John Barrister

[Marissa Taylor] "Hey, Allard. Found this on sale in the used section of IU's bookstore - holy crap, textbooks are expensive even on sale and used and all marked up - and it was interesting, so I got it. It's about divination and the forms its taken throughout history and the way people react to it, or at least this section is."

Marissa is awkward, geeky, and a little shy in most circumstances, with most people, but seeing her interact with Henry, no one would ever think so. She speaks to him like she would a good friend, or even an older brother, but for the part where she ignores that concern (he has more important things to worry about, after all, and she's a tough girl who can handle her own problems) as surely as Henry'd ignored Danny's knowing look.

"More generically, it's about mysticism. Hi, Danny, right?"

It's not so much that Marissa's state has gotten worse as that when she and Henry met, and in much of the intervening time? She was better than usual.

[Henry Allard] At Danny's arrival, Henry turns, bumps Marissa with his hip to get her to move over, and slides in next to her. It's a respectful distance that he keeps, given the fact that he smells like fresh sweat and is still quite damp, shirt soggy with it, hair spiked.

That Marissa is reading a book about mysticism does not surprise him one teeny weeny bit.

Henry examines what's left on her plate while the two girls talk. He isn't examining it out of interest--rather, he's trying to judge how much food the girl's had. She's not holding onto her weight any better than Henry is. Hence, his concern.

[Danny Jones] She nods, slightly. "Yeah. Hi 'Rissa." It's said between mouthfuls. hurt or not, her appetite has not suffered, for all she denied herself all day. Now it's recharge time, and she eats like it's going out of style, like it might disappear if she doesn't hurry, as if someone might steal it away from her.

It's a family trademark, practically. She hooks an arm around the plate (...onguard) and digs in. And while the other two skinnies are losing weight, one has to wonder where the hell the Gnawer puts it all if she eats this way often... there's not scrap of extra flesh on her.

[Marissa Taylor] Of course Marissa scooted and sweat or no sweat, she'd let her head rest briefly on the older, taller kin's bicep (he dwarfs the girl, after all) affectionately. And if he's trying to guess how much he's eaten based on her plate? A guess would be about three bites, and other than that she's toyed with the bit of food she'd taken. Peas float in her mashed potatoes and gravy, bread crust forms a bridge over that particular canyon, and so forth.

"Good to see you - heard some things have changed."

Again, she glances over Danny, assessing her much like Henry assesses Marissa's plate.

"If you need some help with that, " she means the injuries, "I can hook you up."

[mothra] (eats godzilla!)

[godzilla] (*wrecks the city and leaves the scene!*)

[Danny Jones] She glances up and studies Marissa, before she shakes her head. "Nah. I could fixit m'self if I wanted too. Need to remember. Force it in." a slight shrug, and a lift of her shoulder slightly, only to have it fall again. "penance or somethin like it."

A lopsided smirk, and she pushes her fingers through her hair, and then attacks plate one again. Oh! Crispy Chicken Strips!

[Marissa Taylor] "Okay."

Quiet then, though with company here, now, she closes her book and sets it aside - that's the polite thing to do, after all, when other people join one at a table. She doesn't question further, just accepts what she's been told (for now). There's scrambling, then, for something to say . . . but it's only a few seconds before the early twenty-something gives up. She can get up on stage and perform, little to no problem, but keeping a conversation afloat with someone she doesn't know (and sometimes even with someone she does know) is a completely different animal.

[Henry Allard] ((God I suck at multitasking *L* Posting Henry back in, give me a second.))

[Henry Allard] Henry sits still while the two talk, for what it's worth. That's the least amount of words he's ever heard come out of Marissa's mouth yet, yet he manages to keep himself from raising an eyebrow in question. That would be broadcasting what he's thinking, and the world does not need to know that Henry Allard is silently accusing someone else of being entirely too quiet. That would be the equivalent of a small lake calling a rain drop wet.

He silently pushes Marissa's plate back in front of her, moving the book out of the way.

"I'm going to start chanelling my mother if you don't eat something," he tells her, solemnly, before hitching himself standing and wandering over to the buffet line. There he warily glances at the spread before picking up a tray and moving down the line.

[Danny Jones] She looks up then, a little bit, and tips her head slightly studying Marissa. Then Henry. Then.. well. she offers - she knows what it's like to be the third wheel, all too well. She's about to offer to go sit somewhere's else, if they wanted to talk or something, when Henry chides marissa for not eating and pushes her plate in front of her. That gets a wry smirk from Danny. "yeah - ya gotta eat somethin else I look like th'fuckin pig I am."

Halfway through plate one, picking at the fries on plate two, even as she continues to shovel. She ain't call the other girl skinny, cuz well - raindrops/lake/wet - metaphor works here too.

[Skadi] It's a cool spring night. Full dark has fallen, and the air is rich with the scent of the lake. On a quiet sidestreet in lakeview, a series of small, single family homes stand apart from the larger highrises, the developments and redevelopments in constant motion. The wind that rises from the lake has a straight shot, here, except where it is interrupted by garden walls and garden fences and garden gates and.. gardens, like the overgrown shadow of a garden through which a tall, singular figure stalks a longlegged stalk, the sweating chiminage of a four-pack of just-purchased beer brushing both her thigh and the long, tender stalks of the climbing rose now sending out suckers and shoots and new-grown red-tipped leaves.

The gate closes behind her, and she's careful to latch it. The porchsteps sad and creak their protest against her weight. The doorbell rings - perhaps just at the moment the owner's hound catches the first visceral threads of scent from beyond it.

[Marissa Taylor] With boys, particularly ones she finds attractive, Marissa runs off at the mouth and hardly allows anyone else to get a word in edgewise - she gets nervous and she talks a mile a minute, and the topic jumps at a whim. She doesn't hang around with many girls that she hasn't known for nearly as long as she's been here, but likely when they'd first met, it had been a lot like this. Too much quiet, too few words, and Marissa toying with something instead of talking.

It takes her a while to warm up to people, and the last person she was as open with as she is with Henry was institutionalized not long after her first change. That was no coincidence.

"But I'm not hungry . . ."

She eyes the plate with distaste, then takes a bite of her mashed potato canyon anyway, then chews for a moment before sticking her tongue out at Danny and showing her the lump of white on her tongue. Sheer class, is Marissa . . . but then she chews and swallows.

"When I used to eat like that, I swear, I was three times your size. Girth, not height."

[J. Barrister] From the backyard comes a mournful baying the very instant the doorbell rings. There's a few beats of silence, and then a man's voice behind the door, the higher harmonic overtones lost to the wood, the deep fundamental frequencies vibrating through.

"Hush up Bruin. It's just the doorbell."

The door opens with a rattle and John's big frame fills up the aperture. He looks at Skadi, the expectant open expression of a door-answerer becoming the smile of a visitor-recognizer. "Hey, Skadi. Didn't expect you to drop by." He steps back and holds the door open for her. "Come in."

[Danny Jones] Her smirk is lopsided and not near as fulla mirth as it would have been just... 48 hours ago. Now its more wry, pained, and falls into a hiss as she shifts positions slightly, trying to ease the pressure on her hip that just a few hours ago was shattered against a fire escape. that she then pulled off the wall. And tried to hit one of her best friends with.

Yesterday was not a good day.

She does her own 'see food' back at Marissa, before she shrugs. "Ain't know where it all goes. Ain't never put on weight, ever. Work this off in a couple hours by breathin." disgustin, ain't it.

[Skadi] Skadi's standing at the door, frowing down through the shadows at the yard, or perhaps the shadows of the evening's clouds passing over the yard, the stick-black crawl of a neighbor's tree, until the sounds beyond the door change from approaching to opening. The click of the lock, then. The whisper of the peeling weatherstripping across the hardwood floor.

"It ain't a bad time, izzit?" she asks, returning his smile with a hook-curve grin of her own, holding up the four-pack of Guinness by way of apology.

[Marissa Taylor] "That was back when I was a kid, still. My mom used to make up weekly meal plans and stuff, but I'd sneak stuff at school, or take my allowance and buy chocolate and peanut butter and stuff like that. I was a little porker."

She makes a face, gives a snort as if to prove her point, and pushes her plate away again - one bite will have to be enough for Henry for now. She's not wasting away . . . yet . . . nearly as badly as he is. And he knows, even if Danny doesn't, that Marissa almost never mentions her family. Now, to the one who doesn't know better, it would sound as if the Coggiebash had lost them when she was younger; it happens in a lot of ways.

"So what happened to you anyway, and is the other guy still conscious?"

[Danny Jones] A smirk twists her lips again as she lifts that shoulder negligently again. "I happened. Fire escape ain't conscious no more. Or attached, neither." She doesn't go into it any farther, really, and her eyes flood with the sudden pain of remembering again why she went off the deep end, and how she hurt ewan in the process.

And how he beat her ass down while staying homid. Damn that fucker was strong - was so freakin embarrassing.

[J. Barrister] "Nope. I don't sleep for another hour or two, most nights." The corners of his eyes crinkle when he smiles. You'd know he were smiling even if all you saw were his eyes. He takes the four-pack from her and thumps into the kitchen to find a bottle opener. Two of the bottles go into the fridge. The other two he holds by the neck while he bangs through drawers. Most of them are empty. A few rattle with unknown knickknacks.

The house is quiet, and there's a certain quality to the quiet that says he lives alone. It's different, somehow, from the quiet of a house that two people inhabited, even if only one of them is home. The kitchen window is open, as is a window onto the side-yard in the living room. The sounds of the night drift through the house, borne on a cool breeze heavy with the scent of whatever half-wild flowers were blooming in his (wife's) garden.

"So," his broad back to her while he goes through his silverware drawers -- which, Skadi might notice, have gained in population since her last visit. "Have you come to push more blind dates on me?"

The living room is also marginally cleaner. The boxes are gone; furniture has appeared. A sofa, a lot of bookshelves, a rug, a coffee table, etcetera and etcetera. The door to the basement is ajar and a light comes up from below. In the air is the faint pungent scent of carpentry and woodworking.

[Henry Allard] It takes him a painfully long time to fill up a plate, and what goes on the plate is as far from buffet food as could possibly be reached. Henry has managed to put together a salad, of all things, the one food that can either scream I'm on a diet or grumble I'm not hungry. His has a lot of stuff in it, sprigs of broccoli and chick peas and onions, a great assortment of vegetables, with shredded cheese in lieu of dressing, but the odds of him finishing it are slim to none. This has been happening lately: he will sit down to eat, and his mind will wander. If he sits down to eat. With the weather growing warmer and the days growing longer, the city's call volume has increased. His days are a blur, a tiring, miserable blur.

Henry sits back down as Danny is describing her evening, and he pushes Marissa's plate back in front of her before thunking down his own and stabbing a trio of chickpeas with the tines of his fork.

He makes no remarks on what happened to the fire escape, although the expression on his face is all sympathy and no judgment. All he is doing is listening.

[Marissa Taylor] An eyebrow raises but there's no judgment here, either; fights with fire escapes aren't terribly uncommon in a world populated by beings made of Rage, after all. Whatever happened, surely Danny had her reasons - and hopefully no one had gotten hurt too badly in the process.

"Remind me to call you next time a neighborhood fire escape steps out of line. I bet the two of us could take it."

There's even a hint of a smile there, though it doesn't last long, and it doesn't reach her tired eyes.

[Skadi] "Naw." She follows him into the kitchen, her boots a pointed counterpoint to the large kinsman's softer step, poking a noisy glance at the thin cone of light defined by the basement door; at the living room, populated since her last visit, when the Rotagar offered to unpack his boxes for him. When he wasn't him. In the unnatural wash of the kitchen's fluorescent fixture, her skin takes on a stark near-pallor. It's spring; not summer. She hasn't begun to tan.

