Lola

It is Saturday. They meet for brunch at Lola. The invitation came via text, rather late one weekday night the week past. Too late to be working; likely too late to catch the rancher who must be up at dawn before he went to sleep. So he found it the next morning, a very simple -

Have news. We should talk. Brunch Saturday?

Some handful of hours after an affirmative reply, confirmation -

Lola @ 10:00 a.m.

- and nothing more.

--

This time, Éva is there before Calden arrives, seated not on the crowded outdoor patio, but inside the restaurant, at a rather private table well out of the way of the usual crowd. One leg crossed, her attention snagged by the tablet she holds in front of her with a careful precision. Awareness of her surroundings is written into the frame of her body, the alert posture, but she is absorbed by her work and does not see him until he is close, the hostess leading him through the maze of tables chatting pleasantly about the weather and the day's specials.

And when she sees him, she stands. Chair sliding backwards with the movement of her hips, tucking the tablet neatly down on the dark table. There is an echo of his own manner there, which seems as ingrained in her behavior as it is in his, arrived at through different avenues. Look, she does not assist him with his chair, under any guise, but simply extends her hand to him across the table, her dark head tilted, her fine mouth smoothing into a wry, contained half-smile.

"Mr. White." A perfect tincture of irony shades her tone.

A single golden bracelet slides down her forearm as they shake hands. Then she releases his hand and reclaims her seat as he claims his own.

--

Truth, they have little in common, and their small-talk is like to be as banal as the exchange he shared with the hostess over the weather. Éva already has a chili-infused bloody Mary on the table. While drinks are ordered, menus distributed, specials explained, she recommends that he try one. With tequila, not vodka. Or, no. Perhaps he should try the "Ultimate" bloody, which will arrived with its own virtual meal stacked atop the drink skewered through. This recommendation, bland as it is, nevertheless has the feel of a challenge.

There is a certain lift to her chin. A certain sharpening of expressive brows over dark eyes, which gleam with a banked but oddly feral humor.

She is dressed rather more casually on the first Saturday of a holiday weekend than she was on a Friday evening, at the workweek's end. Jeans and dark, open-toed sandals with a slight wedge heel. A V-necked silk blouse or shell, ivory rather than white, with some sort of hand-worked detail where the hem curves at her hips - but still, there is this - a three-quarter sleeved jacket. The shape is menswear inspired, the fabric a heathered, dark charcoal with very subtle pinstripes. The jacket is well-fitted but not body-skimming, and although it is perfectly pleasant inside Lola - she will not remove the blazer throughout their brunch.

During that first flurry of activity at the table, the conversation remains light. She re-awakens the tablet and scrolls through her camera roll, finds and shows him a particular picture. A hallway, the impression of a Persian runner on a hardwood floor and a mahogany console table to one side. Children's shoes tumbled in a mass beneath it, and a glimpse of a toddler in the distance, who is not the focus of the picture.

The focus is a girl, eight or nine or ten, standing framed by the wall and a rising stairwell, proudly showing off her new cowboy boots. With heels to hook onto stirrups, thick enough leather to protect her ankles from rattlers, and just enough tooling to make a solemn little kid stick out one hip sharply and pose like that. Like there was nothing better in the world than what was on her feet at just that moment.

They are not pink.

"She wanted them for riding lessons," Éva reports, voice infused with the dry tone of a defeated parent. " - but wanted to be sure she had the boots before she requested the lessons. Ellie likes to be prepared."

Then, later, the waitress removing their menus (she orders an oyster shooter and the rock shrimp ceviche), she appends, with a rather more somber mien. "Though I think this will not be the summer of riding lessons."

--

And so, waitstaff retreats.
And so, the conversation changes.

After all, this is not a social call.


"I don't know what rumors you and your family heard about the incident a few weeks ago. They're keeping it quiet as they can." A half-hooked smile that does not reach her eyes. They. The Garou, she means. "Though I am sure that they will share what they know with the each other at the next full moon. The facts are simple enough - one of the city Guardians was ritually murdered, his body surrounded by the bodies of a number of men and women, whose hearts were removed. Consumed, and left behind in a parking garage far too close to their headquarters for anyone's comfort.

"I'll spare you the most gruesome of the details," the Shadow Lord continues, dark eyes carefully aslant from Calden. Not because she fears to meet his eyes or because she refuses to do so, but because she is keeping a careful watch on their periphery. Here again is the edge of her smile, as spare as any other, though perhaps not so ruthless as it might have been when first forged. " - in great part because I have spared myself the most gruesome of the details.

"One of my assistants tracked down what information she could on the dead men and women. No rhyme or reason to their disappearance. No evident patterns of place or time or opportunity, except for the brutality to which they were subjected in the end."

She inhales through her nose, her eyes dropping further aslant, dark head tipped forward, expression rather removed. He does not know her well enough to know that the bracing twist of her mouth, that follows, the steady rise of her dark eyes back to meet his own is the same expression she employed again and again in the days and weeks when it seemed she was accepting condolences from every Kinfolk in her acquaintance, and far too many gruff and scarred strangers.

"This is not a new enemy, though. But an old one returned to plague. Perhaps a year ago, a year and a half-ago, there was a series of similar attacks. A large pack of fallen targeted the city. They called themselves l'horreur bien-aimée," she speaks the French with as much precision as she can manage, but does not know the language, " - and for madmen, they were remarkably disciplined in their approach. They targeted Garou, and kin, taking them when they were alone, or in very small groups. Swarming and overwhelming with their numbers.

"Creating these - " a pause, her head canted aslant as if she were listening for a particularly distant and haunting tone, the tip of her tongue against the back of her teeth as she considers her next words. " - tableaux, for Sept to find. Corpses arranged, just so. Hearts consumed. Viscera - "

A sharp breath out. She leaves the word as it stands, finishes the thought with another spare, tight smile.

"The Sept Elders quiet nearly insisted that Kin who lived in the city move into the Sept itself. Or, venture out only with an escort of some rank.

"Of course they hunted the hunters as well. Eventually, they destroyed perhaps half the pack, and the tainted ones slipped away to wherever they'd come from in the first place. The attacks stopped. The city slipped back into some semblance of normalcy.

"I suppose their tale-tellers would call it a victory."

Here, she finds the cowboy's eyes again, across the table.

"But our losses were much greater than theirs."

The restaurant is crowded, popular, lively, and the sound of laughter and conversation fills the vertical space, as servers weave between the tables, rushing to keep up with the demands. Some crowd of tourists are clapping for the show of the guacamole prepared tableside and a pleasant hum has enveloped the room.

"And now, they're back."

--

That is the story she has for him. Told in a clear and quiet and quite nearly dispassionate voice. Once he has heard it, she becomes pensive. The truth is, there's little more that can be said.

Though her rather small plate is little more than half-consumed, she eats nothing more. Takes, merely, a sip or two further of her drink and summons the check with a direct look at the waitress and a lift of her chin. There is no dance over the bill. She explains quite clearly that they are splitting it, and pays her own in cash. If Calden pulls out a credit card to pay, she forestalls him with a touch of the tip of her forefinger on the edge of the card, and covers his bill with cash as well.

"Perhaps for the next few weeks or months, Mr. White, when you are in Denver it would be wise to avoid a paper trail."

After they have paid their bills, as they are saying goodbye, she cuts him another glance. Asks him if he has a conceal-carry permit. No? He has her card. He should call her office Monday morning. Her assistant will fax him the proper forms. Normally it takes a few weeks or a few months but, if they get it filed Monday, Judge Hagen will entertain the matter Tuesday morning. 

Calden

Lola isn't quite the sort of place Calden would pick. He seems comfortable enough -- relaxed, dressed down in his usual denims and flannels, not at all agog at the artistic little morsels on those shining white plates -- so it's not that this place is too classy for him or too modern or simply too expensive. Still, left to himself he would likely have chosen something a little ... meatier. Perhaps one of those steakhouses his ranch exclusively supplies: one of those swanky, edgy downtown establishments with those deliberately exposed brick walls, that brushed-steel lighting, the smell of charred meat and smoke in the air.

Lola is, however, exactly the sort of place Calden would have suspected Eva Illeshazy to frequent. Pricy. Sleek. As much about presentation as it is about food, with menus full of unexpected adjectives and a page or two of biographies at the back: their 'executive chefs', their 'organic sustainable sources'. He tells her as much as they meet over the table, his hand shaking hers while that bracelet slides down her wrist. This is exactly the sort of place I would've thought you'd like.

She suggests the ultimate bloody mary. He takes her advice, pairs it with a smoked salmon ciabatta. They exchange pleasantries; Calden bursts into laughter. Riding lessons. "I guess it should've been obvious she was up to something when she kept insisting she wanted real boots," he says. "When's her birthday? I'll get her a pair of spurs, but she has to promise not to use them 'til she can control a horse with her knees."

A little later, their food arrives, and the waitstaff withdraws, and the conversation turns toward the main topic. Calden doesn't say much, mostly listens, eats. Asks a question now and then to clarify. Doesn't touch the bloody mary until Eva's done with her story, until his sandwich is down to the last quarter, until they've both leaned back in their chairs.

