John Barrister

[Bainbridge] There is only one person who knows how Avery Bainbridge came to be at the southern end of Grant Park, at what is more accurately termed the Museum Campus, just in front of the Field Museum of Natural History. Even deluged by tourists, one am does not usually find many people anxiously awaiting the museum's opening hours seven of those hours in advance. The woman is sitting on the lowest step, fiddling with her shoe. Presumably, God also knows why Avery Bainbridge is where she is, doing what she's doing, but neither Authorities have Yet Seen Fit To Speak On the Matter.

[J.B.] First: a dog, big, floppy-eared and loose-jowled, dashing past helter-skelter and barking. Baying, actually. Hot on the scent of some ... unfortunate squirrel or other.

Second: a man proceeding at a slightly more sedate pace -- a run, but not a sprint, one that eats up the concrete with deceptive ease. The first blasts past Ms. Bainbridge close enough for the wind-o'-passage to riffle her hair. The second too passes her, and then stops and turns around, plants his hands on his knees and huffs for a moment.

Then, straightening, he points a blunt finger at her and squints one eye closed. "The woman from the pub. Whiskey, straight-up. Literature. Unpronounceable instrument. Avery Bainbridge. Am I right?"

[Bainbridge] He huffs; she looks at him and smiles. Her smile is generous; is promiscuous; is mulling spices in cider. But first: the dog dashes by, baying like a part of the wild hunt, and she looks up startled just in time for her 'bangs' to be disturbed by his passage, dark kink-curls shifting over her forehead, heavy on her shoulders -- as if she'd just got out of the shower, or just got out of bed, after spending an entire delicious day under the covers, so to speak. Second, in her crisp, precise English: "The man from the pub. Makes instruments, but doesn't play. Dances, but only after a few drinks. Johnathan Barrister. I do remember. Who's that bagle, then? Yours, I take it?" And she's waved a cheerful and impractical stiletto boot. (...and sometimes she takes her cloven hooves off and dances without feet on the moss.)

[J.B.] He huffs; she smiles; he smiles back, somewhat self conscious, but better this than panting words at her.

"Hnh?" -- sort of a grunt, that. Beagle? "Oh, Bruin. He's a coonhound. Bloodhound-coonhound mix, actually; don't suppose you have either where you come from. Well, maybe bloodhounds," he tries to remember, gives up. "Yeah, mine. Unfortunately."

A wry grin -- distant baying. He flexes his shoulders back: one thinks of boulders rolling on a mountain, and is surprised his shoulder-socket doesn't make the crunching grinding sound of stone on stone. A few thousand years of far-northern breeding (and a few hundred in cold, old England, and another hundred or two across the pond in cold, New England) has given him length and weight of bone, and heavy, supple musculature. He tugs the round collar of his jogging sweatshirt up to wipe the lower half of his face. There's a V of sweat down his chest, and it's hard to say if by wiping he's made his face cleaner or the opposite. His brow he mops against his forearm, and then he looks around, asks the obvious.

"What are you doing out here? It must be ten below freezing."

[Bainbridge] The smile changes texture; there’s something of a chuckle in the back of her throat: husk-sound, low-thrum from the belly; little delight. Avery is naturally warm toward people, and attractive men in particular – even damaged attractive men with monstrous dogs. Anyway, rasp of amusement, low-key. "Bruin? Suits him." As she speaks, she refits the stiletto boot on her left foot, fingers yank-yank-yanking until it’s up over her calf and she can fold her jeans over it again. "Is rather cold, isn’t it? I was walking the long way home when this bloody heel caught itself on a crack and decided to break. Not all the way off, mind; just enough to cause trouble. Do you always walk your dog late at night, Johnathan?"

[J.B.] Is rather cold, isn't it? -- and he looks at her with a look that says: yes, yes it is. Then she goes on; explains her presence, her misfortune, and his look changes, becomes sympathetic, genuinely sorry.

"Oh. Ouch. I'm sorry; I didn't know." And, "Actually, yes, I do. A little earlier than this most days. A little later, some days. I live pretty close, and this is about the only time and place I can let Bruin off his leash without much fear of him devouring a toddler alive. Listen -- " there's a sort of take-charge-ness in this listen, " -- I can run back to my place and get my truck. Give you a ride home. You shouldn't have to hobble all the way."

[Bainbridge] - of him devouring a toddler alive - gets an appreciative laugh. The listen and following offer takes the smile from her mouth and, indeed, from her eyes too; she gets serious. Frowns, even. "You're certain it wouldn't be a bother?" Not a rhetorical question. Avery arches one dark eyebrow to punctuate the question.

[J.B.] "I'm certain it'll bother me a lot more to leave you to your own devices," he replies, wry again. "Wait here. Bruin!" A whistle -- fweet! -- and a pattering of dog paws on the path. Man and dog depart in the direction they'd been going. He was apparently already on the homeward stretch when he ran across her.

Some minutes go by; a good ten or twenty. The parking lot is too distant for Avery to hear the rumbling of his enormous gas-guzzler of a truck's engine, even on this cold and unpeopled night. When J.B. reappears, he reappears alone, dogless, still running. Let's hear it for Fenrir stamina. Presently he stops in front of her. It's like deja vu: he leans over, huffs. Hasn't changed and he certainly hasn't showered. Such misguided courtesies have been put aside for the sake of getting back her speedily.

Straightens, "You can walk on it? Here, take my arm." You'd think she'd broken an ankle, not a boot-heel.

[Bainbridge] Man and dog depart and Avery watches them go. MmHmm. And it's cold. While he was gone, Avery put her gloves back on and pulled her knees up to her chest. Wrapped her arms around and under her thighs. There's snow in the trees and on the museum's roof. There's snow, fine and white and fragile, dusting the stairs; there's even a few flakes in her Maenad-wild hair, white against the black. He huffs; she gets to her feet and is one of those women who can walk in heels without trouble, as long as the heels are attached; can stride in heels; dance in them; run in them. But, well: "As long as we take it slow, I think I'll be okay," she says, and accepts the offer of the helpful arm readily enough. Not her usual style, but if fate sees fit to give her a Jane Austen moment, who is she to deny it? Besides, J. B. is giving off warmth. "If I suddenly fall and crack my ijit head open, it'll be what I deserve."

[Bainbridge] Romantics
for Johannes Brahms and
Clara Schumann

The modern biographers worry
“how far it went,” their tender friendship.
They wonder just what it means
when he writes he thinks of her constantly,
his guardian angel, beloved friend.
The modern biographers ask
the rude, irrelevant question
of our age, as if the event
of two bodies meshing together
establishes the degree of love,
forgetting how softly Eros walked
in the nineteenth century, how a hand
held overlong or a gaze anchored
in someone’s eye could unseat a heart,
and nuances of address not known
in our egalitarian language
could make the redolent air
tremble and shimmer with the heat
of possibility. Each time I hear
the Intermezzi, sad
and lavish in their tenderness,
I imagine the two of them
sitting in a garden
among late-blooming roses
and a dark cascade of leaves,
letting the landscape speak for them,
leaving us nothing to overhear.
to J.B.

[J.B.] He slants her a glance, and a crooked sort of smile. "Now," he says, very gravely, "you're just being dramatic."

She gets to her feet; he offers his arm. He's giving off heat, true, quite a bit of it after all the recent running to and fro. He is also giving off a potent stink. But -- let's not be shy here: his forearm under her hand, even through a layer of sweatshirt, another of thermal longsleeved undershirt, is hard as a wood banister.

A few paces on, John suddenly laughs; a quiet laugh, and short, but real. "Sense and Sensibility," he proclaims. "That's what we've become here. All we need is a little torrential rain."

[Bainbridge] "Bite your tongue," she says, and Avery has never been a shy woman. (After all, there is a reason she can lean just so against J.B.'s supportive arm -- or not, if she chose. There is a reason she didn't lie and tell him -- nearly a stranger -- that she had a ride on the way; that there was no problem. There are dangerous people these days.) Then she laughs, too. "But, honestly, I was just thinking the same thing, although I don't think Marianne and - what was his name? Knighton? Knightly? Bingley? Something else with a -lee at the end? Rochester? - had to contend with the disaster of snow plus rain and slick city streets when they were pelted with appropriate weather."

[J.B.] Her litany of -lee's; he laughs; Rochester?; another laugh -- "That's not even Austen anymore. That's one of those mad-eyed Bronte sisters.

"True," a concession, "but then, I'm pretty sure Marianne had a sprained ankle to contend with. You, on the other hand -- " they pass under the shade of a bare-branched oak, and emerge onto a small parking lot, one of many that bud off from the parkside road, "only need to hobble so far as the Silverado there on a cracked heel."

Said Silverado flashes its lights in response to his alarm beeper. It's one of those monstrosities with a fifty-million-liter-displacement engine and a gas tank roughly as large, huge, with a double-axle in the rear, but likely never driven anywhere rougher than the potholed streets of the Cabrini-Green projects.

[Bainbridge] His correction; it gets a shrug J.B. can feel even through layers of clothing; perhaps she's a bit surprised. J. B. -- well, she still doesn't have him pegged for a type. "Big," is her comment on the truck. "American," is her second comment.

The snow looks lovely, and utterly dangerous, all amber-gilt from the street-lamps; it's begun to snow again, just light flurries which don't quite make it to the ground, and they look like petals as they pass from the dark night sky through the immediate vicinity of the lamps. As for a third, well, she does actually have to pay attention to where she puts her feet for a moment or three.

Then they're at the truck door, and Avery smiles (slow like honey). He'll open the door; he seems like the sort. Before he does, she'll squeeze his arm; lean in and against for a half-a-second. It's a nothing gesture, just a touch. Unnecessary. Avery is earth, y'see.

Then, good heel first, it's into the truck, search for the seat-belt and snap it shut while the driver settles himself.

[J.B.] The driver does, indeed, settle himself. When he gets in the truck rides a little lower on its springs. It's quite a step up. Sit in the cab and you feel ten feet tall. The reality might not be too far off. The cabin itself is spacious, with a full back row of seats; it's all nice upholstery and wood accents and beige leather. This ain't your daddy's work truck anymore. Nowadays your average American wanted the works -- the GPS, the mp3, the ABS, the SUV -- all these acronyms for consumerism.

Anyway. The driver settles himself, buckles in, and before starting the engine, turns to his passenger.

