise her, but she does continue to blink and pout in her semi-conscious state. The poor kinfolk whose party was kind of ruined like a friggen tantrum of 6th graders from both sexes who have reached puberty just waves her hand at Caldera… you know… like they’re actually looking or like it matters at all.

“Bye guys.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She picks up the tequila sunrise, sighing as she sees that, indeed, the sunrise has already faded away. She swirls the liquid in the glass a little bit, mixing it all the way, and then heads over to sit down next to Bridget. “I’m sorry. Here I thought I’d made the whole thing better for half a second, and then it took a huge, Greg Louganis-style dive. Horrific head-smack and all…in a metaphorical way, anyway.” She looks at the kin, her expression apologetic.

[Bridget Geroux] It takes a few more minutes for the Canadian to actually wake up. She might go after them if she was privy to that whole Harano-filled tirade. No, she definitely would go after them if she knew about it.

Things being as they are, she doesn’t. Bridget wakes up bleary-eyed, gets up, goes over to the plate of finger food. The plate gets brought over to the couch and set onto the coffee table before her. She’s still drunk, so it’s slightly less graceful than she thinks.

“This sucks,” she mumbles. “If shit is always this dysfunctional everywhere but home, it’s no wonder you guys keep saying the world is ending.”

She doesn’t mean anything smart-assed by it. It’s wisdom from the Bottle that every one of the guests so far has indulged too heavily in.

“Can’t even… fucking… jam. I mean, goddamn.”

[Simon Zahradnik] He waves to Hunter and then glances at Bridget. He frowns a little and just watches her quietly and seemed to look like he wanted to say something. He even opened his mouth to start to talk once, and then a second time, and then a third. He holds up his hand then looks around. Then finally back to her.”You can’t umm… Jam… On your own?”He asks softly and so very cautiously. He wasn’t a musician and didn’t realize how stupid this question was. He didn’t realize there would be multiple people performing here. He just thought he was here to see Bridget and probably a few others!

[Bridget Geroux] [Cha+Perf+PB. Dif +2 drunk. Keep posting, I just want to know what I need to start typing.]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 4, 5, 5, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[Bridget Geroux] [Well fine. -2 dice then]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She smiles, a sadder smile than she’s usually seen with. “You know…” She takes a drink of the cocktail, then sets it down before turning on the couch to face Bridget. “I grew up without any connection to all this shit. My father…more or less a one night stand with my mother. That kind of thing is fairly common among my tribe. You’re on the road a lot, you don’t really get into a lot of committed relationships, you know?”

Her words aren’t said with any bitterness. A trace of sadness, perhaps, but it’s faint and more for what she had and no longer does than what she never got the chance to experience. “Turns out, Esteban had a whole other family. Kinda makes him a shitty guy, in a lot of people’s opinion. He knew about me–they all knew about me–but I knew nothing about them until after my mom died and I had my First Change. I’ve had a lot of time since then, but I’ve really always felt like I had an outsider’s perspective, since I spent all those so-called formative years knowing nothing about all of us, and all of this.”

She pauses, thinking a moment. “There’s some fucked-up shit about the nation, and yes, there’s a lot of dysfunction. There are people I want to beat the tar out of sometimes…my own sister among them, and even a few people I’ve met here. But you know that all of that aside…we’re still a family. An enormous, seriously fucked-in-the-head family that sometimes tries to kill each other, but a family nonetheless. And when the chips are well and truly down, most of us will always have each other’s backs.” She looks at Simon and grins. “Hell, if I can end up on the same semi-side as this guy, anything can happen.” She throws him a wink, then looks back at Bridget. “Don’t get down. You’ll have your chance to jam…sometime soon, I bet.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] [GO GO Gadget-Manip+Emp+PB!]]

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] [[Helps if I properly type the number in]]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 4, 7, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) [WP]

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] [[One More ’cause I’m dumb!]]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 3 (Failure at target 6)

[Bridget Geroux] To this, Bridget simply sighs and blinks. Simon doesn’t get it, but that’s fine. Sarita makes a pretty convincing argument, which inspires her to play. She clears her throat, looking quite serious while she searches for her harmonica, fingers floating through the crevices of the couch. Alas, it is there.

She holds it up to the dim light, then polishes it off with the corner of her shirt and brings it to her mouth. She starts playing. It is a pretty good job, but her heart just isn’t in it like it was before when she was playing beside a member of her Tribe, without tempers flaring through the room.

The song that starts is Wayfaring Stranger, and it is pretty convincing to the Garou. Bridget herself doesn’t hear it quite the same. She can’t see herself, so she feels disappointed with her own notes. She smirks when the soulful traditional melody is done.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] The song strikes a particular chord in Sarita who seems clearly familiar with it. She smiles a tiny bit, silent as she watches and listens. When the song is done, she tilts her head a bit to the side. “Interesting song choice, chica. And nicely done.”

[Simon Zahradnik] He listens at first to Sarita and then he looks at Bridget wondering what she is thinking. He is quiet for some time and he just watches her standing still and quiet as he listens quietly and pauses just to think. She was a beautiful creature and just watching her perform was pleasure enough on its own. He is quiet and respectful and he let her have her performance before giving a little smile.

“We’re not a family… Not right now.”His eyes said he was thinking about other things. He was thinking about many things, and his eyes seemed to stare off just Past Bridget as a bittersweet smile showed.”We’ll get there… One way or another we’ll get there.”His tone was somber and somewhat annoyed. Even Bridget’s song couldn’t erase the pang of guilt that rolled through him as he settled back into a seat and wondered what the pair of Garou was up to.

Simon was still young. Still full of ideals, and hope… That little spark that this war could still be won still glowed within him. He could be cold and brooding now and again but the innocence of youth, that misguided sense of wonder still showed through now and again.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She gives a suffering sigh, leaning back across her side the couch and letting her head fall backward over the armrest, so that she’s looking at Simon upside down. “Look at that…the Strider No-Moon and the Shadow Lord Full-Moon disagree on something. Someone get a Galliard, this rare occurrence needs to be transcribed into the Silver Record.”

Again, the words are gently teasing instead of having any malice behind them, the tone entirely good-natured. “Next thing you know, a Fury and Fenrir might start fighting, or a Fang might condescend to a Bone Gnawer.”

[Simon Zahradnik] He shakes his head.”It’s not that it’s… Something else. I’m just… You know. Being my usual asshole self.”He says softly even giving a little smile.”No you are right somewhere in the end we need to be able to depend on one another.”He sighs.”I’m just being, thinking stuff it’s complicated.”

[Bridget Geroux] Simon watches Bridget’s performance with his intense method of admiration. He wonders what she’s thinking. It’s difficult to read, perhaps because of her concentration, her current level of sobriety, or even because she’s too moonbrained to ever have one thought at any given time.

The song mentions family, so of course her thoughts stray there. Her father and his big hands, the sound of his voice, the way he taught her everything. The mother she believes is dead, who she doesn’t remember at all except in photos and the way her father’s voice pinched and strained when he thought of her. The stiffness in Meuric’s demeanor when he thought of Lily, the way he could communicate without words all his heartache.

Bridget is thinking about the lovely black woman in Toronto who she distinctly remembers taking care of her when she was very young. She vaguely remembers the faces of Mama Gayle and her foster children. She remembers Mama Gayle’s voice, remembers the kinfolk nanna’s lullabies, the way she sang the kids to sleep. She called the little wayward Fianna girl blackbird.

Bridget is thinking about how much she misses the deep mountains, the clear air, the thrill of hunting in the wilderness with a set of wolfish eyes watching her prey on rabbits and deer. The warmth of furry bodies in a winter dogpile, the smell of Wolves. These are all childhood memories, so she doesn’t remember the fighting, the negative.

Lastly, Bridget is wondering whether she will ever find a place where she feels at home. Even with her fellowship sisters, there is a virtual abyss between them sometimes. She wonders if she’s ever going to settle down (even though she doesn’t want to). She wonders if there’s going to be a point when Caldera leave and take a piece of her with them. If Simon is going to do the same somehow. And what of her fellowship sisters? They all have lives to return to when their time in Chicago is done…

Just like Bridget does. Did she ever think this was going to be permanent? Why then get attached to anyone? Is this why Howard pushed her away, basically? All these and more flash through the kinfolk’s mind in a matter of short minutes.

The kinfolk lowers her head in deep respect to each of her two audience members. She sets the harmonica down and picks up those two spoons again. She clanks them back and forth, trying to think of something. It takes a moment before anything comes to her. A succession of clinks and clanks and rattling noises come out before her eyes light up.

“Hey, this is a jam. So I’m eliciting your participation. C’mon.”

She starts clicking the spoons and tapping her feet to a certain beat, looking at the two of them to see if the Upside Down Ragabash and the slumping Ahroun will pick up on it. If they don’t, that’s their deal. She will continue with the song anyway.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She smiles a little bit when Bridget calls for some audience participation, and she sits back up. “Silly rabbit.” She has no training with musical instruments…when she was 15, she had her legs pretty persistently wrapped around a singer/guitar player who thought he was the next Kurt Cobain and she picked up a trick or two from him, but that’s the last time she touched one. Still, she has been known to be able to follow a beat from time to time and she kicked ass playing Rock Band in a Best Buy once–until she had to run away for smashing the guitar against the ground at the end of her performance, anyway–so she’s not afraid to get involved. She starts to tap out the beat on her leg that Bridget is setting, the smile widening as she does.

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon wasn’t exactly feeling like making a fool out of himself by showing his total lack of musical talent but there was still guilt there. After all he did kinda ruin Bridget’s evening. So as the beat starts he does the best to join in with his own foot and hands. Tapping his foot and bringing his hands together.

[Bridget Geroux] The song goes on with a sort of chant feel. Bridget teaches children’s music lessons, so leading the two of them along is not overly difficult. Her bare foot slaps against the foor with the same rhythm, while the spoons vary a bit to polish up the chant a bit.

Eventually, she will chime in with some singing. It is light, soft, slow. The perfect ending song to this little fucked up shindig to end on a somewhat positive note.

