[Ivers] The Theurge doesn't fly off the handle. Even if it was a full moon, the chances of him frenzying and killing everyone in the room are so low as to be practically nonexistent. He doesn't have the calm heart of someone who can simply ignore his Rage, or the docile demeanor of one of Unicorn's. There are days where his temper makes him difficult to talk to or be around, but that's true for all of them.
Simon grins back at him, and the skinnier Fiann squints an eye at him, waiting to see what other brilliant diatribe is going to come out of his mouth. If he's disappointed it doesn't show on his face. He just looks entertained. Disgusted... but entertained.
He turns to Patrick, but says nothing. After a few seconds he looks back to the Ahroun and announces, "Mate, if what you said made maybe five percent more sense I might think about getting offended. I have like, no clue what just came out of your mouth."
At which point Kora stands and takes her leave. Too much work would go into standing and rising to shake her hand, see her off like an actual gentleman, but he gives her a left-handed, two-fingered salute and calls, "Thanks for the drink!"
[Bridget] In the back where seedy patrons retire from the light to fuck, fight, or light a joint, the open door allows a view of a young woman finishing a cigarette while talking to one of the bar staff. She wears a light army surplus jacket over a Calgary Flames jersey, a ragged rojo tartan hankerchief around her throat, and worn-in jeans tucked into beat-up combat boots. The Canadian makes her way easily, almost moving past the people in the back like an animal moving through brush.
Stag's blood is strong in her. If her fortunes were slightly better, she might have been among them. The Fianna kin makes a nod to the drummer and takes up a mic without giving much regard to the audience.
"This chick is Bridget. Ran into her at another show in C-Green," the drummer introduces over one of the mics.
They pick up another song... a cover of a nineties song evoking thoughts of coke stars and heroin. The kin sings it like a duet.
[Bridget] (Cha+Perf+PB3. -2 dif for homid breed for Cha checks: Feral Appearance)
[Bridget]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Bridget] (Which means 3 sux for homid breeds)
[Simon] Simon's eyes peel from the others and find their way to Kora's behind as she exits. He wasn't exactly staring like a horny young cub lookin' for a little action from his elder but his eyes were on her behind for longer than usual and he reaches up to scratch his head for a moment."Hmm..."He says to himself.
"Right then I gotta get you two situated. So first thing you need to do is get down to the Brotherhood and report in or something. Umm you wanna find what's her name... Fanny er... Rory! Find Rory and she'll get you two settled in and taken care of."He says with a nod of his head.
"Be forewarned thins are tight right now we're in a state of war."He nods his head and shrugs his shoulders."And..."His eyes are quick to slide up to Bridget when she takes to the stage and he seems to lose his train of thought. Apparently distracted by the Kin.
[Ivers] When the Shadow Lord turns back, Howard is staring at him. Given that he looks as though a stiff breeze would blow him away, he doesn't have an intimidating bone in that scrawny little body of his. Children would likely laugh at his attempts to enact discipline upon them. He's not staring because he's trying to win some sort of battle or assert his dominance over the Ahroun: either scenario would necessitate him giving a fuck about decorum or renown or any of the trappings of their society. All he's doing is staring at him, as though he's absolutely fucking fascinated by the creature that has come out of nowhere to grace them with his presence.
Right then has him snapping out of it, shaking his head sharply and blinking, the mesmerization over. Something Simon says makes him laugh, and it's an irritating hyena sort of laugh, but luckily it doesn't last long.
"He said 'fanny,'" he sighs, regaining his focus.
It doesn't take long before something else grabs his attention. An eyebrow quirks, and he glances over at Patrick as though to confirm that he's just heard what he's heard.
"Wait, wait, wait, wait... we're at war?" His eyes go wide, affecting shock, and he goes on, "Fuck me, I thought that shit was--"
And then he loses his focus yet a-fucking-gain when a long-haired, feral-looking young woman takes the stage and starts to sing.
[Bridget] Bridget holds her own for the song and manages to get through it as far as the non-blooded are concerned. However, there's something quite like a war calling in the way she raises her fist midway through the piece... something nuanced that the vast majority of the crowd can't pick up on... and, indeed it may not be a conscious decision.