Then he sips at it, eating meat off the skewer between drinks. "Sounds like things could get messy down here," he says. "I think I'll stay up north. But if you can pass word on that I'm ready and willing to help, I'd appreciate it. I've got family all over the state, and a couple of them might even be useful. I've got plenty of open land and spare rooms too if anyone needs to hole up for a few days."

A wry pause.

"And cattle. Plenty of that too, though I'll be damned if someone figures out a way to make 'em useful in a secret war."

*

The meal is finished. Eva pays with cash -- or she starts to, but Calden stops her. He's old-fashioned; still carries enough cash to cover a meal. If she argues, which wouldn't surprise him a bit, they end up splitting the bill. As they're walking out to their cars, she asks him about concealed-carry; he tells her he doesn't even own a handgun. Her assistant will fax him forms. She suggests a decent semiautomatic or three. He promises to check them out, and then --

"Eva," he says, as she's turning to pull open her car door, "thanks. And what I said earlier goes for you too. If your family needs to get out of town for a while, give me a call."

Home [In progress]

Sullivan Whelan
[dex or manip + crafts (2D Art spec)]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 4, 5, 6, 7) ( success x 2 ) [WP]
Sullivan Whelan
[Retry at +1]
Dice: 7 d10 TN7 (3, 3, 3, 4, 4, 6, 7) ( success x 1 )
Sullivan Whelan
[Ok, he waited a while to mail her the bill. Clearly this is why. So he came back to it a week later. Starting over!]
Dice: 7 d10 TN7 (3, 4, 6, 7, 7, 8, 8, 10) ( success x 6 ) Re-rolls: 1 [WP]
Sullivan
There was always a new gallery event going on down on Santa Fe. Likely Eva had been invited to more than a few of them. Tonight it was a gallery dedicated to new and emerging artists. Likely not the sort of thing that anyone outside the art scene would want to attend, except that one of the artists being showcased happened to be related to a person of some importance. And so the word got out, and many people-about-town were invited.
Sullivan was not the artist that many of those people came to see. But a handful of his paintings hung along one wall, and they were both good enough and interesting enough that they drew a respectable amount of attention despite the fact that his name held no special meaning or importance (not among mundane society, anyway.) There were four paintings in total: Half Light, Siren, Feral, and Home. All of them shared a dark color palette, with bright splashes of red adorning the more impassioned two (Siren and Feral.) Half Light was a stark, nearly black-and-white image of an old woman standing at a moonlit window, her face both shadowed and illuminated, soft and beautiful and harsh and aged - depending upon where the light struck. Siren was a young, partly naked girl sitting on a bed, her knees curled up to her bare chest and her face partly obscured by wild dark hair. Her arms were bleeding from a handful of wounds, and in one hand she clutched a knife. The one eye that wasn't obscured by her hair looked out at the viewer with a wild kind of intensity, frightened and angry and inappropriately sultry all at once.
Feral was a more abstract piece: a flowing pool of dark, ominous shapes splattered in blood.
Home was a cliff overlooking the sea. Dark, gloomy pines. A stormy spray of water. A sky darkened by clouds. This was all one saw if they gave merely a cursory glance, but a closer inspection revealed a face beneath the surface of the waves: a woman drowning in the sea.
Sullivan had spent the last fifteen minutes or so wandering about the gallery to take in the rest of the artwork. He was there alone tonight, and dressed in some of his better clothes, which amounted to a pair of slim black slacks, expensive-looking black dress-boots, a white buttoned shirt and a blue silk tie the same color as his eyes. Eventually he began to make his way back to his own collection, attempting to keep his presence as unobtrusive as possible so that he might casually overhear the comments being made.
Eva

Garrett Hagen is the well-connected up-and-coming artist. The one whose family connections have flooded the gallery tonight with strangers. Not just the usual bohemians and hipsters and professors and creative professionals in slim back jeans and ironic bow-ties, but lawyers and developers in their standard uniforms of dark suits and golf shirts and khakis, respectively. His father is a Judge, after all, and his sister is married to one of the prominent Denver developers and his older brother is running for city council in the next election, but there are already whispers that he has his sites set on mayor or congressman or some other higher office.

The new mix changes the vibe in the room, and the comments Sullivan overhears range from insightful remarks, admiration, reasonable critiques to the sort of privilege-oblivious middle/upper class queries made by men who golf and attend the symphony only because they sponsor it and must be seen, sometimes, in black tie. Like, who would hang that on a wall? Or, give me dogs playing poker any day.

Garrett's pieces are all about imprisonment. There are bars to be seen on every canvas, and only three people in the room know what that signifies to him. The account executives and chamber of commerce vice presidents in the room make those self-same comments about Garrett's pieces, but only when they think no one is looking. And one or two of his works already have a SOLD sign mounted over the identifying information.

The room is crowded and overwarm. Too many people in too small a space, the lights are too bright. The HVAC unit does not work well; or rather, no longer works well when stressed by so much bodyheat and the men are loosening their ties, the women taking off their jackets and walking around barearmed in shells or sheathe dresses.

Despite the heat, Éva has not removed her jacket. It is dark navy and fitted and expensive, and made to keep her warm in the artificially cold environment of her firm's offices. Beneath it, she wears a sheath dress, crisp ivory banded with concentric, darkening rings of navy down the skirt. The only hint of whimsy in her clothing is in her shoes: which are a lovely orange sherbet color and lift her another 3 1/2 inches above her barefoot height.

She spends a good twenty minutes or so chatting with Garrett Hagen's father - a local judge - and then another ten with the young man himself. Then, there are others in the crowd whom she knows. Or who know her. Some greet her discretely, and she allows them this discretion. Others, who have never required her particular brand of counsel, greet her more openly. But rarely warmly, and these other conversations are crisp and light and passing. Beneath it all, she is remarkably tense. Aware of the weapon tucked away in a shoulder holster beneath her jacket. Aware that it would do very little against -

- but she does not show this tension. She swallows it and smiles and speaks. She watches the corners of the room and drifts through it, now and then glancing at the other artists' pieces. She has no particular eye for such things, but when a piece strikes her, as Home does, she steps up to it, much closer than most would carry themselves, and studies it closely, a thoughtful, yielding frown on her face. The suggestion of absorption without the fact of it. She works hard to remain alive to her surroundings.

As now, several heartbeats in to just such an investigation of Home, a sidelong glance toward unobtrusive artist keeping an ear out for comments of the passers-by.

Her eyes are dark. Her hair is knotted into a rather severe chignon. There is a sense of composure about her that is almost perfectly calibrated to the room. The faintest tip of her dark head toward Sullivan by way of greeting then, when she catches his eye. It could stand in, as well, for an invitation to join her in front of the painting.

After that glance, her attention returns to the work. It is mounted with the horizon line just above her eye level, and that is where her attention lingers, chin lifted, her profile elegant against the shifting blur of the thinning crowd.

If Sullivan takes that tip of her head as invitation and joins her in front of the piece, she does not glance in his direction with more than a brief cut of her gaze. But she does ask him, quietly, " - is this one for sale?"Sullivan

[Per+Empathy (Emotional States spec)]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 5, 8, 9, 9, 9) ( success x 4 )Eva

Manipulation + Subterfuge (nothing to see here!)

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 4, 4, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 1 )Eva

(So: she's definitely in a heightened state of tension and working carefully to conceal it. She is more aware of her surroundings - hypervigilant - than she was the first night they met and seems removed from it. Concerned about something foremore, and perhaps a bit haunted.)

Sullivan

"It is, if you're really interested." Sullivan fell in beside Eva, glancing at his work with a guarded expression. "It's priced at three thousand."

Some might consider that a lot of money. More than likely too much to pay for something to be hung on a wall and promptly forgotten. Unless of course you were the sort of person for whom $3,000 was nothing more than spending money, which probably included some of the guests here tonight. Or unless one was the sort to buy a painting and not forget about it. Good art had a lasting effect on those who really looked at it.

Sully's eyes drifted back to Eva, regarding her profile and the fine arch of her cheekbones. Taking in the set of her jaw and the angle of her neck. Reading the tension in the minute details of her body language. After a soft exhale, he asked, "Are you okay?"

Because she didn't look okay. Composed, certainly, and more than capable of dealing with whatever worries may have been eating at her. But the haunted look in her dark eyes troubled him.

Eva

Can he read it in her? She is the sort to purchase a piece of art and then forget about it. Her presence here tonight has little to do with the works on the walls or the passion of the artists who created them, and everything to do with the Judge who sent her an invitation, for all that he marked it as no more than FYI.

"Perfectly well." Éva lies, with a crisp and unwholesome ease. There is a curve to her mouth with the words, though now that Sullivan has seen that haunted look in her eyes, there is no unseeing it. The tension outlines her frame, evident somehow in the set of her shoulders, the stiffness of her wrists. The tendons of her neck. The well of memory in her eyes. "Thank you."

It was long enough ago that she cannot remember every textured detail, but there are pieces of it that will never leave her. It was evening; she was working late. She answered the phone thoughtlessly, exasperated at the interruption as she was struggling to finish - what was it? Important at the time. Then Rozsa, her voice breaking. They're here. - in the middle of the words. They want to see you.