"Naw, I ain't," he bangs through the kitchen drawers. She levers herself up onto the counter, familiarly. What's that they say: make yourself at home, right? "Figger once ya see Moira, y'ain't gon' wanna see no one else. Ain't had tha chance ta talk ta her 'bout it yet, though. When I do, ya mind if I give her yer phone number, direct? Cain't remember if I asked 'bout that, afore."

[Henry Allard] ((::sings the Smokin' Mah Cigarettez song::))

[J. Barrister] "Moira, huh?" He repeats the name half-tastingly, half-amusedly. Something clatters in the drawer. The echoes are hollow: the cabinet below it, mostly empty. He turns around armed with a bottle opener and pops the two bottles, handing one to her. "Sure, give her my number." Barrister points his bottle at the living room. "Want to go sit in there? My furniture finally arrived."

[Danny Jones] She offers that (pained) smile again, and then it fades as she continues to devour the massive amount of food before her. Steadily, even breaths, barely a pause between forkfuls. She eyes the salad with suspicion as Henry digs in and snorts.

"Clearly, ain't neither of ya BeeGees. Shit. Rabbit food and no food. Mama'd be disgraced."

[Marissa Taylor] "Fine, fine, I'll eat."

And she does - she eats everything on her plate, even the soggy bread crust, though by the end of it all her stomach is rebelling and she's looking less than happy about what she's taken in. It's been . . . well, she can't really remember the last time she had more than a yogurt at a sitting, with that occasionally being all she's taken in in an entire day.

"And you're right, we're definitely not BeeGees."

[Skadi] "Fuckin' hell," she curses, beneath her breath, half-rising and levering herself off Barrister's counter, dropping heel-first onto her boots, onto his floor. "I wasn't gon' tell ya her name, 'gainst tha chance she said no. Yannow, give her her privacy an' shit. Kin ya pertend ya ain't heard it 'less she calls ya?" She graps the beer carelessly, casually, hooking her thumb and forefinger around the long neck, letting it drift down her body to graze her hip, then her thigh.

She turns sidelong, slips past him, around the shape of the fridge, and ambles ahead through the arch toward the living room. "I'm 'onna guess leather couches. That whatcha got?"

[Danny Jones] The smirk she shoots Henry that time is smug. Marissa ate. Guilted into it or not, she's gotta have fuel to keep on movin. Ain't no one eat like Danny does, mostly, but leastwise they get they's fuel too.

First plate is emptied, and all but licked clean and scooted aside as she starts in on the second one. Probably makin Marissa sick just watchin her shovel it away as if it's gonna up and walk without her stabbing at it quicklike.

[J. Barrister] "Oh." John grins, rubbing his stubbled jaw. Twice a day shaves haven't managed to keep him smooth-cheeked. One look at the dense fur on the back of his hand gives a good guess as to why. "I'll do my best to pretend I have no idea who she is, should she say no, and should we later meet." He takes a swig of his beer, following behind her. He's in socks and old soft-worn jeans, his button-up open and untucked on a white t-style undershirt: comfortable, at home, master of his small domain.

Lowering the Guinness, "Mmhm. With wood trim." Of course, by then, she's seen his furniture, not new but quality, well made, heavy, with a rustic sort of taste to it. Barrister knocks his knuckles on the dark wood trim, "Last you a hundred years. Fabric is cheaper in the short run, but when you've got a dog like Bruin it'll fray in a year. Sit," he waves her at the sofa while he sinks into his couch, which is mismatched against the rest, and quite possibly older.

[Henry Allard] Henry smiles at the small stab at their lineage, smiles and goes back to stabbing at his salad. Running four miles had perked up his appetite, and now that he's distracted from his distractions, his stomach is fervently praising Christ Himself for Henry's smart decision to put food into it.

Something makes him laugh, once, and he puts a hand up to his mouth in the event that anymore is forthcoming.

He clears his throat, swallows, then looks back across the table at the one demolished plate of food.

"And I thought Tristan ate a lot," is his volunteered explanation. Only after he says this does he realize that he's just more or less confirmed whatever suspicions were brewing in Danny's brain, and he almost face palms at his own transgression.

Instead he keeps on eating.

[Marissa Taylor] She finds herself being very careful not to gag on the too much that she's just eaten entirely too quickly, and then she's nudging Henry, and giving Danny a smile as she gathers her book and pager.

"Lemme out, Henry, I have to call Ryan."

Bernie, the paramedics and drivers call him . . . and have for ages. Still, Marissa calls him Ryan (at his request, no less), and likely he gets razzed for it when she's not around.

"And I've got other shit to do tonight, too. See you back home, baby?"

[Skadi] "Looked when I come in," the girl admits as she sinks into the far corner of the sofa, one leg tucked under her body. Until, of course, she sits down hard on the heel of her boot, grimaces and rearranges herself into the sort of lounge one associates with straight men on game day. Her jacket - a western style blazer, the third coat of the winter - spreads a chocolate suede frame for the pale, lean line of her ribbed t-shirt, the old jeans, bootcut maybe, held up at the hips by a cinched leather belt that could easily be handmade.

She's grinning, if he catches her profile at just the right point of contact; and it's a sly expression, her head turned away, like she's surveying the room, the blue eyes cutting toward him like that was some kinda great joke, har-de-har-har, though she doesn't laugh aloud, naw. Just grins a half-grin that rises and then settles, somehow, on her face, the way earth does, after its been turned. Compacting. "My daddy had leather couches. An' a gator head over tha fireplace. Momma wanted 'em with pink flowers an' shit, never got 'em neither. So she put up flowers on tha wall'a his trophy room. S'weird, too. S'sorta why I come."

[Marissa Taylor] ((Bed time for tired, going on sick CCs!))

[Danny Jones] "I knew it." That's the statement that comes with a smirk. She just nods though, with a wink. "I could out eat him any day. Even if he's got hollow legs. An ain't no big thang. I aint one them weirdo freak out folks. Ya happy, then be happy."

A pause, as she chases around her last bite. "Lord knows we ain't all so fuckin lucky."

Speakin of, there's another stop she's gotta make tonight. business an' shit, that's gonna put her right back in the thick of all the shit that fucked her up last night. Again.

She belches, and then. "Hate to eat'n'run? but I gots somewhere to be - an' if I timed it right, ain't no one home." a pause, and. "Thanks for dinner, Henry. Later riss"

and she heads toward the door, slow and sure, teeth gritted agianst the pain.

[J. Barrister] "I figured as much," he replies to her admission, his own smile turning a little sly. "But far be it from me to discourage your budding ESP."

Then, only slightly nonplussed, he takes a moment to sip his beer before answering, "To put flowers up on my wall?"

[Skadi] "Naw." She tips her head back, then, loose blonde hair spreading over the mellow bulge of the overstuffed leather, carefully considering the junction of wall and ceiling as if measuring it for an assault with floral wallpaper. "Figger, if ya want flowers on yer walls, I'll letcha put 'em there yerself. Or - " a darting-straight look, her mouth contained, now, mobile at the corners, but quite flat. " - well, hell. Betcha Moira'll do that, y'all git tagether. Smells like a flower train exploded all over her. I meant my folks is why I come. Ya mind doin' me a favor?"

[J. Barrister] Smells like a flower train exploded all over her, she says, which causes Barrister to slant her a skeptical sort of smirk. But he grows serious as she asks a favor. "Not at all. What do you need?"

[Skadi] "Me an' tha Rotagar is goin' on a big strike this Sunday." Then concrete, grounded, whatever; her smirk has drained away, slipped nearly off her face, leaving a peculiar solemnity, broken only by the bright color of her eyes, alert, just narrowed - watchful. Or cautious: something like that. Measuring. The creature shifts from hip to hip, not to settle into the embrace of the sofa, but to sit forward, to brace her hands on her thighs, one flat, the other balancing her beer. "Spirit side. Some others is goin, but most'a them ain't Fenrir, an' none'a them's pack. Figger if I go, Kemp'll make sure my folks hear tha word tha way they oughtta be told, but me'an him are front lines. I go, maybe he does, too. Want'a back-up plan. I give them at tha Caern yer number, an' it goes down like that, I wanna know if you'll give 'em tha call."

[J. Barrister] A few beats of silence follow that. Barrister's eyes are narrowed, though not out of anger. He regards the young woman before him -- the Modi before him. A few things come to mind: don't be silly. you'll be fine, and why me? chief amongst them. The former is not a guaranteed truth. The latter is not something he'll ask.

So instead, John considers her request quietly and carefully, and he takes his time about it. Imagines what it would be like if he had to make the call. The call. Not that he hasn't before -- for some young man or woman caught up in dreams of something grander, who didn't really know what it meant to die for one's faith until it was too late -- but those were not Garou, and Garou were different.

Garou are no different.

"Sure," he says, quietly, more lightly than the situation required. "I'll call them and let them know."

[Skadi] "Thanks, man." - she says, just on the heels of his acquiescence, and just as lightly. And she's already standing, already on her feet, the beer held casually against her body, against the supple curve of her thigh, just above the worn-white knee, because how do you keep sitting, sprawling, smirking - talking to a stranger, when you're death's there, in the middle of the room. The modi lifts her beer to her mouth; she drains it all at a go, her throat working furiously to swallow it all as she drinks, and then she turns and sets the bottle aside. Sets it carefully on his mantle, just behind a framed photograph, perhaps, or a clock, ever-what he keeps on his mantle. "Preciate it."

Her grin is tight, brilliantly backlit by the color of her eyes, the slow-furnace-burn of her rage. She is already in motion; crossing one hand tucked awkwardly into her back pocket, the other swinging free, across his living room before he has time to rouse himself from his old couch, to pick up the thread of her motion through the room, the a backtrail bright, buring. "Might be best if'ya stay outta Chinatown, this Sunday, too - " she offers, pausing at the threshold to the room, looking back over her shoulder, before she disappears into the foyer. " - kin see myself out."

And the, out the door, leaving him to his home, returning it to the pleasant silence it has developed, and in which he lives.

(missed some posts: JB runs across thaney and kendra in a park.)

[Garret Pembroke] "Alright. Take care Chris." He flips the phone shut and shoves it into his pocket as he nears the motel across the street. Keys jingle softly as he pulls them from his pocket. His pace quickens, and his breathing comes in short blasts. Don't lose it Garret. Don't you fucking lose it. He fights to get the key into the lock on the motel room door, his jaw tight as he grits his teeth.

Another jolt of lightning and a blast of thunder sound, and he flinches where he stands. With a shakey breath he takes a moment and slides the key into the lock and turns. She'll know if you have an attack. And she'll know why too... so don't you fucking lose it. The door slams behind him, and he shuts out the night.

[Thaney] "Do you mind, J.B.? I know -- well, I think I know -- that it's a little bit out of your way." Kendra nudges Thaney in the ribs, and needless to say the cant of the gray eyed girl's head is inquisitive. "Don't want your puppy to go insane."

[J.B.] "Actually, my truck's -- " at home, he was going to say, but then there'd be more back and forth about who was going to get a ride and who wasn't. "Well, wait here," he says instead. His own damn fault for offering, anyway. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

With some effort, he pulls the overaffectionate Bruin off Kendra and urges the big, floppy-jowled hound into a trot. Man and dog jog off together, disappearing around the bend surprisingly quickly. Meanwhile, it's begun to rain in earnest.

[Kendra Peterman] The rain started to pour, and Kendra watched the older man who had about as much body hair as she had when she was slipping between Glabro and Crinos jog away with his dog. She put her hands on her hips as she watched them. She really liked that dog. But then, she really liked almost every big dog she encountered. Especially the floppy, drooly ones that could tear a man to bits if he put his mind to it. Her childhood dog was a Rottweiler-St. Bernard mix, after all.