Somewhere in there, the Canadian picks Simon out of the crowd with another group she's not familiar with. The direct eye contact she makes with the Shadow Lord becomes a bit too intimate for her to handle while also trying to focus on the performance, so she closes her eyes until it's finished.
At which point, she simply thanks the band and takes her exit from the stage area directly to the bar. There is no disappointment: in Bridget's mind, she's a fucking bard. Which, given more practice or tutelage, she might eventually resemble one. Soon enough, she pushes through the crowd holding a highball glass of Wild Turkey towards the Garou she knows.
"Simon. Salut, my friend. I didn't think you made it down to this part of town."
[Prayers to Broken Stone] Patrick doesn't sit down again instantly after Kora leaves, he shrugs his jacket off - it's a tattered, worn out brown leather at first glance - and fixes the tag on the back of the black, long sleeved shirt he's wearing beneath it. The chest bares some obscure symbol that might have passed for something tribal, perhaps even Celtic and as he lifts his arms over his head the fabric juts enough to suggest that the young Galliard is well formed beneath it; while being on the leaner side, his shoulders were broad.
In another lifetime, he'd have made a decent footballer.
He tosses his jacket on top of his other belongings on the floor and slides back in the booth, openly smirking at the use of the word fanny and taking charge of the bottle sitting on the table. He pours another shots and downs one like he means business about getting drunk. Who knew, maybe he did.
We're in a state of War.
Something shifts in Patrick's focus, he's suddenly very focused on Simon; despite flicking his eyes to the stage. Kinsfolk. Breeding. Impressive voice. Something about her tightening his muscles (and other things) further, but with no tiny amount of effort, it's back to the Shadow Lord.
"How long has Chicago been that way?" War meant death, meant stories. It meant something he knew about, it meant -- the wild-eyed singer was addressing one of them. The Galliard's eyes, which were very blue, though a little brighter for the sake of the alcohol focus on Bridget. "You've got a great style up there," there was no tell tale Irish brogue to this guy, though his voice was warm; like honey left to melt.
Pity about that Rage, then.
[Simon] She made eye contact with him long enough that he found his smile brightening. After all it gave the hint that she was singing just for him for that brief moment. It is impressive the way she seems to stop everything and pull away their attention long enough that any meaningful conversation halts for the duration of her performance. However when she does stop his attention shifts back to the other men."Rory is a full moon like me kinda weird and timid though... But She's the only one of your kind I know of since what's his name Johnny "Cry Baby" O'keef ran his ass back to Ireland to cry or some shit. Is it true that the island is so green because of your tears?"He asks the two men in a teasing tone.
"Chicago has been at war since I've arrived and it will stay that way till someone gets off his ass and takes the fight to the enemy... But that is something better reserved for the next moot and not here. What is important to remember is that we've got a hive to deal with so you need to watch your asses and bring back any information you do manage to drag back."He says to Patrick.
When Bridget reaches them his smile grows and he turns to face her."I pretty much float wherever I am needed or something. Don't ask me how I got here this shit just kinda happens... I'm walking around minding my own business and wind up across town in a snowstorm."He nods his head."Great performance by the way. You gotta invite me to one of these damn shows one day."
[Prayers to Broken Stone] "I'm not Irish," deadpan, that. "I'm Welsh."
[Bridget] The dark-haired kin acts like she's used to being around Rage. It is no less startling, and the combined Rage of the three of them is enough to make anyone more than nervous. They could easily tear her to bits in a fit of Rage, but at the same time, they're probably more likely to do it to anyone else at the bar besides a kinfolk.
The focus of their attention makes her lower her gaze almost sheepishly. "Merci." And then to Simon. "I know, I'm sorry. Sometimes I don't know until that night, or in this case... an hour before."
The Welshman immediately garners the kinfolk's attention.
"Ydych chi'n siarad Cymraeg?" (Do you speak Welsh?)
[Ivers] Neither of the Fianna has an accent, Irish or otherwise. Some of Howard's turns of phrase have not been American English, and his diction isn't like that of a person who grew up speaking English of any variety, but he doesn't speak with an exaggerated brogue or use cutesy Lucky Charms expressions. They both look Irish, what with Patrick's piercing blue eyes and Howard's curly Dickensian orphan hair, but if they were born anywhere other than the Midwestern United States they do a damn good job hiding it when they're sober.
