John Barrister

[John Barrister] In the Woods, there are numerous small ponds and lakes. At the edge of one of the largest is an old boathouse and a pier. There are no boats on the pier, but there is one John Barrister, a tacklebox at his side, a pole out over the water, a beer on his other side. It's edging into spring in the Great Lakes area at last. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, the buttons undone; the sun beats warm on his broad back. Near the tacklebox are his shoes and socks, and his pants legs are similarly pulled up to the knee, his bare feet dangling over the water. Crescents of light ripple off the water and back onto the bottom of the pier, the soles of his feet, his suntanned face.

Somewhere in the distance, a dog barks.

[princessa] In the Woods, there are numerous pools of shadow, numerous shady dales and sun-dappled glens. At the edge of the smallest is a log, rotten and attended by mosquitoes at night and gnats during the day. The log arches out of the shady dale, the sun-dappled glen, and arches out onto marshy ground, where it disappears into the shallows of the lake. There are no animals on the log, but there is one Princess Wolf. Shut up about the name. You never heard it mentioned. Didn't. Ever.

Wasn't there a second ago. Emerges, blinking in the sunlight like a mole, and squinting in the direction of the old boathouse. The pier.

[John Barrister] There's a calm in fishing. Only a patient man could beat back the boredom and find it. It's there in the lazy humming of summer insects (which, admittedly, have not yet fully awoken from the frost). It's there in the whizzz of your line casting out, and the soft slap of water against the shore, bearing the floater inexorably back. It's there in the white clouds coasting overhead and across the surface of the water. It's there in the lightheadedness you develop after having two beers in the warm afternoon sun.

He isn't aware of Princess until the floater comes all the way back in and it's time to recast his line. He reels 'er in, straightening his back to whip the line out again -- when he sees the girl. A strange sight indeed, out here in the middle of nowhere. Princess can tell the exact second she's spotted, but the fisherman's motion continues unabated right through it. Whizzz.... plop. The line is cast again, and he calls out to her, friendly strangers on a warm spring day, "Hey there."

[princessa] Her sudden emergence into direct sunlight gives her pause. Her eyes squinch together: take the shape of half-moons, waning. Or the shape of the eyeholes in a Japanese mask. But she has already plucked the fisherman's shape, distinct from the lake and the wood, and honed in on the beer at his side, and the sunlight glints on the fishing line for an instant. Her left eye squinches further shut, before her expression clears.

She'd slipped into a crouch on the rotted wood, careful to distribute her weight more or less evenly, but now she - cautious - stands, shielding her eyes and lifting one hand in greeting. "Hey there," she says. "You want some company?"

[John Barrister] Barrister is brown, from head to foot. As much of him that Princess can see, anyway. It's not the sort of tan one gets from a tanning studio. It's lighter on the undersides of his arms, his chin; his forearms are several shades darker than his calves. Still -- it's not the sort of tan one gets from sitting around Chicago in the wintertime, either.

The girl nears. He squints up through the sun at her. Barrister is a big man; thick through the shoulders and the chest, with big paws and big bony feet. There's an ample crop of dark hair on what exposed skin she can see. His forearms are furry; his chest, his calves. His jaw is shaven, but halfway through the day and the bristles are pushing their way out. Sitting there hunkered, he resembles an evolved bear, fishing for salmon rather than gaping his jaws for 'em. Still, there's good blood in him. Good breeding, as the Garou say -- as if he were a prize bull, or sheep. It's evident in the length of bone, the solidity of jaw and knuckle.

"Sure." He clears the tacklebox to the other side, making room at the end of the pier. "Watch the edge. Splinters." He eyes the girl for a moment; young enough to be his daughter, if he'd been a very young father. His brow is lined, crowsfeet appearing at the corners of his eyes when he squints like that. A weatherworn mid-30s, thereabouts. "You're not old enough to drink, are you?"

[princessa] Princess splashes through the marshy shore, through the still shallows, and then she's walking on up behind John Barrister, taking his measure, reading the hints of lineage in the line of his shoulders, the shape of his jaw. "Don't worry. My feet are as tough as a drumskin." Then she crouches down next to John, and offers him a brief smile. "Sure I am."

[John Barrister] "Really." Barrister is unconvinced, but goodhumored about it. "Let's see some I.D.," but he's passing over a beer out of his tacklebox, nonetheless.

The bobber has floated its way back to shore. "Careful," he admonishes, reeling it back in. His arm makes a surprisingly graceful arc in the air, the momentum channeling through the wrist to send the hook and sinker plopping back into the middle of the small lake. He reels in the slack and wedges the line between two slats, offering his right hand to Princess. There's a gold ring on the fourth finger. "I'm John."

[princessa] Princess looks young today. Fifteen, maybe. But she could also go the other way. If she wanted to. The fianna's riding-hood-red hair is lazily twisted up into a bun with loosened tendrils stuck back behind her ears, and she's in a pair of just too large cargos, which she clipped up to her knees at some point, just beneath the lowest pockets.