Her hair and head grew wet, the shoulders to her sweatshirt, her bared upper chest grew slick with water, but she didn't care. It wasn't that cold out. She just watched the man leave, and said nothing. Waited for Thaney to grow curious and ask her what she wanted to talk about. Answering a question was easier than starting a conversation on your own, after all.

[J.B.] A few minutes turns out to be nearly twenty, in which time, unless they sought shelter, Kendra and Princess end up thoroughly drenched. It may be some consolation that when John reappears -- Bruin back in his backyard doghouse -- he's just as drenched, his hair plastered to his skull, his coat, which had for a while exhibited that semi-water resistance that's a trademark of all good wool coats, now sodden.

He does, however, now have an umbrella. This he offers the girls. Old habits die hard, and despite their ability to transform into towering beasts of doom, his folks instilled in him some rudiment of chivalry.

"Sorry it took so long," he apologizes. "It was a bit of a jog back and forth. I'm parked just around the corner here."

[Kendra Peterman] Kendra and Princess had withstood the downpour for a while, but sought out cover, not because they were cold, but because they were tired of blinking rainwater out of their eyes, tired of talking over the drum of raindrops on their skulls while they had their conversation. So John would find them under a small covered section of picnic tables not too far off from where the fountain was, within sight of it at least, and easy to find since everyone else had vaccated the park.

John showed up offering the umbrella, and the Fianna Girls accepted with a grin and a nod. Princess was quiet, pensive, thinking hard about whatever Kendra and she had talked about in John's absence. Kendra, however, was smiling a little too brightly, perhaps to make up for Princess's solemn silence, and just as chatty as ever. Much more cheerful than the first night she and John had met.

"Don' apologize, fella. We's thankful yer offerin' th'ride at all. I mean, shit, I could'a jus' walked home 'long with you 'n Bruin, now that I think of it." She shrugged her shoulders, one hand in her soaking wet sweater pocket, the other hand holding the umbrella over her and Princess's heads as they walked next to John. "Ah well."

[J.B.] For that, John only has silence and a wry glance to give. Both of them knew full well that asking for a ride had been a way to extend her time with Princess -- in order to talk about whatever it was teenaged Garou talked about on a rainy night. Really, all they had to do was ask and Barrister would've left them to their own conversation, but they didn't know that. To point it now seemed a little too combatative. Given the circumstances of his previous (and first) meeting with Kendra, Barrister figured he might as well let the engines cool a bit.

So he says nothing of it. He puts his hands in his pockets and slogs on. In the lamplight, his face is wet, his cheeks rough and the rest of it slick. There are streaks of water running steadily down his neck, but he doesn't mind. Despite his earlier wish to get in out of the rain, there's a certain point after which a man didn't care anymore. He bears the weather without complaint, and without much care.

His truck, as it turns out, is a behemoth of a late-model chevy. There are some tools littered in the back: a closed toolchest, a dolly for moving heavy things, what looked like a rusty pair of garden shears. The interior of the cab, however, is well-appointed and large, all beige leather and glowing GPS consoles. Princess goes into the back of the king cab and Kendra draws shotgun seat. John gets in behind the wheel and shuts the door, peeling his wet coat off and ("Do you mind? Thanks.") putting it in the back, on the floor. The windows begin to steam up immediately.

"I'm going to drop Thaney off first if you don't mind, Kendra," he says, putting the truck in gear and backing out of the Symphony Hall's loading dock, which is where he'd parked, emergency blinkers blinking, for the moment.

[Kendra Peterman] "'Course I don' mind," came the answer. Kendra held open the door, held her seat forward while Thaney climbed into the back, then folded it back into place and hefted herself up into the cab of the truck, closing the heavy door behind her. Thaney sat behind Kendra's seat, head turned to glance out the window. John mentioned he would be dropping her off first, and Thaney responded by nodding her head in agreement, then turning her attention back out to the rain-spattered world beyond the window.

As she buckled herself in, Kendra continued in a low, almost murmered sort of voice. "Don' make much sense fer ya t'go t'yer home neighborhood jus' t'go out 'n come back again', does it..."

And for the most part after that, Kendra was fairly quiet, peering curiously out all windows available-- the windshield, her window, and John's driver side window as well. Perhaps five minutes into the drive and Thaney was already asleep with her head rested against the window.

[J.B.] John gives a low, humorless sort of laugh as he swings the big truck around and points it toward the main road. Everything about him was big, gruff: the truck, the hands, the stature, the voice. His fine wool coat stripped off, he's in a button-up shirt, the collar of which he immediately undoes, followed by the cuffs. Rolling it up to the elbows, he gives Kendra another eyeful of the abundant crop of dark hair on his forearms, his wrists, the backs of his hands. Barrister seems to try to keep himself clean-shaven, but it's a lost cause. He has a five o'clock shadow by noon, and now, at 2am, he has more shadows than a Modigliani painting.

"Well, I did offer to take the two of you home. I would've told you to walk, but since I was coming back for Thaney anyway," and the big shoulders shrug. He fills up the truck's cab with his height, his breadth, his depth. A smaller car wouldn't even accommodate him.

[Kendra Peterman] Kendra came in sets of extremes. When she was tense, she was tense, and it would show. She would twiddle her thumbs, fidgit endlessly, refuse to hold still, snap and growl at people. When she was happy she was smiling from ear-to-ear, laughing and joking, hugging and shoving and playing around. And when she was relaxed, as she was now, she was relaxed. She had slipped her feet out of her shoes (don't worry, they don't stink bad), and slouched enough in her seat to put her feet up on the truck's dashboard, flashing her red-and-white striped socks in front of the windshield.

They reminded her of Where's Waldo?. She liked them.

Her answer to John was a chuckle and a shake of her head, a glance toward him before she looked back out her window at the sights flying by them. "Polite 'n carin' of ya, there..." She straightened up a little, peering into the side-view mirror to see Thaney asleep behind her. At that sight, a soft and affectionate smile grew, small on her lips but big and glowing everywhere else on her face, particularly in the eyes.

[J.B.] "Yeah, I suppose it was."

There's a hint of defensiveness there. Kendra was relaxed. But John remembered their last meeting well, and relaxation can be misinterpreted. A hell of a lot could be misinterpreted between them. He looks over his shoulder, unconsciously mirroring Kendra's glance. Princess was asleep, or at least giving a very good pretense thereof. Barrister steers the car onto the freeway for the long drive to the woods and sets the cruise control. Traffic is light at this hour. Rain washes over the windshield, swept aside by metronome-regular beats of the wipers. John Barrister rubs the bridge of his nose with a thumb, two fingers.

"Listen," he says, quietly so as not to wake the sleeping Philodox, "I get the feeling you don't trust me, and didn't trust me from the get-go. Should I bother to ask why?"

[Kendra Peterman] With the same sort of unintention that John had practiced in glancing to Thaney when Kendra had, Kendra now scratched at the underside of her forearm while John rubbed the bridge of his nose, relieving herself of an itch while he... well, she really didn't know why people rubbed the bridges of their noses. Perhaps to relieve sinus pressure. That was her best guess.

However, the man spoke of trust, and he got no huge reaction from the Galliard. She just glanced over to him, studied his side profile for a moment or two, then shrugged and straightened up a bit, pressing her knees to the dashboard now rather than resting her feet on it. Her arms rested between her stomach and her thighs as she leaned forward, and she looked out the windshield, watching the road for stray deer to alert John of in case they decided to pick an inoppertune time to try crossing the freeway.

"...When we first me..? I'unno, really. I think wha' really threw me off was th'way y'kinda narrowed yer eyes 'n sounded suspicious 'n... kinda.... I'unno, hateful's th'wrong word, but displeased wi'h figurin' out tha' I'm Garou. Set me on edge, made me feel kinda like yeh had a vendetta 'gainst Garou kind fer some reason or another. Was jus' mostly cautious. But, y'know, y'obviously don't, so...." She shrugged again, and glanced over to him with a soft, polite grin. "I don' distrust ya now, though. No reason to, y'ain' done nothin' wrong, made no threats t'me or m'family."

[Kendra Peterman] (( "When we first met", not 'me'. ...Dunno where that 't' ran off to. ))

[J.B.] John had been tensing up subtly for some major confrontation. He didn't know what to expect, at any rate. It's been said and said again: he doesn't know what to expect; she doesn't know what to expect; they don't know each other. And Kendra's right on one thing. Caution was the par for the course in their world.

Still, her reply sets him off guard. The reason for his tension is gone. The tension itself, however, doesn't obey such easy rules as that. It simply becomes aimless, making him grimace. He was sorry to put her on the spot now, and sorry that he'd put himself on the spot as well.

"Well," he says, gruffly, "my manners were a little lacking that night. It's a pain in the ass, moving and all. Adjusting to a new life." He realizes he's making excuses and, simultaneously, who he was making these excuses to. This time the laugh, though short, had more humor in it. "I guess you're the last one I need to tell that to."

[Kendra Peterman] A grin spread across her face when she heard the man laugh with true humor to the sound, and she stretched her arms up above her head, glanced at the clock in the dashboard, and yawned a bit before turning about to lean up against the door and window on the side of the cab she was occupying. She didn't shut her eyes, though, was just getting more comfortable.

Or that's what she told herself, anyways.

"Ain' never so much a matter of who y'need t'tell things to, I've learned. Jus' who yer talkin' to when things come up in conversation." Her shoulders rolled in yet another shrug, and she tagged an ending onto that in an almost pensive tone of voice. "Either way, t'weren't just you that was grouchy that night. I was kinda adjustin' to a new life too."

[J.B.] "Oh yeah?" John realizes that's an invitation to ask, but he mulls it over a bit before he goes ahead and asks, "You new to Chicago?"

The locks click shut as Kendra leans against the door. Last thing he needed was for her (or Thaney) to go flying out the door onto the freeway, in the rain, at 80mph. As they get farther from the city, the roadside lamps become fewer and fewer and the lights of the city grow small behind them. A darkness closes in. He turns the heater on at a low setting, opens the windows a crack to offset it, and keeps the defogger on the windshield.

[Kendra Peterman] She chuckled a bit and shook her head, relaxing more comfortably against the door, though it had nothing to do with the sound of the lock securing itself with a 'click' behind her shoulder. It had everything to do with being a Galliard and having a door opened to tell a story.

"Goodness no. Lived here fer 'bout... two years, maybe a year 'n a half. Moved out t'South Dakota, lived there fer a year 'r so, 'n came back out here a year ago." She paused, giving him a second to sort that chronology out, then chuckled. "These is old stompin' grounds for me. Plenty'a folks been here longer, but I still been here long enough t'call it home."

The door was opened to tell a story, but she politely declined and closed the door. Stories were time-consuming, and with her they were often personal and soul-bearing things. Perhaps another time.

[J.B.] John gives her a faintly wry smile as she deftly dodges the main thrust of his question. All right, she didn't want to talk about it. He understood that well enough. After all, they didn't know each other very well, right?

There's a silence for a while, not uncomfortable. Then, "Well -- this comes belatedly, but I'm, you know. Sorry." His right hand is resting on the gearshift. He lifts it for a small, meaningless gesture. "For being rude the other night. And making you worry that I was crooked." A slight grin defuses the apology, makes it not so terribly grim and important.

[Kendra Peterman] Oh yes, Kendra was crafty, and very skilled at dodging questions like that. She was ultra-bendy, and flipped about questions as though they were bullets and she was Keanu Reeves with a trenchcoat and sunglasses.

And she did all of this while pretending it didn't happen.

Smiling a little, she shut her eyes, nodded, and let her head come to rest against the window once again. "Don' worry 'bout it, I jus' got a bit defensive is all." She would leave him to ponder that while she joined Thaney in a car-ride nap.

[missed first post: John is walking Bruin in the park.]