"I'd like to take you to dinner sometime." He's serious about this, and rather sincere. "No expectations. I think I'd like to get to know you better, is all."

[Bainbridge] Avery looks out the window until J. B. speaks. When he does, she turns her gaze -- faintly quizzical, the muddy, uncertain color of tea -- on him. His invitation, the qualifier, makes her smile, not so much with her mouth; more with her eyes -- simmer. "I'd like that, J. B." For a moment, it looks as if she's going to add something, but all she says is: "No pressure." Then, with a faint smirk: "Ready for the directions, then?"

[Henry Allard] Once he's settled himself on the seat of the stool, Henry refolds his jacket arm-over-arm and in half and secures it across his lap, anchors one sneaker on the floor of the shop and rests the opposite heel on the lowest rung. He is just getting settled as John is hoisting himself standing, and his eyes follow the other man up and into the back before he looks to Kemp. He says nothing, in the end, if there were any question as to whether the kinsman was going to open his mouth or not. Henry simply brings his left hand up to worry the side of his face, as if he's trying to wake himself up. If Kemp is looking his way as he does this he'll be able to see a gold band on the man's fourth finger.

Not that there is anything terribly exciting or noteworthy about a gold band in its own right. The noteworthiness comes out of the fact that this man, whose sexual orientation has become a topic of conversation on more than one occasion when he would have rather it not come up at all, was not to anyone's knowledge wearing one prior to this month.

If Kemp isn't looking his way, then Henry can consider himself safe.

John returns after a moment's absence with two new mugs and his own refilled. Henry murmurs another round of voiced gratitude as his thin fingers wrap around the cup of hot water first, attempting to loosen them up before he does anything else. A question comes, then, and it has Henry's brow furrowing in on itself.

"I met a woman like that recently," he says, peeling his fingers from the mug to pick up one of the teabags and carefully tear it open. "Didn't get her name, though."

[Henry Allard] (blu, you h0r!)

[J. Barrister] "Hm, well." John takes his time steeping his fresh mug of tea, fishing the teabag up and down several times before winding the string around the handle and wrapping his big hands around the mug. "I thought she might be Garou. She said a few things that might've been hints, but she was never explicit about anything. Even when I went out on a limb, she never let on." He shrugs. "Maybe I imagined it."

[Henry Allard] "You know Nessa... Malik... Malikoff?"

He looks to Kemp for assistance with the woman's last name, the consonant combinations sounding absolutely awkward on his Chicagoan tongue. It comes out sounding something like Meh-leh-kav, an entirely different Russian name altogether, but the idea is the same. When he has an affirmative, he looks back to John.

"The Lord kinswoman? She told her she was a, ah, 'distant relative'. I got the same impression, if we're talking about the same woman."

[J. Barrister] Barrister makes another thoughtful sound -- hm or something like it -- and sips his newly brewed tea. "Don't think I know the woman. But Shadow Lord, eh?" His mouth quirks. Irony again: "Wonderful. No wonder she didn't say anything about it."

[Henry Allard] Having thoroughly distracted himself from steeping his tea, Henry finally remembers to do something with the bag in his hand and unfolds the string, straightens it, lowers the pouch into the water as carefully as if he expects the thing to physically react to the heat. Green eyes float away from the other man's face as he does this, as John ponders the information that has been laid out there in a fashion no Lord would have liked. A few tugs of the string has the pouch completely saturated, and Henry folds it over the side of the mug before folding his bony hands around the warm ceramic again.

Wonderful, John says, and Henry laughs a laugh that often has him pegged as shy: it is short-lived, heavily restrained, and barely rises above his speaking voice.

"How'd you meet her?" he asks, either out of genuine interest or out of a perceived need to make small talk. He quickly adds: "If you don't mind my asking."

[Kemp Oates] ((Sorry had an emergency call, let me catch up here.))

[Kemp Oates] "I ain't never heard of her, but met this oddball woman a couple times now. Kin from the smell of her. Fenrir."

He had reached for the packet of chocolate, giving it a few sharp shakes to settle all the powder at the end before ripping it open to dump into his cup. Adult or not, he didn't care, give him chocolate over tea any day.

"Ya ain't got whipped cream, have ya?"

Looking up from the project of adding powder to hot water for a second.

"Anyway, ain't heard of no Nadia but this other was named Roxanne. I figured I'd freak her out and scare her off with telling her I was taking applications for a Harem. Heh."

A heartbeat went past before he added just as casually.

"How come ya got so skinny Henry? Ya got cancer from them smokes?"

[J. Barrister] Barrister starts to answer -- then Henry adds, quicklike, if you don't mind my asking. And Barrister slants a glance at him, even more wry now.

"At a sex club," he says blandly. "In Amsterdam."

A sip of tea hides his burgeoning grin. He adds after he sets it down, "No -- I ran into her jogging one night. Bruin -- my dog -- tried to attack her. He tries to attack anyone, so he's usually not off his leash. But it was late. We met for lunch a few days later, and that's where the more interesting conversation happened."

Kemp shares his own strange-woman story, and John laughs under his breath. "I'm sure that went over well. And no. Does it look like I keep a fridge here?" He waves a hand at the mess behind the counter.

[Kemp Oates] "Well what about a damned spoon?"

[J. Barrister] "There are a couple 'antique' spoons on aisle seven." John nods at the shelves behind Kemp. "I washed them, but they've been sitting out for a while now."

(*stops running roughshod over jamie's post now*)

[Henry Allard] That bland response is taken as the joke that it is, and Henry almost laughs--his lips pull, his teeth flash for a moment, air leaves his sinus cavities, but no laugh comes. Within a moment his mouth centers itself and John continues on his explanation, only to be asked if there's any whipped cream in an establishment with no refrigerator.

How about a spoon.

Henry just shakes his head and blows steam from his tea.

[Kemp Oates] He got up, dumping his coat in the floor in the process. Calling back as he went down the aisles.

"Well, it went over as well as can be expected. I mean, she got that look of disgust I was looking for, yet it didn't repell her was well as I had hoped for."

Muttering under his breath.

"Women."

He quirked a brow at Henry as he reseated himself. Wiping the spoon on the hem of his tee shirt.

"So? Why ya getting so skinny and who did ya marry or is it a friendship ring?"

[J. Barrister] "There a reason you're trying so hard to repel her?" John's question is mild.

[Kemp Oates] The spoon made a rattling sound on the side of the cup as he started to stir the contents of the packet into the water. Long hair hanging over his eyes when he looked up from the cup to John with the question, exposing the scar across his throat. His own tone was just as mild and matter of fact when he spoke. His voice a low raspy sound.

"Cause she is female."

[Henry Allard] That quirk of the kid's brow does not go wholly unnoticed. Henry glances over at him, raises his own brow when a slew of questions come his way, and transfers the mug into one hand in order to sit up straight.

There are any number of responses Henry could toss back at Kemp that would be mildly amusing if only for the reaction they would garner, yet would be decidedly off-putting for anyone who hasn't got the gallows humor he and those whose jobs are in a similar vein have to cultivate in order to survive.

"Um..." is what he comes up with instead. He glances at John, quickly, laughs an uncomfortable laugh, and scratches at the scar on the back of his head with his free hand.

"I'm skinny because I've been stressed out, and I think you can guess who I married."

[J. Barrister] The matter-of-fact comment makes Barrister laugh; he can't help himself. A single chortle escapes him before he controls himself and schools his features.

"You realize you sound about nine years old, Kemp? I think I said something like that about Susie Wimpleton in third grade."

And, to Henry, "No -- the abusive girlfriend?" It's mockery, yes, but gentle; goodhumored. Barrister doesn't have a mean bone in his body. Doesn't seem to, anyway. If he'd thought Kai was genuinely abusive, he wouldn't have said anything of the sort. Of course, if he'd known Henry's orientation, he wouldn't have said anything of the sort either.

[Kemp Oates] "Well congrads Henry. Tell Tris I said the same. And stop stressing. It don't do no good, I decided that."

He stirred the cup a moment in silence before lifting his head to smile at John as he spoke.

"Yeah, well I ain't nine, I'm nineteen. And in that time I trusted, much to my dismay and poor judgement, a few women. The first one was my first sexual experiance. One time and she tells me she is pregnant. Next thing I know, she is dead. Five years later, I find out from her freakin ghost she was never pregnant, just said it to hurt me. Heh. Second one. Well cause of somethings she pointed out, I questioned someone that didn't want to look at things too closely and admit to himself or nobody else why he done something. Thanks to that, I ain't been in a pack since and honestly, I ain't looking to be in one. I don't mind running with whoever at the time and keeping to myself inbetween. That woman up and run off. Just poofed without a word. I don't know if it's cause I pissed her off with questioning her too or questioning the just add water and ya got a pack, thoughts she had. Third woman, I felt guilt about. Felt guilt cause she was left alone in the world after we done killed her mate. Let my guard down. Let myself do something I shouldn't of one night and ended up with another kid after a one night thing. Again. Only this time it's a real one. Third fourth woman. Well, thought there could be something, but she's full of secrets and so is a fucking lot of others associated with her. I was more pissed at the secrets than anything. Said some shit I shouldn't of. And well...."

Shrugging as he lifted the cup.

"Like I said. I do best alone. Best for all involved."

[Henry Allard] There's mockery in John's question, but that mockery doesn't strike a nerve--it is taken for what it is, and Henry nearly laughs again. That is until Kemp congratulates him, and tells him to stop stressing.

"I'll do that, Kemp," he says. It is far more likely that he is going to tell Tristan that his kid said 'Congrats' than it is that he is going to stop reacting poorly to stress, but he is not going to qualify. He simply leaves it as it is, and sits back to drink his tea as Kemp prepares to respond to John's telling the kid that he sounds nine years old.

He sits quietly, the only sign that he is still alive being the rising and falling of his thin chest, the occasional blinking of his eyes. At one point he glances over to John, the look fleeting; the two don't know each other well enough for there to be any reliable translation of the reasoning behind that look. It may just be to gauge the other man's reaction to the information they've just been given. Around 'fourth woman' his brow knits itself into a concerned frown, and it does not dissipate once Kemp has finished speaking.

His knee jerk response to most heavy confessions is "Jesus."
Here, he doesn't utter a sound.

[J. Barrister] There's a long pause.

