[Gwen Sullivan] Unseasonably mild weather continued to linger over the city, coming and going as though the temperatures were a tide, yesterday having been low tide, today being high. Winter jackets were no longer necessary, the ear-muffs had gone back into the closets when the weather reports were checked this morning. The celebration of the Chicago Bears moving to tie for number one in North had whittled into the evening hours and still seemed to reign high at sports bars through the evening while the Monday Night game was being watched. Most were inside at this time of night, having a final beer before moving to bed, lingering at the bars and shooting the breeze, cramming a final bit of work (or an affair) into the last hour of the evening at the office.
Gwen Sullivan was escaping her house for what was probably the tenth time this month, she wasn't exactly counting. She gave some flimsy story to her parents, largely surrounded by a simple 'I'm going out'. She didn't need much more, she always managed to make it to school in the morning so they didn't mind one bit if she was out, so long as that didn't start to change.
She needed air, a breeze, the moon and the crisp smell of oncoming winter to fill her lungs. The house was too warm, the walls and ceiling too close for her tonight. So she'd donned a plain gray hoodie with some skating company's symbol on the chest in bright greens and blues, with her hood left down and her hair down as well. She was standing out in the open, not lost amongst the trees and grass, standing in skinny jeans and checkered sneakers, with a stone bench in front of her knees and the colorful display of the fountain shooting up into the night playing before her eyes.
The best place to get lost, Gwen thought, was right in the middle of everything where you could go overlooked. That or out in the trees, but that would require more time of the evening than she was willing to dedicate.
[Ilari Martin] This park has a long, sad, strange history. It's nothing that the mortal population of Chicago is aware of, though they've heard stories. There are tales that are passed around, tales that have plenty of basis in the real world with which they are familiar and comfortable: tales of drug dealers and muggers who come out at night, pale-skinned and aggressive. Last year there was a bear attack. The city has had several episodes of randomly decided to dig up subterranean power lines or make room for a septic tank. A mounted police officer on patrol in this very park went missing in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week. They never found his body.
Plenty of other horrific occurrences have been noted throughout the years. Gunshots can be heard at random. There are screams sometimes, and the copses of trees hold far more potential for hiding unsavory characters than anyone would readily care to admit. That doesn't stop people from coming here. It certainly doesn't stop the tourists, who wouldn't know any better, and for some inexplicable reason it doesn't stop the people who do know better, the people who have fired guns and bled their own blood onto the grass trying to defend this stupid fucking city from a festering evil that will inevitably consume the entire planet because there just aren't enough warm bodies, because it takes less time to possess a weak-willed human or convince a devastated lone wolf to dance the Spiral than it does to raise a Garou up from infancy.
There are times, like right now, that Martin wonders if he hasn't gone completely and utterly batshit. He has absolutely no reason to be out here after dark, yet here he is, walking through the park by himself because dammit, the kid is old enough to be left alone by himself and it's a relatively nice night outside and the thought of having to stay inside when there isn't snow on the ground or a review to be written is too depressing for him to tolerate.
So, he's out walking. He has a lit cigarette in hand. It's nothing so marvelous or expensive as the brand that Imogen carries around with her, but it doesn't come off the bottom shelf, doesn't have a name like Maverick or Monarch, so it will do for now. He's dressed for the weather: that is to say, he is not bundled up as though Hell hath frozen over. This is nothing. This is mild.
As he walks, he becomes aware of another presence. This presence has a distinctive physical appearance, piercings and dyed hair, and she also has the dubious honor of having made Mr. Martin's acquaintance not so many days ago that he can't remember having met her at all.
His memory is a far sight better now than it was a year and a half ago.
[Gwen Sullivan] Making the acquaintance of Mr. Martin had been a rather brief thing. He'd pulled her and a pair of Garou boys out of the hands of cooks/bouncers at a nice restaurant nearby here, claiming to have fathered the lot of them with Dr. Slaughter and taking responsibility. No one had believed him, but they let them all go anyways. She would remember his name just as well as she remembered everything else, all logged away to be accessed whenever she pleased in perfect detail, even if their meeting had been brief, interrupted both by duty and by a severely pissed off wolf.