[Skadi] "Hey!" Kids before him; kids, too, behind John Barrister. Bruin reacts before she speaks, of course. The hound senses the disturbane in the air, the animal beneath the skin; something crawls across his domesticated senses. He goes alert; instead of pulling forward, tugging toward the latest marker in the endless game of "mine!" "no, mine!" played by the dogs regularly walked through Grant Park, he stops and turns, hackles prickling up, alert and wary, but not yet aggressive.

[princessa] Yes, she was loud when she needed to be. Effortlessly, unselfconsciously vocal. The need is gone, and she reverts to quieter habits. Her voice is still clear, though; still carries where she wants it to carry, especially when it carries a question straight to the point - "Where are your clothes? Here." The scarf is unwound, and when Kendra's close enough, tossed over her in an easy loop. The bonegnawer adjusts her direction and comes around a gush of white froth; catches Princess's eye, a moment before she speaks. "Hey, Danny." An easy smile, brief, which is at odds with the furrow between her eyebrows just now. "Are they still hot?"

[John Barrister] Hm. Familiar voice. Dog alert and anxious. John stops, looking first down to Bruin and then, already knowing who he'll find, back over his shoulder. A brown suede jacket tonight; a fleeced collar. Rustic. He reins Bruin in a little tighter. "Hey," he replies.

[Danny Jones] She grins. Thaney asked her the same question about some cookies, the other night. Only it was a more upfront "how fresh?" With Danny, it's always wise to ask, after all.

"Well, not hot - but warm. Mustard and extra onions. Gotta extra soda too."

And a peer around at Kendra. "and a shirt. n pants." Likes or dislikes aside - she's Gnawer. Someone's gots needs, she's gots stuff. It's the way things go.

[Skadi] "Went by yer house, lookin' fer ya. Left ya a four pack'a Guiness, them ones in tha big cans with tha little thangs in tha bottom." He knows who he'll finds when he glances back; all his senses are correct. The blonde, without the tall kid. She's wearing jeans with which he will become familiar if she keeps visiting him, and a white ribbed wifebeater beneath a suede jacket built like a western-style blazer. Her hands are in her front pockets, up to the second knuckle at least, in a way that emphasizes her lazy, lean gait. "Drank one, though, 'fore I give up on ya."

Skadi doesn't fall into step yet. She frowns at Bruin, then back at John. "He gon' be too much fer ya with me 'round?"

[John Barrister] He laughs, a brief grunt of amusement deep in his chest. "The good kind," he says, pleased. "Thanks. And sorry. I should've left you my number. Do you want it?"

A glance at the dog, then ahead and behind in the empty park, considering. Reaching down, he unsnaps the leash and looses Bruin, giving the rangy hound a pat on the side to send him sniffing along into the greenery. "With a little luck," he says to Skadi, wry, "he won't bite anyone."

[James Wagner] ( Loc's? )

[Joseph Morgan] (On a path, heading towards the fountain)

[John Barrister] (with skadi, on a different path! potentially heading for the fountain as well.)

[Danny Jones] (sitting on thee dge of the fountain, near Thaney, who's near Kendra, with joseph approaching)

[Skadi] "Mean dog, is he?" She watches Bruin test his limits, then disappear into the rustling leaves; when the domesticated animal has disappeared, she ambles forward and falls into step beside Barrister, frowning into the rustling leaves as she tracks the animal's progress through the bushes. Turning her head, she squints briefly up at him, shielding her eyes with her left palm, considering. "Hell'd ya do with him when yer mate was home?" Then, a shrug, "Ain't got no reason ta apologize. I neededja right then, coulda asked that Rotagar."

[Kendra Peterman] Kendra stepped up to meet Thaney, still wearing that smile that was part-cheese, part-apology when she reached her. The blanket was fairly warm, but it really wasn't enough for this sort of weather, so her shoulders trembled when a particularly strong shiver raced its way up her spine. "S'a long story, Thaney-girl," she offered, and bowed her head a little when the red-haired Philodox removed her scarf and tossed it around her instead. A change was made to her smile, so it would read 'thank you', and she shifted her grasp on the blanket so she held it closed in front of her chest, but it fell open from her waist down, and lifted about her like a cape when she moved her freed hand to circle the scarf around her neck.

She wasn't naked under the blanket, not by far, but she wasn't dressed particularly warm either. She wore what looked like a cream-colored skirt, a heavy cotton fabric, just a few inches above her knees in length, with the hem of a loose gray T-shirt hanging about her hips. She looked as though she'd closed her eyes, stuck her hand in a 'random clearance' bin at the Good Will, and put on whatever she'd brought out in that one game of fishing-for-clothes. Her legs were messy, smeared vaugely with a dried coppery substance that appeared as though the most of it had been wiped with a wet towel but not all was cleaned. The same applied to her face, and her hair was just a downright mess, greasy and dirty with god-knows-what, pulled back into a bun to keep it out of sight and out of mind.

Dark green eyes shifted toward Danny when the Gnawer arrived, and she nodded her head in response. The blanket dropped, no longer acting a cape, and was properly secured about her once more, tightly wrapped in the front. "Nah thanks." She declinded the offer of shirt and pants, shaking her head. "I need t'get home anyway."

[John Barrister] She can see the moment her rage breaks across him. Everyone reacts differently to it; everyone reacts. For Barrister, it's an unconscious straightening of his posture, a certain tenseness about the mouth that goes away with deliberate will. His smile turns a little rueful: "Well, she was hardly ever home. You know how it is. Anyway, he's a backyard dog, not a bed-sleeper." Barrister starts walking again when Skadi's abreast him, his pace even and steady and easy. They can hear Bruin now and then, crashing through the undergrowth. "We got him together, actually. He was the only pup that didn't squirm to get away from her. He growled at her instead. She liked that."

Barrister's easy with the life details. He doesn't go on and on with the anecdotes, but Skadi doesn't have to ask, either. He tells it as they occur to him.

[James Wagner] Strange to think that everyone was heading for the same destination by different routes. Some were already present, and others were on their way. It seemed like things were no different for the Irish. He strode down an alternate pathway, not with a dog or friends. He was within his own mind, and when one couldn't make it out of the city into the wilds to think? The park was the next best thing. Here there was still the backdrop of the cityscape, the noise and overall din of life.

James' head was lowered a touch, lips pursed as he occasionally clenched his left hand in a fist, only to unclench it. The wrapped bandage worn around it seemed to be a bit tight every now and then, and he wasn't used to wearing such things. A loose fitting black West Coast Choppers hoodie adorned his form, and a pair of dark blue low-rise jeans were worn from his hips. Boots clomped down the path, heading unknowingly for the congretational spot.

[Joseph Morgan] No one but Kendra, probably, is going to be surprised that he doesn't start roaring at her when he's still ten feet away. Joseph crosses the distance between his spot on the path and the girls at the fountain at his regular long-legged pace. He's not dressed for charming anyone or looking his best; his jeans are worn-in and his t-shirt is about as colorful and interesting as the one Kendra has on - but his fits him. As a nod to the weather, he's got on his leather jacket (guess what color - no, g'on, guess).

Then he's there, and not grabbing Kendra by the shoulders to whip her around, shake her like a bad rag doll, or smack her across the face. No where have you been or is that blood on your legs or hysterical screaming, despite the bloodshot tinge to his eyes. That would all take a great deal of energy he doesn't have, and he'd probably forget what he was doing somewhere in there.

"Yes," he says flatly, hearing the tail end of what Kendra says to the other two ladies. Monsters. Whatever. Ladymonsters. Like ladyfingers, only they would never fit in a tiramisu. What?

[Skadi] "Who named 'im?" The question is short and simple. She asks it just as she falls into easy cadence with him; a familiar gait. Up close, he can smell the onions on her breath, and the woodsmoke in her hair. There's mud on her shoes - on her boots, cowboy, but not the pink ones, some other pair suitable for a rainy spring day. "You 'r her?"

[John Barrister] "She did," he replies immediately, then amends, "more or less. I wanted to call him Bear. When he was a puppy, he was kind of chubby, with a lot of folds around his face and shoulders. He shuffled around. Like a bear, you know." Barrister mimes it for a second or two: elbows turned out, a bulldoggy stance, a deliberate hand by hand shuffle. Then he gives it up with an embarrassed sort of gruffness, "Em thought Bruin was more creative."

[Danny Jones] She shrugs off Kendra's refusal, and works on finishing up her second dog. Doesn't take much. In fact, she practically inhales the thing. Ain't had nothing to eat since... well, 3 hours ago, at LEAST. Everyone knows that's forever in Danny-time. No one ever has figured out where she puts it all, nope.

And well, if princess wants one, she'd best speak up, because danny starts on number 3 of 4.

[princessa] "Thanks," she says first, to Danny. Food isn't something she turns down when she can be sure it's something she can stomach; there was acceptance, in the thanks. But then her eyes close for an instant. When she opens them, the acceptance is gone, with regret, "But - no thanks tonight. Just enjoy one for me, okay?"

There are many kinds of smiles. There are almost as many kinds of smiles as there are Inuit words for snow. Kendra's smile is an eloquent one, slides through a gamut of messages. Princess doesn't smile. Not now, anyway. Joe speaks, and she starts. Like someone flicked the channel away from her and then back really quickly. Gives him a neutral glance, after, "A story?"

Beat. Uh oh. Princess, and - the hint of a story? We know what this means. "I'll find you for it, later," she says, quiet and even. "Where ever you cleaned up," and she doesn't really trail away. Just stops that thought, then says, "You need some soap and water."

[Danny Jones] That gets a grin from Danny. "Deal." Enjoy food? On her top list of favorite things to do.

[James Wagner] Step up to me
Step up to me
Punk
Step up to me
You wanna be a big time player?
It's not to be

The lyrics ran through the Galliard's head. Likely from his facial expression, his mind is on Boston and just what exactly he may intend to do there. That is, if he could find the right place within the city. James' path ends in the clearing or whathaveyou where the fountain is, as he sets foot onto grass or sidewalk. He was still maybe twenty or twenty-five feet from them all, but he doesn't appear to notice anyone just yet.

His gaze flicked down to his hand again, which he raised to inspect the bandage. It stopped bleeding hours ago, but better safe than sorry. "Bloody fookin' women," he said, and not softly.

[Skadi] "M'old pack was under Bear." The word has a different ring when she says it in that context; it's fuller, somehow. That's it: more full, richer. She says it like a Catholic says the name of a favored saint from childhood, wistful reverence buried deep beneath the drawl. "Blade'a tha Norns." As if saying their name means that they might never die; isn't that it - the point of the Skald, the collection of stories, the names they earn: all in ongoing defiance of death's finality of the earth's finite span of years.

"Y'ever thank on takin' another one?" The subject change is abrupt but not mystifying. Her voice changes, subtly; grows serious without the sepia tone attached to all things past. Instead of watching the path, she watches the old kinsman's face, blonde brows draw together, messy ponytail dancing golden behind her skull. "I know yer still wearin' yer weddin' rang. But ya ever thank on it?"

[Kendra Peterman] Kendra almost flinched to hear Joe's voice, mono-syllabic as it was, come from over her shoulder. Her head lifted, and a fairly crusty bit of hair that hadn't quite made it into her bun swayed about by her forehead as she turned to look at him. The smile was flattened off her lips when they pressed together in an expression that was almost a frown but not quite upset enough to be considered one.

Thaney mentioned soap and water, and Kendra nodded her head once, worried her fingers over the soft fuzzy fleece of her blanket, and muttered quietly. "You find me a workin' shower out in th'shipyard 'n I'll provide it wi'h soap." Her eyes flickered again toward Danny, briefly, to observe her inhale a hotdog, and her mouth twitched -- almost a smile that time -- then she turned, adjusting her position so she could look at Joe, address him without having to peer over her shoulder at him.

