John Barrister

[Moira Tasgall] Moira paced the sidewalk, the sound of her shoes clipping noisily against the pavement as she glanced around at the shopping plaza. A sign loomed over her head attached to the dark brown and red bricked Pagoda shaped roof of the restaurant she was in front of. The Happy Tea Leaf Café written in bold red letters against a white background.

Her cellular phone rest in her left hand as delicate fingers flip it open to browse through the contact listing for Mr. Barrister’s number, the bottom line of her lip tucking inward as she chews on it nervously. A small sigh escapes through her nose as she dialed it and held it up to her hear, waiting for an answer.

As it rang, the young woman fussed with her appearance in the dark framed window of the establishment. She tousled blue-black coils of hair off her shoulders, and way from her face, allowing it to hang freely down her back; dressed comfortably for the weather in a summer dress of a silky royal purple and some black lace embroidery around the strapless neckline.

[John Barrister] Lunchtime on Thursdays is actually quite a busy time for trendy little asian-fusion restaurants like this. The interior is packed with businessmen and women, discussing deals over power lunches. In the less choice seats, a few students are cramming for finals over cups of oolong and tieguanyin tea, fresh-brewed from leaves. And at a small table for two on the second story, John Barrister is reading a book quietly, his cell phone laid out in front on him atop the crisp white tablecloth.

When it rings -- no fancy ringtones for him, just a simple, mild chime -- he has his hand on it before the first ring ends; has it open before the second ring begins. MOIRA, reads the small display.

"You're here?" he assumes, laying his book face-down on the table to mark his spot. "I'll come down. Hold on."

Less than a minute later, Barrister emerges through the front door. He's immediately noticeable, if not recognizeable -- not because he wore an eyepatch, as threatened, and not because he's in coat and collar, either. Plenty of businessmen wore similar attire, with or without a tie, with or without the tie loosened. However, few have the height and breadth of shoulder Barrister has: the physique of a man who worked and fought with his fists, fitted into a dark jacket and slacks that he wore well, but nevertheless didn't quite suit him. He looks like an outdoorsman dressed up for an occasion -- which, one supposes, he is.

"I'm outside," he says, scanning the light crowd. Pretty, Skadi had said. Purebred, which means nothing to him. Young, which was the part he rather dreaded. "Which way should I look?"

[Moira Tasgall] The suited figure of John Barrister emerging through the front door and into her peripheral was not the image Moira had imagined, she listens to his voice on the phone. “I’m here.” A slow widening of heavy lashes over vibrant cobalt blue eyes as they settled on him, or who she presumes to be him as he walked with a cell phone.

“Hold on a moment—” the line goes dead a second later, delicate fingers clipping the phone shut to end the call abruptly as Moira steps away from the window towards John. The phone was deposited into the small beaded handbag she carried with her, stretching out the right hand to reach out and touch him, once she had come within reaching distance.

“Mr. Barrister?” Skadi described it right to say she was pretty, purebreed meant nothing despite the way it shined in her body language and the way she carries herself at times. A soft clearing of her throat, to bring his attention to her, Moira offers him a brief smile. She was young, her appearance making it hard to ping an exact age on her polished image. She wasn’t fat, on the thin side, though not quite athletic. She wore flat shoes on her feet, which did nothing to enhance her already tall height, standing eight inches over five feet. “I’m Moira.” Extending her hand to him, “A pleasure.”

[John Barrister] When she reaches out to tap him on the shoulder (which would be quite a reach, even for her standing 5'8") -- or perhaps his arm -- he's still talking into the phone: "Hello? Did I get cut off? Hello?"

Mr. Barrister? - and he turns around. A little faster and he would've spun around. Whirled. As is, he manages to squeak by at a turn, barely, to look down at her. She's Moira, she says, putting her hand out. John Barrister smiles: he has an engaging smile, slow and warm, genuine. There are crows-feet at the corners of his eyes from thirty-five years of smiling. He takes her hand. His palms are rough, the backs of his hands quite hairy. He's shaved recently -- she can smell aftershave on him, a light, woodsy scent. It doesn't matter; already there's a hint of bristle darkening his jaw.

"Please. John." He's polite; he manages to keep his eyes squarely on her face after a cursory once-over. "Great to finally meet you. That dress is lovely on you." The art of the compliment: not too personal ("you look lovely."); not too impersonal ("that dress is lovely.") It's over in a flicker of an instant, but thought had gone into that. "Come on. I took the liberty of ordering you a lychee margarita. Virgin." A beat of awkwardness -- "I wasn't sure if you were old enough to drink."