"Tell me," oh, her dark eyes linger on the painting in its frame, but here she cuts a slanting glance his direction, the sweep of her profile enough to give him a hinting view of her other cheek, the suggestion of her mouth, that curve deepening into a quietly polite half-smile of inquiry as she tips her head toward the piece on display.

"Why is she in the water." The briefest emphasis, the knuckle of her index finger tucked in the direction of the drowning woman. "Is it suicide - or did the storm draw her in?" Another pause. "Or was there something else?"

Eva

(BRB!)

Sullivan

Perfectly well, thank you.

Sully's expression shifted for a moment, the line of his heavy brows lifting in what was likely a mix of concern and skepticism, but he schooled himself away from it - chose for the moment to let the matter rest. The crisp, bright lighting in the gallery brought out the vivid hues in his eyes and the boosted the stark contrast between his white shirt, blue tie and black pants. He looked like he belonged there - more at home in spaces like these than perhaps Eva was.

Not that she stood out - at least not in a bad way.

When she asked about the painting, he answered without looking away from her eyes. "She was pulled under. The sea overcame her."

Eva

Though there are tables with beer and wine and inexpensive hors d'oeuvres scattered about the space and most are drinking, Éva carries neither a plastic wine glass nor a plate littered with strawberry hulls and the skins from cocktail peanuts. Her hands are free, the both of them, though having indicated the woman drowning in the painted sea, she now tucks her elbow and arm back against the bag she carries beneath her shoulder. Feels the weight of that bag firm against her ribs.

For the first time since she caught the young artist's gaze and invited him to join her in front of this particular work, her dark eyes cut away from the painted proper to his meet his own. Meet them with the same level equanimity she has cultivated about herself since she arrived at the gathering. Though there is something, some upward tilt of her chin, that embeds the look with a sharper sense of repartée.

"Was she merely walking on the strand when the tide came in?" A hook of her brows. The bright lights fixated on the pieces on the walls do her no particular favors tonight. Though perhaps Sullivan is the only one in the space to see the hint of strain around her eyes. Which was no way in evidence the first night they met.

"Or did she swim out too far. Get herself caught in some undertow?"

Fern [seven]

Fern

[Quick vote: post order y/n?]

Jack

[ Y ]

Eva Illeshazy

(mmm. YES.)

underdog

[yes plz!]

Keisha Ballard

[Sure!]

Calden White

[i'm going to vote yes for now, but if it takes an hour for a hour i'm gonna change my vote to no *LOL*]

Fern

[The ayes have it!]

Fern

[Glad you all could make it! A few ground rules:

- Keep track of your own health (including wound penalties if applicable) and tempers.
- Try to post in 15 minutes or less, understanding that 10 minutes or less is vastly preferable, especially in a scene this size (sometimes it's a good idea to start writing your next post while other people are posting).
- If you choose to multitask, make sure you can keep to the above time limit. If it becomes a problem I will ask you to leave one of the scenes out of respect for my and the other player's time.
- Ask questions in the scene chat (or IM if you're Damon and your current client doesn't support chats). Please do not IM me otherwise. If I don't respond immediately, I'm probably posting/notetaking. Wait, or PM me once in Jove if it's urgent.
- Nightmares, et al? Roll 'em now!
- Please PM me flaws/merits such as phobias, compulsions, hatreds, moon-bound, etc.
- Also PM me any strictly off-limits themes, imagery, or events that will make it difficult or impossible for you to enjoy the scene. If at any time a description is too graphic or IC events make you too uncomfortable to continue, please IM me and ask me to tone it down or, if you need to leave right away, ask me to write your character out of the scene.
- Setup post forthcoming!]

Fern

The sun's trajectory toward the peaks of the Rockies is not so advanced that the sky is any color but a pristine pale blue. There are clouds, but they are thick and white and hang almost motionless. The very air smells like early summer: wet and rich, the sort of smell that has been missing for months upon months. It's hard to remember it's still technically a drought. It's warm outside, warm enough for short sleeves or no sleeves, and breezeless.

Downtown Denver, on a Friday night, is already packed even when the sun hasn't gone down. No one is heading to nightclubs yet, but the over-thirty, after-work set is leaving 24-Hour Fitness or laughing around tables at ChoLon and Bistro Vendome. It's the sort of night that makes people fall in love with this place, even after nine months of wintry weather.

But off of the 16th Street Mall and south of the financial district where 1999 Broadway sits and past Civic Center Park and past the Denver Art Museum there is a two-story pub called Pints. They specialize in Scotch. It's darker here, less shiny, no matter how close to the centers of culture it may be. People come here because they like to drink things that taste like smoke and peat-moss and leather. There's a red phone box outside, how very quaint.

There's also a parking lot across from that pub, and that's where a tall, very thin girl with wide eyes and a couple of moles on her cheek has been standing for the last forty-five minutes, staring at the pub.

Keisha Ballard

Keisha's happy to be out tonight. She's spent so much time settling in that she's avoided the nightlife...which is also convenient, because she doesn't always do so well around people she doesn't know. Not that she's an idiot in social situations like something out of The Hangover, but she does get a bit awkward from time to time and has a tendency to ramble. So she hasn't pushed herself to get out like she perhaps should have.

But tonight is different. She's finished all the books she has to read, there's nothing on TV and it's time to give the city a shot. She makes her way down the street toward the bar in a sleeveless blouse, green to complement her mocha skin, and a pair of jeans. Not designer by any stretch, more the off-the-rack Target stuff. Her ever-present staff is in her hand, tapping on the ground as she walks. It doesn't help her blend in in most situations, but at least it makes a solid conversation piece most of the time.

She crosses by the parking lot, giving the girl a quick glance and a little smile before she goes to move across the street to the pub.

Calden White

Word reaches Calden the way it always does. As remote as he is, as far away from all this, there are few tribes as prone to gossip and word-of-mouth as his own. Wednesday before last one of his distant cousins stopped by for a cup of coffee. Standing in the foyer ready to leave, he'd turned back at the last moment:

You hear about what happened down in Denver?

And no, no Calden had not. So that's how he hears it the first time, vaguely, with few discernible details. A few days later another distant uncle or cousin or possibly even nephew -- Calden never could keep the tangled branches of his family tree clear -- called him and told him again, in deeper grislier detail; added at the end:

So watch yourself when you're down that way, k?

Calden, who knows exactly two non-family people down in Denver, proceeded to call both of them. He got voicemail in the case of the Garou, left a message along the lines of There's been some talk about some Cliath kid getting turned into a maypole along with a few humans. I'm not sure on the details, but I thought you should know. Call me back if you haven't already heard it from someone else, and I'll tell you what I know.

He gets the

Calden White

[what the fuck, i didn't mean to post.]

Jack

Jack is a squat bulldog of a man looking for a drink. That search takes him out of the epicenter of art and culture in search of a place that's just like Pints. His motorcycle, a monster of matte green and camouflage streaks, kicks itself up into the parking low across the street from Pints. Past the girl. Past Keisha. Past a few cars. Into a spot he can comfortably back into, off the road where drunk drivers and pedestrian revelers are less likely to fuck with it.

Pop's Rule #11: Never park your bike in front of where you're drinkin'.

He's all leather and hard Carhartt canvas, jackboots and callouses. His buzz cut head has a light film of sweat and grime on it, and there's a musk to him that, while not foul, is distinctly feral. Like he got off work from a construction site. Yesterday. He looks to be in his mid-twenties, with a snout and a scowl on him that makes his fat and thick-boned face not too attractive, more neanderthalenis and less sapien. A five-day-shadow of unflattering scruff and bushy eyebrows is further cause for separation.

Maybe that's why he comes out to this patinaed place. Far from the bright lights and hypermodern architecture. Even far from the faux-dives and Coyote Uglies and neon. To Pints.

He kicks his leg over his iron steed and his musclebound 5'7” frame starts its lead-footed gait back out of the lot and toward the building, which will probably take him right past that aforementioned wide-eyed girl.

underdog

It's not the sort of place people might expect to see a woman like Nina. She's dressed in mostly dark colors, black jeans, dark t-shirt, leather jacket slumped over the back of a chair she lounges back in like she's a fucking queen. Well, maybe not exactly like that. Would a queen have one arm draped over that chair back as well? With her shoulders sharply angled and her legs stretched out just about as far as they can stretch. The posture is relaxed, more lioness, queen of the jungle, than something prim and proper and European.

She sits as she sits, like she owns the place basically, and like she doesn't notice the furtive stares tossed in her direction from the other patrons. It's the tattoos, probably, make her look like she's a thug. Which is a joke, really. It's the scars, it's always the scars. On her face and throat, her collar, her arms. Terrible old things that mar what was once a prefectly lovely young face.

Nina doesn't give one single fuck about the stares. She's more concerned with the tumbler full of amber liquid she holds in one hand. She'll care when, inevitably, someone makes their way over and tries to start something. She takes her first sip of her scotch, tasting it, and is presently unaware of any girls in parking lots outside.