For a good dozen seconds or so, she just surveyed him. Read the dark circles that were taking up residency under his eyes and how red they were. A lack of sleep, obviously, and she could only guess why. Eventually, she spoke in a low tone, not too dissimilar from a teenager that had just been scolded. "S'pose we're goin' home now."

[John Barrister] Something about Barrister closes up there. Skadi can almost smell his wariness, like a hound scents the fox. She mentions his ring and in involuntary response his left hand closes up; his thumb rubs the worn gold band. Theirs hadn't been much of a marriage, but he'd worn that damn thing faithfully for eight years and counting.

"Not really. No." His honesty is blunt in the end, much as he is. That's what Barrister is in the end, despite everything: a blunt instrument, a straightforward man. "I -- " whatever else he'd thought to say, he cuts off, " -- no."

[Joseph Morgan] Anger wasn't usually Joseph's first (second, third) recourse. Flares of his temper were, actually, few and far between. That didn't mean he wasn't opinionated, or shy about quite flatly voicing that opinion. Anger, though, was far from his expression and his voice. He was tired, and made no effort to hide it, nor did he make some kind of effort to use it to make Kendra feel guilty or ashamed or what-have-you.

His eyes glance over Kendra while she mentions something about a shipyard to Thaney and...wait...he'll think of her name any second now...

Joseph can't spare much of his brainpower to focus right now on more than one thing at a time. Right now, for good or ill, that one thing is Kendra. Her hair's greasy, matted, crusty with something that would color it if her hair weren't so dark already. Stuff on her legs. He sniffs. Joseph's not lupine, but one doesn't always have to be to recognize that smell. His mouth tenses at the corners.

She's standing, and not wincing. She's not crying. Whatever happened, she's intact. His shoulders relax slightly, the signal telling that they'd been a bit straighter than normal a second before. But then Joseph glances down again, and blinks. "You're wearing a skirt."

[Skadi] "Y'ever thank on it - " in the face of Barrister's wariness, the modi is briefly, doubly earnest. " - I mean, I know ya gotta take yer time an' figger out where ya wanna be. I ain't sayin' ya fergit yer dead an' move on, but it'd be nice ta have a passel a kids, runnin' 'round. Man like you deserves a few, keep tha lines strong. All'a that. So if y'ever thank on it, I got a girl in mind. Real pretty, real good breedin' - she'd give ya some fine sons'n daughters - an' pretty. I figger on her bein' a good cook, though I ain't never et none'a her cookin'. S'kin. An' she ain't got no father'r family ta find 'er no one, an' seems ready ta settle, like, I figger on spring brangs all'a that out in folks, an' she's ready fer a family. Keeps 'er apartment real neat, too.

"Keep a good home fer ya. Y'ever - I mean, y'ever decide that y'ain't holdin' on no more, I kin innerduce ya. I mean, that apartment is real neat, as a pin. 'n that breedin', she'd probably give ya a trueborn."

...it all sounded perfect in her head.

[princessa] Danny inhales hotdogs; Princess wrinkles her nose, cat-fastidious. Kendra turns to regard Joe fully; Princess gives a single shake of her head, a negation of the coppery stains on the other fianna's skin, perhaps. She tugs on her over-sized hat, and she takes James in, too, now that he's spilled out of a path, cuts across the fountain's square, distracted. Always distracted, these other Fianna. And, apparently, these irascible Black Fury kin. She glances once, eloquent, at Danny, then says, "You two gonna be alright walkin' home by yourselves?"

It's not that she doesn't want to talk to Kendra. She likes Kendra. But she doesn't want her out and about, all greasy and covered in blood, and if Joe's going to take her back to a shower and shampoo - well then.

[John Barrister] Whatever else Barrister is, he's not a terribly good liar. His reactions are pretty much writ on his face, and they run like this: wariness, suspicion, a certain knowing incredulity -- that's how she's going to pitch herself? as 'a girl' who cooks and cleans? -- and then a flash of genuine surprise; a kin. Barrister laughs, relieved, a stormburst of humor.

"I thought you meant -- " and he laughs again, shaking his head. "Sorry. Misunderstanding." And smiling now, "How old is your friend?"

[Danny Jones] She grins up at Princess. Poor Thaney, she's never quite sure how to take Danny's excess. And Poor Danny. Never quite sure how to take Thaney's control. Yin/yang, black/white. It's a friendship that works. Mostly. Even when Thaney's disappointed, as she currently is. And will likely remain. S'all good.

She dusts off her hands after dog numbah three, and drinks a good half her soda, letting out an OH so feminine beeeeeeeeeeeelllllllllllllch afterwards.

Then. Dog numbah four. Last, and certainly not least.

[Skadi] I thought you meant - Skadi's eyes grow briefly huge; she stiffens, alert and wary, watching Barrister's face, then glancing off, following the track of his hands. Her rage twinges in line with her brief embarassment, and Skadi shakes her head briefly, forcefully, inserting, a naw, that ain't - between his meant and his sorry. Her hands, flat in her pockets, sink from the second joint to the knuckles, the thumbs splayed out against the line of her hips.

"Dunno," a subtle tension rides through her spine, but she is working it out, visibly - through the shoulders, in the chin. "she ain't too old, but I ain't never asked her."

[James Wagner] Voices. James' head lifts up, to see the gathering. Joseph, Danny, Kendra, and Thaney. The first of the four he hadn't met, or at least the Galliard didn't think he had. The man's face rang as unfamiliar to James as he neared. Brushing loose strands of hair from his face, James grunted a little.

Danny was still stuffing her face like ever, and Kendra looked like she just got done having a barroom brawl. Thaney was judging and weighing everyone like usual. And James? Still neared.

Now that his mind had driven back dark thoughts, he was able to crack a smile as his attention went first to Danny. "One o' these days, girle, ye're goin' tae make yerself fat wit' th'way ye eat ev'r'thin' in sight." And then she belched. "An' suren ye've been tae charm school."

Within about ten feet now, James had been walking as he spoke. Then his eyes went to Kendra. "Did ye win?"

[Kendra Peterman] Again, the blanket is pushed over her shoulder to pretend to be a cape, long, soft, red and purple. Her right hand lifted, raising out from under the fleece warmth, and rubbed at her face, a good long rub. Fingers started at the crest of her forehead, fell down, scrubbed at both eyes, circled over her cheekbones, and met once more in a clench over her mouth and chin. Then, she sighed, the sound big and heavy.

"Yeah, 'm in a skirt," she spoke in a voice that would usually be reserved for a very innocent three-year-old that just pointed out that your shirt was stained from a coffee spill that morning, and they were the fifth person to do so. Exhasperated, but still patient. Soon enough her hand fell from her mouth and chin, dropped back under the blanket, and she curled the fabric snugly about her again. Eyes shifted about the group, found James, and lingered there for a second. She might have thought about saying something of greeting, but all thoughts were interrupted by the belch that rattled her brain inside her skull. Her eyes shut, then she shook her head. She never claimed to be a lady, feminine, or even girly, but she didn't think that a belch like that had ever been let out of her own mouth before.

Another shiver here, another sigh there, and she focused her gaze once more to find James had approached them and joined their group. She heard his accent fill the air at about the same time she'd opened her eyes again. She was exhausted. It didn't show so much in her eyes as it did for Joe, but she'd been through more than her fair share of shit in the past twenty four hours, and hadn't gotten any sleep, any rest, or any comfort through the lot of it, so it was fair to say she was beat. For a moment her dark green eyes fell upon the more experienced Galliard's darker ones, locked and inspected, then she huffed quietly and lifted her chin, displaying a proud stance despite her current state of disarray.

"Fuckin' right I did."

[John Barrister] "Well," John tucks his big hands into the pockets of his suede coat, easy-mannered again, "in my experience," he shoots her a glance from under eyebrows just this side of bushy, " -- and I've had plenty in my day, so don't start worrying about me being deprived -- in my experience, kinwomen before the age of 30 tend to prefer a trueborn. Sort of like the preference for handsome bad boys, you know." Skadi gets the faint impression that he's gently teasing, but his face is straight as an arrow. "It's only when they get older than fiscal responsibility and emotional stability start coming into the picture."

[John Barrister] (that. THAT, fiscal responsibility, blahblah.)

[Danny Jones] She sticks her tongue out at James as he comments on her manners. "least I kin talk english n shit. Christ. Ain't half sure whatcha an Loki goin on about most the time."

Pause, and another, and final bite. "Ain't never gone get fat neither. High metabolism." Nods. So there.

[Joseph Morgan] One minute Kendra was the teenager to Joseph's rather spare scolding, the next he was the five year old to her exasperation. He didn't answer, but looked at her legs again, then turned his head over his shoulder to follow Kendra's eyes to James. He didn't know the man, either, but she did. Now, when he looked away again, he noticed Thaney and Danny. Joseph blinked his bleary eyes, hearing what James asked and what Kendra answered only peripherally.

There were things he didn't know. Didn't need to know, didn't particularly want to know. So he didn't ask. When he wanted to know (needed to know), he'd ask. She was intact. Everything was...intact.

He rubbed his face and blinked again. "Hi, Thaney. And...I bought you ice cream. Who are you?"

[Danny Jones] A laugh. "Yeah - that fancy italian shit. Was good too. M'Danny."

[princessa] "I'm guessing women," she replies, after Danny's quip, with the same serious air she has when she's listening to someone talk. With James, at least, it's probably a safe bet; she doesn't know Loki quite so well. Still. She watches Kendra, James, Joseph, Danny as they interact without doing anything else to be part of it. She's the quiet between words, get? Joe says hi. Princess's watchfulness stops on him. Nod, down. "Uh hm. You look tired. And you should both go home now, drink some hot chocolate." She nudges Kendra's shoulder, gently, with her own. Not hard enough to knock her down, but hard enough to be tangible. Wasn't a ghost touch. Eloquent, though.

[James Wagner] James didn't know what it was that Kendra won, only that she had. That she was still in one piece, living and breathing. In the end, isn't that what mattered? To the younger members of his tribe, James eventually adopted a sort of "big brother" attitude. "Good," was what he said to Kendra.

"Ye're probably better off nae fer knowin' what we're speakin' of, Danny me gal. Might be burnin' yer ears, ye know." Innocent teasing between packmates, it was. Back to Joe, his attention went. Introductions were best for folks you didn't know. Plus, it was rude to not introduce yourself. "James Wagner, lad. Kin be sayin' 'm Thaney an' Kendra's big brother. After a fashion, ye understand."

There was a twinkle in the Galliard's eye that hadn't been there before, a sort of spring in his step.

[Kendra Peterman] Kendra nodded her head to James's answer of 'good', satisfied to leave talk of her fight (slaughter) at that. She shivered once more, grunted, and shifted her weight about on her feet, fighting an urge to lean into the person standing closest to her at the time, Thaney. Not that fighting that urge did her much, because it wasn't three seconds later after the thought of stealing all Thaney's body heat crossed her mind that the Philodox Fianna, younger than Kendra but taller and somehow more willowy, bumped her shoulder-to-shoulder.

Another grunt was voiced, her foot slid forward to keep balance, and she glanced over her shoulder at Thaney, then offered a small grin and leaned her weight back, dipped her head in for a second to bump her forehead to Thaney's, then straightened back up quickly after. "Soun's like a plan..." She then looked to Joe, lifting a brow and waiting for his answer, for him to take the first step to lead them home (and, hopefully, to his car. That'd be nice.)

[Skadi] "Tha true born's skittish as a girl at a spider farm. Talks 'bout it all tha time, but won't never do nothin' about it. Figger he done strung her along 'long enough, an' I dunno about physical responsibility, but I'm thankin' that regular sex an' a kid or three would do fer her. " Her lingering tension is a stark contrast to his ease. Her forearms are stiff, her elbows locked, and her posture is straight. Beneath her arms, her torso sketches a lean, concave curve, core strength, there, subtle power. With her hair pulled back, the heart-shaped line of her jaw is visible in profile; so too, the long, arrogant nose, one half of the often-smorking mouth, the tendons in her neck that stand out, faintly.