Another. Then he offers his arm to her with a hint of a self-deprecating smile.

[Moira Tasgall] Her hand floated, outstretched, in the air until the tips of her fingers brushed against the sleeve of his jacket, over a slight curve of muscle on his arm or the jutting point of his elbow. It didn’t matter, first contact had been registered. She gives him a curious glance over, not bothering to play coy and hide behind the lowering of dark heavy eyelashes. The sweep of her eyes is brisk and quick, a flicker to drink as much of him in as needed.

He was old and hairy, older than Joseph. Did she really want to deal with the drama that came with an older man?

“Very well then, John,” a polite air of mannerisms surrounds her, playing on a soft, submissive feminism that was only one aspect of her nature. The light floral fragrance of herbs clings to her bare skin and perfumes her hair, of cardamom and rosemary, and cinnamon. “Thank you, you look very handsome. Not what I was expecting to say the least,” she takes his offered arm, arching an eyebrow at him.

“In about a year I’ll be legal enough to drink.”

[John Barrister] John literally winces at that. Twenty years old. He says something before he can catch himself. In the noisy restaurant it's lost, indistinct, but it might've been Christ, Skadi.

"Well," frankly, "I'm thirty-five years old, and a widower. I don't expect anything from you." He turns to her with a hint of apology. "Might as well get that out of the way first. Not very romantic, I know."

They're on the upper floor now, which is really a balcony ringing the building, the center of it open to the ground floor, the ceiling inlaid with an enormous glass-pane skylight to let in the sun. Dividing the main restaurant from a bar/lounge downstairs is a thick row of live bamboo, the tallest shoots reaching almost to the skylight. John leads her to their small table, courteously drawing out her chair and then seating himself across from her, unbuttoning his coat with one hand reflexively as he does so. His shirt beneath is crisp and white, the collar open a button. There's hair there, too. In fact, the shading of bristle suggests that if he let his beard grow out, it would blanket uniformly from sideburns to jaw to chin to chest. Still, there's something about the quietly assured way he opens the stylish menu that suggests he's done this before. Eaten at a classy, chic restaurant. Taken a lady to lunch. Etcetera.

A wedding band gleams gold on his left ring finger. That had taken a lot of debate -- to wear or not. In the end he'd settled on leaving it on; partly because he's worn it so long it feels odd to take it off, partly because taking it off seemed almost an act of deceit and denial. He wasn't divorced. He was widowed. There was a difference; Moira deserved to know that.

"So," examining the appetizers, "are you much a fan of cold dishes? Jellyfish and boneless duck's feet?" Barrister smiles at her over the menu. He might be teasing her -- testing limits, so to speak.

[Moira Tasgall] “Well,” to speak frankly, “I’m actually still nineteen. I turn twenty in a month and a half, so it is a bit of a grey area.” She smiles a little at the apologetic note in his voice, “To be honest, I’m not that experienced with older men, so you’ll have to bear with me. I’m not widowed or a mother, so that could be a bonus. I’m not really looking to settle down.”

They had graced the upper floor, Moira kept her pace with him until they reached the table. She settles into the offered chair, laying her small handbag off to the edge to keep it out of the way. She folds her hands in her lap, smoothing her hands over the silken material of the sundress across her thighs. She lifts her head up to look at him, staring a longer to take in a more detailed look at his appearance.

Something about it makes her nose wrinkle up, she finds herself sitting straighter, more poised and polite as etiquette takes a hold. It made her seem slightly rigid and out of place. So unused to classy, chic places and lunch dates.

“I’ll stick to something that doesn’t move or remind me of something out of a sci-fi horror movie. Cold fish might work.” The menu plucked up, sliding apart as it lay in the open palm of her left hand. If she notices the ring, Moira pays it no heed.

[John Barrister] Dear god, now she was only 19. Soon she'll be 17, 15, 12. John tries not to look like he might run away screaming any second.

Does quite well, really, once his mind is off it. Something that doesn't move, she requests, and he grins at her across the small table. "How about the dumplings for starters, then? I'll get a plate of jellyfish as well, but I won't force you to try it. And whatever you like for the entrées. I tend to get several dishes at a Chinese restaurant and share. White rice on the side. Sound alright?"