Eva Illeshazy

It is warm enough for short sleeves, but the dark-haired woman cutting directly across the parking lot, a key fob in her hand, is wearing a long-sleeved suit coat over a long-sleeved butter-yellow silk blouse. It is the end of the day and she has pushed the cuffs partway up her forearms. Someone looking closely would see the wrinkles the day's wearing has worked into the skirt, which ends a modest one or two inches above her knees, or the jacket. But for all that she has pushed up the sleeves of the jacket, she does not let it sag unbuttoned, or even take it off, as someone else might do after a long day's work, having emerged from the crisp chill of a heavily air conditioned professional building into the sudden heat of early summer.

Her gait is crisp and efficient. She is careful and aware of her surroundings, aware enough to give the girl a second glance as she stops on the curb and waits for traffic to thin so that she can jaywalk mid-block, then keeps walking through the sweep of running lights.

She is wearing heels, respectible, two inches or so. Closed-toes. There are no concessions to summer, no acknowledgments of it in her attire except in the color of her blouse and the thin weight of the silk. And no one here is close enough to her to know that.

--

Eva's there ahead of Keisha and Jack, already pulling open the pub door when the later pulls up on his bike. She ducks inside, squinting abruptly in the sudden gloom of a smokey club, looking to see if Calden has already arrived. If not, she will get a table. A quiet one away from the crowd. Their talk is not meant for other ears.

Tall, late-30s, early-40s, she frowns as she surveys the interior faintly. Her gaze snags on Nina, lingers a half-second too long, then sweeps onward.

Calden White

He gets the second of his two non-family contacts on a live call. And he wants to know if she's heard, and maybe she has and maybe she hasn't, but either way talking about this sort of thing over the airwaves is always a little weird. So they agree to meet for drinks. And of course Pints is the sort of place a thirty-something son of Stag with deep roots in the state, the tribe, the land would pick out.

So: a little after eight, and Calden is at a table by himself. Something about this feels deceptively familiar: waiting at a drinking establishment. On a weekend night. For attractive female company. It's like he's been here before.

Calden White

[fuck's sake. sorry guys, it's really. fucking. hard. to play on a tablet.]

Fern

[no problem. no italics here. none.]

Fern

The girl watches all of them. She is dressed almost primly: a sheer white blouse buttoned all the way up to the Peter-Pan collar, the sleeves voluminous with three-inch-long cuffs that hug her wrists. Over that is a jumper, blocky and navy blue but trim at the waist. It ends mid-thigh, but her thighs are very long. Her shoes have flat soles and tight, double-knotted laces. Her socks have lace. She doesn't actually look all that out of place in downtown Denver; truthfully, neither does Keisha, even with the staff.

Her hands are in the pockets of her jumper, moving occasionally. And her eyes, wide and blue and unblinking, snap to Keisha when she walks by. She looks startled, then settled, then ...seems to forget Keisha entirely. She does not see Nina or Calden at all, for obvious reasons. Eva gets stared at, but the girl says nothing, does nothing. She forgets Eva, too.

Then Jack. She does the same thing there as before: a sudden look, a silent intake of breath, a pause, and then her upper teeth hug her lower lip for a moment. She pointedly looks away, then looks back at him, and waits for him to go inside.

--

Inside the pub, people are seated. High tables, the bar, booths, what-have-you. The upstairs is open and the place is reasonably busy. There are a few glass panels in the floor where you can look down at things going on in the still. The available drinks take up a book that rivals Moby Dick in thickness; the staff is knowledgeable. The food is ...not why people come here, and is just salty and oily and carby enough to make it possible to drink for long, long periods of time.

They settle in however they settle in. Most of them may not even notice when the girl comes in, hands still in her pockets. She still isn't blinking. It unnerves the staff. It would unnerve anyone. They don't seat her. She points to Jack, wherever he may be, and then starts to head his way. You can almost imagine what she says: I'm meeting someone. There he is.

Keisha Ballard

The girl's reaction draws a slight cock of her head, but she shrugs it off for the moment. Jack's motorcycle draws her attention and she jerks her head back. Motorcycles just generally draw attention over cars; they're louder and rather distinctive. And, you know, cooler than cars, most of the time. She watches him pull in and then looks back, continuing on her path through the crosswalk (she's a good girl) and toward the door of the pub.

The door is pulled open, and in she heads. She stops just inside, getting the lay of the land. She's used to bars like this; she's been going to them since well before she was legally able to. But she's done with that lifestyle now for the most part. Cut loose every once in a while? Sure, but she's not out of control anymore. She knows what happens then.

She gives the room a slow pass. Nina...Eva...Calden, and the rest of the inhabitants. Calden is someone that she knows, and she smiles to him and waves, walking in his direction. Go with someone you know, and maybe you can network out from there. "Hey there."

She glances back as Jack enters, and then the girl. Different points converging in one place. Connections like a web. Well, it is a city, so that would make sense...her eyes turn back to Calden. "Funny running into you here."

underdog

[percept+PU on Keisha!]

Dice: 5 d10 TN5 (2, 4, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )

Jack

When the girl enters and points at him, Jack has just been handed his drink at the bar.

Because Jack is not the kind of man to be waited upon by someone that tries to make small talk or see to his needs in search of gratuity, this is why he circumvents the troop of servers making their way to clusters of business men and business women and other inhabitants of the bar. His gratuity for the cheap whiskey he gets? A buck left on the table. So really it's as much for his own peace of mind as it is for the waitstaff's.

He had noticed Nina because he is the kind of Garou to notice things. Spotted her in the back, because he notices where the eyes of monkeys go and, more pointedly, where they don't go. He's already turned in her direction, maybe gearing up to make some remark about what a fat fucking chance it is he'd see her here.

That's when he notices the girl pointing at him. Notices her coming his way. When he stops and waits, head canted to the side in a most lupine of gestures, drink still clutched in fat fingered hands. The tip of his tongue juts out the side of his mouth, and sharp white teeth chew on it for a second before he puts it to work speaking:

"Yeah?" Looking her up and down. Maybe even unconsciously lingering on her long thighs for a second. His tongue slips out again, this time to lick his lips before he closes his mouth.

Jack

[ Perception + Primal-Urge. ]

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 4, 4, 5, 10) ( fail ) Re-rolls: 1

underdog

Once or twice, Nina glances in the direction of the tall, muscley ranch man sitting a few tables over. He doesn't hold her attention half so well as the drink her hand, though. Mostly that has to do with the breeding, which is faint yet not so faint she doesn't notice it. But it's the wrong bloodline for her taste, and he doesn't look like he'd be half so fun to interrupt as a couple of others of Stag's brood had been.

The door opens and she's not sitting in such a way that she notices the familiar wolf that swaggers on in. Then there's the woman with the braids and the staff? If Keisha happens to notice the scarred blonde sitting toward the back, she'll notice the woman looking at her with the sort of smile that says she knows a few things she keeps close to her vest.

If she continues on to the Fianna man, that's only, like, -2 points against her. +10 for the staff means she's still ahead, though.

Maybe she has a sense for when particularly important (or at least interesting) people look at her from across fairly crowded pubs. Turning her head in a way that uses the least possible amount of energy, she looks over her shoulder, and she grins at who she sees. She sits up, setting her glass down on the table and turning in her chair before rising, her movements swift, the power in her stocky physique controlled. Cutting through the crowd, she makes her way toward her...friend? Sort of? And she makes the comment he would have if he'd gotten to her first.

"Jack, y'old bastard," she greets in a way that for her is fond. "Didn't think I'd see you here. Who's your friend?" she asks, leaning a little to get a better look at the girl who's heading for him like it's some kind of mission.

Eva Illeshazy

The second of Calden's two non-family contacts told him that she has heard. There are rumors, and none she shares over the phone. She even has some facts, and agrees to meet. So, here she is on a Friday night, with the sun sinking below the horizon. She has been wearing her heels all day and her toes are starting to ache, but the pain is minor and Eva ignores it as she crosses the pub, stepping carefully around Nine to join Calden at his table.

There are a few lines around her eyes, more noticeable tonight, after a long week, than they sometimes are. But the dim and smokey atmosphere in the pub goes a fair way to banishing them, and she is not the sort to wear her heart on her sleeve or her fear(s) in her heart.

"Mr. White," Eva greets the Stag kinsman as she crosses the space to his table. Then, the first cut of a wry half-smile. "Apologies, Calden. It's been a long day."

She pulls out her own seat and lifts both a chin and a hand to summon the waitress and order a Lagavulin, neat. Waves away the food menu when it is offered to her. She could not maintain that figure and eat the food they serve here. Not after three children. Not at her age.

Both her bag and her briefcase she tucks carefully beneath the table, beside her feet. Whatever might have followed is arrested when the girl walks in. A narrow line appears between the dark-haired woman's brows. It smooths away as Keisha approaches, but that smoothing is deliberated, concealing her wariness of strangers on a night like this after the recent events in Denver, behind perfectly polite, mildly engaging smile, dark brows like hooked wings lifted in careful question between Keisha, leaving Calden to make introductions or not as he will.

Calden White

Well then. Make it three people he knows in the city. Possibly even more than that; didn't Sam and her brother say they lived in the area too? Calden has so many friends in Denver!