He'd slipped away from the action along with the doctor, and that was all that she recalled of him.
So when his face came up as the only thing moving nearby (others avoided her at night, it was a part of the Rage-having package, and most tourists were either at clubs or in their hotels by this time of night), she turned her head to look at him, staring for half a second before placing the face to a name and memory. Her chin hopped up in a nod of greeting, and her shoulder moved forward in some incredibly lazy invitation for him to come join her in watching the fountain display. Her hands were resolutely set in her hoodie pockets for the time being.
When he got nearer, he'd note that she'd added some pink to the underside of her dark brown hair, and that she'd removed the lower lip ring, leaving only the one in her nose and the 'medusa' in her upper lip.
"Martin," she'd greet when she got near enough. She didn't know better as to whether that was a first or last name.
[Ilari Martin] Teenagers are always putting all sorts of ridiculous shit into and on their bodies. The man who had appropriated a small coterie of young adults from the grasps of an annoyed kitchen crew at a rather nice restaurant can claim to have raised two children if one uses a very loose definition of the word "raise." He changed diapers and made meals and picked them up from school and consoled them when their mother went off on one of her mood swing-inspired tears. Occasionally he went to parent-teacher conferences, usually high, sniffing and rubbing his nose and running off at the mouth. It was not much of a childhood for those two children, but one of them is currently doing quite well in her major at her chosen college and the other one is doing the best he can in school considering the fact that if the damn war hasn't been won by the time he hits puberty he's going to be joining their ranks.
Really, that has nothing to do with Gwen, unless one considers the fact that Peter Martin is only a few years younger than her and may very well wind up being one of her comrades soon. Likely not tribesmates: Gwen doesn't have the breeding or the bloodline that Peter Martin's tribe demands.
Martin wanders closer, moving slowly because he's enjoying the night and his cigarette and not because he's inherently afraid of the young woman just whiling away the hour by the fountain. He blows a lungful of smoke away and tips his cigarette-wielding fingers in a sloppy salute as they come within respectful shouting distance. When she says his name, it's not with the insolent what-can-I-get-away-with tone of a child and more like... well, that was the name Dr. Slaughter gave them. He doesn't answer to 'Ilari.'
"Ah, Gwen," he says, as though he's pleased to see her. Or pleased to see she's still alive. Or just bullshitting her. "Out late on a school night, I see."
[Gwen Sullivan] Pleased or bullshitting, it didn't matter. Gwen wasn't going to look deep enough into the guy that she picked up traces of frost and spice from (not nearly so strong as that stork-legged girl Cordelia, though she made her think more of grand marble floors and fine silk robes) to figure out which was true. She resolved herself not to care terribly one way or the other. Because he wasn't her Kin. Because she didn't have Kin. Because he could (from what she saw) take care of himself just fine (boy was she fooled).
He commented about the time and the fact that it was a school night when he came nearer, and that elicited a wry kind of grin on the relatively plain (though truly symmetrical) face of the teenaged girl. "We'll see how long that lasts." She looked away from the fountain to instead study the older (by a generation) Kinfolk's profile, eyeing his cheek and his jaw both before taking in a deep breath and looking back to the fountain, which was concluding its programmed, automated show in a brilliant flash of prism colors and high-arching waters.
"Anyway, there's a coffee pot in the kitchen. And I hear teenagers can run on four hours of sleep these days." He kept his cigarette, and she didn't seem to give a damn. Chances were she smoked herself, or many of her friends did at least. It's not like she had to worry about lung cancer anymore, anyways. Some may turn their noses up, others may ask to bum a smoke, she does neither. Just breathes the cool night air.
"I owe you a belated thanks, I think. For giving myself, Roman and Simon an out the other day."
Even if it was a weak one.
[Simon] What's a man to do with all this free time? It's not as if he wanted free time, it's not how he'd like to be spending his days but with the lack of any clear leadership the war he'd like to be fighting right now was, simply, unfightable. So he found himself at the park, probably doing whatever it is Shadow Lords do in the dark, brooding, and plotting, and mugging and scalping old ladies. It wouldn't be quite as fun if your target could fight back now would it? He's taken to wearing a hoodie since winter is rapidly approaching. He also wears a bandanna around his neck. Dark clothing might make some "lame as shit" fashion statement for some but for Simon there was a little more practicality to it. It's hard to surprise your enemies dressed like some asshole in a white suit just begging to get his ass stabbed. Dark clothing made you harder to see, which was always a good thing... Unless, of course, one was hoping to be seen.
