John Barrister

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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