-- anyway. He is waved at; he looks at the wave-r with surprise and delight. "Hey," he says, standing up as Keisha approaches. It's a touch of chivalry, which he masks by hauling a chair over from an adjoining table. His table was for two; now it's a bit cramped, for three. "I come here once in a while," he adds. "I'm actually meeting Eva tonight. She was at the party too, don't know if you met her?

"We were going to compare notes on some stuff going on in town." After Keisha takes a seat, so does Calden, pulling his chair in closer to the little table so he can lower his voice. "A kid -- a Cliath -- by the name of River of Clouds got butchered in some sort of diabolical rite. You hear anything about it?"

Calden White

[there's more coming. ffs. tablet makes it really hard to edit posts.]

underdog

[damon i have to say it is pretty baller of you to even attempt to rp via tablet. +10 coolness points!]

Calden White

Whether or not Keisha-of-the-interesting-staff has heard about it, Calden's eyes -- some indeterminate hue in this dimness -- flick over her shoulder at the approach of another. That smile again, though less surprised this time, and that gentlemanly rise again. He's a tall man. Eva is a tall woman, but even without cowboy boots -- because,though it would surely disappoint Ellie to find out, Calden doesn't always wear them -- he's a few inches taller.

"Counselor," he greets her, since she was insisting on the Mr. There's a hint of smirk now; he waves her to the empty chair with a gesture of his broad palm. Doesn't push the chair in for her. That would be a touch too intimate. "Have you met Keisha? She was at Beltaine too. We just ran into each other waiting for you."

There's no food on the table -- yet. There's food coming, though, wings and sliders. And there is scotch, a fairly healthy helping of it, neat, with a few drops of spring water. Because that's how you're supposed to drink it, Calden would insist. Heathens.

[well, my tablet has a dock!]

underdog

[oh. -5 coolness points, so you're still up a little!]

Fern

[perception + alertness]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 3) ( botch x 1 )

Fern

Naturally, the wait staff asks Eva what year. When someone comes in and knows what they want, that is the only question. When someone comes in curious, there are questions about flavors and explanations of different kinds of scotch and distilleries and even discussions of how the different tastes enter the spirit. But with Eva: what year. That's all they need to know.

--

The girl -- she is the sort perpetually, unfailingly described as barely legal -- is ignoring everyone. Her unblinking, sky-colored eyes have not left Jack and do not now. She looks like her breathing is picking up just standing there, anticipation written into every long, lean line of her form, which,

frankly,

towers over Jack's. And it isn't that she doesn't see the way he looks at her in that moment, the flick of his tongue over his lips. She sees it. And either she doesn't understand it, or she is very, very good at acting like the gangly, innocent fawn she looks like.

"I need you," she says, almost stumbling over the words. She moves her hands in her pockets, then works them out, and they flutter for a moment before falling. "Please, I... I really need your help."

underdog

[percept+PU on the girl, right amount of dice this time!]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 5, 5, 5, 9) ( fail )

Calden White

[the dice god smileth not upon thee.]

Keisha Ballard

Keisha smiles as Calden introduces her to Eva. "I don't think we did run into each other there...nice to meet you, Eva." She is about to apologize for interrupting and her face says as much before Calden explains about the death of a Cliath. Her brows furrow, the smile vanishing into a shocked state. "Oh, Goddess. That's horrible....no, I hadn't heard. Is there anything I might do to help?" Helping fix things. She's better at that than she is just randomly meeting people and doing the life story. It's a bonding opportunity!

Jack

"Fuck if I know," is Jack's answer to Nina as she joins him at the bar.

Ma's Rule #7: Bars are full of hussies and you should stay away.

Pop's Rule #7: Your ma's half right about Rule #7.

Jack is wondering if he's about to find out which was right. The first words out of Fern's mouth straightens his head as his neck tenses, his jaw set at its line of muscles up to his temple begin to flex. It settles in. Maybe because she's closer. Maybe because he can smell her. Maybe because if he had hackles in this form, they would be as raised as any wolf's when presented with this tempest in a teapot. Like a deafening roar undercuts her timid voice.

And somehow the words ring as true. But they are few, and he doesn't seem satisfied. Not suspicious, not one bit, but left wanting.

"Keep talkin'," without a glance over at Nina, not yet, his attention on the girl in front of him. "You a local?"

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 5, 9, 10) ( success x 2 )

underdog

If the girl towers over Jack then she definitely towers over Nina as well. Nina, one hand planting firmly on her hip, the other a little abover that black leather holster bag strapped to her thigh, tips her chin up to better see the girl. With Nina there's always a bit of a challenge in her stance, the set of her shoulders, the cant of her head. What with all that's happened in recent weeks in the city the look is nothing more than that. Just a little challenge, or perhaps a warning. Little dogs always have the most to prove, after all.

The girl is talking to Jack, though, doesn't seem to have much interest in the other people in the pub. That's just fine, it gives Nina a chance to study her, her grey-eyed gaze sweeping over the girl from head to toe and back up again, sizing her up.

She shifts her weight, one hip pushing out a little further, and her head cants the other way so that she's looking up more from the corner of her eye than straight on, as if this will help her read the girl better. Jack's already asked the good questions, though, so Nina waits for that answer before interjecting with one of her own.

Eva Illeshazy

The Fianna's smirk is returned with a rather dry stare, given a twist by the wry curve of her mouth. So she seats herself. Orders her own drink, (the 2008 12-year-old), and takes it as Calden insists is proper. When the drink arrives, she lifts it in idle toast to the Fianna kinsman. In matters of Scotch and uillean pipes, always bow to Fianna expertise. At least for the night, or they'll talk your ear off about how wrong you are.

Andraj said that, once. The ghost of a smile inflects in her eyes, but never quiet reaches her mouth.

Then Calden's introduction, the mention of the Fianna revels on the first of May, together are enough to ease the tension from the Shadow Lord's shoulders. The easing is minute; mostly the shift of her musculature is hidden beneath her suit coat; a certain uncoiling of the spine, a certain cant of her dark head. There is a hint of breeding to Eva, much as there is a hint of breeding to Calden. Just enough that Garou can see her and mark her and know her as a Shadow Lord. Some suggestion of rain in the air; the first slanting front motion of a summer storm barreling across the plains.

"It's a pleasure," the kinswoman returns, a spare look, taking in Keisha's staff, her demeanor, her clothing, then returning as a check to glance at Calden. Gauging his reaction before she decides how much to share. At last, she tips her head neatly to Keisha, returning quietly. "I can put you in touch with one of the guardians if you think you have something to offer them."

Calden White

"Here to find that out myself," Calden replies to Keisha, regarding helping. "Or at least how to stay out of trouble."

Chairs scrape the floor as they pull themselves in. Eva's drink arrives quickly; this is, after all, primarily a drinking establishment. They're interrupted for a moment as the staff -- as in the wait staff, not Keisha's walking staff -- checks to see if Keisha wants a drink. There may or may not be judgment implied if she doesn't want a drink. At a place called Pints.

"I don't know a lot," Calden offers when they're left alone again. "I heard what I heard through the grapevine. As far as I know they found Cloud's body at the center of some ritualistic array, complete with guts strung out like ribbons. It may or may not be the first such display they've found; I heard conflicting things. Anyway," he sums up what little he has, "it's got the wolves down in the city riled and worried. Which probably means it's at least worth being aware of. And wary about."

He lifts his tumbler, taking a sip. "You hear anything more than that?"

[K, I was just informed that drinks are NOT forthcoming. But it's fucking impossible for me to edit my post so JUST IMAGINE THAT'S WHAT MY POST SAID.]

Fern

Bars are full of hussies. This girl doesn't look like a hussie. She looks lost. And she feels like something else entirely.

One of the waitresses who is staffing near the bar walks past her twice in the span of ten minutes and, as a result, is shaking when she comes back to Eva and Calden with their scotch. Shaking so much, in fact, that the round tray tips a bit too much when she gets to them. They don't get to lift their glasses. They don't get to taste that amber-colored gift of the gods. Two tumblers go sprawling, spilling contents onto the cards beneath them, the napkins, the table, splashing Eva's pretty yellow blouse and rolling off the table onto Calden's jeans all in one fell swoop. The woman is pale and apologizing, grabbing her bar towel and starting to sop up what she can.

I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, that was so stupid, I'm so sorry she is saying, like a chant to calm herself.

--

The girl attempts a smile and fails. She sighs. "I'm from Gunnison," she says. "It's really cold up there. All the time, really. I like it better down here. It's warmer. I have more friends."

She tries to smile again but it's tight. It's wan. There are tears in her eyes. "Please, I really need some help. They're not good friends." They are threatening to spill out. "They're really bad friends," she whispers, like maybe someone is listening, like maybe someone is watching, like

she's fucking terrified.