Simon lifted his hands to his face and blew over them, it was starting to get a little chilly, though he wasn't unaccustomed to the cold, in fact he appeared rather comfortable as he approached the pair. He hadn't intended to bump into anyone tonight but rarely does one get to decide the course of their evenings for themselves. Besides if he had the ability to pick and choose his fortunes... This is certainly the last place a healthy young man would be.
His face was stern, and yet there was no denying his youthful looks. He had yet to find his skin perforated with the scars that so many Ahrouns would find themselves covered in. Some would claim that was because of his youth and that over time Simon would accumulate quite a few. Simon, however, would argue that youth had far less to do with it than Skill. Simon might still be a relatively fresh face but he represented a changing of the guard. The older, and more experienced would stick around for some time... But one by one they would fall and as they fell it would be the responsibility of his generation to step up and weave their way into position. Simon wasn't alone in that, and his smile grew when he caught sight of Gwen... She was only a few years behind him but already she was learning her place and position. Give it a few years and the likes of them will be running the place.
Simon's approach wasn't exactly announced. He wove in and out of the occasional bit of light as he approached the pair though he did so with startling grace. He wasn't a clumsy hulking brute he was a skilled, well trained killer... As comfortable in the darkness as any predator, though far more dangerous than most. He approached quietly, offering a little wave of his hand up to Gwen and then a glance towards Martin. A slight smirk growing when he recognized who it was, the man who refused to offer his name. Simon was a Shadow Lord after all and if there is one thing Shadow Lords were legendary for it was just how long they could carry a grudge.
[Ilari Martin] It was a weak out, but it still garners a thanks. The older man's eyebrows rise, as if they're attempting to make a break for freedom, and the last breath off the end of the cigarette remains secured within his lungs as he stares at her for several seconds. Mind, this isn't the stare of a lecherous middle-aged man hoping to make a move on a nubile young girl. He just looks as though he has, legitimately, no idea how to react.
Which doesn't last long. It's rare that Martin is silent for longer than forty-five seconds. He stands still for a moment, convinces himself that, yes, that was a show of gratitude from a full-blood, and then slowly lets the lungful of smoke sneak out of his nostrils. When a thought fully forms within his skull, Martin forcibly blows the rest of the smoke out between his teeth and says, "Wow, for a second there I thought I was going to have another heart attack." He shakes his head, as if to walk off a near brush with EMS, and then gives Gwen a flickering closed-lipped smile before answering her. "You owe me no such thing. Truth be told, I did it to keep your full moon friend from flying off the handle, so really, it wasn't an act of selflessness so much as not wanting to have to deal with a few dozen panicked and-or mangled diners when all was said and done." A pause, a drag, and then, "Which turned out to be wholly unnecessary, in hindsight, but what are ya gonna do, right?"
Something draws his attention away from Gwen, if only for a moment. He smirks, then looses his breath into the frosty air and says, "Speak of the devil."
[Gwen Sullivan] "Another?" One unpierced eyebrow raised, mirroring the expression on Martin's face lopsidedly when he mentioned heart attacks. She was skeptical at the idea, after all traditionally those who had heart attacks were old or overweight. Now Martin was no spring chicken, he was probably about her dad's age, but he wasn't very old either. Still young enough to have his well-being and no chronic conditions. Rather than digging in and insisting that he was too young or too thin to have a heart attack (because she would likely put her foot in her mouth somehow by doing that), she let it drop and shrugged her shoulders to the rest of what he said. "I don't know about unnecessary..."
And, speak of the devil, Simon seemed to manifest from the shadows a few dozen yards away, true to his tribe's namesake. He lifted a hand in greeting, and she did the same, raising a gloveless hand into the moderate chill of the evening air before dropping it into her pocket once more. "Simon." He was greeted the same way Martin was. The word '-rhya' felt weird on her tongue, she conveniently forgot about it at every opportunity given. It seemed old fashioned and useless, respect was more than just a word, as everyone knew when the words 'Mr.' or 'Mrs.' were sneered along with a name.