Then: a sidelong look, touching on his eyes. "Thirty's real old. S'practically dead." The humor there, honed is nevertheless buried by the way tension lingers in her; by the way all that evidence of tension is heightened by his returned ease. "I didn't mean ta insultcha 'r nothin'. I figgered on it bein' good, all tha way 'round. Wouldna suggested it if I ain't figgered her fer bein' worth yer time, 'r nothin'."

[Joseph Morgan] His shoulders lifted once and dropped in a small shrug. "Gelato." Another small gesture, a single nod, this time to Thaney. "She smells bad." Of Kendra. Well, it's true.

James's introduction gets to him before Kendra's lift of her eyebrow, so Joseph turns towards the other man and blinks slowly again. "I do," he says mildly, and gives him a nod. One hand withdraws from the pocket of his jacket. He extends it to Wagner. "Joseph Morgan." Nothing more than that. His eyes speak for him, not in artistic eloquence or anything like that but in their shape, their dark color. Who he belongs to is written on his skin, which has paled with the disappearance of the sun but is of a complexion that will obviously, easily tan to bronze once summer hits. Whenever his lips part it seems as though his canines should be a little bit sharper than the average man's, his smile a little more wicked.

He's older than all of them, and he feels it now more than he usually does.

[Danny Jones] She grins at Joseph. "Yeah! Gelato. That was it. Was good too. Have to find ya again come summer time when it's hot as James scentin a redhead." Oh. the innocence of that grin.

And to Thaney? "S'always women. I swear, they ain't never talk bout nothin else. This'un an' that'un and the other'un too. And then? When I talks about guys? They get all eye rolly and "he ain't good nuff for ya" and stuff. The hell?" snorts.

[John Barrister] Physical responsibility -- "Fiscal," he corrects; gently, always gently. Almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he shakes his head, "Nevermind: financial, is what I meant. Financial responsibility." She goes on, the true born skittish, regular sex and a kid or three. John laughs behind closed lips, his big solid shoulders shaking under his coat. "Far be it from financial responsibility to come in the way of trueborn love, though."

Thirty is almost dead, and he shoots her another glance, sharper, wryer. And it bears mentioning that he is, indeed, easy in her presence. Easeful: his long gait slow, his big body slightly hunched to put him more on her level. It's probably not often that Skadi has to look up so far to a man. Then again, she was a Garou in a tribe of giants.

Anyhow. Thirty is almost dead: "Well, I'm five years a corpse, then. And your girl is, what." He eyes Skadi, estimates her age, makes a judgment from her big-sister tone, though to be honest with garou you couldn't trust that, "Twenty? Twenty-five on the outside, with a trueborn in mind? She won't go for it. And me, I'm content to be on my own for a while. Me and Bruin." Remembering, he sends a whistle into the dark, and somewhere far off they can hear rustling foliage, claws on concrete.

[Kendra Peterman] (( Sorry to bail, but this is the third time I've had to jerk my head off the desk. :/ Kendra'll be quiet, tired, and peaceful enough, linger about and wait up for Joe patiently. ))
to Danny Jones, James Wagner, John Barrister, Joseph Morgan, princessa, Skadi

[princessa] (( ::grins:: And Princess'll hurry Joe along as best she can. Good night, Kenna girl! ))
to Danny Jones, James Wagner, John Barrister, Joseph Morgan, Kendra Peterman, Skadi

[James Wagner] If Joseph thought he was old, then how did our poor James feel? Thirty-three and getting no younger. The hand extended was accepted by the Galliard, a firm handshake and no more. Both Kendra and Joe seemed like they could use a few hours sleep, if not a day's sleep. Sitting down on the otherside of Thaney, James' arm reaches out to dig a finger into the Bone Gnawer's ribs (should she be within reach).

" 'Ere now, ye wee biter. I'll be 'avin' ye know I dinnae be chasin' e'ery redhead what comes struttin' by!" A mock-growl and grin for Danny as he looks between them all. James snorts after Danny does. "An' t'is b'cause we're fer knowin' there's slight few o' men what kin be 'andlin' ye. An' speakin' o' which, ye e'er get a chance tae talk wit' yer boyo?" Just because his most recent interest happens to be a redhead, didn't mean the Fianna didn't go after all shades of women.

Smoothing his beard out of habit, he rolled his eyes. "Bloody fookin' wimmen an' their misc'nceptions o' men."

[Kendra Peterman] (( Yar. Night ladies 'n gents! ))
to Danny Jones, James Wagner, John Barrister, Joseph Morgan, princessa, Skadi

[princessa] "Night, Kendra. Water and soap," she says, once introductions have been concluded. Joseph; well, he only gets a serious look, and, finally, "You sleep well, too."

There. If that's not a hint, what is? Danny gets the faint curve of a smile, a little sly, a little knowing. But Princess doesn't actually say anything.

[Joseph Morgan] The corner of Joseph's mouth twists up slightly at Danny, settles again. He didn't bother with making his handshake firm usually, certainly not when he was tired. Whatever people thought they could read about a person from such a greeting hardly mattered to him - they could surmise that he was lazy. He wouldn't argue. But after he took his hand back from the elder Fianna, Joseph looked over at Kendra.

He looked from her to Thaney and gave the Philodox a little nod.

The long arm in the leather jacket didn't suddenly wrap around the young woman's shoulders, and he certainly didn't offer her his coat, not when she had that nice blanket and all. He had brought the car, but it would take awhile to walk to it. He just touched her arm, briefly, to indicate that he was leaving. Then they were walking, both of them, down the path towards wherever Joseph had left the vehicle. Oh, he'd sleep.

Thirty-six hours and change. Maybe thirty-seven, now.

[Danny Jones] And, cue Danny blush. And duck of head. and hey! hide behind finishing off that soda, kay? Yeah. Definitely all of that, because you know.... well. you know. And she squirms away from the tickling jab of finger and sticks her tongue out at James. "i ain't a kid or nuthin, I kin figure out who I wants all by myself." and she adds a pout. Because it's cute. And she's Danny. And sometimes, it feels good to just be a teenager.

Conveniently, she IS just a teenager to most eyes. Little do they know...

She nods, slightly. "Tol' ya over the 'phone! He's lookin into it. Gotta give'im time to crunch the numbers n shit. We ain't his only job ya know." defensive! This is HER detective here. (possessive)

Fortunately - it's cute. In that gotta crush on the dreamy detective sorta way.

[Skadi] The girl-warrior-beast-thing is quiet; watchful-quiet. Her eyes track up, to the kinsman's face, and her mouth spreads into something like a grin; it's not enough, not yet, to erase the telltale physical signs of her alertness, her posture, the shape of her hands in her front pockets, the sketch of her lean body beneath the free-hanging suede jacket, but there's a spark of humor in her eyes, just as sharp his response to her quip about the age of thirty.

She takes a breath, opens her mouth to say something even harder than the spark in her eye, breathes in - and then shakes it off, before the words come out. "'Zat mean I cain't play matchmaker no more? 'R jus' that I gotta find ya an old lady ta match you? 'R I kin make her dye 'er hair gray 'n give her a cane, so's y'aint - " She doesn't finish it; the thought, the sentence, the unsubtle riff on age (his, anyone's) or youth. Her chin rises sharply as Bruin closes the distance; the brush nearby rustles, the moist nose appears, and she frowns at the shadows, watching, subtly detaching herself from Barrister's side so that he can find and re-attach the lead.

" - ain't gon' interrupt yer walk no more, but if ya change yer mind," the grin flashes wider; she's two steps behind him, her rage a subtle prickling presence across his skin, and although he cannot see her, he can hear the expression in her voice. " - Mister Barrister, ya let me know."

[John Barrister] "You didn't interrupt." It's an automatic politeness. Then he considers it, and amends it, or somehow makes it genuine: "I didn't mind the company."

Bruin's on his way past John Barrister and toward Skadi with the sort of straight-necked beeline that says he's probably had all this time to drum up his courage and now he was going to try something stupid. Growl, or worse. But John reaches down with his big hairy hand and grabs him deftly by the collar, clamping the hound firm between his knees as he hooks the leash back on and backs him out of biting range.

Straightening up, there's exasperation there, and a laughing smile, and the certain wavering of better judgment a man tends to experience when faced with a confident, attractive woman who wanted something -- even if that something had nothing to do with herself. This, of course, would be why girls ask their popular friends to introduce them to the cute guy in sixth period. Or so John surmised. "Well," he gives, a goodhumored sort of reluctance, "if you're hellbent on introducing us, I suppose there's no harm in coming out of the cloister for one date." A pause, while he unbutton his coat in anticipation of the brisk walk back. An admonishment: "A lunch date."

[James Wagner] James grins broadly at Danny's blush and so forth. Tit for tat, my dear Gnawer. "Aye, ye're nae a child, lass. Ain't fer thinkin' ye're one." A nod. She mentions that Drake is working on it, and that's all the answer he really needs. "Ye told me on th' phone? Mm. Musta slipped m' mind." James can't remember every damnable phone call that he makes. Especially when a certain someone is sending him raunchy pictures of themselves.

James mutters something about "wedding bells" with a glance shifted Danny's way, and he chuckles to himself. Ah, to be young and in love. Prodding Thaney with his finger, he arched a brow. "So, me darlin' Philo, who's yer love innerest? Since we all seem t'be 'avin' one."

[princessa] The fountains are going, again, and the sweet, sweet splash of clarity has her eyes again. She's listening, though; listening, because that's all she really needs to do. "Ow," she says, when James pokes at her. Her eyebrows beetle, and she gives him a single glance. "Don't have one," she says, distantly. Then unbends: "Okay. I do." She scratches the back of her neck, then rubs her forehead and looks at her hand. Kendra bumped her gore-gristled head against Priness's, after all; she doesn't want some kind of gunk there, like a confession of murder. "His name's Leonardo DiCaprio. From The Departed, particularly." Said so easily, so deadpan, that it might take a moment for name recognition to catch up to the little bone gnawer and the not so little fianna.

[Skadi] "Gimme yer number - " Fenrir do not crow about their victories in front of a fallen but worthy foe; Skadi now struggles to live up to this ideal. It is a valient but ultimately futile effort: her voice is enlivened with a sort of visceral delight rarely heard or seen among their rather dour ranks. Now her mouth is a wide slash, white teeth behind it, eyes sparkling, - " 'n I'll talk ta her 'n letcha know."

[Skadi] A moment passes.

Deadpan. "Ya gon' want me ta chaparone?"

[John Barrister] While a sigh and an uncharacteristic eyeroll that signals uncharacteristic defeat, John, smiling ruefully, pats down his pockets until he finds a scrap of paper. His pen he pulls from his inner pocket. The number's jotted down quickly, from memory, two of them. He points at them, "That's my cell, and that's my landline." His eyes fly up to meet hers, one eyebrow cocking up, the corner of his mouth following a moment afterwards. "No. Leave me an escape route if and when it turns disastrous." And he hands her the slip of paper.

[Danny Jones] She wads up the container her dogs were in and throws it at James "You stoppit! Ain't no wedding no where near no one no how GAH!" So eloquent, hm?

Then, Thaney says she has a love! And Danny perks up, and then? "....Leonardo?" And then.. "Oh! Oh he's a cutie. Not near as cute as the Capt'n, o'course, but we all can't have a pirate." nods.

[James Wagner] James just laughs, fending off Danny's attacks. Thaney's words receive another laugh. The Fianna shook his head and dipped his hand into the fountain's waters.