Howard tosses back another shot without the threatrics this time, but when Simon mentions the green of Ireland, the Theurge brings a fist to his mouth and coughs, loudly. The word "Wanker!" makes an appearance sandwiched between two explosions. When he recovers he clears his throat, flicks his eyebrows, and returns his attention to Simon.
Then the kinswoman takes Simon away from the conversation. As though they're off in their own world now, the skinnier Garou looks over at Patrick, sighs heavily, and then reaches for the bottle of whisky. The Irish accent he slaps on is purposefully stereotypical and in a register higher than his normal speaking voice.
"Lor an begorrah!" he cries, pouring another round of shots. "They're livin' the life o' Riley 'ere, ain't they, now? Oh! And isn't that a foine colleen the wee blaggard 'as on 'is arm!"
He starts to turn his own stomach about then: it puts an end to the bullshit pretty quickly.
[Bridget] The rowdy, broken Irish-English doesn't get under Bridget's skin. She rolls with it.
"May the devil eat the cat or somesuch. He's the instigator, not me." She gestures to Simon, steps back a bit, and takes a mouthful of the whiskey. It's not enough to finish it off.
[Prayers to Broken Stone] For all that his voice did not betray much in the way of inflection when he corrected the Shadow Lord Ahroun, he does not seem too bothered by the mistake. In fact, he chuckles outright at Howard's horrifically exaggerated brogue and pushes the bottle across the table in a gesture of camaraderie at Simon.
"Dude, that's fucking awful. Never do it again." This to his pack-mate before Bridget addresses him in a language he's really only heard used around his family home. While he carried no accent, Patrick was a singer and storyteller, and his voice was musical by lieu of it; the second language clearly not his first by the very way he hesitates every now and then to correct his pronunciation.
"Gwna," he nods, and indicates Bridget should make herself comfortable across from him, he leans forward a little, steepling his fingers under his chin. "'n debygol mo cystal fel Ddylaswn," Self deprecating, that. "Buais born i mewn Cymru, namyn codedig i mewn Amerig, Yr. Yourself?"
[*Translation, because I'm fucking nice: "I do, not as well as I should. I was born in Wales, raised in America. Yourself?"]
[Gwen Sullivan] Obedience was a tricky subject for a young Garou. It felt a lot like a double-edged sword. You were supposed to listen to your elders, Respect them, it was written down in the Litany after all. They were wiser, stronger, and they'd earned their place in society. They knew what the hell they were talking about, a cub certainly didn't. Yet, on that same note, if you did nothing but bow your head and mutter yeses and nos, you were considered weak and spineless and were hardly worthy of the pelt you'd been given.
Yet with Gwen, she was beginning to figure out the finesse of the topic. There were some things that you were set up to stand up for, and other things that you were to just shut up and accept. It wasn't about submitting alone, but about picking your battles.
Hair color, for instance, was a battle far too small to even waste half a moment on. Fire Claws told her to lose the outrageous colors and she'd done so without complaint. Hair color was the kind of thing that was as easy to change as a shade of lipstick, and she was far from attached to a particular shade. So she'd dyed over the pink and changed her shoulder-length hair to a medium brown, unobtrusive and easy to overlook, much like the rest of her physical appearance (facial piercings aside).
The cub moved through Bronzeville on foot, dressed plainly for the cold weather in a pair of sturdy dark-wash jeans that were tucked into her shin-height black boots with everything else up top covered by the olive green canvas jacket that she had buttoned up to her throat. Her hair was in small pigtails behind her ears, poking out from under the gray-white-black knit beanie that she wore on her head. As she rounded the corner onto the street that The Green Pig was situated on, the cub's hands were tucking something into the back of her pants-- a weapon, the hem of her shirt to prevent asscrack chill, goodness knows what for certain.
She wasn't paying much mind to what was up ahead, her feet were taking her home without her having to think about it. The 'Open Mic' sign out in front of the bar meant nothing to her. She was more focused on pulling her coat back into place and stuffing her gloved hands back into her coat pockets for warmth. December was a harsh time to be in Chicago.
[Simon] He listens as they speak in a language familiar to Bridget though he has no clue what is being said. It happens among Garou, oh sooner or later they'd see it with he and Lukas or he and Danicka though Shadow Lords tend not to get along so well so maybe not.