Those pockets are full, too, bulging with something: rocks, maybe. John's got that something that says: get of Fenris. Princess's got that something, too, but it says stag, and passion, and cool distant isles, and proud, distant nation, raided by Rome, raided by the fuckin' Vikings, touched by them both but ultimately resistant. What's that they say? Blood will tell?

"You want it, I'll provide it," she says, opening the beer can with a kssht. Then, she reaches over to take his hand, give it a grip and a shake. "I'm Pr--eh. Most call me Thaney, like the song."

[John Barrister] "Preh?" John Barrister gives her a quirky half-smile, a little sly. "Like Priscilla? Precious?" He lets her hand go. "Nice to meet you, Thaney."

The fishing pole is plucked up again. He lifts his beer to his mouth. The shading of beard-bristle goes all the way down his neck, past the adam's apple. In the olden days he would've had a wild beard and wild hair, and wild eyes to go with it while he leapt down from a longship and raided, say, the shores of Stag's isles. In modern days, he's reasonably groomed, with short hair showing only slight signs of want for a cut, and evenly cut nails. Thirty-odd years leaves a mark on a man, though, and he's not without his scars. There's a thin pale one across his shin; a crinkled one on the slice of stomach his unbuttoned shirt reveals.

[princessa] She laughs, low and easy; fire, banking low. "You'll never guess, man. Although - Precious. Hunh." Her daddy could have done worse; go figure. Precious Wolf would have sucked in ways Princess Wolf - well. They both suck, really. "Been here long?"

[John Barrister] "Couple hours." Barrister has a slow, easy way of talking. No rage to speak of there, despite the look of a man that fought with his fists and worked with his hands. Long silences elapse comfortably between sentences. "There's a fish in the icebox back there, so it hasn't all been for nought." He thumbs toward the other end of the pier. "It's why the beer's out here," he adds by way of explanation. "Didn't want to get a stink on them."

[princessa] "Meant the greater area of Chicago, actually. But good to know." Now she takes a sip of the beer. Not a gulp. Not a swig. Just a sip, giving her tongue a taste, before she swallows. "Just one, eh? Hope you've got your fishing license on you." Sober. So sober, indeed, that one might expect there was an ulterior motive behind the remark.

[John Barrister] Barrister shoots her what would be shit-eating grin if he weren't shutting one eye against the glare of the sun and digging his wallet out of his back pocket with the opposite hand. He tosses it down on the pier with a weighty thump. It's battered brown leather, stuffed to the gills with insurance cards, credit cards, bank cards, loose change, cash, notes, receipts, a picture or two of some smiling blonde woman, his driver's license, and, yes, a fish&game permit. The picture on the driver's license looks at least ten years old. A younger version of John Barrister stares solemnly at the camera. There's a steely intensity to young J.B.'s eyes that seems lacking in the current model.

John Thomas Barrister, his various pieces of identifying documentation read. If she's the nosy type, she can infer his age (36), birthday (july 16th), height (6'4"), weight (220), hair color (brown), eye color (blue, it reads, but if it's blue it's a shade of blue dark as the open ocean), that he wears contacts, and that he's male. The driver's license is out of Arizona. It puts his home address in Phoenix.

"About a week," he replies while she sifts through his wallet, or doesn't. "But I used to live here. So I guess I'm coming back more than I'm moving in."

[princessa] She is the nosy type. But she's the nosy type in a quiet, matter-of-fact way; it usually flies below the radar. She doesn't make a big deal out of anything. Where's the fire? Where's the sense of drama? Many have asked; few have been answered. She cocks her head, then slides the wallet back. "Do you know where your kin are at?" He'll either take it the way she means for him to take it or assume she's assuming he's a backwater hick. Either way.

[John Barrister] The word makes him blink once, slowly, owlishly. Then he turns to look at her. There's a tension in him that wasn't there before; a sense of a wall having silently risen. "My kin?" he repeats, chewing on the words, then swilling it down with a mouthful of beer. And carefully, "My tribe?"

[princessa] "Yeah. That's what I mean," she says, in confirmation; there's now a faint frown, which she conceals behind the beer can; mulling it over, breathing it in.

[John Barrister] He regrets this development; she might read that on his face. It had been easier before he knew. He frowns across the rippling water and reels his hook in. Casts it out.

"No, I don't. But they'll find me if they need me." He gives her a wry sort of smile. "Coincidences seem to happen a lot around you people."

[princessa] "You've no idea," she says, wry and rue, re-settling her weight when a cramp starts in her calves. He regrets the development, and Princess is perceptive when it comes to people, and their moods; well, she regrets his regret. But just like her nosiness, it isn't an obvious thing, by any means of the word.

[John Barrister] The silence ripples on for a while. He drains his beer down to the dregs and sets the emptied bottle back in the tacklebox. A little longer the quiet. Then, "Do you know where to find the Get?"