[Simon] "I did something wrong again?"He asks when he hears Martin's comment about the devil or some such. He found his brow lifting and he looked between the pair with a slight smile taking shape on his face."You missed all the fun the other day."He shrugs his shoulders."Then again you also missed the cleanup so..."He laughs a little and trails off, he was addressing Gwen with a slightly gleeful look on his face. Still glowing from a relatively recent battle... If it weren't for the glimmer he got in his eyes when he so much as thought about battle one might be able to pass the man off as something resembling an over aggressive but mostly sane young man.
Simon didn't seem to care about her lack of Formality. Formality and Tradition were the realm of the Philodox and the Galliard anyway! Besides this meeting was an informal one and he sure as hell wasn't gonna start smacking the bitch around unless he saw something she could gain from it."Hey if you see your mentor can you ask him if he can perform the Baptism of Fire? We've got a kiddo around who hasn't been taken care of and I wanna get that done ASAP."He laughs a little."This was something the goddamn Philodoxes should had their asses on months ago. Oh well I figure I can knock a few heads around till they get out there and do their damn jobs right?"He asks with a little laugh."I've never seen a sept ignore their kin like this as if they weren't even there..."
[Gwen Sullivan] Gwen's hand came free from her pocket so that she could tug the hood of her big gray skater hoodie up (probably borrowed from someone else, it looked like a men's garment more than something to be found in a girl's closet, considering its loose cut and how it was a little too long for her), then settled at her lower lip, where the piercing had been removed just recently it appeared. She tugged her lower lip with her thumb and the knuckle of her index finger, a small, gentle, thoughtless gesture, apparently missing that piece of jewelry she'd gotten so accustomed to.
"I'm sorry, but you've gotta remember your audience. Baptism of Fire...?"
Maybe she didn't actually need to understand what he was talking about to deliver the message, but if there was an opportunity to learn then why not seize it, right?
She didn't leave her lip alone to ask the question, just shifted her hand to her chin for the moment to talk before shifting her gaze briefly to Martin once more. As though he would know what the Baptism was. Eyes landed upon Simon once again to follow up with another inquiry. "What do you mean 'hasn't been taken care of'?"
[Ilari Martin] By god there's someone in Chicago who can talk more than Martin can.
The Shadow Lord appears seemingly out of nowhere, and with sharp hearing to boot. When he asks if he's done something wrong again, Martin quirks an eyebrow as if to counter I don't know... have you? but doesn't find an opportunity to fire off some sort of verbal retort. He placates himself with another drag off of a rapidly dwindling cigarette, taking care to blow the resultant smoke away from the two Garou whose combined ages don't come anywhere near his own total. Attempting to guess the man's age is a task in and of itself: he hasn't gone completely gray, isn't ashen or toting around massive amounts of wrinkles, but he has the weathered appearance of someone for whom life has proven to be a bit much. This is a typical problem among those who have spent the majority if not the entirety of their adulthoods abusing substances that, in turn, abused their bodies.
Gwen doesn't understand what the Ahroun wants. The kinsman clears his throat.
"When a full-blood and a Kinfolk love each other very much, sometimes they make little baby Garou. These little baby Garou need to be marked in the event of being left behind in a Super Walmart or snatched up by Spirals or what have you. There's a rite called--wait for it--Baptism of Fire that binds a spirit to the little baby Garou until he or she Changes the first time." He pauses to take another drag. "It's usually done within the first month after the little baby Garou is born."
[Katherine Bellamonte] Speaking of Illari Martin's heart.
Being away from the city did have a great tendency to deliver Katherine Bellamonte a renewed fondness for it. While she was in no doubt certain it had functioned just fine without her overbearing presence hovering in its corner there was, one had to admit, some truth to the old adage home is where the heart is. Certainly, there was enough invested in Chicago for Honor's Compass to feel at her leisure walking through the lush greenery that made up Grant Park.
Much as a feline rubbed the length of their body against their property upon returning to it, Katherine had plucked off one of her black gloves and was idly running her fingertips along the trunks of one of the trees that lined the footpath. There was definitely no change in the Half Moon's atypical attire; her body wrapped in the folds of a black winter's coat, her shoes and hair the only that seemed to faintly glow in the evening light.