[princessa] "I'm going to haul my butt home," she says, tugging her cap down. She'll walk along the fountain's edge, right where the water splishes the most; brush against Danny, wind around James. Animal. Sometimes it shows. "I know a guy with a pawn shop, you ever need a ring," she offers, as far as Danny and weddings go. Then, quirk of a typically serious smile, "You two take care." She's walking backwards away from them now, leading hard on her heels, stiff-legged cowboy walk.

[Skadi] "I'll give ya a call." The girl flashes another grin; somehow, at last, the subtle indices of tension have been erased. She displays the scrap of paper between her fore-and-middle fingers, then tuckets it into her right front pocket, taking two steps backward and saluting of all things, before she turns on heel, giving Barrister and Bruin the space to finish their walk. "Night, John. 'N Beart!"

[Danny Jones] She groans and rolls her eyes, even as she grins up at Thaney and leans into the soft brush. Familiar, the touch. "Ya'll are impossible." she mutters, under her breath, even as she shoves the empty soda can into one pocket, and liberates the second from the other pocket, popping the top and taking a long swig.

Then, sly, to James. "Ya fuckin'er yet?" Tit for Tat, fianna-boy.

[James Wagner] "Weell," James said as he scooted closer to Danny, all conspirator-like. "If'n ye must b'knowin..." James trailed on, giving his packmate a bit of suspence.

[Danny Jones] She rolls her eyes, and smirks. Damn Fianna and their games. "Well, was just idle curiosity n shit. Figured if ya ain't, ya loosin ya touch. I mean ya ARE gettin old and all..."

Blink blink. Innocent.

[James Wagner] "Ain't fer losin' m'touch. If'n ye must be knowin', then aye." Hence why James is in a decent mood. "Ain't s'old as ye'd be thinkin', gal. Sure 'n I've pleased no few o' th'wimmen 'n m'past."

[princessa] A final wave, and another - small - shake of her head. The libidos on those two. Then she turns, leaves the packmates a-giggling together like school girls, is walking away, disappearing from sight down one or the other of Grant Park's paths, thinking on how much she needs to get a car, but at least there's sunlight, and the bus's are running, and maybe she'll see Henry and manage to bum a ride in a paramedic van, which she's always been interested in doing.

[Skadi] Late afternoon: god knows what spring is like, thunder in the morning, enough rain to wash the streets clean, then sunshine and pollen coating the cars all afternoon. The weatherman says it'll drop below freezing tonight, and snow by morning, but for now - for now, well, it's golden. It's a gorgeous afternoon - all sunbright and longshadowed - with a heartbreakingly blue sky in the patches visible between the buildings, the homes and high rises, the condominiums and artsy office space, the faux-quaint business districts. There are neighborhoods in the city teeming with streetlife, now, on a day like this. The residents don't have regular jobs; they live on welfare, or disability pay, or work the odd jobs that keep the city running night and day, at the hours normal middle class folk sleep. Not here.



As lovely as the afternoon is, most of John Barrister's neighbors won't be home until dinner time, or later, when the city's shadows have grown long and the pleasure of the day is passing. There's no one sitting on the stoops today, as he rounds the corner that was and is becoming again familiar, heading home, Bruin to hand. No one: except on his own porch, his own stoop, in his own overgrown yard. The girl isn't looking up; she's seated on his top step, leaning down over her legs, examining her feet, maybe, or a trail of ants marching across the sidewalk below, concentrating on a strange something, her golden hair coiled into a single thick braid. The boy - the tall, lean, shaggyheaded boy - is not in evidence, not at the moment, not yet, not precisely from this angle. If John Barrister knows anything about Garou, however, he knows that that means little. The things that they are. The places they go. The way they slip their skins, over and over again.



[John Barrister] It's Bruin that notices the stranger first. A sudden reluctance felt through the leash; a sudden tautness of the hound's lean flank. Barrister, for his part, is thumbing through a book -- at least eighty years old, possibly more -- that ended up, along with a crate of its brethren, at his pawn shop today. He knows he shouldn't buy that junk. Chances are no one was going to buy them, especially not in a place like Bronzeville. Still, he couldn't help himself. Books, knickknacks, antique telephones: they were stockpiling in the shop.



The little gate creaks as it opens. Suddenly Barrister raises his head: the low growl of Barrister, or the rage in the air. His eyes are a dark ocean-blue by day, and they fix on Skadi for a penetrating moment before he glances around his messy overgrown frontyard. The solemnity of his face slips into a wryly apologetic grin.



"Needs a mow," he means the lawn, which is mostly wildgrass by now. He nods at the mailbox by the door. "Anything in there? I'm going to put Bruin in the back."



[Skadi] "Leave it grow," she replies with a shrug, looking up as the gate opens, still leaning over her knees, her legs - not watching the ants march by, no, but painting her toenails a pale shell pink. He walks in, dog at his side, and she caps the bottle of nail polish, twisting the screwtop until it is secure and then scooping the whole thing into the palm of her right hand, straightening, sliding her toes through the V of a pair of flower-themed fliptops whose plastic petals could use some fluffing. Something else from the endless bounty of crap in the back of her truck, a paean to summer, that. "Looks better'n tha rest'a them." A chin at his neighbors yards, marching, pristine. "'R different, at least."



She stands, jogging up the couple of steps to the door, pausing at the mailbox long enough to open it and pull out two or three pieces of junk mail. "Sale at the Piggly-Wiggly," which there isn't, not a sale, not at the Piggly Wiggly, in Chicago, but she's holding a CosCo ad, and maybe she likes the downhome name better. "Ain't nothin' but junk, though."



[Kemp] shit, day night, fuckme confusing

to†John Barrister, Skadi



[John Barrister] The side gate opens with a thump. Rain and the warmth of the day have expanded the wood, wedging door tightly against post. Claws tick their way into the backyard, and Barrister clatters the gate closed again to wade around front.



"Here," holding his hand out for the mail, and, "thanks." He tucks it under his arm and fishes his keychain out of his pocket, unlocks the door. A gust of slightly musty air escapes the inside of the small house -- the sort of smell all houses eventually develop after a few decades. This one's maybe forty years old, one of the small, one-story, vaguely L-shaped houses so popular in the 60s. The ceiling is only 7 feet high and pebbled. John's size is more apparent inside the tiny foyer where he maneuvers his shoes off.



The foyer opens into a living room; there's a wall to the left, with an entrance to the kitchen/dining/family area. Straight ahead, across the living room is a hall. At the end of it is a bathroom, a bedroom, and a door that may or may not lead to a basement. The entirety of the house is miniature, and stuffed to the gills with half-unpacked boxes. The living room is swimming in the byproducts of moving-in.



"Let's talk in the kitchen," he suggests. There's a small round folding table there, two chairs around it. She can see more boxes in the family room, no furniture. In fact, the only other furniture in the whole house appears to be a large, old leather couch and a mattress in the bedroom.



[Kemp] It was from the bathroom the noise came. From behind the closed door came the sound of flushing. A few seconds later, water ran. A few seconds after that, the door opened and there was that tall kid from the other night. Busily wiping his hands back and forth on the thighs of his jeans.



"Oh heh, sorry. Had to er....go...really bad. Meant to be out before ya turned up."



Sheepishly smiling like a kid that got caught with his hand in the cookie jar.



[Skadi] "S'your house," she shadow him inside, in his wake, pausing just inside the door where his toes off his shoes; after a moment's consideration, she steps out of her flower-covered flipflops, too, and ambles barefoot from the foyer through the living room, into the kitchen, stopping once to frown up at the low, popcorn covered ceilings. Her gait is hipcentered, somehow - rolling. He must be used to that, too, the beastshadow clear even when it is not extended, the animal efficiency of her walk.



Her mouth curls at the outtermost corner when Kemp comes wandering out of the bathroom; a snort, faint, perhaps affectionate, at the least familiar greets him. "Told 'im he could hold it, but he was crossin' his legs like a girl'n everthang. Ya just moved ta town, huh?"



[John Barrister] The toilet flushes. Barrister immediately tenses, frowning in the direction of the bathroom -- because, frankly, having your toilet flush itself without warning was cause for any homeowner to tense. When Kemp appears, he doesn't exactly relax. It's your house, Skadi said, but they all knew this was something of a courtesy when it came to kin and Garou.



"I'd prefer if you weren't in before I turned up, to be honest." It's blunt, but carefully said -- as neutral as possible as he pulls the fridge open to retrieve a gallon jug of milk. A glance over his solid shoulder at Skadi. "Yep. Just moved back, actually. I lived here a few years back." He sets out three glasses. "Not for long though. You guys want anything? I have some apple juice, and milk. A little brandy if that's your thing."



[Kemp] "I had to take a dump. It's not the same as pissing, ya know that."



Nodding up towards the celing.



"Ya know, that shit if it was put up before the late 80's? Has asbestos in it. Juice is cool and sorry, really didn't want to leave a log in your yard, ya know? Besides, pisses off dogs when ya shit in their yard. And sorry man. Oh and er, your locks really suck."



Shrugging sheepishly.



[Skadi] "Y'ain't got no beer, have ya?" Her instinct is to find a counter and lever herself up, lean back, braced on her elbows maybe, long legs dangling; instead, she just leans against the cabinets opposite the fridge, forearms braced against the edge of the old laminate counter, her long legs defining an angle, maybe 60 degrees, with the kitchen floor. A glance at Kemp follows; there's something neutral there, passing-tight, but controlled. It's afternoon, and the moon has yet to make an appearance, but wherever it is, it's huge, already failing, full of reflected light. "Don't drink brandy. Milk'd be alright, 'r water, if y'aint got no beer."



"Kemp's a Rotagar," by way of explanation, as her gaze returns to the kinsman.



[John Barrister] "Yeah? I'll get them changed." He won't -- but it was one of the countless little white lies humans told in daily life for the sake of politeness. He pours Skadi and himself a glass of milk each, Kemp a glass of juice. Then he hands one to Skadi, one to Kemp, and leans back against the wall in a place that roughly triangulates him to them.



No one sits.



"Sorry," he drinks his milk, "no beer. Yet." A glance at Kemp, a nod: he was a Rotagar. "No-moon, right?" And Skadi, "What are you? Gibbous? Full?" No one ever mistakes her for a Godi -- funny, that.



[Kemp] "Thanks."



Sniffing the juice before he tilted it back to chug it down in one long, long session.



"Good. No moon, new moon. Depends on how ya say it. Damn, brain freeze."



Pressing his palm to his forehead with his eyes closed.



[Skadi] "Full," the golden-headed girl confirms, the right corner of her mouth twisting into the promise of a smile that is not otherwise fully expressed. It's not hot in here, but her presence in the small room makes it seem closer than it already does, with the claustrophobically low ceilings closing in on both men. She takes the glass of milk, takes a sip, and gathers the beginnings of a milk mustache she doesn't seem to notice, and doesn't bother to wipe off.



"What about you? Ya got a name other than John?"



[John Barrister] A tiny smile hooks his mouth and crinkles his eyes. "What do you mean, like 'Walks-the-Hound'? No. Just John Barrister."



[Kemp] "Heh, I like that. Walks the Hound. Heh."



Looking around in a circle before holding the glass out to John.



"Thanks. How many times ya hit your head on the ceiling jumping out of bed?"



[Skadi] "I meant Barrister, Mister." A flickering glance at Kemp, her minute smirk briefly widens, then drops away as her attention swings back to the kinsman. "Walks tha fuckin' Hound'll do, though. Less poor Bruin's neutered, an' then it won't. Then it starts gettin' complicated."



[John Barrister] "Want more?" -- Kemp's glass. And a laugh. "I don't jump. I get up pretty carefully."



[Kemp] He glanced towards the fridge. Normally he'd have checked it out before the bathroom run, but he'd been in a hurry.



"Sure, what else ya got in there?"



Grimacing with a look towards Skadi.



"Don't talk about neutering in mixed company, that's just painful to consider."



[John Barrister] John nods Kemp toward the fridge. "Help yourself."