[Moira Tasgall] “That sounds delicious. I think I’ll go with that.” Spoken over the edge of the menu her eyes cast down to prowl over the offered dishes. Her nose wrinkles up cutely, making her seem younger than her actual age. Maybe she wasn’t really 19 at all, only pretended. What has Skadi got him into now?

The menu flips closed, she lays it down in front of her on the table, hands folding into her lap, hidden from view. “So…” here is where it starts to get uncomfortable for her. “Tell me how you met Skadi and why she felt we would make the perfect match and raise lots of little pittering-pattering paws across the floors.”

[John Barrister] Barrister watches, amused, as Moira puts the menu down without making much of a selection at all. Alright, he'll just order everything, then. And she'll have to put up with liver and kidney and...

...well, no. He'll probably end up getting something normal. Not quite orange-chicken-normal; but normal.

She asks about Skadi. Barrister flicks a glance at her across his menu, which is still open. His eyes are a dark blue, shaded by dark, straight, thick eyebrows; set deep in their orbits. "I met her walking my dog, if you'd believe it. She noticed me. I guess I... 'stand out'. You do too," he adds, offhand. "To them. And I think that was the basis of her matchmaking. I suppose she figured two people who stood out so well would be -- well, outstanding together."

It's a small quip. He finishes with the menu, shuts it, and looks up to signal a waiter over. Meanwhile, their drinks have arrived: a beer for him; a virgin margarita for her.

"I don't really know, truth be told. I half-wonder if this was meant to be a joke."

[Moira Tasgall] “If it were meant as a joke I’d say she had a twisted sense of humor, but—” Moira paused, pursing her lips together as she thought on something he said. “I think she is quite serious. I may sound a bit delusional but I think there has been a scheme to get me settled for some time now. Thinking it would do me good and keep me out of trouble.”

A soft snort cuffs from her nose, the slender slope of bare shoulders lifting up to roll backwards as Moira releases a sigh. The drinks come; her right hand appears out from under the table and her lap to reach for the virgin margarita.

“I think you’d be more of Skadi’s type, frankly.”

[John Barrister] John laughs a little under his breath. Gives a shake of his head, half rueful, half certain. "No. No, I am definitely not Skadi's type. Nor vice versa."

The waiter comes by. John orders, they give their menus over. The waiter departs. Barrister draws his beer to himself, takes a pull.

"So, will it? Getting settled. Will it keep you out of trouble?"

[Moira Tasgall] “Settled with a kin? Never.” She says with a laugh, “A trueborn… maybe, depending on who it was. Trouble seems to find me I do not go looking for it.” Moira glances down at her glass, gingerly sipping at the non-alcoholic beverage.

The glass returns to the table, her hand laying on its surface, fingers slightly curled around the glass. She smirks, “You know what they say about opposites attracting. You and she are on opposite sectors of the cosmos that is for sure.”

[John Barrister] Somewhere between settled with a kin? never. and Moira's second bid to put him up with Skadi -- somewhere there, something at the edges of Barrister's smile hardens a little. Barrister is a straightforward man. A kind man, perhaps; but a straightforward one, and one who has trouble hiding his thoughts. Right now, his thoughts veer toward: rude little brat, and well, what did you expect? she's 19. of course she wants a trueborn. nothing you didn't call from the moment skadi brought this up. and be nice. you promised you'd at least have lunch with the girl. and it never hurts to have another friend. it never hurts--

John takes another pull of his beer and then sets it carefully down. "Moira," he says, just as carefully, speaking mostly to the base of the slim white flowervase in the middle of the table, "I told you at the beginning of this I expected nothing of you. I meant it. In fact, I seriously doubt this is going to blossom into romantic attraction for either of us. So you needn't continue to make clear your preference for a -- trueborn -- while simultaneously attempting to pass me a consolation prize of Skadi. You should know I agreed to this because I thought it could never hurt to have another friend."

At the very end of this short speech, Barrister's eyes flicker up to meet the girl's. There's a certain hardness in the blue; an implacability rare in those not of Garou blood. It's there; then it's gone. A trick of the light.

"So let's just have lunch as friends, shall we?" He settles back, his gaze drifting over her shoulder as he spies the waiter coming with their food. "And please. No more mention of Skadi and I. My wife was of the blood. She passed not a year ago. I don't need that experience again."


(shann vanishes!)