Let's be honest here. JB hardly knows Kemp. They've met maybe a half-dozen times, all told. They share blood, some distant ancestry, and a role in the war -- though their roles are vastly different. Other than that, they have little in common, little to hold them together.

Another in JB's shoes might've cleared his throat awkwardly, let the silence hang a beat, and then changed the subject. Barrister does clear his throat. The silence does hang a beat, but it's only so he can decide on phrasing.

Then -- "Y'know, Kemp. I don't pretend to know you or your life, but it rather sounds like you've made a couple mistakes and gotten burnt for them. We all do. I wouldn't blame or think poorly of the entire female contingent for it, though." He grins a little, ruefully. "You'd end up rather lonely if you did."

[Kemp Oates] A wide smile full of teeth shone as he lifted his face from the cup after a sip.

"I ain't gonna live that long John, so it don't really make no difference. 'sides, what I get from my own is, shit happens."

The smile grew ironic before he lowered his head, letting the dark hair fall across his eyes again.

"Be responsible for the world. What you might think or feel don't really mean a fuck. Buck up. Take it all on and er..oh yeah, keep your dick in your pants. So ya see."

He looked up again with another overly wide smile.

"Alone is best."

Winking as he turned the tables.

"So this woman ya met at the strip club. Was she a stripper?"

[Henry Allard] (I'm gonna quote Lessa, here: WHY AREN'T YOU PEOPLE IC?)
to dotdot, J. Barrister, Kemp Oates, o.O, SHAMELESS SPY

[Henry Allard] Henry would be lying if he said that he couldn't identify with Kemp when he was Kemp's age. There is a world of different between them, a considerable discrepancy between their genetics and their roles in the world they inhabit, but they'd both had a decidedly bad run and had developed a "fuck it all" outlook as a result. The difference is, Henry wasn't convinced he was going to die before his time. That is where he cannot say with absolute honesty that he can understand where the kid is coming from. He can imagine. He can certainly empathize. But he can't say, "Oh, haha, I've been there, you'll be fine!"

Perhaps if they were alone the conversation would be heading in a different direction. If they were alone, Henry would be speaking, period. He would not be holding back while the other members of the conversation carried on merrily. It isn't that he has nothing to say. It's that he doesn't want to interrupt.

This is why he simply sits and continues drinking his tea rather than speaking up.

[dotdot] ((*l* I'll get here. They're at the pawn shop, right? Does anyone mind if I pop IC?))
to Henry Allard, J. Barrister, Kemp Oates, o.O, SHAMELESS SPY

[Henry Allard] (Okay, we have another entry in the Jamie's Shittest Post contest. ::doesn't even bother fixing all the things wrong with that one::)

[SHAMELESS SPY] (because I wanted to give you a chance to quote me, of course. sheesh.)
to dotdot, Henry Allard, J. Barrister, Kemp Oates, o.O

[Henry Allard] (I would absolutely love it if you'd pop IC, Mindy.)
to dotdot, J. Barrister, Kemp Oates, o.O, SHAMELESS SPY

[Kemp Oates] ((Heh, I am crosseyed, looked fine to me. ))
to dotdot, Henry Allard, J. Barrister, o.O, SHAMELESS SPY

[J. Barrister] At that, Barrister has nothing to say. Perhaps, like Henry, he has nothing to add when a Garou's short life expectancy is laid down. There's a truth in that he can't get around.

The subject change is accepted, though with a faint grimace. "I was kidding about that, Kemp. I met her jogging in the park. I was wondering if you knew her, actually. A Nadia Bashir. Possibly a Shadow Lord, Henry thinks."

[Kemp Oates] "Naw, despite my rep for fucking all the girls and dumping them afterwards? I ain't never heard of her. If ya want, I can see what I can find out."

Once more the spoon was clanking on the sides of the cup as he watched the small swirl go round and round in a chocolate dance. Ironically the swirl kind of reminded him of Maelstrom's waters.

"Heh."

Shaking his head as he lifted the cup to take a drink.

"Think it would of been more interesting if she was a stripper."

[J. Barrister] "Yeah, would you please?" Maybe Kemp didn't expect JB to take him up on the offer, but he does. "She seemed to know a lot about us, but wouldn't own up to being Garou." The kin shrugs, his massive shoulders moving under the old sweater. "Call me paranoid, but I'd rather know for certain."

[J. Barrister] (i gotta clear outta here soonish to attend to my other scene :D dammit mindy, you shoulda come in sooner)
to Henry Allard, Kemp Oates, Nate Gregory

[Henry Allard] Almost subdued eyes watch Kemp's spoon as it moves in a circle, crying out every time it comes into contact with the ceramic, as the two attempt to figure out the background of the woman whose name Henry had just recently learned. When the spoon stops, Henry looks back up, and he snorts out a laugh as Kemp supposes it would be more interesting if she were a stripper.

"I think he might be right," Henry concurs.

[Nate Gregory] ((s'cool. These things do happen. prod me sometime, we shoudl play. I think I'm gonna stick to lurkin' tonight))
to Henry Allard, J. Barrister, Kemp Oates, o.O

[Kemp Oates] "Fuck, if that's her name, I can find her myself."

He nodded with a long study of John's face.

"Find her and see what I think. I'll also ask around some."

He stood retrieving his coat from the floor.

"Thanks for the chocolate John. I'll get back to ya on that Nadia. Won't take long."

Patting Henry on his skinny shoulder.

"Henry. Get some rest, eat more. Don't want to make Tristan a widow before his time, do ya? Ya look like shit man."

With those parting words he was heading for the door, tugging on the coat and hat.

[J. Barrister] Barrister's smile is lopsided and wry. "A nineteen year old's dirty mind trapped in a celibate's body. The tragedy of it." Behind the counter, something begins to buzz. Barrister pushes back and reaches under it. There's a shotgun back there -- security system, Southside style -- but he pulls his cellphone out. It's absurdly sleek and modern, a black brushed-steel casing that fits in his hand the way a porsche might fit in the middle of the Yosemite river valley. He flips it open, looks at the name, and sighs.

"I have to take this, fellas." Standing -- "Thanks, Kemp. Take it easy out there."

Tristan. The name is heard clear and unshortened this time. Barrister's dark eyes flicker once toward Henry before he can catch himself; then he tucks the bit of information away and doesn't demand details or pounce Henry with personal questions. A gossip, Barrister is not.

[Kemp Oates] ((Thanks for the scene guys. Sorry I vanished on ya back there. Had to go pull a car out of ditch, though no one was hurt. So all's good there. Me, I am heading to bed. Night! ))
to Henry Allard, J. Barrister, mold spore, Nate Gregory, o.O

[Henry Allard] (Glad everyone's okay! Thanks for the scene, blu, have a good night!)
to J. Barrister, Kemp Oates, mold spore, Nate Gregory, o.O

[Kemp Oates] ((are you doing a final post or am I waiting for nothing? LOL! ))
to Henry Allard, J. Barrister

[Henry Allard] (I'm typing, I'm typing! *LOL*)
to J. Barrister, Kemp Oates

[Henry Allard] Kemp stands up to take his leave, and Henry does likewise, sliding himself to his feet and tapping the mug on the glass countertop as the Ragabash is thanking John and arranging for continuation of the business they've set up between them--and with one added syllable and a dropped pronoun, Kemp manages to completely upend whatever play at heterosexuality Henry might have had going for him.

The look on Henry's face is something eloquent along the lines of Oh, shit. He grimaces, as if Kemp had just said something completely vulgar, and he catches that quick glance of John's eyes towards him as he is pulling on his jacket.

"Hey, man, thanks for the tea," he says, playing at nonchalance as he turns to follow Kemp out the door. "Night."

A gossip, Barrister is not.
A mind reader, Henry is not.

He and Kemp go their separate ways, and the first thing Henry does, after clapping his hand to his forehead and dragging it down his face, is reach for his cigarettes.

He doesn't have cancer, after all.

[Barrister] So: it's a Wednesday night at the pub. Not really the night to go barhopping, true, but Lakeview has an old and celebrated tradition of open mic Wednesdays. And Thursdays, and Sundays. And sometimes Tuesdays and Fridays and Saturdays too, but that's neither here nor there.

Point is, open mic night at the Fox and Feather. Some semi-decent impromptu group is up on stage, jammin' away. There's a fiddle, pipes and a guitar. The music is vaguely celtic-inspired, but largely, to be perfectly honest, open chords and noise. There's enough chatter and ambient noise for it not to matter. At the bar, two men, mid-thirties, both in sweaters and jeans. One has a hard soldierly look about him; the other is larger, broader, thicker, hairier, hunkered over his drink, mostly listening and nodding, sometimes smiling the way one does at a fond memory.

Eventually the first gets up to go. The second stands as well. They shake hands and embrace like brothers -- there's a lot of macho back-pounding, a firm clinch -- and then part. The military man gets his coat from the coat check girl and leaves. His friend stays behind at the bar, and orders one more round for himself.

[Barrister] (very funny *LMAO*)
to Bainbridge, Baldwin

[Bainbridge] (( There's al'ays a Baldwin brother ... ))
to Baldwin, Barrister

[Baldwin] (I saw the B's and couldn't resist popping in with one of my own. LOL)
to Bainbridge, Barrister

[Barrister] (*LOL*)
to Bainbridge, Baldwin

[Baldwin] (Lord, Bainbridge, Baldwin and Barrister sounds like a Law Firm.)
to Bainbridge, Barrister

[Barrister] (it's cuz Barrister is a type of lawyer in the UK! *LOL*)
to Bainbridge, Baldwin

[Bainbridge] A man leaves; the door is open, the air is cold and full of the taste of snow. It is November in Chicago. Enter, Dr. Bainbridge: a woman in her thirties, not old, but hard to place, with a wild fecundity of black curls, which stray from under a cap pulled down low enough to warm her ears. After a glance around, which causes her to smile (warmth, there; her eyes crinkle up; it's almost audible) as she notes the impromptu musicians, she walks to the bar, not far from the man who was left/who stayed behind. She orders herself a drink. "Dust off my tab, Sam." Her accent is crisp, Britonnic; British: precision, but warm and soft. The accent of restraint.

There are people in this world who are shy; there are people in this world who are not. There are people in this world who like people; there are people in this world who do not. Avery is one of the former breed.