There's not much to help himself to. The icebox is stocked with a bottle of dark rum, some ice cubes, a few frozen chicken breasts. Ice cream. The fridge proper contains a carton of eggs, milk, juice, some apples, some sausages, sandwich meat, lettuce, mustard, ketchup, and a slab of rich red t-bone steak. Just one. It's very obviously a bachelor's fridge, though glinting on Barrister's left hand is a gold wedding band.



[Skadi] Skadi takes another long drink from the glass of milk; this time she has the presence of mind to wipe away the milk mustache, against her right sleeve before she sets the glass back, carefully on the counter. While the pair talk - Kemp and his juice, the low-fuckin' ceilings, popcorn, asbestos, whatever the hell that is or means - her attention wanders over the closeness of the small kitchen, the boxes, half-opened, half-unpacked, the signs of disuse and reuse; it's easy to fall away from the rhythm of the conversation, into the rhythms of her own body, easy to find space in which to listen to herself breathe, if only because that is how she begins to stand it, on the long nights that open up beneath the full moon, a slow uncoiling not of tension, but of self, back into the core of that tension.



The girl looks sharply up as Kemp addresses her and her mouth snaps into a quick, unconscious grin that gains all the trappings of a smirk, dressed up as it is in her rage. She looks away again, over the kinsman's shoulder, out through the window set above the sink, out into the yard; she is looking when the ring snags her attention; her gaze drops to his hand. "How long 'til yer wife'n kids join ya, Mr. Barrister?" - what is that, southern hospitality? southern training, some latent formality Kemp hasn't heard, given Chicago's teeming population of hot teenage kin, whose age has apparently not yet earned them the rather human honorific.



[John Barrister] There had been some easiness in Barrister's broad frame. His arms loosely folded across his deep chest, his shoulder to the wall, he'd been a man in his own home, accustomed to the rage of Garou, if not quite inured to it. Skadi's question brings a shadow to his brow, though. His left hand moves in the shadow of his right elbow. He rubs his thumb absently along the wedding ring, following her glance out the window.



"John's all right," he addresses the Mister first. Then he steadies on her, the frown still hovering over his brow. "I don't have any kids and my wife's passed. It's just me."



[Kemp] He presented his backside to them as he stuck his head in the fridge. Not too shy when it came to food and being nosey. Starting to root around in the fridge, opening the lunchmeat to sniff at it before he turned back with a slice stuffed in his mouth, another one he was rolling up into a tube.



"Mmpporry...."



Chewing and swallowing before trying again.



"Sorry to hear that."



He was never sure what to say about death. And there sure as fuck was a lot of kin left behind recently.



"But now ya got us. How lucky could one guy get?"



[Skadi] "John." The girl acknowledges, with a twist of her mouth that darkens and falls away a moment later, like ashes shifting to the earth. When he steadies his gaze on her, she returns the look frankly and directly, sobered. Kemp offers his apologies, uncomfortable in the face of death. Skadi has platitudes buried inside her, a half-hundred, and she believes them all, if not whole-heartedly, then on some visceral level. Her platitudes are Garou platitudes, Fenrir dogma, familiar still. A good death, yeah, or dying well. She doesn't give them voice, though; she flicks a glance at the Rotagar, then looks back to John, features tightening through the jaw as a band of muscle tightens across her left cheek.



"What was her name?"



[John Barrister] John makes some sort of vague grunt. How lucky, indeed. Leaving the teenager to the fridge-raiding, he turns his attention back to the just-past-teenager parked against the counter.



"Emily-Anne," he replies evenly. "Emily-Anne Thompson." A ghost of a smile. " 'EAT'. They really let her have it in grade school, she said." The smile goes away and he shrugs a little. "I'm not sure what her other name was. Something about fire and spears, I think. She was a Skald."



[John Barrister] (bed in 30!)



[Kemp] "Heh, that would suck. Course, school sucked and so did a lot of other shit."



Head was back in the fridge as he continued the raid. Mumbling something else with his mouth full before he turned back with another slice of lunchmeat he was rolling to stuff in his mouth.



"Should of never fed me man."



Shaking his head with a wiggle of his brows.



"Done gotta keep me now. Besides, I sat on your pot. How intimate is that?"



[Skadi] "Bet she let 'em have it back, too." It's not communion or commiseration, but Skadi matches John Barrister's ghost-smile with a ghost-smirk of her own. "Ain't had a Skald around in a long time, an' I miss tha stories. Y'ever remember any'a hers, well, hell - I could pass an' hour like that."



She flashes a look at Kemp, "We're all fuckin' stuck with ya, man," another one, as he mumbles through his food; her eyes flash narrowly back to the older man. "Ya plannin' on stayin' in Chicago long? Or ya passin' through?"



[Kemp] 'He's staying."



Glancing around until he found his glass again to refill it.



"Remind me to get ya some juice and meat."



[John Barrister] It's on his tongue to say he didn't know any of her stories, because he didn't see much of her at all. Because even if he had, they wouldn't have shared Garou stories. It's on his tongue to say she had a voice like you couldn't believe, but he'd only heard her sing twice in eight years. It's on his tongue to say he barely really knew her at all, wish he'd known her better; and that the inevitable looks of pity and discomfort and commiseration only made him uncomfortable.



In the end John just smiles and shrugs his shoulders. "If I remember any, I'll let you know." Another politeness. Back to business, "I think I'm here for a while." He cuts a glance to Kemp as the kid answers for him, eyebrows going up. "That obvious, is it? What was it -- the boxes?" He waves off the offer. "Don't worry about it. I've got an income."



And to Skadi, "I haven't met a whole lot of Garou here. Just two others before you and Kemp here. No other Get. I don't mind it. But if the tribe needs a hand, I could help out where I can."



[Kemp] "Yep, boxes. Dog. Yard. Food. Toilet paper supply. I mean man has that much tissue under the sink, he means to sit awhile."



Turning with the glass of juice, this time drinking it a tiny bit slower.



"Watcha do for this income anyway? You a shrink? Cause damned if I don't know a whole bunch of women that need one."



[John Barrister] That surprises a laugh out of Barrister, the first true one so far. Like the man, it's easy, deep-rolling, slow. "No, sorry," he shakes his head, smiling. "I dabble here and there. I've got a pawn shop over in Bronzeville. Co-own a moving and storage company. Do some carpentry and woodworking on the weekends." He says this last bit to Skadi, who he perceives as the alpha of this pair, "I could spot some money if the tribe needs it. Hang onto stuff you don't want laying around in the open. Make a cabinet or a coffin," wry. "I can shoot and throw a punch too, but I don't think you guys need any help in that department."



[Kemp] He cut a glance towards Skadi before looking back to John.



"Storage as in, renting out them little storage buildings?"



[Skadi] She glances from Barrister to Kemp, and back again. Toilet paper supply. That earns the both of them a smirk; like every expression, it is tempered by the weight of the moon, the snapping tension that is a natural result. She opens her mouth to answer him, but then pauses, silenced for the moment by Kemp's question, long enough, anyway, for Barrister to reply. As they talk, she twists, shoving a hand into her right front pocket, and pulls out a pink, rhinestone covered cell.



Then: "There's a Caern in tha city, here. Some kin scattered around, but it ain't like - " she pauses home she was going to say, and does, with the next breath, " - ain't like home. Ain't like families an' shit. Tha Caern's real new. There's a pack'a Get in Cabrini, though they ain't with tha Sept no more. Territory's closed ta outsiders on pain'a death, but since yer kin, an' Get kin, ya shouldn't have no troubles, ya wanna find 'em."



She turns Kemp's look, then drops her eyes to the display as she thumbs open the cell. "Give ya my number if ya want. I'd 'preciate it fer tha moment if ya could keep an eye on tha news." A pause, passing - not wry, no, that's too gentle to describe it. "Tryin' ta figger out if we're wanted 'r not. I ain't got tha patience ta read tha whole paper lookin' fer it. Ain't got no teevee, neither."



[Kemp] Skadi mentioned the Eagles without saying the name and still it caused a shadow to pass over his features as animation left him. After a moment of silence he nodded to John as he headed for the door. Bumping against Skadi's shoulder in a light brush on the way.



"Thanks for the eats, I'll repay ya."



[John Barrister] "Close enough. I have an office and warehouse out on northside. Just me, two movers and a part-time secretary. Mostly we help people move their things, but we rent out storage space by the month too. It's available in two sizes, twenty square feet for the little ones. Forty for the big--" He realizes he sounds like a commercial and stops with a rueful smile. "Well. If you have something to lock away, I could try to pack it away somewhere."



Skadi mentions the Caern, the Cabrini pack, and John listens and nods, sipping his milk now and then. His jaw is heavily shadowed with a burgeoning five-o-clock shadow; the backs of his hands and his forearms dusted in dark hair. Still, he has a certain neatness about him -- a cleanness to his lines. Neatness might be pushing it. Let's put it this way then: a lack of sloppiness, a lack of letting-himself-go.



Then Skadi gets to the news and the wanted or not, and John bows his head to laugh into his barrel chest. "Christ," and he's smiling at the Modi, which must be a rare thing for her, with her rage and all. "I'll keep an eye out. Appreciate your number. Let me find a pen," he pushes off the wall and goes to rumble through boxes in the next room.



Kemp offers to pay again, and on some level John perceives it was less about charity and more about debt. John calls after him on his way out, "Don't worry about it. Bring a beer to share the next time you come around and we'll call it square."



He comes back with a pen and a sheet of paper for Skadi. The flipside is a Google map for some art museum or other.



[Skadi] "He don't drink," Skadi clarifies, standing straight to return the subtle physical contact as Kemp brushes past her, unconsciously and naturally. " - thanks it's gon' give 'em cancer. Maybe some co-cola. 'r a six pack'a milk. They outta make it like that, too. Six bottles'a milk. Two regular, two strawberry, an' two chocolate. Dunno why no one never thought'a that afore." - just, babbling.



Kemp strides past her; her body turns with his, familiarly, then opens back as Barrister re-enters the room, pen and paper in hand. The phone - two or three years old - chirrups as she pokes at it with her thumb, until it spits her number up at her on the screen; that's how she gives it to Barrister, reading out the numbers on the display, her forehead furrowed between her brows. "'preciate it. An' if you need anythin', 'r see anythin' we oughtta know about. Gimme a call, willya? We'll try not ta impose on yer hospitality more'n we kin help. Letcha git back ta unpackin', now, too."



[Kemp] "I can come back and do some of your unpacking when ya ain't home, if ya want."



Called over his shoulder as he stepped out the door to wait for Skadi.



[Kemp] ((player is passing out, brain farting. Need sleep. Thanks for play! ))

to†banksy was here, John Barrister, Skadi



[John Barrister] "Right," he'll call if he sees something they need to know about. If there's a certain weariness in that -- every city, just about every garou he meets, tells him to do the exact same thing as if he hadn't already figured it all out -- he hides it well. She only means well, after all. Trying to be a good Garou, making sure her kin knew what was what. Something like that, he imagines.



"No thanks," he declines Kemp's offer rather firmly. "Have a good one, you two."



[John Barrister] (i really need to crash too. i need to be asleep in the next 3 minutes *LOL*)

to†banksy was here, Kemp, Skadi



[Kemp] (( night!))



[Skadi] "Night Mr. Barrister." He doesn't know the girl from Adam: just their kind, kids, soldiers, just the way they fill a room, brighter than anything in human skin has the right too be, even when their shells are ordinary. And her shell isn't ordinary, is anything but ordinary. He has her number, she thumbs off her phone and pushes the battered pink thing back into her frong pocket; her grin is passing and weightless, twisting easily across her mouth as she turns and saunters, barefoot, back through his small home, stopping at the front door just long enough to slide her feet back into her flipflops, before disappearing out into the stark brilliance of the later afternoon.