“Why you wanna fly blackbird you ain’t ever gonna fly.
No place bif enough for holding all the tears you’re gonna cry
Cos your mama’s name was lonely and your daddy’s name was pain.
And they call you little sorrow cos you’ll never love again.”

A long stretch of the song goes between this and the next portion.

“So why you wanna fly blackbird you ain’t ever gonna fly.
You aint got no one to hold you you ain’t got no one to care.
If you’d only understand dear nobody wants you anywhere.
So why you wanna fly blackbird you ain’t ever gonna fly.
You ain’t ever gonna fly.”

At this the song tapers off and Bridget slows with the spoons until she stops altogether.

[Bridget Geroux] [And they jam into the wee hours of the uneventful morning.

End scene!]

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] [[Yay! Thanks for scenes!]]

The Owl Girl Meets The Mack Daddy and Others



Water runs, then shuts off. The Black Fury walks out of the bathroom as though nothing ever happened.

Hunter isn’t exactly a large man, but standing next to Howard Ivers he looks like a veritable wall. He could keep out Mongolian raiders if he wanted to. Whilst Howard is taller, Hunter is stocky, but they both have green eyes and they both smile far too often to be healthy.

“I think ya’ got’em mixed up a bit, this one’s the big mouth.”

One would think that that storm cloud moving over Remy’s features was the achromat’s version of a ray of sunlight bursting through the clouds the way the hipster breaks into a grin as he ambles over to the table. For someone who looks and oftentimes smells as though he doesn’t bathe with any regularity, who is rarely without some sort of burning herb in hand, he has well-cared-for teeth.

Where’s his bigmouthed packmate. The Fiann extends his right arm until his wrist pops out from beneath the sleeve of his leather jacket and consults the back of his wrist. There isn’t a watch there; he stares at it for a few seconds anyway, then returns his hand to his hip with something of a flourish.

“Probably writin’ a sad song on his guitar and havin’ himself a cry,” he says.

Hunter thinks he got them mixed up. Howard shakes his head.

“Nah… I’m the loudmouth. Very easy to mix up, especially if…” He turns to the table. “True story: I caught this fucker walkin’ around with two left shoes on the other day.”

[Tabitha Reese]
Tabitha laughs loudly all of a sudden, hand clasped over her mouth to stop it as she elbows Tala. “Stop!”

[Tala Whitedeer]
“I’m not doing anything. I’m sitting here, Tabby.” She shakes her head and sighs.

[Tabitha Reese]
“You’re a goddamned liar.” She elbows Tala again, then looks up to the two men. “Hey. How are ya?”

“I only got one pair’a a shoes you simple fuck.” Hunter says, snatches out a chair from a nearby table and pushes it with the back facing towards their table. He straddles it with his elbows resting on it.

“I’m Hunter, and I’m good thanks.” He says, eyes flicking between the occupants of the table. “This fuck here,” and he throws a thumb over his shoulder and turns.

“Is Howard.” He saves the insults, Howard proves how much of a dumbass he is without any help.

[Tabitha Reese]
“Tabitha” She hides her hands in her pockets again, nodding to her packmate. “This is Tala. We’re new.”

[Tala Whitedeer]
“Hi.” She looks the two over, not bothering to conceal it as she sizes them up.

“And it sounds like you’re thinkin’ about one of us naked,” he says. He looks between Hunter and Remy, then jerks a thumb at the Fenrir. “It was him, wasn’t it?”

“Well we know it wasn’t you Howard, that’s for sure.”

[Tabitha Reese]
“Maybe not so much naked as on fire.” She offers Remy another charming smile.

Now, all things considered, Remy’s been more or less easygoing tonight. Sure, he laid down the law so far as his kin was concerned. Sure, he turned around and smacked said kin upside the head. Sure, he seems to have no social graces whatsoever, or at least pretends that’s the case — but the teasing between Fenrir and Fury tonight has, on the whole, been of the friendly-ribbing sort.

That sort of changes when Howard and his big buddy approach. Something in the young Fenrir’s face tightens down. He sits back in his chair, a sort of exaggerated and deliberate broadening out of his physical presence that claims the air around him, the space around his feet.

“Why don’t you two jokers quit pretending we’re friends and take your comedy show on the road,” he says. “If the bulldykes here want to join you that’s their call. But I got here first and I don’t much want to eat my sandwich looking at your pipsqueak faces.”

“‘Bull… dy…'”

Howard turns to Hunter and drops into a crouch rather than sitting. When he speaks, it’s in an exaggerated stage whisper.

“I don’t speak Ignorant Twat, what’s a bulldyke?”

[Tabitha Reese]
“Oh for fuck’s sake. We are NOT fucking.”

“It’s a woman that doesn’t want to fuck you on principle,” Remy replies instantly, almost lazily, “and not just because your face looks like a kicked-in pile of horse shit. You noisy little cunt. Get lost.”

“Alright, alright, don’t get your knickers in a twist, Prettyboy,” he says, holding up a hand in a lopsided Don’t shoot gesture.

Hunter is amused, he really is amused. He might not be so amused if the two females he is calling bulldykes weren’t Garou. They can take care of themselves. Hunter would like to see Remy call Joey Oliver a bulldyke. As it stands he is trying his best but then Howard has to go and be Howard, and it comes out.

“pffffffftttttttttt.” Air escaping as he laughs with a look of Oh shit on his face.

“Didn’t ya’ say he don’t like that Howard?”

Remy’s eyebrows hop up on his forehead. Then he pops down the last of his sandwich — and might we add that even with a mouth full of half-chewed food, through which he lets out one of the fouler belches of the century, he’s still pretty enough to turn the heads of two college girls across the room — and dusts his hands off.

“Okay, pipsqueak,” he says, food-muffled. “You asked for it.”


[Izzy Montoya]
Speaking of noisy little cunts… [Ok, not really, but it seemed like a good enough line to steal.]

The door opens, as doors do when nudged from one side or the other, and she stalks in like she owns the joint. She doesn’t, of course. She walks into most places like that – it’s all in the attitude. She pulls off her gloves and stalks to the counter, and orders her coffee – hot and black, just like she likes her… well. Coffee.

Her features are strong, her breeding pure, her blood that of Viking Heroes. Her hair dark and longish, her eyes dark, her smile non-existent. She is lean – and by the looks of the bags under her eyes that have luggage of their own – exhausted.

Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9

“Oh, shit,” he intones, trying not to laugh even in the face of an impending ass-kicking. Even though he’s several inches taller than Remy, the term ‘pipsqueak’ isn’t entirely a misnomer: the Fenrir has somewhere in the neighborhood of seventy pounds on the Fiann, and it’s all muscle. Thrusting the coffee into Hunter’s possession, Howard says, “TellPatrickIlovehim” and turns to run.


This is where a Fostern should really… really… really give some semblance of a shit about what was going on. She steps way from the bathroom door, and the corner with all the banter and one very Attractive Rage-o-holic draws her attention. She is the spiritual equivalent of jet lagged. Her head is swimming, and her eyes come in to focus just in time to see a fight break out.

Her hands go to her hips. Attire is comfortable. Jeans with holes (air conditioning she insists), tights (because it’s still developmentally appropriate for her to believe that tights with jeans are cool) and a hooded sweatshirt. The Fury carries a messenger bag with her. She shrugs her shoulders and wanderes towards the fray.

Literally, wanders, like the budding fight was more like finding a sale on bonbons.

Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 3 (Failure at target 6)

Of course, this would be the moment that Patrick, Howard’s long suffering Galliard decides to grace the Cafe with his presence. Prayers to Broken Stone, a broad-shouldered kid with a head of sandy hair and brows to match; coupled with impossibly blue eyes was what most referred to as the quiet side of Caldera.

Put him beside Howard, and he was all but a mime. His conversation often little more than well timed shrugs or gesturing on one front or another. Presently, he’s wearing his work attire — that being dark blue coveralls and his battered leather jacket atop them. There are black fingerless gloves on his hands, and he’s crossing the street toward the Cafe in question when he sees Howard, shooting out the door.

His eyebrows rise.

He watches, then flicks them toward his pursuer.

[last call for inits! i’ma go review another section of my manuscript, and if there are no other inits when i get back i’ma declare.]

Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9
[Oh, why not! TUSSLE! +6]

[Tala Whitedeer]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Tabitha Reese]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Tala Whitedeer]

[Tabitha Reese]

[1. yell BOO! as Howard streaks out the door, sit back down.]

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She’s whistling just for the sake of whistling as she makes her way down the street in the general direction of the Cafe, walking at an unhurried pace. She’s got a hand-rolled cigarette out one corner of her mouth, and she pauses once she crosses at an intersection to light it before continuing on.

[1. Look disgusted with Remy
2. Lean against wall, James Dean style, and smoke a cigarette.]

[1a: realize Remy’s not chasing him
1b: wander back inside]

[Tala Whitedeer]
((grab a fork. Hold said fork in deathgrip))

[Tabitha Reese]
(Trip Howard as he attempts to flee)

[ok, i’ma wait to see outcome of the trip and then probably just go back IC *LOL*]

[Tabitha Reese]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 7, 7, 7, 8, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6)
(Rolling for the trip!)

Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 1, 3 (Failure at target 6) [WP]
[Athletics+Dexterity: GO GO HIPSTER BOOTS]

“OOGLABOOGLABOO!” Remy yells — nay, roars — as Howard turns to run. Heads turn all around the room, and not just because Remy is fucking hot. The ‘pipsqueak’ streaks toward the door. Tabitha sticks out her foot. Howard goes sprawling. Neighboring tables gasp in alarm. Are you okay?! someone wants to know.

Remy picks his toppled chair back up off the ground, sits again, uses the pad of his thumb to pick up a few crumbs of his sandwich. “Dumbass,” he comments, and reaches across the table to high-five Tabitha.

[Tabitha Reese]
She returns the high five, settling back in her seat and gently prying the fork out of Tala’s hand.

[Izzy Montoya]
Her coffee arrives as one is running off. There’s a tension about her lower back, dancing up her spine, as she turns her head enough to track what’s going on. Only when everyone stands down – for now – does she turn to wrap her fingers around the cup, and move to the side so others can order as needed. She tucks her gloves into her pocket, then lifts her cup to take a swallow that’s far to big for how hot the coffee is. She makes a face, a slight grimace, as the hot liquid burns over her tongue.