The drift of voices, carried on the night air drew her notice, but did not appear to overly rush her. Rather, she knelt and plucked a handful of grass blades, rubbing them between her fingers as if they told some story naught else would. Eventually, she'd rise and whatever her mood desired, her presence would be detected -- it was hard for a Silver Fang to disguise themselves from others, and even more-so for one who looked as Katherine did.
Her hair was fair golden waves, brushing against the collar of her coat and her eyes the precise shade of the river, frozen at the touch of winter.
[Simon] He laughs a little."Doesn't really matter, I was asking you to convey the message to your mentor."He says with a shrug of his shoulders, he lets Martin answer for him since he seems so happy to do just that."It's kinda how we keep tabs on folks without having to be there every second of their lives. Though if you ask me we should have all the young Garou growing up in the BroHo or damn near to it."He shrugs his shoulders."Not much of a point in fighting a war to preserve your species when you can't actually stop long enough to take measures to preserve your own damn species is there?"He says with a little smirk."The easiest way to win this war is to find our kin, and our children... Since they're weaker and easier to kill all you need to do to end the next generation. Doesn't really matter how many of us there are. You end the next generation and all you need to do is sit back and wait right? We all die sooner or later."
"My job to think about war crap I guess... Maybe I'm paranoid ya know? But something tells me that sooner or later this kinda lax behavior comes back to bite you in the ass. We're soldiers not fuckin' girlscouts... We're actually supposed to take these kinds of things into account. Cause you know, we got millions of scary slimy monsters gunning for us on a nightly basis and all."He laughs a little to himself."Anyway, yeah that's pretty much what I'm lookin' for, someone I can drag out to perform some ritual they shoulda done three damn months ago."
[Gwen Sullivan] Gwen's attention turned to Martin when he explained the ritual to her, and her brows knit together and stayed that way through his story, all the while thumbing at her lower lip and the small divot left in it from the piercing now absent. The next time she shifted, no doubt, the mark would be gone. Until that time, though, it would remain.
She contemplated why she hadn't been told that, why the ritual hadn't been performed on her when she was young (no one was around to discover her or know what she was, she supposed), and thought about griping but decided that it would be to all the wrong people. If she had beef with how little she knew, she would have to take it up either with Fire Claws or with herself.
Simon spoke up again, and Gwen looked to him next, staring for a minute or so before shaking her head, and doing so while he ran through the commentary about monsters and fighting the war and his job in it. Her hand moved from her mouth to hold out between her and Simon, palm facing toward him, the universal sign for 'stop'.
"If you pile everyone into the same place, like The Brotherhood, not only are they unprotected but they're an easy target. It's not protected by the Warder and his pack, and to stack your young, inexperienced, and the Kin there makes them far too easy to wipe out. One well-placed attack, perhaps during a Moot, and then all that you've got for a future is gone. I'd reconsider that stance on piling us all one on top of the other.
"Plus, how are we to learn unless we can get out and do so ourselves? This isn't something you study out of a textbook, Simon."
And somewhere, off past Simon's muscular shoulder, was a glimmer of light and dark put together. A woman who looked like she belonged in Paris, or perhaps some fine city in Italy, but certainly not Chicago, was wafting about, attracted by voices but not approaching just yet. Keen to the eye and her surroundings, Gwen kept watch on this stranger, noting again the sensation of frost and the halo of a tiara that seemed to exist on the woman's head in the distance. This breeding shit was ridiculous and it screwed with her senses.
[Ilari Martin] It isn't that this isn't an absolutely enthralling conversation, one that he couldn't provide some semblance of guidance and insight to the participants. He's been part of this world longer than either of them, and apparently has an understanding of the occult aspects of the Nation that the Cub hasn't been introduced to yet. That he seems to have either spent a considerable amount of time with a Crescent Moon or else just finds this shit incredibly interesting is apparent: the last time their paths had crossed he'd suggested using the Umbra as a way to track down Fomori without rending the Veil five ways from Sunday.