No instead he smiles and listens and tries to follow the conversation through body language and inflection.
[Bridget] Bridget laughs a little at the light-hearted moment and is grateful that the attention of these three glorious Garou is dispersed among mixed conversation and jest. The Cymraeg Fianna nabs her conversation momentarily while she finishes the glass and sets it at some table within arm's reach. The Welsh language was not her first, clearly. Her accent is cleaner, for one.
"Caern Ceirw Coch. Alberta, Canada. Ond mae teulu fy mam oedd Cymraeg." (Red Deer Caern. But my mother's family was Welsh.)
[Ivers] A shit-eating grin blossoms across Howard's face when his brother tells him never to do that again. If he were smart, he wouldn't smile as often as he does: it's bad enough he has young eyes and an attitude that hasn't been tempered and hardened by war and hardship. For all the two of them have gone through this year, the only one of them who has come out of it more mature and more emotionally scarred is the Galliard. His Alpha seems to skate through life without letting anything really bother him: that confession about the dead mother, the name-calling, the outburst of Irish, didn't come from genuine hurt or a desire to teach the Ahroun a lesson.
He's wise enough to know how impossible it is to teach the unwilling anything, so he doesn't. He just drinks, and heavily.
Bridget reveals herself to speak Patrick's mother tongue, and for a flicker-flash of a moment, the Theurge looks surprised. That surprise is enough to shut him up, at least until Simon gives him a proper stimulus to respond to. This doesn't happen quickly enough for his liking, and the Theurge dramatically surges forward to grab Patrick's shoulder, his face suddenly becoming a picture of anguished concern as he says, "If I don't come back, take care of my baby!"
He hasn't taken off his jacket, a beat-to-hell affair he picked up at an Army surplus store that was probably designed for a guy with twenty pounds on him. The sleeves end long before his wrists begin. Without any further commentary Howard unfolds his legs from the strange position he'd taken on, slams back another shot, and climbs not over Patrick but over the back of the booth to escape confinement. A cigarette is stuck between his lips before he even hits the door, which he bursts through like a strong wind.
"Who the hell speaks fuckin' Welsh?" he asks the air. It isn't until after he lights the cigarette that he realizes he isn't alone.
[Gwen Sullivan] Gwen hasn't been at the game long enough to startle with a reflex of self-preservation and violence when someone burst through the door less than ten feet in front of her as though he had a destination in his toes, a purpose on his mind, and determination in his chest. She hasn't been at the game so long that she was not phased by the sudden presence at all, however. She jumped, a little, and stopped walking with a quiet 'skiff'ing sound of the bottoms of her boots on the frosty pavement.
She stared, but Gwen's manner of staring wasn't quite the same thing as most-- her eyes didn't go wide and curious and her jaw didn't go slack, her expression instead remained neutral at best. Her head tipped a little, briefly, and a hand moved from her pocket to tug the beanie on her head down closer toward her neck, further off her forehead. The piercing in her upper lip had been present long enough that she didn't speak awkwardly with it, her upper lip not stiff or puffed up from irritation.
"The Welsh, I'd guess."
At best, her expression is now one of a person patiently waiting for someone to get out of their way.
[Prayers to Broken Stone] As Howard grabs at his shirt, and drags him sideways, the Galliard appears to simply weather it. He's neither outraged at being manhandled or anything of the sort. In fact, he makes a grab for some of the Theurge's ridiculous curls as he traipses over the back of the booth to go smoke.
"Don't play with anything dangerous without me." He calls after him, and his expression when it returns to the Kinswoman and the Garou across from him is a picture of nonchalance about it all. The accents, the smoking, the name-calling. Bridget tells him, in his own language where she came from, where she was raised and he nods, briefly. Makes some study of her features for a moment before he sets about pouring another two shots.
He flips Howard's glass over and sets it before the enigmatic female.
"To new acquaintances," he clinks the glasses together; some of the liquid slopping over the edges, there's something quietly vicious in his voice; as he speaks the words and the manner he slams the shot glass back down when he's down that speak to new acquaintances being all the better to forget the ones already lost.