He wipes out in spectacular fashion, nearly taking out one of the table’s neighbors as he crashes into the floor, and a normal person would be pissed off, Rage flaring from embarrassment or pain or any other strong emotion that comes from being tripped while in the act of running from a man who looks like an underwear model.

Howard doesn’t yell, or strike back at the bulldyke, or fire back when Remy calls him a dumbass. Granted, he loses his sunglasses, so all he can do for several seconds is squint, but he doesn’t start fumbling for them. He flops onto his back and starts laughing.

“Oh Jesus,” he announces, laughter dying down, then points where he thinks Tabitha is supposed to be; his finger ends up aimed somewhere around her navel. “Y’know, you ought to be careful, in some cultures that’s considered foreplay.”

[Tala Whitedeer]
Prying the fork loose is easier said than done, but Tabitha IS stronger, so with a small whine of protest, off it goes.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She exhales a drag of smoke and goes back to her whistling, the shrill tones of “Twisted Nerve,” as the cafe grabs her attention. With a shrug, she directs her steps toward it, stubbing the cigarette out just outside. Someone could use a coffee.

She looks at the pile of people. The Fenrir, who puffed up all nice aand big, the Fianna who started to run, then was tripped… and then faceplanted. She inhales slowly, and a little more deeply than she realizes. The younger Fury clenches her jaw, and heads over. There’s high fiving. Then laughing. Her jaw unclenches. She shrugs, and heads for the door.

“Hey,” she says to Patrick on the way out, “I don’t think you can smoke in here.”

[Tabitha Reese]
She’s about to answer Howard when the dark haired woman matching the description she was given captures her attention. Now her, she’d go bulldyke for. Getting up quickly, she pats Tala’s shoulder and makes her way over to Alethea.

(Patrick is still outside! He’ll stay there til I return with dinner in a min!)

[Tala Whitedeer]
“Where are you going?” She seems alarmed suddenly.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She glances at Patrick as she slips in the door, recognizing him from the other night in the hallway of crowded bathrooms, towels and such that she’d stumbled upon. She gives him a nod and a wink as she slips inside, glancing around on her way toward the counter.

“You know,” Remy says to Tabitha and Tala, “you two aren’t half bad. I’m staying at the Brotherhood. You should look me up sometime. Like if you want to go hunting or something.”

On that note, he finishes picking crumbs off his plate and cocks his eyebrows at Drew. “I’m taking off, girl. You want me to walk you to your car so you can drive me to my boardinghouse?”

[Tabitha Reese]
“I’ll be right back. No stabbing anyone.”

She nods to Remy “We’ll do that.” Then she’s off to catch up with the other Fury.

(ohshit! Sorry, delete last line!)

[Tala Whitedeer]
“Bye.” She nods curtly at Remy, then looks over at Tabby, watching her go with a look of growing displeasure.

[Drew Roscoe]
Drew spent the whole of this ruckus just leaned back in her chair, watching the goings-on while looking like she couldn’t be bothered to be upset or anxious about it anymore. The potential of a scuffle is left with a roar of ‘ooga booga’ to chase the curly-haired Fianna away, who winds up tripping over Tabitha’s foot and crashing into some chairs and a table. The people who work are arguing near the end of the counter about whether they should kick them out, leave them, or call the cops and claim someone’s disturbing the peace.

Her coffee’s empty for the most part, cooled off enough that it’s not as enjoyable anymore, when Remy finishes the crumbs from his sandwich and, in a roundabout way that made it sound like he would be helping her, asked for a ride back to The Brotherhood of Thieves. Drew took a last drink of her mug, set it on the table, and stood up. “Alright.”

He keeps calling her Girl and she doesn’t correct him. Just goes ahead and pulls her dark blue winter coat on, buttons it up to her collar bone, and makes a beeline for the door.

Hunter has performed one of his disappearing acts or is eating paper napkins or something equally constructive, leaving Howard to either fumble around for his sunglasses for another two minutes until he finds them or do what he ends up doing, which is abandoning them in favor of attempting to grope his way from the floor to a chair. In order to pursue Alethea, Tabitha has to step over or around the prone Fiann; that doesn’t seem to be an impediment, and he doesn’t take the opportunity to trip her as she does so.

He lies still a moment, blinking so slowly he ends up squeezing his eyes shut a few times, then sits up. His hand finds the chair Tabitha vacated, and he clumsily–silently–picks himself off the floor and sits his skinny ass down. When his eyes, a shade of green similar to Hunter’s, move around it isn’t with the same sharpness and precision that the rest of the patrons’ do: they don’t focus on anything, and his brow is furrowed.

Slowly, it dawns on him that someone’s still here.

“I think she fancies me,” he says, and folds his hands on the table.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She pauses a second in her walk as she sees Howard on the floor, recognizing him from that other night as well. She opens her mouth as if to ask why he’s on the floor, then looks to the table everyone’s at before shrugging it off with apparent acceptance. On her way to get her coffee she goes.

It wasn’t a very subtle way to ask for a ride, but Remy looks downright delighted when he actually scores one. The resultant grin makes at least one of the arguing baristas lose her train of thought. Remy buttons back up in his winter coat, his scarf and hat and gloves, and pretty soon there’s just that little sliver of face showing again.

“Okay,” he mumbles through his buttoned collar. “I’m good. Let’s go.”

[Tala Whitedeer]
She looks over at Howard, blinking slowly. “What?”

All the while the Fianna Galliard has been outside, foot propped against the wall; smoking like a wannabe rebel. He’s flicking it away when the Fenrir appears, exiting with his ride. “Well hello, gorgeous.” Patrick drawls, for no real reason and cants the man a salute.

[Tabitha Reese]
She stops herself just short of grabbing Alethea’s arm, settling instead for brushing her fingers on the other woman’s arm to get her attention and clearing her throat.

[Drew Roscoe]
Remy was good to go, and at this point the mayhem in the coffee shop had driven up the little Kinfolk’s blood pressure to the point that she was barely paying mind to anyone else. Family first and that was all, if he wasn’t a Fenrir she would have hit the pavement long ago. She only just notices Izzy as she’s holding the door open and waiting for Remy to catch up, and the detective Kin gets a long stare before a nod of acknowledgment. No warm smiles, no waves, no ‘Hey Izzy!’, just the nod.

Once Remy’s caught up, Drew’s stepping outside along with him…..

…right into the face of another show of provocation. Drew looked up at Patrick, some guy she’s never seen or met before, calling him ‘gorgeous’. While this was a truth there was no point in denying, it had caused him to snap at the Black Fury, then charge the Fianna to scare him off. Drew was giving him a ride, she wanted to get her ass back home, have a drink or two to calm the nerves, and go to sleep so she could get her ducks in a row for her interview on Monday.

So she breaks her act of ‘good, quiet kin’ and jams a finger at Patrick. Everyone has a last straw, and the number of them wane as the hours tick by. “You. Smug guy. Shut the hell up and let us go home. Your pals are in there waiting up for you.” That finger retracts so she can jerk her thumb toward the cafe door.

She stops and turns around. Someone touches her arm, and she looks up. Her lips upturn, and something about her seems… distinctly more grounded than Tabitha remembered. She is also, simultaneously, less there than she was when they first met. She perks up-

“Oh! Hey!”

[Tabitha Reese]
“Hey.” She smiles, looking relieved. “I was going to call you. To let you know we’re here. How are you?” She’s babbling, gesturing too much with her hands as she talks.


When he turns his head towards Tala, his eyes land in the general direction her voice came from. They aren’t bloodshot or red, nor are they marred by bruising or scars; there is no discernible reason why it’s dark out and he arrived wearing sunglasses. There are some bizarre females out there who claim this young man is attractive, that he has pretty eyes or the whole skinny mop-haired asshole thing is a turn-on, but none of those bizarre females exist on this side of the fourth wall so the ones left standing shall be spared.

“Which one are you?”

[Tala Whitedeer]
“Which one am I what?” She looks confused.

[Izzy Montoya]
Izzy takes a seat at an empty table, setting her cup down and rubbing her fingers together to warm them. Drew notices her, and gives a long look, which Izzy simply returns. She arches a brow, slightly, just as Drew nods, and turns to go outside.

Izzy, likewise doesn’t call out, doesn’t smile, doesn’t wave. And she likes it that way just fine.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She gets her coffee, paying with a grin, and turns around to look over the room once more. She considers for a moment before heading over to the big, occupied table and nodding at Howard. “I remember you. How’s your ass?”

She doesn’t say anything, she just hugs the other Fury and holds on like she might fall apart and float away just by being there. She is warm, and she is surprisingly solid for being… well… being her. It’s a little known, less cared about fact that Alethea Adamidas has a heavier build than her height suggests. Even with the apparent weight loss, she’s solid.

“Where are you staying?” her voice is muffled.

Another night — the night Patrick called him a Silver Fang, for example — and Remy might have flown into a fury. Tonight’s a pretty good night, though. He traded jabs with a Black Fury that gave as good as she got and miraculously didn’t get pissed; he scared Patrick’s loudmouth alpha off; he watched said Black fury trip said loudmouth alpha on his way out. Good night. Good happenings.

So there’s no frothing at the mouth. There’s no sudden lunge for the throat. There’s just a smirk that widens when Drew gives Patrick the one-finger salute.

“Aw, don’t be jealous,” Remy says, slinging his arm unapologetically around Drew and hugging her against a side that feels as solid as a slab of beef. “Charming fella like yourself, I’m sure you’ll find some company tonight.

“Better stay off this one though. Don’t think you can handle her kind of fire, Stag-boy.”

He ignores the finger, breathing smoke out his nostrils as he straightens. His bright eyes consider Drew for a beat, and he glances back at Remy. “I like her,” he notes as mildly as if he’d been commenting on a new car, already turning his shoulders toward the Cafe door.

“She’s almost got the mouth of a Fianna.”

He pulls open the door, turning with his back to it to raise both eyebrows at the pair of Fenrir. “Have a good one.”

He sits in furrow-browed thought for a grand total of two seconds, which is something of a record between Howard being asked a question and Howard spitting out an incendiary response. When he comes up with it, he snaps his fingers in an unspoken I got it.