Simon, however, is talking. And talking. And talking. It's rare that he meets anyone who can keep up that level of conversation for that long; it's even rarer that anyone can talk at length and hold Martin's attention, which is somewhat ironic considering that he himself can prattle on at length without stopping for breath or even to gauge if the other person is still listening after about thirty seconds. Martin, though, writes for a living. He understands the necessity of tailoring his communication style and vocabulary to fit the needs of his audience.
He's a critic. A critic of film, sure, but the fact that what pays his bills is his ability to tear down another person's work means that he likely approaches the rest of his life in a similar fashion. God love him he tries to give Simon the whole of his attention, but eventually, something else proves to be more interesting.
It's a fair woman, not too far from his daughter's age, traipsing through the park with one hand ungloved, reacquainting herself with the flora of the park. Brown eyes watch her without much emotion creeping onto his aged features, but once a break in the conversation makes itself known, he steps back from the small group with an "Excuse me" and starts over to his tribeswoman, slowly, so as not to startle her.
As though she can't sense his breeding when he approaches from downwind.
[Simon] He laughs a little."You're right... In a roundabout way. I mean sure you round up forty kin and stick them all together in one damn room and suddenly you're gonna find that all the badguys gotta do is take out one little room to kill them all. I mean it's logical and it makes perfect sense. Don't put all your eggs in one basket. It's common fucking sense..."He laughs a little and shrugs his shoulders."However, you also don't take them and scatter them about the countryside wherever they might roll in the hopes that it will somehow keep them safe and comfortable when you've got an enemy out and actively hunting them."
"If you've ever seen a modern Military Base you'd see that there are soldiers scattered all about. You know living in their own quarters. Collectively together but far apart enough that one missile couldn't kill them all. By keeping them close enough to cover several city blocks they can not only back one another up from every possible angle but they can also ensure that no one single attack can cripple the entire base. You don't take and scatter your soldiers, and their support about the countryside in the middle of a war and expect that everything is gonna be just fine because something something will make them be fine. The enemy hunts us... We do not let ourselves be caught alone for a reason. We don't fight alone for a reason... Why in the fuck should our kin."He then pauses to think on the matter for a moment or two longer before adding."And this is warfare, an Art man and Garou have been perfecting for thousands of years... There are hundreds of text books on the matter and I would sure as hell recommend everyone get to reading them ASAP cause there's still quite a bit for most of us to pick up."
"The Garou in this city function as a community it is what makes us strong and yet our kin don't seem to be a part of that community. They're left on the wayside to watch and ogle us in all our magnificence..."He laughs a little and follows Martin with his eyes nodding his head as the Kin beings to approach the woman who he, soon enough, recognizes as Kate before turning back to face Gwen."It's not the best way to be fighting a war. Keeping us together... And yet scattering our kin across the countryside like tasty little treats. We've already had one attacked and slain... You can sure as hell bet they'll be coming for more soon enough."
[Katherine Bellamonte] It was one of the casualties, in a manner of speaking, of being a long standing Sept member in the city. Faces came and went, and eventually you simply gave up ever being able to know who each belonged to, and whence they'd come. Galliards were the saviors of the people in that regard, and it was with no small amount of relief that Honor's Compass knew Warcry would have some carefully (and colorfully interpreted) record of anything she'd missed.
She'd likely recount things at Katherine's graveside that she'd long forgotten, too.
She was beginning to comprehend now, the older she got, the higher her ranking crept, just why Garou she'd known like Silence-rhya and Truth in Frenzy-rhya had stopped trying to know every face. There did come a point when all you knew, and had known was swept away under the tide of fresh blood -- younger, faster, more determined. But, with maturity came certain wisdom's unattainable until they were simply known. Lived through, endured past. Experienced first hand.
She is rising to her feet once against, her back to the approaching Kinsman and looking down at the blade of grass in her palm; weighing them before dusting them off back to the earth. Martin can see the tilt of her fair head to one side, the curve of her smile as her face turns and offers first its profile and then the full effect.
"Hello, Ilari."
Still the same voice he'd always known; sweet-sounding, light. "Midnight meetings in the park, what ever shall the locals say." There was a hint of familiar mockery embedded there.