Fern

[okay so calden already had a scotch, so only one drink gets SPILLED EVERYWHERE]

underdog

[percept+empathy]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 7, 10) ( success x 1 )

Eva Illeshazy

Perception + Primal Urge / Intuition

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (3, 7, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )

Keisha Ballard

Normally, Keisha would have happily asked for a drink. That's why she came to a bar, after all. But the course of her evening appears to have changed significantly (yes, she's a do-gooder, she generally drops her plans when trouble is afoot) and she handles the situation with at least a moderate amount of tact, saying "I'll order in just a few, I promise. I'm just being indecisive."

She smiles at Eva and nods. "Please do, yeah. I have a little knowledge about ritual things...not just our kind, but a smattering of the other kind, too." She pauses and her eyes get really wide. "The, uh, human kind. Not the other, OTHER kind."

She jumps as the scotch is spilled and she immediately moves to help the waitress. "It's okay, I promise." She takes a soothing tone, trying to calm the girl. A quick glance is given the direction that the waitress came from...the girl, and that motorcycle guy. Her eyes narrow a bit, but first things first...get the human out of earshot. "Here, let me help..." And try to help she does, so the waitress can get away from the Ragey types soon.

Jack

[ Perception + Empathy to see if this girl is truly terrified. ]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 4, 4, 4, 7, 7) ( success x 2 )

Eva Illeshazy

[Perception + Occult on Girl - recognize Garou. Base dif - 8]

Dice: 5 d10 TN8 (1, 5, 6, 6, 9) ( fail )

Jack

"Alright. You need help. You're askin' for it and we ain't turned you away yet, right? So, you can stop worryin'. Who's on your tail? Who's after you? Or they still up in Gunnison?" Jack's direct and to the point. He doesn't coddle the girl, doesn't seem all that phased by her tears. In fact, the emotion seems to stir little sympathy in him. But he's paying attention. And his words aren't unkind.

He's still got his drink in his hand. He holds it out to her. "You want to sit down? How'd you get down here?" He glances over to where Nina had been sitting, where her jacket might still be.

underdog

The knot of Garou by the bar have more Rage between them than any human has a right to withstand. Already the stools around them have emptied as if by magic. But no, actually. It's fear. There's a girl, a waitress, who passes by them not once, but twice. It's no wonder that by the time she's bearing a tray to the table set with two purely bred kinfolk and one werewolf she's unable to maintain her hold. Glass drops, shatters, the nectar of the gods is spilled everywhere. Nina cocks her head, but doesn't turn away.

She's still watching the girl, still wary and suspicious. That is, until the tears well up in her sky blue eyes. Jack, the unfeeling bastard, starts firing off questions like he's a No Moon fresh after his First Change. He gets to Or they still-- and Nina's hand shoots out, slamming into his chest with no small amount of force. The gesture is meant to stop him, stop him right the hell now.

Tilting her head slightly, the better the give him a bit of a glare, just in case the arm wasn't enough, she says low enough for only them to hear, "Not here."

She casts a look around the room, her gaze resting on those others, those strangers gathered at the table before she looks back to the girl. Unlike her buddy there, she wears an oddly sympathetic expression. "Wait here."

The Rotagar is off then, unzipping a pocket of her bag and pulling out a wad of cash. A few bills get tossed onto her table and her jacket picked up, and it's back across to the others if they're still at the bar. "C'mon, we should do this someplace...quieter."

Eva Illeshazy

(Perception + Primal Urge: EVERYONE K.)

Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 4, 5, 7) ( fail )

Eva Illeshazy

Calden doesn't know alot. Eva knows more than she should. Her expression is closed, but she's looking down at the rough wooden table and Calden shares the rumors that he heard. There's a new tension in her, evident in the visible tendons drawn taut against the long line of her neck. She glances up, over at the bar. Takes in a sharp, quiet breath, ready to explain something more of what she knows, or to ask that Keisha come by her office tomorrow morning so that introductions can be made.

Then the waitress drops the drinks; Keisha jumps up immediately to soothe the terrified waitress across the bar. Beneath the table, each taps the toe of her pump against the edge of Calden's shoe. Yes: shoe. Ellie would be deeply disappointed to learn that he does not wear cowboy boots all the time.

Over the surface of the table, while Calden sips his drink and Eva waits for one that will never arrive, leans forward carefully one she has his attention.

"The girl at the bar. In the white blouse, crying?" There's a certain emphasis on the word crying. A certain disbelief that she has noticed what she has noticed. Still, a moment later she bends closer. Her voice is very quiet.

Calden White

Stuff crashing to the floor always turns heads. Eva and Keisha and Jack and Nina -- they're not the only ones that notice. Some of the mundanes are looking over too, surprised, curious. Those that aren't: well, they're noticing the distinct lack of drinks too.

Calden turns back, though. There's a tap under the table. He's smooth enough not to glance down immediately to see what's going on, but his attention does swing around, an eyebrow up, questioning. Eva speaks quietly. He leans forward to hear it,

swings around to glance at the girl in question. Turns back.

"Serious?" Disbelief there, too. A moment's thought; then he gets up, picking his drink up. "Maybe we ought to see what about."

Fern

The waitress looks sick. Pale, shaken, and when Keisha tries to help her she doesn't move immediately, focused a little too intently on trying to clean up the one thing she can control. Not many people in the pub are reacting like this, but this girl is at the end of a long shift and a bad week and this is too much. She just nods, anxiety tightening up all her limbs, as Keisha at least indicates that it's fine, it's fine. She promises to be back with a new drink for Eva, but she's not making eye contact with anyone as she walks back away. The long way, this time.

--

Over by Jack, the girl sniffs. She doesn't blink. Tears fall but she doesn't wipe them away. She nods in agreement to what he says, but then he asks her five questions in a row and she just ...breaks down. Meanwhile, Nina is interrupting Jack with that hand, with those two words, and the girl is crumpling in on herself, face in her hands, shoulders shaking with tears.

"You h-h-h-have to come h-h-help me," she's pleading, and everyone in the bar is starting to turn, starting to look at the ridiculously tall girl who is now biting one of her fists as though to shut herself up.

That next sob has a bit of a roar under it, almost a scream. Those eyes of hers, so open, so wide, so lost, are turning red from exposure to the air, to dust, to light.

And then, quite suddenly, she shoots her hand out, the bitten one that now bears sharp imprints of her teeth, and grabs Jack's shirtfront. "You have to help me," she says, this time through teeth. She's staring at him to the exclusion of everything else. "I need one like you. It has to be you. I picked you. Can't go back now, can't go back, can't go back, can't ever go back, already did the one, already first step next step,"

her fist is clenching, harder, shockingly strong, and she's almost shaking him.

"All the steps and six and seven and seven and seven and I will be one of them and I won't be alone. I don't ever have to be alone anymore."

Now.

Now everyone in the pub's first floor is looking at her. At them.

Keisha Ballard

Keisha lets the waitress go on her way, her attention (like just about everyone in the bar now) drawn to the girl acting like a lunatic. She could take the time to observe, get information and act from an educated point of view. She absolutely could. But Keisha acts on instinct. Always rely on instincts; they'll never prove you wrong. So she doesn't waste time studying the girl and seeing what else she can learn. It doesn't take a genius or master of perception to know that something is very, very wrong here at this point.

"Jesus Fuck." A little of the wild child coming out in the coarse oath, as she slips off her stool and moves to approach Jack, Nina and the girl. She's not moving in a threatening manner, nor is she rushing. Hot heads will not help here, she is sure. But neither is she meandering or moving hesitantly. She throws a quick glance back at Calden and Eve before she looks ahead again and approaches, putting on a smile to the trio that she's approaching.

"Hey there. Maybe we should take this outside...undue attention and all." She's been smarter about this kind of thing in her life, but...hey, new city, new rules.

Jack

Ma was right.

"Yeah," his reaction to Keisha's recommendation, an echo of the disgruntled nod that came when Nina interrupted him, shut him up, and insisted they leave. Quiet acceptance, but not without a healthy dose of attitude.

The girl grabs him and he's looking up at her. His ears, perked up, almost seem to flex back despite the limitations of the apeskin he's wearing. Tuck themselves into the sides of his round and lumpy face. One hand reaches out to wrap around her wrist, the write of that hand his shirt is clutched in. The other one to her waist, trying to twist her into his own side and hold her there. Like one would the drunk girl that just took a swing at someone at the bar.

"Yeah, sweetness, I got a feelin' we're going to be spending a whole lot of quality time together, you're right," he says, through the grit of teeth. "Mind your fuckin' business," a little louder, eyes scanning the crowd that are all looking at him, his voice calmly threatening. Daring them to look their way another second, or get in his way as he leads her out.

underdog

[uh, negate that last thing Nina said in my last post! this would go in before she said anything.]

This, right here? This is the kind of thing Nina had been hoping to avoid. Her thought had been that this girl, this ridiculously tall girl overflowing with Rage, this girl was scared, yes. Scared because she'd fallen in with the wrong crowd and now wanted to get free.

A crowd that, if that were the truth and they didn't want this girl getting out from their ranks - they'd already been halved, see, they probably can't afford to lose any more - chances are she's being tailed, and any second now all hell could be brought down on their heads.