“No, wait, you’re not the one with the–”

At which point Sarita arrives at the table. Its occupancy has dwindled significantly; only the Uktena and the Fiann are left, now, and the Fiann doesn’t appear startled or anxious that someone whose voice he’s never heard has wandered up asking him about his ass.

“I don’t remember you,” he says, without missing a beat. “What’d you do to my ass?”

[Tabitha Reese]
She hugs the other Fury back tightly, looking considerably more settled now. “It’s good to see you. We’re just in motel rooms for the moment. Come meet Tala”

[Tala Whitedeer]
Another unidentified person, and she’s definitely looking overwhelmed. Not quite shutting down, but getting there .

“But-” she says “-I have to go. There aren’t a lot of- I’m needed on the other side.”

Because when is a theurge ever not needed on the other side.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“It’s grandfathered into Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. Next time, spend a lifetime building an immunity to iocane powder, or as I like to call it, Rohypnol.” She looks over at Tala and does the upward chin tilt can be construed as a greeting. “Hola.”

[Tabitha Reese]
“Oh…” She nods. “Right, of course. I”m sorry. Some other time.”

[Drew Roscoe]
Remy’s arm is tossed about her waist and draws her in against his side with no hint of shame or apology in the gesture. On another night he’d feel her shoulders hunch up uncomfortably and her muscles go tense. In another setting being hugged into so handsome a man’s side with his hand at her waist, hip, belly… anywhere in that area, that might coax a blush.

Tonight she just looks like she just figured out that the candles on her birthday cake were trick ones. Her frown is less aggressive and more annoyed, the hand that she was gesturing at the Fianna (she gets that from Remy calling him ‘Stag-boy’) drops to her side, and she just stands loose-limbed against the Godi’s side and stares up the street while Patrick compliments Remy by saying he liked her, wishes them a good night, and heads inside. One can only guess that Drew’s counting from ten backwards in her head.

A tick of the second hand passes on the clock inside the cafe, and Drew reaches into her pockets to tug on her white mittens, but doesn’t jerk her shoulder into his side or try and wrench out from under his arm. “Truck’s up the road. You’ll have to nevermind the plastic.”

She gives Tabitha a quick squeeze.

“I’ll come find you,” she tells her.

[Tala Whitedeer]
“Hi. Hello.” she nods at Sarita as well, definitely tense.

“Oh, hey, look at that, startin’ off with a date rape joke!” He lifts two thumbs to indicate his approval, sarcastic as it is, then indicates where he thinks a chair might maybe be with his finger. “You’ll fit right in.”

[Tabitha Reese]
“Alright.” She nods, kissing the Fury on both cheeks before leaving the Theurge to her work and scooting back to her table and the increasingly panicked Tala.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“Hey, I like putting by best foot forward. Wherever that may put it.” She grins and takes a seat, at least nice enough to not sit too close to the timid one. “I’m Sarita. Saw you during the thing with the limping and the bathroom and all that shit. It’s understandable you may not have seen me. You were focused on something else.”

[Tala Whitedeer]
“Who was that?” She snaps at Tabitha, bristling for some reason known only to her.

[Tabitha Reese]
“That was the one that I told you about.” She resists the urge to dump Howard out of her old seat, taking the one vacated by Remy instead.

[Tala Whitedeer]

“Love,” he says, sitting back with a sigh, “you’ve no idea how many days of the week you managed to describe with the words ‘limpin” and ‘bathroom.'”

His attention jumps the tracks with a speed that is enough to induce whiplash in the unconditioned.

“You seen a light-eyed fella with skin like mashed potato and a–”

Who was that?

“Jesus!” Howard says, as though she’s startled him. When Tabitha returns she’ll note that the young man, whose tribe does not announce itself in his blood and whose Rage is so scant it is barely noticed by even the most weak-willed of humans, is sans sunglasses; his expression is focused but his eyes are vacant, as though he’s staring into fog and can’t see a damned thing.

To be fair, Remy lets Drew go pretty much as soon as ‘Stag-boy’ goes in. He tugs his hat a little lower over his forehead, obscuring even his eyebrows now. Must not be from so cold a climate. God knows where he’s from — for all that easy american slang, there are sometimes hints and glimmers of muddled, myriad accents in his voice.

“Sorry about that,” he explains. “That jackass called me a Silver Fang the last time we met and then got lucky enough to win the fight.” He doesn’t even bother to explain why there was a fight. Or what it was about. It’s obvious in his mind. At least he’s honest about losing, though, shameful as it is. “That was his Alpha in there that the Fury sent sprawling. That was pretty satisfying.”

And, “Plastic?”

[Tabitha Reese]
“What’s wrong with you?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“If limping and bathroom describes multiple days, you may be quickly becoming my favorite person I’ve met here so far.” She looks up as Tabitha approaches, going quiet for a second as she looks her over and seeing how this changes the table’s dynamic.

[Tala Whitedeer]
She gives Tabitha a scowl, saying nothing.

What’s wrong with you?

“Who?” He points in Tala’s direction. “Her? I think she’s jealous.”

[Tabitha Reese]
She looks Sarita over quickly, then offers a nod. “Hey.”

Her nose wrinkles at Howard. “No, you. Why would she be jealous?”

[Drew Roscoe]
Not one to question why a pair of Garou will get into a fight, Drew instead started walking up the sidewalk once Remy’s arm unwraps from her back and side. He was gentlemanly enough not to let it linger, even went so far as to apologize for the act (though the necessity for it was beyond her, she wasn’t bothered enough to pitch a fit over it). Her shoulders shrugged, white mittened hands adjusted the lapels and collar of her coat, and she walked the curb as he explained himself, and while she explained herself in turn when the plastic was brought up and questioned.

“Huh,” is what she has to say on the pack that he’s talking about, how satisfying it had been for him to see Stag-boy’s alpha eat floor. And “Don’t worry about it,” for the apology.

As for the plastic: “I haven’t quite had a chance to get the blood cleaned off the seats yet. The week’s been hectic, to say the least.” She doesn’t have to tell the whole story, not unless he asks for it specifically. She doesn’t need to say that it’s her own blood that cakes most of the vehicle, and the rest is from an ally– none of it is from an enemy. It was a part of being Garou and, unfortunately, these situations tended to spill over and make it a part of being Kin as well. It was just a shame that they were so much more fragile.

[Tala Whitedeer]
“I’ll see you back at the motel, Tabitha.” She nods to Sarita and Howard, standing and heading for the exit. ((bedtime))

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“Nice meeting you…uh, person,” she calls in Tala’s direction as she departs.

“Lady,” he says, laughing slightly as he sits back in his chair, “do I look like I’ve the slightest idea why girls do the things they do? We aren’t wired the same, for Christ’s sa–oh hey later!”

At some point Hunter walks back in, slaps Howard in the ear and sits down in a chair.

“Stop it, I don’t care what it is, just stop it.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“Well, in all fairness it WOULD be dull if we were all wired the same.” She looks over at Hunter as he comes up. “You I remember too.”

“Ow!!” He sounds indignant; however, this is Howard, who only expresses genuine emotion by affecting the exact opposite. His hand goes up over his ear, and he starts laughing. “You got me in the ear, you wanker!”

Patrick steps into the Cafe — though he has been taking his own sweet time about it and saunters up to his Alpha; Howard’s shoulders get the benefit of his pack-brother’s large palms pressing down firmly on them as the Bone Gnawer resurfaces from — elsewhere — and slaps the Theurge’s ear.

Patrick sets his gaze over the assembled; his Rage like a persistent heaviness in the air.


[Tabitha Reese]
She quiets, watching the three as Patrick joins them.

[Izzy Montoya]
At some point, she’d finished her coffee. Now, she stands, pulls her gloves back on, and heads toward the door.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
And then she looks up at Patrick. “And you, of course I remember. Hola.”

Remy laughs, a single muffled Ha! echoing down the quiet street. “Transporting bodies, were you?”

“Ah..” He scratches his chin “Oh.. that’s right, you was at the fuckin’ broho last week or some shit. Good ta’ see ya’ again.”

He ignores Howard’s at least for now. He’s like one of those fake babies, it will always be there, crying and moaning and being useless. They take hundreds of years to degrade as well. Those annoying little fucks. Somewhere in a dump there is an underground city of crying moaning cabbage patch dolls.

“Hey patty.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She checks her watch. “Oh…yeah, I guess it is last week by now. Huh. Nice to see you too though. S’up?”

[Drew Roscoe]
“Only mine and a friend’s.” There’s a beat, and she corrects herself. “No, there was a body in the back, but that was easy to hose off.” She’s not scowling so hard now, being out of the cafe and back on the street, walking away with the knowledge that a bed and room all her own was only thirty or forty minutes away was promising enough a thought that it calmed her down some.

Her dark cherry painted Dodge Ram is near the end of the block, and when close enough to it she extracts her keys from her coat pocket and presses the button that has the lights flashing to indicate where the vehicle is and that its doors are now unlocked. The story leaves much to be desired, plenty of details left out (like exactly what the fuck happened and why she and this friend were bleeding rather than all the bad guys dead bodies), but the fact was that she was standing there looking as fit and healthy as could be. There’s no limp in her step or pain in her face when stops at her truck and pulls open the passenger door. On a street like this with drunk drivers and taxi cabs alike dominating the road, it was just safer and smarter to go in through the passenger side if you could.

All’s well that ends well right?

There’s a Black Fury whose face he does not recognize, another he recalls from the Brotherhood and a Fenrir Kinswoman whom he last glimpsed the night Howard took a swandive off a fire escape.

And Hunter.
Who calls him Patty and gets the benefit of a frown.

Izzy is gone too quickly for the Galliard to salute her, so his attention re-focuses on the newcomers. “Hey, I don’t think I caught your name last time.” To Sarita, those blue, blue eyes all hers for a beat, then they shift to the Black Fury. “And yours is a face I don’t know at all.”

He sticks a hand out; it’s rough and his movement brings with it the wave of motor-oil and cigarette smoke. The latter far fresher than the former. He clasps hands where he’s offered and adds, with emphasis: “I’m Patrick, people call me Prayers to Broken Stone.”