And while the 'tender busies himself getting her drink, Avery pays a moment's (real) attention to the musicians. And it's only a matter of time (or, say, posts) before her attention turns from the music to the other patrons who are not playing music.

[Barrister] Let's get this out of the way, shall we? John Barrister is not a man who goes to bars to pick up women. Perhaps he was in his youth, but marriage, or responsibility, or the sheer passage of years have leached that out of him. These days, if he goes to a bar, or a 'pub' as this one liked to call itself, he goes to meet an old friend, or to put up advertisements for one of his many side jobs, or simply for the ambiance.

Still. Enter Avery Bainbridge. Enter her particular brand of warmth, which you can almost smell: like cinnamon, nutmeg, rich chocolate. Enter her accent, which could be cold and precise, but is not. And Barrister turns his head.

"That's a rather lovely accent." As far as lines go, this one is terrible. Then again, there's no such thing, really, as a good line. And Barrister is perhaps not trying to make one. After all, he has his hands wrapped around his heavy stein of some pale-ale or other; they are large hands, coarse, bigboned, dusted with dark hair, and on the left ring finger winks a very evident gold band. "English? London?"

[Bainbridge] And her gaze switches from the musicians to J.B.; she smiles. Again, there's something in that smile. There are little lines around her eyes and, yes, it is the taste of Mexican hot chocolate, and, yes, her eyes are the warmth of honey in hot tea, and it is cold, cold, cold outside, and yes, Avery is a detail-orientated creature, and she notices the wink of gold on J.B.'s left hand. Does not disregard it. Does not stop, however, the smile, which is followed by: well. She takes off her cap, and her hair is in even more tumble disarray, and takes off a glove, and offers J.B. her hand. "It's Avery Bainbridge, and thank you; you've a nice one yourself, but you yanks never seem to believe it."

[Barrister] "Johnathan," he says, and then seems surprised at himself; uncertain why he gave his full name. Perhaps it was some latent poetic instinct to match the syllable count of hers, which her british accent lengthens into three subtle but distinct syllables where his american would slur it into two. "John," he amends, "Barrister." And he shakes her hand. His palm is warm; it bears the callouses of a manual laborer, though the quality of his clothing -- though plain, and neither designer nor tailored by any stretch of the imagination -- says that he has a comfortable nest egg.

He smiles when she compliments his 'accent'. "Thanks," he says, "but you must be mistaken. I'm only speaking English the way it's meant to be spoken." And his smile becomes a grin -- lines at the corners of his eyes, bracketing his mouth. His is not a hollywood 35; his is a weatherworn, outdoorsy 35, and he looks like he's worn his skin well for all thirty-five years of it. "Can I buy you a drink?"

[Bainbridge] "You can;" and, here, spark of humor, a note of the conspiratorial: "And I wouldn't send it back." Beat. "What brings a man like yourself to a pub like the Fox and the Feather?"

[Barrister] Barrister turns to the tender: "It'll be on me," he tests the name -- "Sam." -- and receives a mild glance for it, unimpressed. JB wilts a little. Clearly, two appearances does not make him a regular here, worthy of calling the bartender by name.

Turning back, he offers a rueful little shrug as commentary on the exchange. Answers her, "Just meeting a friend. I was here a few months ago. The open-mic was a bit better that night. A particularly good singer/fiddler, I remember -- a redhead, I think, rather reserved in person."

[Bainbridge] "Really?" Interested. "That might have been my friend Genny; she's fiddles like the devil and lives round here." Avery flicks a glance at Sam, and then -- with the ease of a true regular -- sits on the bar-stool next to J.B.'s, and takes off her coat. The gloves and the hat are on the bar top. And it must be said, Avery does not do it on purpose, it is an intrinsic part of her personality, of who she is and was born to be, and I might run with wild blood, and I might wear horns, but there's this way to how she takes off her coat. Even though she's fully dressed beneath, and there is not a proliferation of bare skin (--it's winter!), it's suggestive. "Do you play?"

[Barrister] "I'm sorry, I forgot the name. I'm not sure it was Jenny, though." Avery strips -- er, that is, Avery removes her coat; J.B's eyes flicker down, ever so briefly, and then as quickly away. To disguise the glance, he looks into his stein, not because he's going to steal another glance later but because he's rather embarrassed to have stolen the first. Really; he's not seventeen anymore. You'd think he'd have the dignity not to gawk at a strange woman in a bar.

"No, no," there's a certain hurry to his reply, as if to gloss over the past minute and a half as quickly as possible, "I don't play. I make." He regains his normal rhythm: slow, deliberate, thoughtful. "String instruments. Mostly cellos and violas. Sometimes, anyway; I'm not very good. It's a hobby. Yourself?"

[Bainbridge] Lo, her drink has arrived, and the lady is drinking whiskey straight-up. As she prepares to take her first sip, she crosses her legs, knees turned toward her new(est) friend. "I do, and a couple of instruments; haven't touched anything but a bodhran lately." Here, whiskey-sip, she closes her eyes, enjoys. Then: "Don't play, as in you choose not to? Or 'don't play', as in you don't know how?"

[Barrister] "A -- sorry, a what?" He doesn't even try to pronounce it again. If he saw it spelled, he'd pronounce it bod-ran. As in, the woman with the hot bod ran down the street. All along, he's sat hunkered over his drink, apart from when he extended his hand to shake. Now he half-turns toward her, slightly. The hand nearer her drops to his thigh. Body language analysts would have a field day. And, "Don't know how. I never learned." Pause. "Why, do you teach?"

[Bainbridge] "A bodhran," she repeats, and there's the intimation (husk: smoke) of a chuckle in the back of her throat. (Cinnamon: nutmeg: to taste. Spice.) "Bow-rahn." Then, another smile; slightly wider. "Why, looking to learn?" There's an invitation, there; but she tones it down in her next line. He's wearing a wedding ring, after all: "There just seems something strange about a fiddle-maker who can't even play the simplest reel."

[Barrister] Looking to learn -- his smile widens with hers. "Maybe," he says. There's warmth in him too; a slow and quiet sort of charisma.

Then, a brief and short inhale, a sip of air that he follows with a sip of his brew. "Well," he says; his eyelashes shade his eyes, and both are dark, and he looks to his wedding ring without quite realizing it, and certainly without trying to hide it, "my wife was a fiddler."

Ah, baggage.

[Bainbridge] Quiet, for a moment. (Baggage. Who doesn't have it?) "That's a handsome ring," she says, and her voice is softer; tea, now, instead of spiced chocolate; caramel tea, perhaps. Or Russian Caravan. "She doesn't play any longer?"

[Barrister] The smile he slants her: it's wry, astute, and it says he knows she's smarter than to need to ask; it says he knows she knows. It also contains something of appreciation -- gratitude for going through the paces anyway.

"My wife passed a year ago." He looks at the ring again after she'd mentioned it, and this time he sees it, "I just wear it to ward off the she-wolves." It's an awkward sort of joke. It's only after that he hears the implications behind it, unintended. He drains his stein of ale and catches the eye of the bartender, nods for a refill.

[Bainbridge] There's this smile he slants her; wry, astute. Attractive. Tug. There's this smile she answers him with, after just a second: slow, and maybe rueful. "Does it work?" And, "That one's on me, Sam."

[Barrister] Another man -- another kinsman, precisely -- might answer this with a bitter private joke of a comment, whether or not the listener were in a position to understand and empathize. Of course not, or what do you think? They're wolves.

JB grins again, brief, a flicker. "So far."

And a glance toward Sam, who most definitely did not give Avery Bainbridge a mild, unimpressed sort of look. Back to her: dark-haired, wildblooded woman: "Equal opportunity imbiber, I see. Excuse me -- "

Alcohol in the blood warms him, and he pulls his sweater off, manages to do it without knocking anyone over. The hour's growing later and the crowd is changing subtly. The musicians are packing it up. The open area that served as a stage has become a dance floor, though no one's brave enough to lead the way just yet. The DJ spins danceable rock, some top 40, some underground, though not so loud that it becomes hard to converse. The clientele is shifting more toward drinking and socializing, and the bar is getting more crowded. Barrister reseats himself, folding his thin sweater under himself for a cushion. He's pulled the barstool a little closer.

"So -- is it a cliche if I ask whether you come here often?"

[Bainbridge] Let's just get this out of the way: Avery? Avery is frank in her appreciation of the male form. Very frank. And appreciative. And she appreciates Johnathan Barrister's, in particular, when he takes off his sweater; takes a good long swallow of her whiskey in a sort of private toast -- or because she wants to order another drink.

"I am delighted to say that, yes, it is a cliche -- and yes, I come around often enough to be a familiar face. Ah, 'scuse me," that, to someone leaning over her to order their drink, bumpage occurs, it happens, and her response is offhand. Then: "Tonight's a bit of a surprise, tell you the truth, but I just had to get away from the bloody Geats."

[Barrister] The sweater off, he's more relaxed, particularly after he undoes his collar and his cuffs, rolls the latter up to his elbows. He notes that the lady has emptied her whiskey, and notes also to put the next round on his tab when she asked for it.

Often enough to be a familiar face, she says -- he laughs, mostly at himself. "Yeah; I should've guessed that. The bartender," and a little gesture to encompass the entire room. The grin that comes out of the laugh is easy, self-deprecating. Something about her frankness, or perhaps that certain sensuality of her being that cannot quite be disguised, but would not be politely reacted to immediately, had intimidated him at first. A little. And Barrister is not a man easily intimidated. Fortunately, that seems to have passed. He's settling into himself, the rhythm of the conversation. "I guess what I'm asking is -- " bumpage occurs, Barrister puts a hand out to steady her, polite, he touches her elbow, contact maintains for a beat longer, more than polite. Then bumpage ends, he draws back, picks up his stein to occupy his hand. Continues, " -- are you planning to come back here?"

She mentions the 'bloody Geats'. He's momentarily confused. "The Geats? Extinct, aren't they? Or is it merely Swedish now?"

[Bainbridge] Her lashes shade her eyes; they're dark, where her eyes aren't; but her eyes are a muddied color, and tea can be clear or opaque, depending on how it was brewed. Then she laughs, casual, easy: husk, again. Her laugh is French cocoa, rich, creamy: tongue, swirl. "With that Beowulf monstrosity out, they're keen to get some new translations and some audio. I've the tongue for it and patience with voice-work, even academic voice-work, but it's like anything, you work too long on a project, and you need to take a break before the project breaks you." A beat, and then back to the original: "I do plan on returning. What about you? Can I look forward to it?"