The girl breaks down and for a little while longer the illusion holds. Nina can hear it behind her as she makes her way across the room to pay for her drink and collect her jacket. As she slips the remaining bills into her pocket she pulls out a battered old cell phone. She's got a number or two that should probably get a heads up about this. Her thumbs are tap-tap-tapping across the keyboard - yes, the actual QWERTY keyboard, this is no fancy smartphone - as she heads back, crossing the room in long, powerful strides.

By the time she's back over by Jack the phone has been slipped back into her holster bag and Jack's no longer alone with the girl. The girl who's talking absolute crazy talk now, and who's got a chunk of the wolf-born Garou's shirt clutched in her fist.

Jack tries to reverse that hold. Nina, swinging her jacket casual-as-you-please over her shoulder, casts a look around the room, a sort of Yeah whut! You wanna go, bro? to the room at large. Nobody takes up that challenge, leaving her free to clear their path. Now, hopefully the girl proves moveable, either of her own free will or by Jack's and the chick with the fancy walking stick's brute strength.

Eva Illeshazy

Serious? asks Calden. Eva nods, the gesture spare in its simplicity. He suggests that they see what she's crying about and the older woman's mouth flattens to a straight line. She swallows behind it, breathes in through her nostrils and nods. The gesture is spare as every other.

Calden rises. Eva's chair scrapes roughly against the wooden floor as she pushes it back, left arm reaching down to pick up the dark, expensive leather handbag and dark, expensive leather briefcase that match the rest of her dark, expensive uniform-of-a-certain age and class. Her chin is high, the expression spare. She is aware of the Fianna in her periphery, but does not glance toward him except for a fleeting glance. The faintest break in her expression as she registers, somehow, that he has picked up his drink.

Eva is a tall woman, made taller by the polished, quietly expensive (there is a pattern here) Italian leather pumps she wears. Her fitness is earned. She runs in the cold light of morning, before the rest of her household is up. Or in the spare, flourescent shadows of a hotel gym, long after her colleagues have given way to their baser passions for sports or alcohol.

--

They are all converging in a knot. Eva is focused on the crying girl, stealing herself to interrupt and interpose. There is no need. That little knot is moving upward. Jack is pulling the crying girl out with him, Keisha and Nina hurrying them onward. When Jack begins to pull the girl through the crowd, Eva cuts Calden a glance, her dark eyes cut up and down his profile. Gauging, perhaps, his committment to the moment.

And whether he is armed.

"I am so very sorry," not to the quartet exiting now, for all that Eva will be immediately behind them. Now she is at the bar, leaning over, gesturing to the barkeep but speaking with a certain precision that allows the other witnesses in the immediate vicinity to overhear. To be included in her explanations. " - for all the fuss. She's been having a hard time since her sister - "

Eva's voice cuts off and she glances aslant. There is grief in her that she does not have to feign. Then slips her bag open beneath her shoulder, pulls a series of bills from the billfold (she will not leave her name behind. Not here. Not tonight. Eva knows what Garou can do when they know you name: follow you and find you anywhere.

Instead, the handful of bills across the bar to the bartender. "A round on me, for anyone inconvenienced." The crisp curl of a spare smile, then she turns to follow the quartet out of the bar.

If there is a moment to do so while crossing the bar, or pausing to open the front door and follow the Garou outside, she will drop another quiet question to Calden.

It is a very simple one. "Are you armed?"

Eva Illeshazy

Manipulation + Subterfuge (Hidden Motives)

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 4 ) [WP]

Eva Illeshazy

(Added: target - bar patrons. Goal: don't call cops!)

Calden White

Calden was heading for the little cluster around the crying girl almost before Eva agrees to come along. There's something about the way he moves, the way his shoulders square and the way he plows through the crowd, that suggests he just might be the type to interfere with a rough-looking man ushering a crying woman out of a bar. Even if that woman happens to be a wolf.

That's before he hears what the woman's saying, though. And there's just enough there to raise his eyebrow. To make him suspicious. To make him hang back a second, thinking, long enough for Eva to ask him --

if he's armed. He glances at her, something steady in his eye. "I can be," he says. "I have a rifle in the truck. Are you?"

underdog

[percept+PU, dropping WP like it's hot]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 5, 5, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 4 ) [WP]

Jack

[ Perception + Primal-Urge. Is Keisha a Garou? Difficulty 5 'cause of her Rage. ]

Dice: 5 d10 TN5 (2, 2, 3, 3, 4) ( fail )

Fern

They are gathering. The kin and the garou alike, sensing something off that is a little too familiar to be ignored. It isn't just some hipster girl on a bad trip who got abandoned by her friends long before they were due at a club. It isn't just some emotionally unstable young woman that the short-ish guy fucked and then never called.

Jesus Fuck, Keisha mutters, and walks that way.

Mind your fuckin' business, Jack growls at everyone in the pub, which makes most people's stomachs turn a little icy. He grabs the girl and, perhaps strangest of all for someone of her rage, she neither jerks away nor opens his throat. Rather she clings suddenly to him, all limbs, an octopus of a girl shivering and verging on frenzy. He can feel her breath on his neck and he can taste her rage and even the thinness of her control over it.

Nina texts. Someone up in Five Points on patrol checks their phone -- and of course the pack is on a family plan for these -- and whistles sharply up ahead to their packmates. Jerks his head southward. They start arguing about crossing over and running versus just taking the light rail from one of the Welton Street stations to the convention center and walking from there and which would really be faster, but it's out of habit: every single one of them knows how fast they can get anywhere in this part of town.

Nina's phone gets a text back about thirty seconds later. If that.

People in the pub are still pretty quiet, murmuring with a frightened reverence as Jack ushers the girl, with Nina and Keisha, towards the entrance to get her out of there. Eva is easily overheard: her apology. Why they all seem to know her and converge on her like that. Everyone has to have a family, a support network, a system. And it looks like this kid's consists of a slender black woman with a staff and a bunch of white people who look entirely disparate except in their connection to Poor Kid.

Lucky she has them, though.

--

They get outside. Nina slips out and checks the surrounding area. The air feels summery, but the only people around appear to be people on their way out and about and around. Some of them are just strolling. Nothing crawls up her spine that wasn't already there because of the girl... and because of the bodies that were found, the memory of those descriptions. It feels safe. She gestures for the others to come on out, which they have to anyway, but at least they know they're not walking into a deathtrap.

So then: Jack and the girl. Keisha with her staff. Eva and Calden, quietly discussing firearms and the availability thereof.

The girl just paws at Jack, sobbing and eyes rolling. She keeps muttering, crying: "Thank you, thank you. I promise it will be okay. It will last a long time but you'll be beautiful at the end. Maybe they'll let me keep you for a month, make your beard grow. It will be better that way."

She shakingly smiles, gasping out: "The mule had black hair. Just like Th'nak'vis. You should have a beard." Her hand is clammy on Jack's jaw. "You should have a beard to match D'stok."

Keisha Ballard

It's a good thing that Keisha didn't bring a drink with her out of the club and wasn't raising said hypothetical glass to her lips to pour alcohol down her throat at the moment that the girl speaks. She probably could have, the way that Jack scared everyone into silence, but she didn't. And it's a good thing because even without the warm liquid (or any other drink) biting its way down her throat, she just about chokes when she hears the girl speaking to Jack once they're outside.

"Um. Um...." She looks at the girl. Then to the others. And then around. "Um. Yeah. That's...um." She takes a breath and lets it out, then tries to speak again.

"Holy fuck." Yeah, her mind derailed so much that she couldn't even shove out an expletive. This is a banner day in Keisha-ville. THIS IS WHY YOU DON'T GO OUT. YOU REALLY DIDN'T HAVE TO DVR NIKITA, DID YOU?

She shakes it off quickly though and nods her head. Stay cool. "We need to get off the main streets to somewhere safe and private. Before my brain melts. Then we can figure out what to do."

Jack

Jack doesn't hold on as tight once the girl is pawing at him. Laying her hand on his face, where a beard should be. Giving names that sound like the kind of names bastards give each other. In fact his body language says that all he wants is this woman off of him.

Some might thing Bone Gnawers revel in the filth, but this is worse than that. He is not proud, but there are some things he can't just swallow without...

Without a reason. Without the Ban of Man, without a city around him, without another Garou guiding him to get her out of there. And as he seems the light to which this disgusting fly is clinging, he simply... Holds her at as close to arm's length as he can, while still gripping her wrist and leading her to...

Well, the closest quiet place, as Nina suggested. The closest private place, his eyes scanning the horizon to find that promised land where, judging by the look of him, he might just tear this thing limb from limb.

underdog

The others may note, and they may or may not find it odd, that while Keisha is stammering and trying to keep cool, and while Jack is [insert Jack reaction], Nina is keeping pretty cool. Her movements are swift, her actions sure, like she knows a thing or two. A thing or two that she's keeping close to her vest.

At the door she pauses, holds a staying hand back to the others so she can scout around a bit. Maybe this girl's alone, maybe her friends are nearby. Maybe something else could be waiting around the corner, hoping for a quick and dirty little tussle.