He nods at Howard.

“This one’s pack-mate.” Speaking of, Patrick glances at Howard’s face; the frown returns. “Did you lose your sunglasses when the Fenrir chased you? Fuck, how many pairs have you lost being chased around?” He starts making some cursory sweep of the Cafe floor.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She affects a terrible British accent. “Ecos de la Risa. Sarita…Ecos de la Risa. I take my martinis neither shaken nor stirred, but thrown the fuck out so I can have tequila shots.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
And she takes the offered hand with a hearty handshake.

“I’ll have you know,” he says, “it wasn’t the chasin’ that made them fall off, it was…”

He blindly points a finger towards Tabitha, knocking over an empty cup in the process. There has been a period of palpable silence over the totemphone, Howard not screaming for help or recounting his last will and testament prior to being destroyed like he usually does.

“… the tripping. Don’t usually have an man-hater pop out of nowhere to help a woman-hater, man, I’ll be on my toes next time.”

[Tabitha Reese]
“I don’t hate men. Some Furies DO have to like men, you know.”

“Oh, come off it,” he says, “I have sex with people I hate all the time.”

“Huh.” Remy thinks for a while. Maybe it’s that handsome, handsome face. Maybe it’s all the muscle. Whatever the reason, thinking looks like it takes more effort for him than, say, throwing a punch. Or ripping off a scathing insult or three. If Drew knew his auspice, she might be surprised. Most people are. Then they find out how long it took him to earn Cliathhood, and it’s not such a surprise anymore.

“Was the body in the back responsible for the blood on the seats, at least?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She laughs a little bit. “I picked the right coffee joint to frequent tonight, I see.”

[Tabitha Reese]
“Masturbation doesn’t count, sugar.” She smiles sweetly, then looks at the door. “I should probably go make sure Tala got back okay.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
The laugh turns into a full cackle. “Instant classic right there.”

[Drew Roscoe]
Drew pegged him for a Rotagar. It was the crotch grab that nailed it. He’s pondering what she had to say about the blood on the seats, even as she steps up onto the foot hold of the truck then climbs across the truck’s bench to slide in behind the wheel, plastic that covered the back and seat of the bench crinkling noisily in protest while she went. The plastic sheet was clear but cloudy, but even through that the dark brown of dried blood that interrupted the light gray of the seat beneath could be seen. There was a lot of it behind the driver’s wheel, right where she sat.

His question is met with a curious expression, a moment to think about how to answer that, and she waits until he’s in and the truck door’s closed to answer. “Mostly, but it wasn’t the only one. The rest of them followed us and it turned into a full-out battle maybe forty minutes or an hour later.” Keys in the ignition and she starts the truck. “No casualties on our side…. but it got pretty close.” Both mirrors are checked and doors are locked before Drew’s pulling out into traffic.

It’s only for five seconds, but that comeback shuts Howard up long enough for Tabitha to make her exit. He laughs, but the fact that he doesn’t have an instantaneous game-ender to hurl back at her means she’s either struck a nerve, or that was simply too well-played an insult to recover from right away.

“What, your ‘phone’ busted?” he asks. “Tabitha, love, if you can’t stand your attraction to me, just say so. You don’t have to go runnin’ off. It’ll save us all a lot of pain and heartache in the long run.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She smirks, waving to Tabitha. “Nice to kind-of meet ya. Have a good’n.”

She then turns her attention to Howard. “You just got ‘powned,’ as the kids these days say. Y’know that, right?”

[Tabitha Reese]
“You’ve got me. It’s all I can do to not throw myself at you right here, right now. If I don’t leave now, I’m sure to do something that you regret.” She leans in, delivering a toe curling kiss to Howard before nodding to the others and breezing out. (Bed!)

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
Her eyes widen, and she laughs. “Correction. You just got old-school motherfuckin’ OWNED.”

To say that Howard does not see that coming isn’t an exaggeration. He literally does not realize she’s there until she’s inches from his face, and then the Fury has her mouth on his. A Litany-following, Gaia-fearing servant of the spirits would be pushing away from her as fast as he possibly could; Howard, stunned as he is, doesn’t even think to reciprocate. He smells like Febreze and marijuana smoke but his breath is vaguely fruity, as though he’s been chewing gum. His eyes stay open, and when she pulls back and disappears, he sucks in a breath.

He got old-school motherfuckin’ owned.

“The fuck did you just say?” he asks, feigning belligerence, before reaching down to unceremoniously adjust the crotch of his jeans. “Speak English.”

“Hm,” Remy makes another thinking noise, “so my question really is: did you take care of them all, or do I have to kick some asses?”

[Drew Roscoe]
“We got ’em,” is the short answer.

The addendum is tacked on with a lift of one eyebrow and a half a smirk to accompany her glance in his direction before eyes return to the road. “But I don’t think anyone will ever have all of Them taken care of.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“That was English, Mack Daddy.” She grins. “Si quieres que no hablan Inglés, puedo hacer eso también.”

“Estamos en los estados unidos, chica,” he sighs, suddenly sounding weary, pinching the bridge of his nose for effect; “los americanos no les gusta cuando los extranjeros hablan sus lenguas extrañas.”

Meanwhile, Patrick has been on a sunglasses hunt. Or, one assumes as much, anyway. There is, after a time no small amount of scuffling beneath a corner table and a female seated nearby gives a little shriek when Patrick’s shoulder brushes into her bare leg.


He says, voice muffled. A hand emerges with a pair of sunglasses, followed by the rest of his body. He shakes dust out of his hair, glances at the woman; she quivers a little. It’s the Rage, that’s all. “Sorry, you were in the way.” Then he gets to his feet, and wanders back to his Alpha; taking his hand and firmly slapping his glasses into his palm.

“I’m fitting ’em with a fucking pager.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She nods, the grin ratcheted up. “Sí, pero usted conoce a alguien mejor, cuando no ver lo que los enfurece. Y los americanos son muy, muy bueno en el supuesto que alguien que habla español no sabe Inglés, que es ideal para espiar.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
The fact that Patrick just emerged and missed the whole ‘owning’ bit seems to amuse her, and she nods to him. “Welcome back.”

We got ’em, she says. Remy, climbing onto the plastic sheets and shutting the door and buckling himself in as she gets this show on the road, tosses her an approving glance.

“Good girl. I hate having to clean up after someone else. So you got a name, or am I just going to call you ‘girl’ for the rest of your life?”

[Drew Roscoe]
He finally gets around to asking about a name, and that gets a bit of a chuckle from the Kinfolk. “Girl works fine. Or Drew. Or if you wanna get on my great side, Long Shot.” Kin had to work hard to get something close to a deed name, you better believe she was proud of hers.

The drive back to The Brotherhood of Thieves wasn’t a difficult one, she didn’t have to ask him once about directions, she’s obviously been a few times before (truth be told, she’s driven there several times but it was a rare thing that she would actually go inside– paranoia instilled by a fanatic was a difficult thing to shake). A few turns, stoplights, and a dozen or so blocks of main road are eaten up by the unnecessarily large truck for an urban setting before they’re in the parking lot, around by the employee door that the Garou typically used rather than the customer entrance.

Remy’d get dropped off with a name, phone number, and an explanation that she could be reached at any time because Family didn’t get a day off.

“Eso es muy, muy profundo,” he says, nodding. “Maar as ek praat soos hierdie, die polisie dink dat ek hier is onwettig. En dan–”

His brother grabs his hand and slaps his sunglasses into them. There is no melting relief from the Theurge, but he does say something strange as a dog walking on its hind legs:

“Thanks, man.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“Oh, now changing tongues on me, that’s just not fair.” She smirks. “Was the one you had still tied in knots?”

Patrick has absolutely no notion of what the pair are speaking when he slaps those sunglasses back into his Alpha’s hand. He therefore possesses the expression of someone standing amongst a number of his peers speaking Chinese on the bus while he stands among them; entirely unfocused on their conversation.

Howard thanks him; and his pack-mate doesn’t comment, but sets his hand on his bony shoulder as he passes by on the way to the counter.

After he returns his sunglasses to his face there is no dawning change in the young man’s demeanor; he did not shut down simply because he couldn’t see a damned thing. Any difference in how he typically acts wasn’t likely to be noticed by anyone other than Patrick, who was too busy hunting for his aviators to notice he wasn’t standing up or flailing his arms around like an over-caffeinated college professor.

Black shades in place, he sees her smirks and raises it with a self-satisfied, teeth-baring grin.

“Now why would my tongue be tied in anythin’?”

[thanks for the RP, all! *jets*]

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She leans back with a chuckle. “I don’t know. It sure seemed to be twisted around something not very long ago. I thought maybe whatserface could maybe pull off that trick where you tie a cherry stem with your tongue.”

Hunter has been dozing off, his head in his arms on the table. Thankfully he doesn’t snore, that’s reserved for those of.. larger calibre.. He sleeps quietly.. if you don’t count the yips and puppy noises that come out of his mouth as he chases cars down never ending streets in a city where it’s summer all the time.

When he wakes it is sudden, his head comes up and he looks around for familiar faces.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“Morning. sunshine.”

Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 1, 3 (Botch x 2 at target 7)
“I’ve got somethin’ she can–”

Up comes Hunter. Howard seems to have found his sunglasses again, or had someone find them for him.

“Good mornin’, sunshine!” he crows, almost simultaneously with Sarita, and hauls off to kick Hunter under the table.



[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“1, 2, 3, JINX!”


Hunter seems most confused by all of this. “The fuck?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“What, you’ve never heard of that? Two people say the same thing, whoever says ‘1-2-3 Jinx’ first means the other can’t talk and if they do, they owe the Jinxer something to drink. I’ll put it on your tab.”

Howard looks over to Hunter as if to confirm what he’s about to say before he goes ahead and says it.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard all fuckin’ night, and I’ve been hangin’ out with this dickhead since about five o’clock.” He stands, somewhat abruptly, and starts off towards the restrooms. “I gotta take a leak, hold that thought.”