[Bainbridge] ooc: Erk, not British enough. May I look forward to it.

[Barrister] "Is that what you do? Literature?" A brief scrutiny; a sense that Barrister might see a lot, if he tried. "You don't seem the type."

And, "Yeah." His smiles are easy and plentiful. "I'd like to. Soon."

[Bainbridge] "Really?" That, to the you don't seem the type. "Well, I'm just getting back into the field. Dead languages have been a hobby of mine." Then, she has ordered another drink; she has even glanced at the D.J. Says, "Well, maybe we can coordinate; I've a telly number, excuse me, a phone number if you'd like. In the meantime, can I ask you a favor?"

[Barrister] Really? "Yeah." The crow's feet at the corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. "Not pretentious enough." It could come off as a blatant, get-in-your-pants compliments. It doesn't. It's not. She's just getting back into the field, she adds, and he laughs -- "Well, be patient. Maybe it'll develop with time."

Another drink, which J.B. nods onto his tab. She offers her number and he shifts on the seat to get out his wallet; feels around for a pen and comes up empty.

A glance as she asks a favor. His eyes are dark. In the right light they're blue, deep dark blue; in this light they are merely dark, possibly brown, possibly black. "Certainly."

[Bainbridge] "Hmm. I don't think I'd peg you as an academic, then, even if you do make violins and cellos in your spare time. Maybe a - " There's a pause. Then: "Well, it'll come to me."

He agrees to a favor; she smiles. Understand this: She isn't overpowering sexuality. She isn't. But, still: How there can be the faintest hint of innuendo, kept (to the American ear) restrained, tame, by the proper British lady accent: precise, crisp, overlaying the smoke. How Avery, who is devourable, whose voice can be hot chocolate or wine, whose eyes can be honey or tea, etc. etc., whose fingernails can probably be almond chips, if needed, and a freckle or two -- they're molasses or paprika or.

"A dance?"

[Barrister] He winces, "Oh, I'm a terrible -- I have absolutely no -- " subsides. A beat. Then he drinks a draught of his brew and stands, hoping no one will steal his sweater, or push it on the floor, or even worse, spill or vomit on it. "All right, one. To humor you."

[Nadia Bashir] His call had been returned and the phone tag continued to play until they could schedule a day and hour that suited both their needs. She scarcely answered the phone, it almost always went to an automated voice mail, that wasn't a recording of her own voice. Unless, of course, he had called the emergency number, and that would result in a conversation entirely different.

Two pm, not a moment earlier, she had arrived to the door of the address she had been given. The weather was far too cold to be wearing skirts, and she opted for another pant suit that cluttered her closet. Black was for evening, so she wore a medium toned gray and a light pale blouse, collar small and short, crisply folded back. Her jacket, however, was heavier and black in colour. She was unbuttoning it as she stepped in the door, hair clipped back and out of her face. Dark green eyes sweeping the interior, looking for someone in particular as she noted other few, but important, details.

[John Barrister] Originally they'd spoken of roastbeef sandwiches at Richmond&Sons, one of the many overpriced, family-run corner delis in their neighborhood. However, this having morphed somehow into lunch rather than a simple sandwich-stand recommendation, John Barrister felt obligated to choose a slightly classier venue. At least, some place with waiters and sit-down tables.

So: the University Cafe. A name at best, because this is neither a cafe in the classical sense of the word, nor your average college dollar joint. It's not exactly old-money elite by any stretch of the imagination, but it's well-kept, clean, airy, modern, with a verve toward fusion cuisine and a polite young waitstaff that practically ran to do one's bidding. The menu is simple, mostly sandwiches and soups in the 12-16$ range, but each entry comes with a small description full of words like "succulent" and "plum wine sauce" and "served on mediterranean-style couscous." In short, it's one of those places that specialized in power lunches and lunch dates, popular amongst the white-collar urbanites.

The restaurant is situated in a building large enough for two stories, but is furnished with only one -- skylights open in the roof to rain light down on the diners. Nadia is directed past a smattering of other patrons to a table for two in the back, near a screen of some long-fronded plant. Barrister, waiting at the table, reading a book to pass the time, looks slightly out of place with his bowling-ball shoulders and his ever-burgeoning five'o'clock shadow. At the same time, he has an ease in such a place that speaks of frequent visits. He looks up as she approaches, and closes his book, marking his place with a slim bookmark. The title reads Peace Like a River; the dustjacket is pale blue and white.

John's chair scrapes out as he stands. At least he had height to go along with his breadth; some six feet four inches of it. Otherwise, he'd have a build most would refer to as a brick shithouse.

"Hello again." All the way here, the bright young waitress has not dared to meet Nadia's eyes for more than a few seconds at a time. Barrister looks her squarely and evenly in the eye; there's genuine friendliness in his handshake. He's exchanged his charcoal running sweats for a dark coat, slacks, crisp white shirt, no tie. It doesn't make him any less hairy, but it at least makes him less out of place. "Please, sit. I went ahead and ordered appetizers," he adds as they seat themselves. "Calamari and a greek salad. Pick whatever else you like."

[Nadia Bashir] The waitress had been, more or less, ignored by the darkly coloured woman. By the time she was at the table, her overcoat was laying over her arm, leaving her in a casual pant-suit. Even with her heels, she wasn't as tall as John, and tilted her head, just slight, to look up at his full height. She shook his hand, casual, brief, and put her jacket over her seat as she replied, "No, that's fine." Her Middle Eastern accent was still evident, but the English remained clear. "Thank you."

"How are you?" She looked at him across the table as she eased into her seat, crossing the length of her legs beneath the tables cloth, one laying over the other at the knee. Her foot tucked closely to her opposite calf, leaving plenty of leg room for the taller of the two of them.

[John Barrister] "As yet un-sued," Barrister replies with a smile. He seats himself a beat after she does, pulling his chair forward again with another unavoidable grate. When he sits back, the joints of the chair creak. Though he'd buttoned his coat out of reflex when he'd stood, he unbuttons it again as he sits. "Yourself? I have to say, you're hard to get ahold of. I think I've had more conversations with your answering machine than with you."

[Nadia Bashir] "Bruin must be behaving." She had said, remembering his dogs name, if only for his fondness of it. They were both going through the same actions, unbuttoning their blazer jackets, while getting themselves settled. She raised her cuffs a little. A gold watch made her left wrist appear dainty under its expensive weight, it's colouring brighter, foreign (and more pure) gold.

Her laugh was soft, almost classified as a chuckle, and she inclined her head, just slight at his remark. "Unfortunate. I am very busy." She raised her eyes from roaming the room to look him over and meet his gaze. "I am glad it has not deterred you."

[John Barrister] "A promise is a promise." Barrister has a warm smile. Nadia's not a foolish woman; she knows the laws of polite company, and that people ought to smile at each other if they're going to hold a friendly conversation. All the same, Barrister has a genuineness about him. His eyes crinkle when he smiles. His brow relaxes. "What is it you do, anyway? I noticed an emergency contact number on the card. Sounds rather dangerous."

[Nadia Bashir] "It's rare for promises to be kept." His genuineness was appreciated, though she didn't smile as much as he.

Brows arching at his question, she appeared a little perplexed at first before waving a hand. "No. It's not a business card." It had no company name after all, just her name. "It's more convenient to have those at hand, should I meet someone like yourself, or other persons of possibility." Sounded a little strange, perhaps. "I believe there should be an emergency contact number for most. I like to believe those I befriend can rely on me should the situation be dire enough."

[John Barrister] "Persons of possibility?" He's still amused -- though now, a suspicion has begun to niggle at the back of his mind. "What sort of possibility?"

The conversation is briefly interrupted: the waitress arrives with the appetizers, and then takes their order. John orders his roast beef sandwich, though here it's called a sliced top sirloin roast on focaccia with braised onions and bleu cheese, garnished with ... blahblahblah. Barrister still calls it what it is: "I'll have the roast beef sandwich. Soup on the side. What's today's special? Oh, no, I'll just have the french onion. Just water. No, wait -- the mango iced tea sounds good. Thanks."

After the waitress departs with their orders and their menus, Barrister turns his attention back to the woman. "Persons of possibility," he prompts.

[Nadia Bashir] Her own order consisted of fish, of all things, and salad with a bottled water. She watched the waitress depart before she returned to their conversation, already prompted before she could begin. This cause a smile, as small as it was, and a glitter of amusement in her dark foliage gaze. "There are endless possibilities where you travel. A person you meet today could be your boss tomorrow." It was all about networking, surely, with his stature, he could understand it. Unless she presumed much of this man before her, which wasn't that likely, considering.

[John Barrister] Barrister raises a dark eyebrow. They're just shy of bushy, though they are certainly bold: straight across over each eye. The eyes themselves are dark as well, but in this light she can see they're blue, not black.

"And you expect situations might swiftly grow so dire that your future boss may need to call you and actually get ahold of you?" The corners of his mouth lift. "You're rather unusual, Nadia."

[Nadia Bashir] Leaning gently into the table, bringing her own gaze closer to his, she murmured clearly, "It was an example, John." Returning his smile, even if it was small, twisting the corners of her rather full mouth, she eased back into her chair. It was her turn to talk.

"Tell me this." She began, "Did you come to this luncheon to be polite or was there another motivation?" Simply direct, though it wasn't unpleasantly said. Her curiousness was obvious.

[John Barrister] Now the other eyebrow goes up. Barrister laughs -- a short, quiet one, almost under his breath. Then he composes himself.

"Are you asking if I'm trying to pick you up?"

[Nadia Bashir] "Is that such an amusing thought?" She tilted her head to one side, regarding him fully and without the shared laughter. It's a possibility that she was offended, her gaze was a little sharper, darker. Perhaps he'd notice how she's sitting particularly still at that current moment, all of her attention on him.

[John Barrister] "I'm sorry," Barrister says immediately, perceiving the change in her and not at all the type who would enjoy snubbing a woman, "I don't mean to offend. You're a very attractive woman. But, no, you needn't worry. I wasn't trying to pick you up." He smiles again, half-wry, spreads his hands. "No ulterior motives."