[Ivers] That seems to make sense. The young man, who looks as though he's somewhere close to Gwen's age even though he has a good six inches of height on her, bobs his head in an accepting nod and hauls a drag off of his cigarette. Without breeding or a noticeable accent, pegging him as a specific tribe is difficult. It's difficult to peg him, period, without the heavy press of Rage or spacey stare that comes with one's tempers being out of alignment. He seems hyperactive and histrionic, but so far as the Cub can tell he's just another drunk prick out for a smoke while bar-hopping.
"The Welsh speak fuckin' Welsh," he says, musing, and blows a stream of smoke out of his nostrils. "Why didn't I think of that?"
[Bridget] The other Garou leaves. The movement spurs Bridget a reflexive duck. She accepts the toast and drinks whatever liquid the Galliard put before her: dangerous habit, that. She might pick up on the bitterness, or maybe she simply has nothing to say. Best to keep quiet in times like that.
"I'm Bridget by the way. My guardian or whateverthefuck you want to call it is Meuric Geroux, who is my father and a Songkeeper."
[Gwen Sullivan] The misunderstanding of who and what one is is a two-sided mirror in this instance. The young man has no breeding, and neither does Gwen. His Rage is not oppressive, nor is Gwen's, particularly tonight when the moon was absent from the sky. There are no obvious scars on the girl, her eyes were not battle hardened and her posture was still entirely teenaged- hunched at the shoulders against the cold, knees a little too close together, weight shifting to keep blood flowing hastily through her feet and legs. She bore no distinction whatsoever that would pin her down as being a Garou.
So he was just a drunk and she was just some punk kid.
"Beats me stranger." There's a beat of silence, and where smoke curls from his nostrils white breath blossoms from between her lips, protected by a liberal coating of some colorless lip balm or another from the ravages of winter air. Her eyes, some shifty blend of blue, green and smoke, were persistently bland and unamused. She seemed either tired or bored, both entirely likely.
She's studying him, searching for something.... but not finding it. And making a decision based on that. Her feet step to the left, toward the front of the bar, and she moves to walk around and past him without a word.
[Simon] He remains near the table looking back and forth between the two then nodding the other off as he goes. Leaning forward a little he draws his glass to his lips and takes a long and slow sip before settling it down."So where are the two of you from originally?"He asks Patrick with a curious tilt to his head."How long have you been in Chicago, and how long are you expecting to set up camp?"He asks with a tilt to his head.
[Ivers] The concept of eye color is beyond him. He can tell the difference between dark eyes and light eyes in the right light, but anything other than that means nothing to him. He knows his own eyes are green because that's what everyone has always told him when he's had to ask in order to fill out paperwork for identification purposes; Patrick's are blue because they're too light to be anything else, but Howard wouldn't know what blue actually looks like because he's never seen it. Blue doesn't mean shit to him any more than hazel does, and while he can state without much waffling that the teenage girl staring at him with a decided lack of amusement has pretty eyes he won't be able to describe them later. They're light; they're like smoke. That's not going to help anyone else if he tries to describe her.
So they stand there looking at each other for several seconds, both of them attempting to figure the other one out without any sort of mythical or hereditary clues to help them, and in the end the female ends up walking away. This is fine, if only because it means Howard is afforded the opportunity to study her backside as she moves past him.
Which he does.
[Prayers to Broken Stone] The fucking Welshman and his cohort have so far managed to drink quite a bit of the bottle of Jameson he'd ordered upon first arriving on the scene. For all that the young man out the front smoking bears no discernible breeding, talks an awful lot about things that don't always make sense to anyone other than himself or the Galliard inside, his companion appeared to be if not his polar opposite the more thoughtful, methodical of the pair.
This could have been construed as humorous, given their auspices.
But then, Heir of the Ruined Day confessed most every one that he was a lousy Spirit Talker, and Prayers to Broken Stone hadn't gotten his deedname because he made the sun dimmer for his bright demeanor and cheery discussion matter. He was born to the waning moon like his brother, and carried with him a hint of some darker, pessimistic outlook on the world in general. It had been there in his eyes when Simon talked of war. There was fire to the Fianna, but not all of it was fueled by the desire to change the world.
Some of it felt like it came from somewhere else, entirely.
"Patrick Llewelyn. The forth, but I think the three generations preceding me are enough, just privately. They call me Prayers to Broken Stone, and myself and my brother come from Boston, a Sept there known as The Raised Fist." This seems largely geared for the Ahroun, the Wyrmfoe, but he doesn't exclude Bridget, his attention remains even between them.