[Gwen Sullivan] Gwen's eyes almost glaze partway through Simon's speech, and then three fourths of the way through her attention shifts past him and after Martin, as he walks to meet the woman she'd spotted lingering just out of the way, apart from the group and standing fairly still, yet she still seemed to be circling, judging, deciding whether or not to grace them with their presence. Her attention shifted fully to the Kinfolk when he approached, and Gwen deduced that she had no reason to bother her and Simon now.
She noticed that he'd stopped talking, and acknowledged that with a rather dry comment: "You talk way too much. You're the warrior, but even I know that shit'll get you killed."
And once more she began to tug at her lower lip. The moon was pushing past half, between hers and Simon's phase. The fuller it got, the more anxious she became. She was antsy, she wanted to move, to stretch, to breathe and smell and feel and run. That was precisely why she came out tonight, wanting to smell the grass and the trees for what they were worth within the city. It was odd, but she wanted the forest more than anything else. To be in her fur and running, to fall asleep when she pleased, but only after she was exhausted and content.
It made her curt, and perhaps she'd realize this and apologize another day. Not tonight, though.
[Ilari Martin] Martin could have told her that. If a person survives long enough, which needs to occur if a Garou hopes to ascend in rank, she will in turn survive long enough to see the vast majority of the warriors swearing allegiance to Gaia die horribly and be buried young. They don't lead lives that lend credence to the notion that longevity is something they can aspire to. Most of them won't reproduce, period, and those who do are unlikely to live long enough to see their offspring reach any semblance of maturity. Look at Martin's mate: she died before she could see her oldest child graduate from high school. She left a cocaine addict and an alcoholic in charge of the products of her blood. He nearly died on more than one occasion in this city alone, let alone back home in New York, and only a few of those times were actually related to fighting the Wyrm in any capacity.
Kinfolk are not normally charged with combating the Wyrm, but by god they can die doing so a hell of a lot more easily than their full-blood counterparts can.
At any rate, Martin walks away from the conversation, effectly sacrificing Gwen to the long-winded discourse coming from the Sept's Wyrmfoe. Granted, he does so to approach the Sept's Master of the Challenge and Philodox Elder, which is something akin to going from a bathtub and into a lake. He flicks the cigarette away as he draws closer, abandoning it with a spark of embers against the walkway and a trail of smoke. When she calls him by his first name, the kinsman feels his lips tug into a smile. We've already established this: he doesn't answer to 'Ilari,' but only because the only people who call him that have seen him naked.
Whatever shall the locals say?
"Now, Miz Bellamonte," he says, coming closer to her than is absolutely necessary, "when have you ever known me to care for what the locals would say?"
[Simon] He smiles back at Gwen and shakes his head."No what gets people killed is their inability to communicate when there is time to do just that. You got a problem with something... Speak the fuck up when there is time, because it's lack of communication and not communication that gets people killed dip shit. Don't you ever try to pawn that filth off on me, or anyone else as if it meant something. Everything that matters in everyones lives everywhere is the direct result of communication. Without communication we might as well be fucking monkeys in the trees slingin' shit at eachother's faces. But even that... Is technically fuckin' communication."His eyes glowed, hot and bitter with rage and at that point he stepped around the girl and headed once more on his way. There was no denying that the full moon was furious it was thick in the air around him.
[Gwen Sullivan] "Oh I'm sorry..."
Gwen's Rage flickered with all the same danger of a cigarette left burning once it fell onto the sofa out the hands of a passed out person. The embers were catching, the smoke was curling toward the ceiling, and while it was small now, it had all the potential to grow into something worse. The first three steps toward a housefire had already been taken, all that was required now was the right amount of oxygen. She looked back up into Simon's face, and her expression was nothing but contempt. Respecting her elders was a lesson she was learning in parts-- there were some people that she knew to respect because she had learned to, but then it was just as easy to forget with people so close to her age, the ones that didn't remind her constantly of her place.
"I must have missed the part where you droning on for half an hour about fucking military barracks and rolling eggs, stating the goddamn obvious was vitally important to the survival of our species."
Uppity kids these days.
[[ Cut away-- Simon's Player vanished. Presumed ending, Gwen skulks off with Simon lecturing at her back. ]]
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