“That sort’a shit will get ya’ fuckin’ beat up in LA.” He says and pushes back from the table to stretch his arms and back. It’s a glorious stretch, bone popping and groan inducing.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“Mmm, they can try.” She grins, like she would enjoy the opportunity. “I may not hit harder, but I fight dirtier.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She takes a sip of her coffee. “So, this a usual hangout, or just a place lucky enough to serve as such for the night?”

The Galliard of Caldera has been placing an order at the bar. He turns, eventually, with a steaming mug of coffee in his hand and makes his way over to the table where Sarita and Hunter are sitting. He turns his chair the wrong way, and braces his elbows on the spine of it; cradling his coffee.

He studies both faces as he sips.

“Howard in the toilet?” He asks the Bone Gnawer, with no small amount of surprise. Howard was always in the bathroom, if he wasn’t outside smoking. “Guy has a bladder the side of a walnut.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She grins. “I assume we’re not talking about some genetically-engineered super-walnut that grows to ginormous size and rampages through Walnut Tokyo, right?”

“Nah,” Patrick says with little inflection save the way his pale brows rise. “Would you want to see his super walnut?” He shakes his head, leans his weight back from the chair back; it protests the motion with a wooden creaking.

“I sure as hell don’t, and I live with the guy.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
“Yeah, no thanks. You seen one walnut, you seen ’em all. Besides, I left my industrial-strength nutcracker back in the van.”

That earns the female a chuckle, a brief, almost soundless affair before the Galliard drains his mug; glances at the bathroom door, then at the (apparently) dosing Bone Gnawer. “I hate to leave you alone with this guy,” a nudge of the Ahroun’s leg, he twitches but does not stir.

“But I gotta head home, hit the showers. I reek of motors.” Patrick rises, and twists the chair right way around. He nods at Sarita, and heads for the bar to deposit his empty mug on the way out. “Take it easy, yeah.”

With that, the Rage-intensive young man pushes out the door into the night.

[Sorry guys, my brain is pretty well mush! Thanks for the RP! ]

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
She grins and watches him go. “Don’t have too much fun. Have a good one.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa]
[[Probably a good place for me to go get some sleep too.]]

She finishes up her coffee and rises. “If you’re awake, tell the Mack Daddy I’ll talk to him later. Amy’ll kill me if I don’t get up at a halfway decent hour tomorrow. Don’t have too much fun.” She grins and moves to turn in her mug before heading on out the door.”

Exploration Leads To Shower Wackiness

[Cordelia] She looks at her cautiously… but mostly, her expression just confused. Her eyebrows are knit together, then pushed upward. One eye is a little more open than the other, and her lips are pressed into a line. Her arms unfold and rest on her knees.

“Why… would… anyone..? Eh?”

[Hunter] “I ain’t done this before!” comes shouting back. A long pause ended by a sound from hunter that vaguely resembles shocked disgust.


[Patrick] When Patrick spots Bridget, he almost looks a touch startled. Or was that guilty? It’s something and it might occur to the Kinfolk that Howard has either spoken to, or Patrick knows of her time with his Alpha. He is quick enough however, to school away his expression into something far less pointedly aware and cants her a lop-sided, tired half-grin.

“Hey, Bridget.” He gestures at the bottle as he comes fully into the common area, glancing in passing at the Silver Fangs gossiping in a corner. He still wasn’t sure what to make of that tribe, honestly. “Drinking solo tonight?” Then, there’s a distinctly familiar squawking from the bathrooms, and Patrick’s eyebrows crawl toward his hairline.

“Uh,” Hold that thought. “Bridget, maybe you should wait.”

Then, repressing a smile, Patrick rubs the edge of his thumb over his eyebrow. Howard? Whatever you’re doing, finish up before you destroy the coping mechanisms of everyone living here.

[Kristiana Coleman] “Just. You know. People telling people that I’ve done things that I haven’t… That sort of thing.” She picks up a silky tank top, looking it over before tossing it in the opposite pile.

[Patrick] [Whatever. I can’t fucking keep up with you lot. Patrick is where ever he is, ignore that SF Kin. Or… don’t. Whatevs, man.]

[Bridget] It’s written on Patrick’s face. He knows, the bastard gossip hens!! Really, the feral kin couldn’t give a hair off Stag’s tail about who knows. She just doesn’t care. And the bathroom situation is just too intriguing for her to wait. Besides, she’s already near the door when he says something.

Pandora. Box. Open Sesame!

[Cordelia] “Kristiana,” her voice is stern, “is that a pointed comment or are you actually concerned?”


[Howard] Once Quinn turns off the shower head, whatever’s going on in the bathroom becomes considerably more audible to the rest of the floor. Even the kinswomen in Room 8, if their door is shut, are not spared. Howard is goddamn loud even when he’s calm and sitting still. Right now he’s neither.

“Look, man, you fuckin’ started this. Don’t pussy out on me now!”

[Quinn] “You need a better grip on his hip.” Compared to the squawks of the boys, Quinn’s voice practically floats out of the bathroom. “Here, put your hand here.”

[Hunter] “Put my hand WHERE?” Hunter whines. “And you shut up Howard, you started this. You practically begged me for it.”

[Bridget] A few steps into the bathroom provides no clues, so she follows the loud shouting until she finds the source.

“What the fuck is going on?” she asks loud enough to be heard.

[Kristiana Coleman] Cordelia can see the panic starting to seep in. “Why? Are people saying something? Did he tell people that we did something? Because we didn’t. I knew he was going to do that. Guys like that always do that. Oh my GAWD, what if Mattieu hears that we did something?!?” She wails, burying her face in a pile of Calvin Klein cardigans and Michael Kors sweaters.

[Howard] “You want me to keep beggin’ you? Christ you’re sick… here.

He says this, but then he clears his throat. There’s a rustling to accompany his speech.

Please Hunter Jesus I need you fuck!

[Cordelia] She stands up and sighs. Who would have thought her to play the older sister role. Who would of thought her to be the nurturing, somewhat protective type. Then again, she’s proven her metal recently. The young woman sits down beside Kristiana and she pats her on the shoulder. She notices panic, she notices a lot of things. The female pushes her glasses up.

“Calm down, it’s okay… breathe…”

She says.

“Did you know my sister’s a philodox?” she has a train of thought there.

[Quinn] A few steps into the bathroom, at least from where she’s entering, and Bridget gets nothing more than the benefit of the trio of voices echoing off the bathroom walls. If she steps in further, moves around the sinks in the center of the room, she still sees nothing.

Unless she looks down.

There are two, no three pairs of feet beneath one of the shower curtains. One set, which can’t be anyone’s other than Quinn’s, is bare and facing inward. There’s a sneakered foot, a booted one right along side it, facing out.

“Now you’ve got it. Howard, do you need a hand?” One of the bare feet shifts forward.

[Kristiana Coleman] “She is?” That doesn’t seem to make her feel any better.

[Hunter] “So help me howard, I’ll turn this fuckin’ car around.” He warns and then there’s a bit of silence followed by grunts. “Shit Howard, it’s tighter’n’a nuns holy place. Ugh, oh oh there I think–”

A huge sigh of relief and a slippery sound.

“DONE!” Triumphant, proud.

Silence, drip drip drip.


[Howard] [I don’t know where the hell Jacqui went but I’m giving her 15 minutes before I post again!]

[Cordelia] “She is,” she tells Kristiana, “and some people say that circular, adament denial… especially in the way you’re denying… doesn’t do well to prove the strength of one’s case. Your response is paranoid, and leads me to believe one of two things- one being that something did happen between you and your nameless mister and you are feeling the impact of buyers remorse… or you didn’t do anything, and you genuinely are afraid of what the perception of your feminine virtue will say about your family and will decrease your prospects of doing what you were sent to Chicago to do.”

A beat passes. She sighs and reaches over. The female runs her fingers through Kristiana’s hair. She sighs and relaxes. There’s a certain worth in what she says.

“If it is either of those possibilities, then it determines your next course of action.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She seems to be in a good mood as she opens the door and slides into the main room, a little grin as if she’s managed to amuse herself with some private thought. She’s shivering under her duster…the girl is used to warmer climates. Thus, the door is quickly shut and she shakes off the chill, rubbing her hands as she glances around.

[Patrick] [SORRY. TYPING.]

[Kristiana Coleman] She leans into Cordelia, sighing. “Is that not how you were raised? A Kin is worth more if they’re pure.” She chews on her bottom lip for a moment. “It seemed like a really good idea at the time.”

[Patrick] Patrick follows after Bridget, more out of expectant amusement than horror. He’s well acquainted to Howard’s tendency to pick, uh, public places to get amorous and can only trail behind with one arm over his chest, the other resting against his chin. Eventually, Bridget will come upon the three sets of feet sticking out from under a shower curtain.

Patrick rocks back on his heels a little.

Considers; then says in a carrying voice. “Should I get you three some Vaseline?”

[Cordelia] How was Cordelia raised? She keeps stroking the other young woman’s hair, and she thinks about this… she’s unsure of how she should act next. She looks down, and Cordelia exhales. Slowly, deeply, and she inhales through her nose. Takes in the air, “you need to define, for yourself, what you are worth and what purity is.”

If seemed like a really good idea at the time.
“Why? Did you want to?” she’s cautious with this question.

[Howard] Somewhere amongst all that noise there’s a sharp, histrionic noise that isn’t quite a scream and isn’t quite a moan. Coming from most of the other people in this building it would either be stoically muffled, or there would be little doubt that this was genuine pain being expressed.

DONE! Hunter says, and Howard can be heard panting under Patrick’s question.

“You’re such a bloody stoppered-up twat,” he says, sounding utterly indignant. “Don’t fuckin’ stop, fuck!

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She purses her lips to the left, eyes narrowing a bit. She’s seen all of the downstairs already, and nothing too exciting is going on…time to explore. She pauses a moment, trying to remember the directions she got on the tour of the upstairs, and then shrugs as she trots over to the stairs. They get ascended with every other step skipped.

[Kristiana Coleman] She looks around, slipping into French just to be sure the conversation stays private. “Vous ne pouvez pas dire à personne, Cordelia. Promets-moi. Si Mattiew découvre … Non pas que je pense qu’il me prend pour un compagnon, mais je voudrais au moins à la date de lui pendant un certain temps. Je ne veux pas qu’on sache que j’ai fait une erreur comme ça.”