"Our pack is called Caldera, we run with Volcano."
Time for another shot.
[Gwen Sullivan] [Perception + Alertness]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 5, 5, 6, 8, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[Gwen Sullivan] This could be, and perhaps should be the kind of thing that's overlooked and forgiven. Gwen, were she any normal sort of girl, should and probably would have just ignored the fact that some drunk guy's eyes were on the shape of her back and waist through how her coat fit her and the curve and motion of her rear through the seat of her pants. He was some drunk guy having a cigarette in front of a bar in Bronzeville, it was to be expected and dually accepted.
But Gwen had a smolder of Rage within her, and while it was subdued and mellow tonight that didn't mean it was extinguished, and it didn't mean that she was any more adept at handling it than what she was a few weeks ago. Rage was a difficult thing to learn to control, and she was still fresh-faced and new to the game. A strong, heavy heaping of self-consciousness was just fuel to the fire of that supernatural anger. The kerosene on the fire was the strange, uncertain and unidentified sense of wrong that accompanied it.
Those boots should've kept on walking, but instead they turned about with a want to plant into the tall guy's rear end at their heels. Eyes that he thought were pretty, though he couldn't tell what color they were, went from smoke to steel and her shoulders went tight along with her chest. Her voice was harsh, but lacked the certainty of a fully fledged Philodox. It wavered a little with emotion and all the self-consciousness that is apt to plague teenage girls, no matter how much they try to present themselves as cool and tough.
"Hey, you wanna keep your fucking eyes on the stars, pal? I'm a goddamn kid."
She didn't charge back, her fists and self control weren't sure enough for that. She just stood like an angry fixture in the middle of the sidewalk.
[Simon] "Dark Sky..."He responds with a hand presented out to the man."We are bonded under Twister so that sorta makes us cousins in a weird creepy sorta way."His hand was extended in respect after all Twister, Volcano, and Earthquake were brothers and as a result there tended to be a mutual respect between those who live to understand the nature of destruction in all it's forms. Fitting that the Shadow Lord Ahroun might be associated with a totem who is essentially the Gaian equivalent of a wrecking ball.
"We need more packs I think. I mean around... Anyone and everyone. Sooner or later things are gonna get messy around here and the more we can draw in the better I think. I mean sooner or later we're gonna have to take the fight to the enemy right?"He asks the man before drawing his hand back.
"Your friend found Gwen I see."She says as his eyes shift over to the two."She's a total cuntbag but she's cool..."He says with a nod of his head."She's a cub, still in training so don't be afraid to knock her ass around a little."He says with a reassuring nod of his head."She needs it, toughens her up... I mean sooner or later she's gotta learn how to put a guy like me on his ass right? I've always been a proponent of Tough love and all..."He nods his head and then turns his attention back to Bridget.
"You went quiet if this shit is buggin' ya don't be afraid to speak up."
[Ivers] If they knew what the other was, the layer of wrong draped over the situation would be ratcheted up even higher. Then again, Patrick could have told the Cub that most of Howard's settings go all the way up to 11. It's as if the guy either has no filter or simply chooses to ignore it most of the time, as though the usual common courtesies surrounding human behavior just don't fucking apply to him. He's not human; he's Garou. He doesn't follow the rules set in place by the Garou, either.
Used to drive Farrah up the goddamn wall, but Farrah's not here anymore, so he doesn't have to worry about how she would react to seeing him ogle a girl who probably isn't even old enough to vote yet. Her build isn't womanly at all.
Point being, he lacks subtlety even if normally he has enough common sense to get him through the day without having his head bashed into the pavement by someone who isn't willing to put up with his bullshit. He's skinny as a rail, with unscarred knuckles and a demeanor that isn't at all tough or street smart. If he knows how to throw a punch it's due to divine intervention, not any sort of training or experience.
The inebriated youth is caught staring by a teenager with eyes in the back of her head, and he either ignores or is wholly unaware of the righteous anger that wells up at the realization. She turns on him, makes a fairly reasonable request, and reminds him of her age. Blowing out a breath, the drunk guy laughs, coughs, and says, "That's alright, so am I! It's nothing to be ashamed of!"