[Nadia Bashir] "The thought didn't offend. I'm curious to why you would think it funny." Her eyes dropped to watch the way his mouth curved into another smile. Debating whether she liked it or not, she watched for several heartbeats later, looking over his bone structure before meeting his eyes again. "There are other motives than trying to bed someone, John." Now she smiles, a light gesture, but at least it reaches her eyes.

[John Barrister] "I laughed," he replies wryly, "because I was imagining you coming to lunch dreading a pass."

While they speak, he serves himself from the shared salad, picks a few calamari rings from the platter. He has a rough look about him, big knuckles and coarse hands, a jaw that always looks unshaven; it's wholly at odds with his table manners, which are surprisingly elegant. He keeps his elbows tucked in, his knife always in the right hand and his fork always in the left.

"Yes," he agrees, "but I assure you, I have no ulterior motives whatsoever. Except maybe to make a friend."

[Nadia Bashir] Dropping her gaze to watch the way he served himself, how he held his utensils and general table manners, she let the conversation dry up. Reaching for her bottle, she opened it and poured water into her glass, stopping when it was three quarters level. Her bottle, recapped, was set to the side and traded for the glass itself.

"Are you interested in art, history, John?" A simply out of the blue question.

She took a sip from her glass, then another that had more to do with drinking than merely tasting. Holding it in hand, cradled in her fingertips, she continued to watch him eat, her gaze flicking to watch his movements. Plate to mouth.

[John Barrister] One might be discomfited by the intent way this strange, desert-eyed woman watched one's every motion. If Barrister was uncomfortable, he doesn't show it. There's an immense, quiet confidence about him; it underlies everything he does, up to and including his unfailing courtesy and genuine goodness of nature. Perhaps there's some truth to the adage that it takes more courage to be kind than cruel.

"History, yes. Art, depends on the type." He eats another forkful of salad, chews, swallows before continuing. "Why do you ask? Let me guess -- you're a hunter of exotic artifacts?"

[Nadia Bashir] "It would be ... cliche, wouldn't it?" With an air of amusement she set down her glass and began to serve some food onto her own plate, little of it, but something to make her plate look colourful and enough not to offend his choice of meal. "Most of those artifacts come from markets of my home town, or not far. I would not be much of a hunter, if that were the case."

Picking up a fork, she rolled some lettuce and stabbed it gently. "What is it, about History, that you like? Something must draw you to it. Much like there is a reason, beyond keeping yourself in physical fitness, that makes you run every night."

[John Barrister] "You're an antiques dealer, then." He looks pleased with this, somehow. "I do a little of that myself. Not so highbrow, though."

She asks him what he likes about history, and he appears to give this genuine thought -- narrowing his eyes into the distance, leaning back in the trendy little woven basket chair, because apparently people nowadays were too hip to eat in proper dining chairs. His limbs are long enough that his hand easily reaches the table without stretching. He holds his mango iced tea and swirls it around unconsciously, the way one might a good wine.

"I don't know," he says finally. "The sense of time, maybe, and what's come before. The movements of mankind, the rises and the falls."

[Nadia Bashir] While he spoke, she ate. She took her time with it, picking more than she devoured. Hunger wasn't a motivating factor at the moment. Her gaze moved from her plate up to him, small flickers to the former, as she ate small bites. "I like them for the stories. The lessons learned, morals to be followed, mistakes made." Eating some calamari, she waited until she had swallowed before continuing, "Have you heard anything of Mythology that you may like? Gods and Goddesses. They fill our history books with names and tales." The more she spoke, the more he became accustomed to her accent, the easier her educated English sounded.

[John Barrister] This time the smile has something a little ironic in it. He studies her for a moment, as though trying to make up his mind about something.

He's spared the necessity to answer immediately. The waitress arrives again with their entrees, and sets them down in front of them. She asks them if they'd like anything more. Though she's been trained to smile brightly at everyone at a table, she converses largely with Barrister. One might think it were a matter of attraction, flirtation, but no: whenever she looks at Nadia, there's something like worry on her face, so mild that she likely doesn't even register it herself.

Assured of their satisfaction with the meal, she departs. Barrister is left alone with Nadia again, and he swallows a mouthful of iced tea before he replies -- meanwhile drawing the toothpick out of the sandwich.

"I've always liked history more than myth, artifacts more than stories. But I suppose I'm partial toward Norse myth." He smiles a little; this is the first time it's been anything but genuine. This smile is a little calculated; it means something. "It runs in the family, I guess."

[Nadia Bashir] Tempted to give the waitress a little more to sweat about, Nadia had taken to watching the woman as she was so obviously uncomfortable. She could almost smell the changes in the air around her, the lingering emotions of others that prickled along her skin and stimulated her senses. Thankfully they were sitting far beyond the rest, and the foliage about them was strong enough in smell to be a distraction.

"I thought as much." She had said, and stated, "Artifacts are nothing without their story." before she picked up her fork and began to cut her moist fish, adding some salad to her fork. The two textures, soft and crisp, mixed well in her mouth.

[John Barrister] "What about you?" He lays aside his utensils at last, picking the sandwich up in his big hands. "Have an interest in myth, history, artifacts -- stories?"

[Nadia Bashir] "All." She said, having noted how big his hands were last time they had met, and just how hairy he was. It was a prime reason for her questioning, that and his little tell tale signs, in particularly the way her body responded to his, that had her suspicions now confirmed. Her fish was favoured over her salad and she didn't touch the tomatoes on her plate, pushing them to one side with her fork, even to the point of scraping off the tomato seeds that was on some of her other raw vegies.

[John Barrister] He laughs a little again, a hint awkward. "Not much of a conversationalist, huh. Should I leave you be, stop prying?"

[Nadia Bashir] Looking up from where she was fussing with her food, she shook her head and set down her utensils. "No, please." She had been distracted. "Ask what it is you would like." Pause, she went back to his question. "I enjoy learning about the world and everything in it. I would say as far as outside of our world, but there is not much known of the universe."

Picking up her glass, she washed away the taste of fish from her tongue and teeth with several sips. Gazes meeting again, or at least hers lifts to his, she continued, "Mythology, culture, religion, in many parts of the world have very similar ideals and icons. Many of them incorporate animals with men and women, have tales where such creatures would consummate, or Gods of either gender being several species simultaneously." Giving a little shrug of her shoulder, she had paused her words, considered him, them, "I find the ideas intriguing, now that humankind dominant over every other creature, including the very ground that keeps us dependent on it. The irony is dry."

[John Barrister] Were she talking to a human, his eyes might glaze over now. He might smile and nod, but he wouldn't pay any attention at all. Such things are not part of the world a human -- a human like JB, anyway -- cares about.

Barrister, however: he listens. Attentively. His eyes are fast on her, and when she finishes, a pregnant silence falls.

Then he sets the sandwich down. Wipes his hands on the napkin, and quite deliberately, draws his wedding ring off his finger.

"Since you sound like a bit of an aficionado of myth and culture, maybe you can help me decipher something. My wife and I bought our rings from a private small-volume dealer." The story here doesn't matter; it's just something to say, to mask things for public view. It's not true, anyway. "Anyway, my ring has this little etching on the inside. Can you see it? Maybe you've seen it before. I wonder if you know what it means."

He holds the ring out for her view. On the inside, against the skin, is of course a very small, very carefully carven Fenrir glyph.

All the while, Barrister watches her face like a hawk.

[Nadia Bashir] Picking up her napkin, she cleans her hands, not that they were dirty anyway, and takes the offered ring in her fingertips. She tilts it to the light, her eyes narrowing a little as she focuses on the inscription. Slowly, she smiled and further inspected the ring itself, its weight, value, purity. "I thought as much." Says the stranger.

Leaving the ring in her pale palm, compared to the rest of her skin, she offered it out to him across the table. "It's a symbol of strength and honour." Pause. "Loyalty." Another pause. "Which is, perhaps, why its fitting for the symbol of the ring." They both knew, she knew, that he knew. It doesn't help him discern anything about her though.

[John Barrister] "Huh," the sound is faint, amused. "Here I always thought it was just a tribal design."

He never quite lets the ring go. He doesn't pull it away when she touches it, but once she's finished he slips it back on his finger. His hand had felt briefly naked without it. When it rests again at the base of his fourth finger, he gives it a turn, and then picks his sandwich up again.

[Nadia Bashir] "Nothing is ever just." Done with her meal, she picks up her glass of water again, watching him. "A design is always based on a concept." Frowning for a moment, she put down her glass and slowly stood.

"Please excuse me."

The vibration in her pant pocket was removed as she stepped a foot or two from the table and put a small cell to her ear. She didn't speak English. It was an obvious Middle Eastern language, most likely some dialect of Arabic. The call was short, her mood changed with a minor irritation.

She returned to the table with a tight smile. "John, I'm afraid that an emergency needs attendance." Removing her jacket from the table she lay it over her arm. "See? It's always a good idea to have such a contact." Phone back in her pocket, she set her gaze on him. "Please, let me buy you dinner sometime. It may be a little more convenient than meeting midday."

[John Barrister] He doesn't rise when she gets up to take the call, but he does when it becomes apparent she won't be sitting again.

"I can do better than that. Your interest in myths, legend and histories -- why don't we meet at the Museum of Anthropology? I'll call you, set up a time."

[Nadia Bashir] Her smile is broad, delighted and she inclines her head. "I would like that."

"Thank you."

Gesturing to the table, "Please, sit, enjoy, and take care John."

With another smile, she had turned and left the restaurant. Not before she, without him able to complain, stopped and paid for their tab on the way out. Her jacket was thrown on at a pause at the door, before she disappeared onto the day lit street.

[John Barrister] Lakeview's a pretty nice neighborhood, see. It's all oak-lined streets and quaint little houses; stately old manors and turn-of-the-century brownstones. What commercialization there is is restricted to a few european-style streets, with brick apartments sitting atop bakeries and boutiques, cafes and corner stores. There are perhaps three streets altogether with traffic lights. The rest are stop signs and pedestrian crosswalks.

This time of night, it's a quiet neighborhood. Few cars pass on the streets. All the shops are closed, and most the houses are dark. The wind stirs what few leaves remain on the trees, and occasionally one falls with a soft, papery sigh.