[Hunter] There’s a pause and then a clinking as something falls down on the shower floor. It looks like a claw. “I swear ta’ god I’d put it back in if it weren’t such a fuckin’ hassle gettin’ it out.” He throws open the shower curtain and storms out leaving a bleeding Howard and a nearly naked Quinn.


[Patrick] Patrick watches the progress of the Bone Gnawer as he stalks out of the communal bathrooms, dropping his hand from his face and its adopted pose of nonchalance and tucking both hands into the pockets of his work clothing. Revealed with Hunter’s departure is a nearly nude Quinn and a bleeding and somewhat suggestively positioned Howard.

Patrick’s face forms itself into something of resigned bemusement.

He glances at Bridget, “it’s honestly easier just to accept it at face value than to try and comprehend it.”

[Quinn] “Another towel’d be nice,” Quinn calls. “We’ve only got the one and it’s, uh, sort of in use.”

A claw drops to the floor, the shower curtain is pulled back. Hunter is seen first, then Quinn, her long hair dripping wet, a white fluffy towel wrapped around her body. Until tonight, the only person in Chicago to see this much of Quinn’s body had his own burned to his Homelands. Now, Bridget, Caldera and Hunter can see: the trail of birds working around her right forearm, the outline of a star on the inside of her left wrist, claw marks that start at her right shoulder and trail nearly to her elbow and, when she turns, the branch of some tree in blossom, stretched across her upper back.

She smiles at Howard in sympathy. “Are there anymore?”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] Into the common room she heads, peering around with a swipe of her hand through her hair. She pauses a moment to try and remember which way is what, then just gives up and follows the sound of voices.

[Hunter] It’s then he sees Bridget, standing there. He looks at her with raised eyebrows. “Go give em’a cuddle, he’s like a big baby.”

Then he stops, turns around, looks at Howard and cracks up laughing. “You’re fuckin’ ridiculous.”

A pause.

“I can’t believe I just pulled a claw outta’ya ass. I’m hungry, and I need a fuckin’ drink. I also wanna’ get the fuck outta’ this place. Who’s comin’?”

[Bridget] The Canadian gawks with a bottle of liquor in hand. She unscrews the bourbon then sips at it.

“What the hell happened?” she asks.

[Howard] Once he thinks he doesn’t have an audience anymore, Howard turns his back to the shower wall and doesn’t so much let himself slide down as he just collapses. Quinn is close enough to see that his hair froze from taking a shower and then going outside for far too long, that his corduroys–previously yellow–are drenched in blood. It seems to have originated from his left sacroiliac region, but the entirety of his leg and backside has turned a stomach-turning red, and it’s stained his torso as well, as though he was lying in blood for a good amount of time. Pain has turned his skin dusky, and there is blood on his hands as well; hand prints coat the walls of the shower, and there’s a trail of prints where he was marched across the floor.

He’s still panting as he rests on the wet floor of the shower. To his credit he doesn’t attempt to peek up Quinn’s towel; with his sunglasses on no one can see he’s squeezing his eyes shut.

Quinn wants to know if there are anymore.


You’re fuckin’ ridiculous.

“Oi!” Howard snaps, his rancor feigned, before lifting a bloody hand to flip Hunter a bird.

Who’s comin’?

All the Theurge does is laugh a high-pitched, almost hysterical laugh and rest his head against the wall of the shower.

[Cordelia] “… Le plus gros problème ici, c’est que vous n’êtes pas s’accepter soi-même et vous n’avez pas à accepter vos décisions. Les gens font des erreurs. Les gens grandissent. You are human,” she doesn’t chide. Maybe it’s the nature of the language, it sounds softer. Something about the way Cordelia handles the language makes it gentle.

She sighs, and her voice drops to the realm of almost inaudible.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She makes a slow walk down the hallway, the grin ratcheting up a touch for no immediately apparent reason. Maybe it’s just an involuntary reaction to approaching trouble.

[Kristiana Coleman] She nods slightly, her voice quiet. “Il vient de quitter après. Je n’avais pas honte avant qu’il vient de quitter.”

[Patrick] Patrick studies his pack-mate, his mouth thinning with something like distaste for the state of him, then cuts a glance at Quinn. It’s short, but considering. He takes note of her scarring, of her tattoos. If ever a man could make you feel at once attractive and an oddity simultaneously, it was the Galliard.

Still; he doesn’t leer.
That must be a point in his favor.

“I think there’s more towels in the hall closet, if I remember right. I’ll get you one.” He takes up Bridget’s bourbon, first, however, downs a gulp and gestures toward Howard. “Get some into him, he needs it. He looks like something’s chewtoy.”

Eyes back to Howard.

“What the hell were you fighting with, anyway?” This as he ventures into the hall to return with clean towels.

[Quinn] “No clue,” Quinn says in answer to Bridget’s question. With one hand holding her towel in place, she carefully squeezes her knees together as she lowers herself to her knees beside the Theurge. Her eyes take in the hair, the sunglasses, and the bloody trousers. Rather than looking overly concerned, her mouth quirks. when she first met Howard, she was both amused and confused. Now, she just looks at him with a kind of sad amusement.

Reaching out to at least attempt to knock a frozen curl back from his forehead, she looks at his face and says in a voice not meant to carry, “I think you’ll be okay if you shift. A claw to the ass really isn’t that bad.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She pauses, head tilting as she sees Patrick come out of the bathroom, and gives him a quick appraising look and a grin. “Hola.”

[Cordelia] “Pas tous les hommes sont comme ça. Votre point de vue sur le sexe es différent que le sien. Je pense que … vous recherchez un lien affectif, et que vous voulez quelqu’un pour vous faire sentir aimée,” she sighs, and just strokes her hair still, “Je ne pense pas que moins de vous.”

[Bridget] There is a huge bloody mess everywhere. The Canadian just blinks. Her sequin top does indeed look ridiculous at this point. That’s neither here nor there. Quinn seems quite concerned, so she kneels down to where the Fiann lies on the floor. Patrick instructs her to take him the whiskey and temporarily conviscates it without asking and returns it to her. The girl swishes the liquor bottle into his field of vision.

“You need to stop getting your ass handed to you. I already carried you here once all bloodied up,” she says quietly.

And after a moment of thinking about it, she adds, “Are you alright?”

[Kristiana Coleman] “I ruined everything. I should have just listened to you.”

[Howard] What the hell was he fighting with, anyway?

“My feelings,” he says.

Quinn ducks down next to him, her towel secured, and he doesn’t horse around as he tends to, doesn’t try to flip her hair into her eyes or loosen her towel. She tells him he’ll be fine, and he doesn’t argue with her, exactly, but neither is he in any great hurry to get up and haul himself out of there either.

“Oh, no, the ass would’ve been fine,” he says, his own volume dropping so as not to overpower the kinswoman’s, “but there’s bone, Quinn! So much bone!

And there’s Bridget. Howard draws a breath; the finger of one hand splayed on the floor involuntarily twitches.

“Well, tell ya the truth, Hunter’s a tad selfish. Didn’t exactly give me a reach-around just now. Sooo, unless you’re offerin’ to finish the job…”

[Patrick] He has to duck his head around the side of the closet door to glimpse the Hispanic woman who addresses him at random. Patrick was a tall guy, though not as tall as many of the male Garou in Chicago at 5’11. He had quite vividly blue eyes and a head of blond hair to match that was kept short no matter the season.

Currently, he was also covered in car grease, his overalls soiled from time spent beneath vehicles.

The stranger grins at him; and the Galliard, who in truth almost matched some Ahrouns for sheer force of Rage turned, shutting the door with his back. His arms were full of towels, and voices carried from the bathroom. “Hey,” he replied with a quiet, somewhat restrained tone.

He hesitated a beat. “You lost, or? If you’re looking for a place to sleep,” was he about to offer to share a bed with her? “I think the owners are downstairs. Ask for a Jenny.” Then the broad-shouldered Welsh-man vanished back into the showers in time to hear Howard’s final words. He offered a towel to Quinn, and tossed the latter at Howard’s head.

[Bridget] An eyebrow turns upward, a sigh escaping her. He’s joking, so he’s fine. But he does not take the bourbon, and instead kind of lashes out at her with his brilliant sense of humor. She takes a long swig of the bourbon and sets the bottle down on the floor of the shower stall.

She’s in a strange mood today. Howard is okay, so the cabin fever rolls back over her like a heavy cloak. She’d do for a good night’s worth of sleep, but that will never happen here it seems.

“Nice,” is all she says before rising back up to her feet.

[Cordelia] “No,” she sighs, and she hasn’t taken her hand off of Kristiana’s hair, “no, you did what you thought was right and you made your own decision. All you can do now is learn from it and move on. If you don’t want me to say anything, I won’t say anything.”

[Kristiana Coleman] “Don’t. Please. I don’t want people to know.” She reaches up and pats Cordelia’s hair too. “You can take whatever clothes you want.”

[Quinn] She quirks a brow, tilts her head, and she smiles. There are things she could say. Questions she could ask.

But just like that night on the roof, Quinn doesn’t close that distance. For one thing, they’re not really alone in this stall. There’s an audience, just over Quinn’s shoulder. For another…well, who knows.

She pats his shoulder. “Finishing what he started means he started something. I thought you weren’t into men’s manly muscles.” Rocking back, she rises to her feet just after Bridget. She shakes her head to the offer of another towel. “Thanks, but I’m covered.” Hah.

“Hunter, I’d be super happy to head out with you if you’ll give me a couple minutes to put some clothes on? This extended leave of absence crap is making me crazy.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She opens her mouth to answer, but just grins when he’s gone quicker than she can do so. She reaches out and opens the door slightly so she can get her response out. “Ain’t you ever seen the bumper sticker? Not all who wander are lost. Think it’s in some kinda book, too. But no, I’m just explorin’ a bit. Thanks, though.”

[Hunter] He sighs, looking at Howard, and then makes a blergghh face.

“Jesus H Christ.” And he steps back into the shower, grabs him by the front of the shirt and pulls him to his feet.

“C’mon dick face.” He says to Howard. “Quinn, I’ll meet ya’ downstairs, bring a coat.”