[Gwen Sullivan] Her eyes narrowed and her arms wrapped uncomfortably about her chest. Her expression shifted between righteous anger and sheer discomfort, something that was part physical and part mental. It was like she had heartburn and was trying to shrink to be less noticeable, yet try and be big and imposing all at once. It was a very contradictory state of being. Such was puberty, though.
Her hands tucked under her armpits, and she glowered and grimaced and fumed all together while Howard laughed and excused the 'I hate to see you go but love to watch you leave' stare by stating that he, too, was a child, so that made it alright.
"How about we simplify it then." With some Rage and youth-driven need to grasp the situation and control it, even it out and make certain it was resolved (perhaps this was Auspice driven as well...), she took two steps forward, solid ones this time rather than the idle shuffling that she'd been walking with for most of the evening. "I'm not okay with it, and I don't believe you. You're just some drunk stranger trying to pick up on the first unescorted thing crossing his path, so here's how this is gonna go down: You're gonna go back inside, call a cab, and go home and fall asleep to your hand and some Jergens. Sound reasonable?"
[Prayers to Broken Stone] What did you do, let your skinny ass fall down the gaps in the gutter?
Patrick's voice surfaces in Howard's mind, out of nowhere. The Shadow Lord here is packed under Twister, believe it or not, and the girl you're talking to is called Gwen, and she's a Cub. Mind what you say, if she absorbs it, I'm not defending you against the Sept Elders.
Patrick shakes Simon's hand without much in the way of hesitation, his palms were rough with a worker's trade, and his fingertips were no doubt those of a musician. He's got a slightly unfocused look about him for a few moments that reads as mental distraction, before he's back in the present. For all the shots he's taken, you'd think his voice would be slurring even a little by this point; but either he's incredibly resilient, or everything they said about Fianna and alcohol was actually true.
He's barely flushed.
"Sooner or later," he agrees vaguely, and cuts a look at Bridget. Back to Simon. "How low are the numbers, here? I've heard tales of the Sept of Maelstrom, but they never mentioned there being any lull in numbers. Heavy casualties? Who would I speak to of my auspice to hear the stories?"
[Ivers] His surprise at being accused of trying to pick up the first person who walks past may or may not be bullshit, but it's there even if it is almost cartoonishly exaggerated.
"Whoa... whoa whoa whoa..."
For being drunk, he hasn't entered the realm of slurring, stumbling stupidity. Some grasp of his faculties still remains, and he's able to stand still and smoke without fumbling or falling, but that doesn't make the fact that he's completely unrepentent about being caught any easier to tolerate. The world is filled with men like him. He's young, and he could be a teenager, but the fact is his smoking and drinking eliminates the idea that he's dwelling with Gwen in the land of the underage.
Something snatches up his attention before he can protest the accusation pointed at him. His eyes go somewhat distant, as though he's being addressed by something the rest of the world can't hear. Theurges get this look a lot, but it isn't a spirit vying for his attention or a Bane weaseling its way into his consciousness. It's his brother.
Well fuck me sideways, is all Patrick hears in response.
Whatever he hears makes him laugh, and he opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. Opens it again.
"You're a fuckin' Cub, aren't you?" he asks, the first traces of an accent sneaking into his voice as he stumbles on a series of sounds he hasn't yet mastered in nonregional American English. It's not a brogue: it could, however, be mistaken for Australian by someone who has never spoken to an Australian before. "Fuck. I'm going to Hell."
[Simon] He nods his head then shrugs his shoulders."We've lost a few I don't think to death so much as desertion... Folks settle in then decide they don't much care for the surroundings and move on."He says with a shrug of his shoulders."Personally I'd get yourselves a corner to hole up and make sure others know where to find you in the event of an attack... I don't know about the others around town but if you all send a message my way you can be sure as fuck I'll drop whatever I'm doin' to back your asses up."He seemed to be taking his responsibility seriously, perhaps that whole Wyrmfoe thing was really starting to eat at him. After all he is holding a time honored position and that position has been lowered to little more than a guy who gives a speech at the end of a moot. They can't even hold a proper revel in a city... Not without the fuckin' authorities ruining their fun.
Maybe it was just the impatience of a young Ahroun longing to throw himself into the fray? Whatever the case Simon looked like he was ready, ready for a fight... Ready to make a name for himself.