It's cold in Chicago now. Barrister can see his breath, white in the air. It'd be too cold to stand about in sweats and a t-shirt, but it's just perfect for a brisk run. He likes running at this time of night: the city quiet, the streets empty, the stoplights flashing yellow, yellow, yellow. There are few other joggers to run into, which Barrister doesn't mind one way or the other. More importantly, there are few other dogs to run into, which Barrister is deeply thankful for. It affords him a chance to let Bruin off the leash. The dog roams the shrubs and the lawns while Barrister runs the streets.

And he runs. Not a jog but true running, the sort that indicates hard physical conditioning in the past; the sort that says he knows what he's about. He's had his share of competitive athletics or simple, grueling physical labor. His strides are long and confident, steady. His breathing is elevated, fast and harsh, but even and ungasping; his heartrate a steady, rapid thunder. It's an equilibrated state of being that wolves and distance runners knew well -- a sort of amped-up homeostasis, faster and harder and more challenging, but no less stable than the resting.

[Nadia Bashir] Dressed in warm slacks, that belonged to a smart pant-suit, black, a white blouse, and a long, expensive trench coat, her heels would leave a quiet click on the concrete when she walked. Hair up, leaves her face to the chill of the air, making the dark brown cold to the touch. She had been sitting, just there on a bench by the darkened lake's view, perhaps enjoying the surroundings that the rich suburbia held. A place that put a price on the beauty of site, where they had ripped up nature and patched her up with cement, pierced her with metal and plastic tubes, as though a doctors experiment.

The dog, the one running free, had ripped her from whatever morbid thoughts had inflicted her mind. Its deep growl had caused the hairs on her neck to stand on end. When it increased further, the depth of it, it made her lip twitch. No smile met it, as she turned from her chair, rising up to stand at her average height, 5.7, maybe 8". She looked down at the animal. Another twitch of her upper lip had her nose curling back, wrinkling across the middle. Fingers curled at her side, loosely, flexing. The beginnings of white was seen through the parting of her lips. Her sneer at the aggressive domestic.

[John Barrister] Barrister's usually a lot more vigilant during the day. During the day, kids popped out of school buses at the drop of a hat. Young moms came out of groceries stores, yapping on their cell phones. Affluent twentysomethings windowshopped and balanced their little dogs in their purses. During the day, Barrister would never let Bruin off the leash, and he'd spot trouble a block away.

At night, it's different: who the hell sits on a bench in the middle of nowhere at 12:35am? Barrister doesn't think to look for company, and lets his attention wander -- looks out across the lake while the hound roams free. Most times he lags behind, investigating this scent or that with utmost, voluptuous care, only to race after his master in a pitter-patter of running paws when he finds himself too far away. Once in a while, though, the dog gets ahead of the master.

It's the growl that snaps Barrister's attention back to the path. Mothers know their babies' cries; dog owners know exactly what their dogs sound like. "Shit," is out his mouth almost before he thinks -- already being at a run, he pushes it to a sprint to catch up with his errant, unfriendly hound. "Don't touch him!" It's the sort of unbridled panic that only the owner of a mean dog would know. "Keep your hands in your pockets and don't try to pet him. Hey, Bruin! Here, boy!"

The dog -- a doleful-faced, floppy-eared mutt of a hound -- responds by letting loose a string of baying barks. His hackles are up. His tail lashes from side to side. He's agitated, nervous; he means business, even if the strange lady scares the crap out of him.

[Nadia Bashir] Pet him? She had heard him. Heard his feet before he had gotten far enough to beg for his dog to come. But she kept her eyes trained on the hound, staring him in the eye. Unmoving, save for the brief bare of her teeth. it could have been a smile, a grin. It was a silent growl of her own. Challenging. She was the dominant here. She'd show him, the mongrel, should the little pup want to launch an attack. John wasn't much of a concern. The strange lady, she didn't seem to be frightened in the least, but there was a thick tension that was hard to shift even by a lake breeze.

[John Barrister] Most dogs would be cowed by such a stare. Some dogs, however - the exceptionally brave or exceptionally dumb (and it's hard to say which the hound was) - take it as a threat that had to be answered with force. Bruin gets tenser and tenser, his lean, shortcoated body drawing in on itself until it seemed inevitable that he was going to go for the jugular and end up dead on the ground.

But just as he starts to explode forward, Barrister swoops in behind him and grabs him the way you might grab a drunken barfighter. One forearm across the dog's neck, the other around his chest, Barrister grabs double-handfuls of the hound's short stiff fur and bodily drags him back. Locks the growling hound between his knees and snaps the leash back on.

A deep breath of relief. Or maybe he was just catching his breath, period, after having run miles and miles and then participating in an impromptu hundred-meter dash. He urges Bruin back, and Bruin shows his displeasure by lashing his head from side to side, twisting, and generally trying to get free before finally resigning himself to panting balefully by his side.

Both man and hound are panting now, white puffs of steam unfurling into the air. Barrister wipes sweat off his brow. "Sorry. Sorry about that. He's really quite friendly once you get to know him. Doesn't do well with strangers, though." A sort of too-casual, nervous laugh: the please, god, please don't let me get sued sort of laugh that owners of mean dogs would recognize.

Then, something that sets this man apart from a thousand others who might have behaved similarly in such a situation: Barrister gets ahold of himself. Consciously, deliberately. Takes a deep breath, and thereafter breathes quietly through his nose. His charcoal sweatpants are wet at the cuffs from running through the wet streets. His t-shirt sticks to him front and back, and what isn't wet with gutter-water or sweat is damp with the endless, misty rain. Still, for all that, there's a great self-mastery about him. He wipes his brow off again, looks at his hands, and makes a sort of apologetic gesture that excuses his lack of handshaking.

"This is Bruin." Dog lovers always introduced their dogs first.

[Nadia Bashir] Those things came in handy, and not just for wayward dogs. She had eyed the leash as it was snapped on to the pup, and had watched further as it thrashed around to free itself. When it stilled, gave in, submitted, she raised her gaze to look upon the owner. She took him in. His appearance was absorbed in a slow sweep of her intensified gaze. Not bad, his physical appearance. Handsome. Strong. Bred.

He opened his mouth, and she looked up from where she was looking at his wet pants, ankles, to meet his gaze. She didn't look at the introduced dog, well aware of what it looked like and where it was standing, panting by the side of his master. When she spoke, it was with an accent from the Middle East, though her English was well taught, educated. "I know a place where Bruin is the name of a best served dish." She had offered in turn. The woman was probably the likes to sue.

[John Barrister] To be openly stared at and quantified according to one's physical parameters is usually a woman's province. Not fair, not cool, not equal -- but true. For a man to truly be on the end of an objectifying scrutiny is an unusual experience. Most either preen or wilt, grow aggressive or shy.

Barrister is perhaps a little put off by her manner, but other than a slight shifting of his balance between his feet, he holds up well enough. One weird lady, that was for sure: sitting out here in the middle of the night, staring down a mean dog, and then staring up its owner. Maybe she was some sort of Arab terrorist waiting to suicide bomb the Sears Tower -- but no, that was prejudicial and unkind, and Barrister tried not to be either.

The comment might be meant to cause a wince. Barrister chuckles instead, though one might not blame him for the chuckle being not so amused as it could've been. "Well, I was aiming more for the 'bear' definition. When he was a puppy he looked a bit like one. Snub nose. Chubby legs." Barrister trails off, perhaps realizing casual conversation was not up the woman's alley.

His breathing's almost back to resting rate. His damp clothes are rapidly becoming cold. Barrister's a big man, well over six feet, long in the limbs, broad through the shoulder and thick in the chest. He doesn't lose heat as fast as a small person would. Even so, it's in the forties, and he was in single layers. He wraps the leash around his fist once more -- in the light of the path lamps, a wedding ring gleams on his fourth finger. His hands are big and strong, and liberally dusted with coarse dark hair. As are his forearms. And his chest, from what can be seen at the collar. And possibly every last square inch that hair could possibly grow from, for that matter. He takes care of himself and how he looks, but even in the poor lighting, one can see the heavy beard shadow covering the whole of his cheeks, his jaw, his neck, contiguous with the hair at his temples on one end, the hair on his chest at the other. Wolf-blooded, indeed: any more hair, any less attention to personal grooming and he'd be ripe for a B-movie werewolf.

"Well," he says, after a short pause in the conversation, "if you're all right ... " it was the open-ended statement that, in a normal meeting between human strangers, predicated a departure.

[Nadia Bashir] Quite the contrary, it seemed to relax her that he had laughed, even if somewhat dryly, at her remark about his dog. At least he was not unhealthy attached to such an animal. This was a good sign. It was obvious John was affectionate towards it. A soft side not usually displayed unless used in ploy to capture a woman with their animals cuteness factor. The weird lady wasn't interested in such schemes and doubted they applied in this situation.

"Yes, I am sure it did." She had replied, in reference to the dog looking like a bear. "Though, perhaps, not as fierce." Her gaze flicked to the dog, to the rope and metal around its neck. Sometimes she felt like that. One wouldn't think so, not with the confidence she held in the poise in her stature.

"Yes." At his assessment of whether she was fine or not. "And do excuse my comment, it was a little harsher than intended. " She wouldn't stop him from leaving, they were both out for their own reasons afterall. He was obviously busy, running. And she... well..

[John Barrister] "He's a big softie," John says, and scruffs the hound's head with rough affection. The hound merely seems annoyed by this interruption of his distrusting stare, and shakes his floppy ears loudly. There are people dogs, and then there are dogs like Bruin: sharp, aggressive, protective, independent. And grumpy.

John takes a few steps back and lets Bruin's leash out a little. Then the woman apologizes -- sort of -- and the decency in Barrister compels him to stay a little longer. "That's all right," he replies. Some men would say this without meaning it. Barrister has a sincerity about him; when he says it, it's believable. "I don't blame you for being upset. Here you are enjoying a quiet evening and along comes mad-dog Bruin. Frankly, I thought you were about to sue me."

When Barrister smiles, his face creases with laugh lines. Night obscures age, but from his carriage and demeanor, one might guess him to be in his mid-30s; a touch older than the younglings dashing around Chicago's werewolf landscape. It doesn't seem to bother him. He doesn't try to compensate -- he looks his age, acts it, dresses it. His ties with Chicago's werewolf circles aren't that close, anyway.