[princessa] Princess doesn't try to break the silence. The man was fishing, anyway. Maybe he'd give her his second fish, if she asked nice enough, and offered to cook him his first. When he breaks it, she responds simply enough: "Yeah."

[John Barrister] "Hn." It's a sound low in his chest, a basso rumble that doesn't quite make it past his voicebox. He ruminates on this for a moment. In the end nothing comes of it, except a rather tangential question. "So, what are you?"

[princessa] "Hm. Pretty?" Yep; she said it, just as if she didn't know what he was really asking, for a moment. Let him chew on that: think it's her real answer. Then: "Fianna."

[John Barrister] This earns her a dirty-ish look. "Too young," he replies. And, with her real answer: "Well, I might've guessed from the hair."

[princessa] "To be pretty? That's cold." Then she chuckles, still low; still a banked flame. "Yeah. We're big copycats. Isn't my original color."

[John Barrister] "Yeah. You can only qualify for 'cute' until you're eighteen." He shrugs apologetically, grinning a little. "What are you, then -- a blonde?"

[princessa] She huffs and (puffs and) gives a small shake of her head. "Let it remain a mystery." Then: "You wanna know?" Clear, from her tone, she's not talking about her natural hair color.

[John Barrister] "About what -- " and then he figures it out, or thinks he has. "My tribe?" He thinks about it some. "Nah. They'll find me. Unless you're on your honor to tell me."

[princessa] She thinks about that. "No. But should I be letting them know there's somebody to find?"

[John Barrister] "If you want." There's a pause; then he adds by way of explanation, "I'm not hiding from them. I'm not looking for them, either. Nothing much to offer them at the moment, is all."

[princessa] "You've got fish," she points out. "Unless that fish gets eaten up. Maybe with somebody else. Who can cook fish pretty well over an open fire."

[John Barrister] He laughs at that; can't help it. Barrister has an easy laugh to go along with his easy silences. "I was going to pan-sear it at home with some cajun spices. Toss a salad to go with it. If you want a share of it, you're welcome to it. I wouldn't have offered if you weren't Garou," his smile lessens a little, "but you are."

[princessa] In response to that, the fianna girl maintains a silence; she takes another sip of beer. Her gaze turns upward, even though it's daylight, and there's not a chance of glimpsing her moon hanging there, fading into gibbous: the madman's moon. Bringing with it more rage. Then, "Okay. But I wasn't angling for the invite because you're kin. Doesn't really matter to me. You get that?"

[John Barrister] "Oh," Barrister is a little embarrassed, "I didn't mean it that way. I just meant," he reels it in, casts it out; fluidly, instinctively, "well. I didn't want you to think I was some sort of pedophilic serial killer. I wouldn't invite random adolescent girls home for fish. But if you're Garou, you're safe enough from me. So," he wedges the pole between the planks again, "the invitation is open."

[princessa] "I'm not twelve," she says, placid. "And you don't look that old. What are you, thirty two?" Princess sets the beer down, careful not to overturn it; then she hooks her arms around her knees, and says, "Well, anyway, I'll take you up on that invitation. I never turn down food."

[John Barrister] "Thirty-six," he replies, blandly. He gathers up his overstuffed wallet, folds it with some difficulty, and shoves it into his pants. With remarkable agility for his advanced age, John vaults to his feet with a solid thump that makes the pier creak worryingly. Plucking the pole up, he starts reeling the line in. "And I'm giving up for the day. Do you live out here, or in the city?"

[princessa] She laughs at him, suddenly; wind, combing through that banking fire, raking up sparks. It's still a quiet laugh, controlled: but infectious. Then, tilts her head at him; picks the beer up and straighten with much less aplomb. "Depends, really. There's a site I camp at. And a place in the city I stay the rest. You?"

[princessa] (( Hmm. Should have read: "There's a site I camp at sometimes." ))

[John Barrister] "The city, of course." The hook and sinker lift out of the water, the bobber a festive red and white globe above it. He wheels it almost all the way in, reaching out to snag the line carefully between his fingers. Barrister leans the pole against his solid shoulder while he carefully unknots the string and slips loose the hook, sinker and bobber. For all that his fingers are square-tipped, his palm nearly as big and wide as a ping pong paddle, he has a surprisingly deft touch. "I just come out here to fish."

He breaks the fishing pole down summarily after that, empties the remaining two beers out of the tackle box, and replaces them with fishing paraphenalia. "Okay," he says, when that's accomplished and the box is closed and latched. "I'm ready. Let's go. Hold this for me?" -- and he passes her the pole in three pieces.

[princessa] "Hmf," she says, although over what particular remark: a mystery, like her true hair-color. She hastily downs the last of the beer and tosses the can into the tackle box before it's been all shut. Then she takes the pieces of fishing pole. "After you, John."