"In the meantime I'm gonna point you in the direction of the brotherhood. You can meet a few others there including Lukas who can give you the details on the current war effort and all that so you know what areas to steer clear of."He says with a nod of his head.
[Gwen Sullivan] The protests are greeted with a shake of the head, and she's bunching her shoulders, caught between approaching to smack the guy and just walking away to seethe in silence, to stomp her way home and take a shower, grab a quick bite to eat and go to bed. Progressively, the feeling of being awkward was trumping her anger and insult, and going home was seeming to be a better idea by the moment.
So she huffed and took a step back, then turned, tugged her coat to straighten it about her shoulders, and turned on her heel to leave while the lanky galoot stood staring into space. But then..
You're a fucking Cub!
She stopped short, and took a second to process what his identifying her meant, to wonder why it took him so long to figure it out and likewise wonder why he could recognize her but she couldn't do the same with him. Then she turned to stare at him, and the best description for her now was 'dangerously incredulous.'
"...Yeah. You probably are." This is what she settles on. Rage had flickered, she'd been indignant for half a second in her own mind, and then she'd decided that, really, going home still sounded like the best idea.
But it was rude to just walk off, and if he was calling her a Cub then he was probably fully fledged. So she was obligated to wait... for what, she didn't really know? But she expected that if she turned her back it'd get clawed, so she waited with her brows furrowed and a scowl firmly set on her face for a word, a gesture, or something as small as a flick of the eyes with dismissal before she'd walk away.
[Prayers to Broken Stone] Folks settle in, decide its not for them, move on. "Happens," the Galliard concedes and then nods curtly as the Brotherhood is mentioned again along with a new name -- Lukas. War effort, a name mentioned earlier, Rory, it had been. The capacity for recall was one he was blessed with and so as the Wyrmfoe speaks on that is pretty well exactly what Patrick does.
He retains.
Remembers.
And drains another shot. At some point, perhaps, Bridget excuses herself to go speak with the band she'd played a number with, the Galliard's eyes go with her for a moment, but they don't linger romantically. "Thanks for the tips. 'ppreciate it." Alright, now a slight slur was setting in.
[Simon] He watches Bridget go, a familiarity in those eyes obviously he and the kin knew one another... That much was certain. When she was gone he turned his attention back to the man."Keep an eye out for kin. We;ve had a couple almost get into trouble and I've been doing my best to keep my eye out for those I can but I only have two eyes right?"He asks with a little laugh."I'll let you go though you look like you could use some coffee or a little sleep or... I dunno somethin'."
[Ivers] Depending on who was asked, walking off would be rude, or it would be wholly justified. Whoever this is seems to recognize the error of his ways once some strange, unidentified source clues him in to who it is he's dealing with, and he stops leering and joking in the face of her indignation. He was either chastized by Gaia herself, or someone else is looking out for young Miss Sullivan.
Eyes through the window, perhaps. It's a full bar tonight.
The tall guy sighs; not so much at the prospects of being cast into the Judeo-Christian place of punishment but at the realization that someone out there is letting a fucking Cub wander around the damn city in the dark. There is obviously someone out there who knows her, or knows of her, enough to have mentioned her in Patrick's presence so that the information could be passed along before Howard made an even bigger ass of himself. She's not Lost.
It's a small comfort, but he has sisters. Had. Had sisters. Apparently staring at the asses of human girls is no problem, but the reality of their humanity being shucked aside for glory and honor and all that other happy horseshit seems to bring about something besides lecherous appreciation.
"I'm sorry," he says. It's something he has to wind himself up to say rather than something that's automatic and offhand. He even looks skyward and draws a huge breath and shakes out his shoulders before he says it. Stepping forward, he passes underneath a stream of neon light emanating from the window. It makes him wince and drop his head before stepping out from it. Recovering, he goes on, "I'm Howard. Heir of the Ruined Day. Crescent Moon. Bloody awful one, at that."
A harrumphing clearing of his throat, and he discards his cigarette in the gutter. Fuck the Wyld, apparently. It'll decompose. Just about everything does.
"Let me walk you home. The Grinder of Bones says there's danger afoot. I promise I won't look anywhere near your ass again."
No comments:
Post a Comment