"I'm John, by the way," he adds. He wipes his hand on the side of his sweatpants and holds it out to her. It's big and rough, toughened from tool use and manual labor. "I live around here. Run this way every night. Don't think I've seen you, though. Or Bruin, for that matter." The last is wry.

[Nadia Bashir] Suing him? No. Killing his dog, and feeding it to its owner, different story altogether. She continued to watch him, liking the way he spoke, his animated ways. The man had style enough to capture her attention, few had. Chicago didn't seem to have personalities, many people worthwhile. Style meant much from her home country, in particularly the caste in which she had been raised. His decency was appreciated.

She stepped forth, to take his hand and shake it with her own. Gentle side of a business shake, formal nonetheless. Bruin was watched from the corner of her eye, no doubt the animal became agitated as a full bred Garou came close to his Master. It wasn't as though she was some flimsy Ragabash either. There was a heat to her, it was Luna's phase that had that Rage coursing veins as much as the hearts blood. But in the same token, this woman had control. Power.

"Nadia." She had said, "It's a pleasure to meet you Bruin."

"And you would not have seen me. I do not come here frequently. But this occasion has me pleasantly surprised." Her smile was slow, but warm enough to be pleasant. Dark green eyes, deep forest greens, had looked over his face and searched his gaze when she was close enough, and shifted to look at the antsy dog as she took a single step back.

[Nadia Bashir] (bruin, John. OMG, his love for the dog is infectious.)

[John Barrister] When you've lived a long time with a non-too-friendly dog, you pick up little tricks and instincts. Where another would simply walk forward to close the distance, John leans forward, putting one foot forward to carry his weight. Meanwhile, the other leg barricades the dog back, and the other hand loops the leash several times around it in a few easy turns of the wrist, holding Bruin safely out of biting range.

He does it all thoughtlessly, without preparation, without hesitation. You live, your dog almost bites the nose off some cute blonde and her 6 year old daughter at the park on a warm spring afternoon -- you learn.

"It's nice to meet you too, Nadia." He lets go her hand. Gentle side of a business shake, indeed. Warm, but polite, taking no liberties. "Bit odd, though, this time of night." He smiles as he says this; honest, but not intending rudeness.

Stepping back, he lets Bruin's lead out again, and the subaudible growl subsides. The dog stares at the Garou a little longer, sensing what his master cannot (or perhaps has become so inured to that he ignores it subconsciously) and becoming all the more irritable for it. Then, uneasy, the hound looks away, tugs at his leash, investigates a nearby bush and defiantly leaves his scent.

[Nadia Bashir] "It is." She had agreed, and had taken a casual stance a polite speaking distance away. One hand slipped into her jacket pocket, not in a slouching manner, her back was straight. The black woman wasn't some gangster on the street. A night Owl, at the worst. Well, not the worst but...

"Why are you out running this late, and in the cold?" Speaking clearly, but quietly, she had spoken thoughts aloud. "There are gyms open here, isn't there?" At least in most rich estates they had private gyms in apartment buildings. "It would be warmer. Safer."

Strange, perhaps, that a woman would be offering sound advice on after hour walks in the streets, wandering or running in the darkness. Or that, she, smaller than he, would be concerned about a larger mans well being. Or that of a strangers.

The dog was all but forgotten. No threat. No interest.

[John Barrister] Barrister had long since concluded Nadia wasn't some gangster-bitch. He was fairly certain she wasn't looking to blow up the Sears Tower, either. Night owl seemed the most likely; perhaps some sort of artist, some writer, Alice Walker-type, Gertrude Stein-type, who sought inspiration in the night. Stranger things have happened.

"Can't bring the pooch to a gym," John notes wryly, tipping his head toward the exploring hound. "Anyway, Lakeview's pretty safe. Do you live around here?"

[Nadia Bashir] "Money can buy much." She had replied, referring to the pooch problem in gyms. They could use treadmills too, but there was the whole natural environment thing. As much as she despised the aggressive dog wandering around nearby, hooked on its line, she wouldn't want to subject it to a life in those concrete walls.

At the mention of the lake, she had glanced over to where the water was, or rather, the darkness remained. The smell of it, the dew on the grass, the crisp scent of foliage and leaves, all far better to her senses that wet dog hair nearby. Perhaps though, not as good as the damp smell of masculine sweat. Also a reason why her head had turned, to maintain a proper demeanor before a human.

"I live nearby, yes. A small distance walk." Glancing to him, looking him briefly from head to toe and back, she added, "It's pleasant enough. You're local."

[John Barrister] "Well, truth be told, I prefer the streets. Not as good on the joints, maybe," a smile, "but a little more interesting."

Local, she calls him. His smile turns a little ironic. "You could say that. I've lived here a good many years. Moved away for a while, though. Just came back, couple months ago. I live over on Ash," the sort of neighborly detail one might share with a polite lady one meets while jogging, but not nearly enough to actually find him if said polite lady turned out to be deeply weird indeed, and prone to stalking. At least, it wouldn't be enough if she weren't a Garou. But that's one detail lost to him, for the now.

"You're just moved in, I'm guessing. Have you tried the sandwiches at Richmond & Sons? The corner deli on Haymarket and Sixth? Pretty good, if you like roast beef."

[Nadia Bashir] He made her smile, it came easily, despite her nature and the pull of Luna on her skin. "The beach. Sand is best. It would help with balance." He could think that was a mention on physical self, many might take it like that, but she merely meant it in general.

His suggestion made dark brows rise over forest eyes, where a spark of interest had formed. "Richmond and Sons? I will have to have lunch there." She moved her gaze downward, searching the hand that had glinted with the band. "I would invite you..." The but was left unsaid, as she looked back up to meet his gaze with a small smile, and a appreciation.

[John Barrister] He's worn the ring long enough that it's a part of him that he doesn't even think about anymore. Her eyes seek it out and he's momentarily puzzled; looks down with her. At first he sees only his own hand, big and hairy, knotted with tendons and veins. Then the penny drops. "Ah." Awkward; the first time he's truly so, even counting the near-accident with the dog. His hands come together. He turns the ring on his finger as he speaks, an absent gesture to occupy his hands. "My wife, she's -- passed on. Last year." He smiles; it's not so easy as the previous smiles, and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes are as much wince as humor. "I don't think she would've minded a friendly lunch, though."

There's a subtle maneuvering in the words: the truth about the wife, the fond hint of her personality, the 'friendly' before the lunch. Those trueborn to the Fenrir might've missed it altogether, or at least never thought to employ such; the Garou of the Fenrir, after all, were a direct, no-nonsense bunch. Truth be told, there's little in the way of guile in Barrister, either. It wasn't his style. Still, living one's life straddling the line between Garou and human, one's bound to pick up some of the unwritten laws of humanity. Brute frankness is rarely considered a quality amongst the mundane.

His ringed hand closes into a loose fist. After a moment, he lowers it to his side, and the leash-loop drops from his wrist into his waiting palm.

"I'm free for lunch on Thursdays and most weekends. Not this Thursday of course; Thanksgiving. But give me your number, and we'll grab a bite sometime."

[Nadia Bashir] She listened, her head tilting slightly to one side. Animated with expressions, he would see the raise and fall of her brows, the consideration, the sympathy, perhaps. But all in all, it remained a polite and pleasant expression. Nodding to his words, an inclination of her head more so, she had given the briefest of smiles at his fond words. "I am sorry for the loss." She says, appropriately, and leaves it at that. They were strangers and she did not broach the topic further.

Drawing her hand from her pocket, she shifted her jacket to slide her hand inside her pant pocket instead. She looked away from him, down to the wallet she had removed, and began to open it. From within she removed a card, white with black text. A crisp business card was handed over, offered from between her fingertips of manicured nails, though it failed to mention any business company, or the woman's title.

Nadia Bashir
Contact: 555-555-555
Emergency contact: 434-434-434

"Please take it and call me should you like a lunch." Dinner was far more formal, perhaps a little too personal for this particular arrangement. The lunch would do, and he had walked himself into the situation by suggesting the Deli in the first place.

[John Barrister] Another man might brush off the condolences. John: he gives her a heartfelt smile. "Thank you," he says, meaning it. It's not the thank-you of a man who truly believed a perfect stranger could be truly sorry for his loss. He's not naive. He's thanking her for something else entirely -- for being polite enough to offer condolences. That meant something, in and of itself.

The Garou often considered petty politenesses a deception. Barrister considers them courtesy, and Barrister believes fervently in courtesy.

He takes her card. "I didn't bring mine with me," he says apologetically, "but I'll call you tomorrow, so you'll have my number. Pencil me in for next Thursday, ok?" Bruin has long since lost interest: he's reclining on the ground, nodding off despite the cold. Barrister brings the hound back to his feet with a gentle twitch of the leash, a soft whistle. "It was nice meeting you, Nadia."

[John Barrister] (too many truly's. delete that first one. *LOL*)

[Nadia Bashir] Giving a small shake of her head, at his mention of lack of card, it was a dismissive motion. "Worry not. I will know if you are interested should you call, and should you not, it will speak for itself." She had said, smiling towards the end, just with a tinge of a smirk at the tips. It was true, she was blatant about it. People were rude, quite often. If its black, call it black.

"Enjoy the rest of the evening." She had said, already returning her wallet towards her pocket without looking. In fact, she gave a glance to the dog as it moved. "And worry not of others. I do not believe many are out, and if they are, I doubt them vulnerable of your little bear."

[John Barrister] Barrister laughs a little, as much out of humor as out of appreciation for the odd music of her speech and syntax. Desert-born, to be sure, though her accent was slight and her grammar perfect.

"You have a good one too, Nadia. C'mon, Bruin."

The first few steps are slow, a jog. Soon thereafter his stride lengthens. Bruin goes from a trot to a canter, mouth dropping open, big pink tongue lolling out. Man and dog run down the path, past the lamps which attract insects in summer, but are now bare as the trees with the encroaching winter. Soon enough, they're gone behind a copse of trees, leaving the Shadow Lord to her own thoughts.

[Nadia Bashir] "Good night." She had said, and stood there to watch them depart. When they had reached their stride, and Bruin is canter, her heels clipped the pavement in the same direction that they were heading. They would be long gone by the time she would get to her destination. Her stroll was slow and leisurely, hands in pockets. Occasionally her head would tilt, catch a scent, or seek a particular smell, but for the most part she mined her own business.