And begins manoeuvring the stubborn Theurge out of the shower and hopefully out of the bathroom, back to his brother.

[Cordelia] “I’ll hand it to him, Ivan Press is nothing if not discreet. So, if you don’t say anything, he won’t… and I gave you my word.”

[Howard] By the time Hunter gets back to Howard he has quite literally curled up on the floor of the shower stall to cuddle with the bottle of bourbon Bridget left behind to keep him company, as if he’s just planning on going to sleep in a pool of bloody water. His momentary respite from being asked if he’s alright is interrupted by a meaty hand grasping the front of his drenched shirt and hauling him to his feet.

Whoa!” he shouts, louder than is absolutely necessary, not grabbing the Ahroun for support this time. “What! No! Fuck! Where are we going!”

He’s limping, but he can actually assist in the walking task now, his left Converse squelching with blood every time he steps off of it.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] Hearing people approaching the door, she lets the door close the crack that it had been opened and takes a few steps back, simply so as not to block traffic.

[Kristiana Coleman] “I was worried about that. Good.” She pulls away to stand. “I should go back to the hotel and get the rest of my things.” (Which is Angelina for “I’m exhausted and it’s past my bedtime”)

[Cordelia] “You need to get rid of some of this,” she chides. Her heart’s not in it; she can’t stop grinning, “go get your things.”

[Kristiana Coleman] She scrambles up, leaning to kiss Cordelia on both cheeks before heading out.

[Bridget] As for bloody messes, she’s seen it before a few too many times to get all worked up right away. Bridget knows Howard is fine now, so she retreats back into the original pensive, quiet state she was in prior to all this. Part of her is sick of the city, sick of being cooped up like a goddamn bird.

Hunter marches past her into the stall to go have another potentially-homoerotic-themed spat. Bridget blinks, then follows. She just keeps walking past all the mess and straight into room 8, where she shuts the door behind her. The girl doesn’t even look at the two blonde kinswomen before she does an epic swan dive onto her own mattress.

She could actually get out of here for the night, but frankly she’s kind of tired of the Garou antics. She’s exausted, homesick, and tired of the big city and all it’s unwild mess. Rotting, Simon had described it.

So the kin mumbles into her pillow, sounds like singing, but it’s half-hearted.

“Shu shu shu shu shu shu, Sugar town.”

[Quinn] Quinn goes back into the shower she’d used just a bit ago. When she comes out she just smiles, doesn’t even pause to tell Hunter Adoy. Of course she’ll be bringing a coat. It snowed today for Christ’s sakes. Quinn will be going out in full on tundra gear, hat, scarf, gloves, sweater and leather jacket, jeans. And she’ll leave her heeled boots behind in favor of shoes with traction.

The tall kinswoman disappears into room 4 to make that outfit happen.

[Patrick] Sarita follows after Patrick a few steps to respond to him, but the Galliard’s focus has by this point been drawn back to the scene at hand before him. He watches Hunter drag Howard up and out of the showers by his shirt front; the latter leaving bloody foot prints in his wake and glances around, then at the towel in his hand.

“Yeah, whatever.”

He mutters to the air, and moves over to turn the facet on in the stall Howard had curled up in; blood begins to wash down the drain, and Patrick leans his body against one side of it, towel slung over his shoulder. The Galliard does not follow after his Alpha and the others just yet.

He watches the water turn pink, then clear.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She just leans against the wall in the hallway, arms crossed as she watches the various people emerge from the bathroom head in their own directions in their various physical and emotional states. She looks more bemused than anything else. “It’s like watching a clown car empty,” she says quietly to herself.

[Cordelia] Cordelia looked at the pile of clothes on her bed, and then at the pile of clothes on the floor. The female sighs, and she starts to strip out of whatever it was she was wearing. Cordelia rummages through her drawers to find something to throw on. Alas, the female doesn’t find anything.

Bridget’s closet yields better results. The female ends up sleeping in a tee shirt that isn’t hers and a pair of camoflage underwear. Given that there’s a giant pile of clothing on her bed, she blends right in.

[Hunter] “You got a car? Need’ta sleep man.” He asks Howard.

“Either that or you’re growin’ some fur, either way ya’ gettin’ better for’I’leave.”

[Bridget] The noise picking up in the bar and carrying through the floor makes the Canadian glare angrily into the dark. She watches a naked Cordy raid her closet, turns her head, and sighs. She plays at trying to sleep some more, but it won’t come easily. After staring for a while, she drags herself to her feet and goes back out the door. She tiptoes out and closes the door quietly, then slumps down with her back against the wall, just staring.

[Patrick] At some point, whenever the next to arrive does so in the showers; they find them quite deserted and empty. Patrick had never re-emerged after the others, and there’s a clean towel neatly folded beside a stall that smells, faintly, of recent blood. The coppery tang lingers in the air.

There was, of course, an abundance of mirrors.
One can only assume where the Cliath had vanished to.

[Howard] Howard is not exaggerating the difficulty he’s having with walking; if anything he’s attempting to downplay the fact that he doesn’t have the Gift necessary to ignore his wounds nor the constitution of a man who can endure being stabbed by just grinning and spitting in his attacker’s face. As he’s shuffled down the hallway, he keeps clutching the bourbon bottle to his chest; being asked direct questions has even less effect than usual.

“Your concern is touching,” he says, “really, it is.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She tilts her head as she sees Bridget come out and then sit against the wall, glancing around before she shrugs and approaches. “Hola. Y’okay?”

[Patrick] [Thanks for play, all! :D]

[Bridget] A lovely Hispanic woman she hasn’t met before addresses the Fianna kin. A blink. She looks up, then nods. There is undetectable rage, but stranger things have happened.

“Can’t sleep,” she says. “I think I’ll just throw on another coat and go for a walk.”

She hoists herself vertical, then looks to the other brunette again. She’s so preoccupied that she doesn’t introduce herself until she re-emerges from the room with a studded leather jacket to cover the gold sequin tunic over black stovepipe jeans. She’s wearing combat boots this time, and has a tube of lipgloss in her hand the color of rich burgundy. The hippie headband is missing, allowing her waves to fall wildly.

She offers her spare hand. “Haven’t seen you before,” she says. “I’m Bridget.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She smiles a little as Bridget heads off into the room, then back out. She takes the offered hand. “Sarita. My and my sister arrived just last night. Nice to meet you.”

[Bridget] “Nice to meet you.” She puts on a smidge of the gloss, staining her lips a sort of berry hue.

“I should probably make sure they’re not punking each other out again,” she says absentmindedly. “Things can get rough around here. Sorry, I’m a bit out of it today.”

She trudges off in the direction they were headed when last she saw the two Garou, a look of confusion on her face. Quinn’s gone, Patrick has vanished.

“Where the fuck?” she mumbles. “Howard.” The last stated somewhat loudly while she looks around.

[Hunter] “Yeah yeah.” Hunter says as they limp towards the stairwell in the common room. “I’mma take ya’ ta bed big boy, give ya’ that reach around ya’ wanted. Just fuckin’ don’t talk please.”

The words drift away in the air as he hoists the Theurge down the stairs.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] “Hey, no worry. I been there before. And rough is just my style, really.”

When Bridget looks confused, she points down the hallway. “One guy was helping another guy walk down the from the bathroom. I think that’s them down the hall.” She points her thumb in the direction of the voices. “The guy who came out for towels didn’t come back out after you all did.”

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] [[Delete the first of the points. I can make sense, I swear! 😛 ]]

[Howard] [Thanks for the scene, ladies!]

[Bridget] Aha! Voices. Sarita points things out to her just as she puts things together. The homoerotic flirtation continues as the half-wild Fianna girl comes trudging after them as if she’s been invited. She doesn’t even bother asking. At this point she will snap if someone tries to keep her pent up in this place.

“Hey, wait up,” the chit calls down. “If I don’t get out of here I am going to lose my goddamn mind.”

Her combat boots come thumping down the stairs after the two in more rapid succession until she catches up.

[Bridget] [Okies you too Jamie]

[Howard] [Ack! Didn’t see you posted hang on!]

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She watches Bridget head after them, chuckling. She just grins and lets her head off, then looks around to figure out where to resume exploring.

[Howard] At the door leading out into the alleyway, Howard hears hollering down the stairs. He thrusts the bourbon at Hunter and forcibly peels himself away from the Ahroun to turn around and face Bridget. He’s favoring his left leg, for rather obvious reasons, and he looks back over at Hunter once as she rounds the bottom of the stairs.

“Goin’ to what?” he asks, as though he missed what she said. Must have water in his ears. Howard tries to clear out his ear canal with a finger, tipping his head to one side as he does so, then jerks a thumb at Hunter. “Catchin’ a ride home with this prick, my ass is killin’ me.”

Stepping just outside the kitchen door, Howard stumbles a bit as he tries to remember which room is Quinn’s, whereupon he cups his hands and yells “OI!! QUINN!! MOVE YOUR ARSE WOMAN THE BUS IS LEAVIN’!!”

[Hunter] It doesn’t take much for Howard to peel himself off Hunter when bourbon gets put in the Gnawers hands. He takes it and wanders off slowly, leaving the two Fianna to their own devices as Howard begins talking. He spends his time looking in the fridge, picking out bits of meat and chewing on them.

“You wanna steak?” He absently shouts over at Howard. “HEY QUINN YOU WANNA STEAK?” He offers the kinfolk still upstairs.

And then just shrugs, puts it back in on it’s plate, wanders out through the door to the alley.

[Bridget] Howard faces her, not understanding what she says. Bridget looks to Hunter before looking back to Howard. Her face is twisted with a bit of worry.

“I’m coming with you. Anyone who wants to keep me here will have to tell it to my hunting knife.”

She’s joking, right?

The punk chick folds her arms over her chest and looks to Hunter with a quirked brow. She scratches the back of her head, then looks to the injured Theurge.

“You better come along, sugar. Your ride is leaving.” The kinfolk approaches her kinsman and loops an arm around his torso so he can brace himself a little if need be.

Quinn tags along or doesn’t.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] And she’s out of sight, having wandered off somewhere upstairs. [[Thanks for the scene. 🙂 ]]