No. No no. That's just Nina. If she's disappointed that there's nothing waiting for them outside, that disappointment's passed by the time she's urging the others to follower her outside. The leather and metal of her hip bag bzzt bzzt faintly. Leading the others to the nearest parking lot - full of cars, not quite so much of people, though there are a few too many lights for Nina's liking, so she goes a little further, finds an alley - she pulls out her phone, reads the screen, smirks. Momentarily oblivious to what's happening behind her.

That is, until she stops, turns, reassesses. There's Jack, holding the vile little-giant girl about as close as he can stand, and there's the girl with the staff and yep. Behind them. The kin have followed. Whether they've come directly after them or detoured for weapons, Nina can sense the faint tingle of Storm and Stag on the wind.

"Alright, we're clear," she says, her voice pitched a little lower than she might like. It's weird taking command. The position fits her like a too small shoe, tight and uncomfortable. Not that it's anything she can't handle, it just fits wrong. "Name's Nina," she says to Keisha, and grins. "Keep that brain solid, some guys from the Broadway building are on their way."

underdog

[EDIT!: [insert Jack reaction] is SUPPOSED to be: and while Jack is fending off the octopus girl...]

Eva Illeshazy

The Shadow Lord huffs out a quiet laugh. It is the first note of genuine humor all night, and it is open enough. The way it curves her mouth and cheek. The way it sparks in her eyes, catching the sheen of light in the front foyer of the bar. Just before they open the door to follow the Garou. The sound is mostly swallowed back into her body by a breath she draws back in, quite deliberately.

"Enough for both of us," she assures Calden, then, lifting the briefcase with her right hand, transferring it to her left, and handing it off to him, open-palmed.

"Front pocket, zippered compartment," she instructs him, no longer looking at him, keeping her voice strictly controlled. "There's an extra clip."

Then she shifts her handbag loose beneath her shoulder. It is as capacious as that carried by any suburban-dwelling mother-of-three. Except that - if Calden were to glance down as she moves, he would see the dull, heavy butt of another weapon in the compartment she has shifted open.

--

Then, they're outside. She closes the door to Pints firmly behind her. Swears, sharply but softly, wholly beneath her breath as she overhears... what she overhears. The kin are not precisely within direct orbit of the Garou now. But they do follow, through the parking lot to the convenient alley. Out of the line of sight of any casual passersby, she draws the 9 mm, holding it down and stepping back, so that she has a view of both the street and the alley.

The mention of the Broadway building is enough to fill in the rest of the blanks for her.

Calden White

"Why," Calden smirks, "am I thoroughly unsurprised."

He downs his whisky in a gulp. Perhaps not the best choice to make when heading into potential danger, but really: is he supposed to just let it go to waste? His hands free now, he takes her briefcase from her, and fortunately it's gender-neutral enough not to look completely ridiculous in his hand.

Still looks a bit ridiculous, mind you. He is, after all, in blue jeans and yet another checked flannel shirt. This one isn't red; it's grey. Shocking. Eva tells him where to find the weapon, and he immediately unzips that compartment. Like her, though, he waits until he's outsideand out of sight to draw it.

And also: he sets her briefcase down against a wall. Hopefully out of any suspicious puddles.

"Keisha," he calls quietly -- just that one name, nothing else -- and catching up to her with Eva, "do you know him?" He nods at Jack. "Orwhy our kooky friend there has such a crush on him, specifically?"

Fern

[posting order will be lifted after my next!]

Fern

The Guardians of the Sept of the Cold Crescent know their way around this city. They've been here for years now. They ride the trains and the buses and some of them cross the boundary between worlds and run or fly. They leap off of brick and concrete and glass. They stand on top of the tallest buildings in the city and watch from above. Some of them hang out under bridges and in alleyways. They go through Civic Center Park every so often and clear it out, or just buy some dimebags and move on with their night.

They are coming quickly. And they are going to come out of nowhere. Eva gets a text from a friend who knows her schedule and her routine and her tastes and is also a just-in-case sort of person, though who knows if she's checking her phone right now:

Stay away from Pints tonight. I'm on my way there.

Which can only mean something bad is going on there.

--

The girl keeps reaching for Jack, but she holds onto him where she can, even if he holds her at arm's length. "They're coming," she whispers. "They believe in me." Her head shakes, those wide, unblinking, sore eyes fixed on him as before. "None of you ever believed in me." For the first time, she stops looking at him. She looks at the others, eyes scanning around them. She glances at the kin, particularly the male, because: of course she does. Because they are well bred, if only in part. Because she is base and carnal and primitive and

she has lost so many threads of her reason. It unravels even as she looks around at them.

"We'll kill you one by one if we have to," she says, and shakes her head, fresh tears rolling out down her cheeks. "We don't want to, though. All you have to do is believe in us. Have a little fai--"

Nina probably senses it first. Jack will see it first, and feel the effects first. But it isn't until the girl cuts off mid-speech and goes utterly limp, knees buckling, that any of them realize that the calvary has arrived. There's a black dart with a blue-green feather on it sticking out of the girl's throat. And there is a pack of six Guardians emerging: from shadows, from doorways across the street, from a parked car of all places. It's amazing the places you can pop out into when you want. That kid in the cargo shorts and popped-collar polo and flip-flops was just walking by, and then he was pulling out a blowgun and dropping the girl.

Six of them, all Fosterns or higher, converge upon the Gaoru and kin who have gathered. The girl is twitching, not unconscious but catatonic with sensory overload. Circuit Runner looks at Eva and gives her a nod, but she's working right now, and she and another Guardian are coming over to Jack to pick up the... villain? Victim? The girl. Whatever else she is.

"She hurt anyone?" asks Champion of Honor, the youngest of them, a Philodox, the bro-looking kid with the blowgun. He gives a nod of thanks to Jack, the one holding the girl, but he's talking to Nina, since she's the one that texted them. He does spare a glance for the kin, concerned, before looking back to the rotagar. "A couple of us can stay and help with damage control if we need to, but we gotta get back to HQ with this kid."

Jack

Between Jack's new position as the girl's handler, the girl playing house with his face, and trying following Nina into a back alley, it takes Jack a moment to realize they're being followed into that back alley. And their followers are armed. He can read the signs of their siring, faded as they are, in their blood and features.

Jack had been promised someplace quiet. And between the guns and the kin, he knows that's not going to be the case. Especially with one of them already asking questions of Keisha, which Nina seems to so far be tolerating. As a lupus he takes a cue from her as to the woman that approached them.

But as for Eva and Calden? His eyes are on the guns in their hands, back and forth and back again. He doesn't stop at the first go around, either. His eyes stay on those mechanical weapons, watching exactly in what direction they're leveled, teeth bared in a snarl.

"What part of mind your-" Jack cuts himself off, not having time for a question.

"You both need to fuck-" again he's cut off. This time because that girl slumps to the ground at the hand of a glorified spitball.

Champion of Honor unburdens him and starts asking questions. Jack shakes his head. "Whatever," thinking better of leaving that as his only answer to a Garou of rank, he shakes his head again. "No. She didn't."

Keisha Ballard

She may not have been the most useful throughout this, but the second the girl suddenly collapses, Keisha's in an Iskakku guard stance, stepping back to place herself in front of the kin. When it becomes obvious that it's Guardians though, she relaxes and looks back to make sure that Calden and Eva are okay. "You guys okay?" Even as she says it, she's moving forward to look the girl over, though she does keep listening for an answer.

"I'm fine," she says, letting Nina answer more specifically as she takes a knee next to the girl, taking care to see that she didn't suffer a worse wound from her fall than the blowdart delivered. Yes, she's likely everything they stand against and a threat to anything and everything at any particular moment, but that doesn't mean that she's going to let her suffer needlessly. Besides, they don't know anything yet and they don't need anything that could make what she presumes will be a questioning problematic.

Calden White

It's always a bit comical, Calden thinks privately, when a girl half your size and little more than half your age asks you very seriously ifyou're okay. So there's a bit of wryness in his smile: "Yep. Don't worry, I can take care of myself. Pretty sure the good counselor here can, too."

The cavalry arrives. Or at least -- given the response of the Garou, even of Eva, Calden assumes they're the cavalry. They're taking her back to HQ. Calden furrows a bit at that; he decides not to speak up.

"She didn't hurt anyone," he supplements Jack's answer, "but she sounded like she wanted to make a maypole out of him. Was talking about how she just needed him and she couldn't back out now, and all." He shrugs. The gun, Eva's, and a little small in his hand, goes into Eva's bag. Which he retrieves from the ground.

This time he directs the question to Jack. "Why was she so interestedin you? Have you met her before?"

underdog

"I do," she says in answer to the kinsman as she swings her jacket around, the better to shrug into it. As she tugs her hair free of the collar, ignoring the mad words of a mad girl, she says, "And I've got an idea." She cuts a look at Jack when he starts speaking, cutting himself off, speaking, cutting himself off. And nothing he's trying to say sounds like it would be polite, not that Nina cares. But it wouldn't be helpful, either. And these kin look like they're trying to be helpful. Nina looks at the weapons, as well, but doesn't seem to mind. In fact, the sight of them causes a smirk to threaten to split her face.

She doesn't speak for Jack, though, doesn't make excuses. Doesn't even introduce him, either. He's got a tongue and a human-shaped mouth right now, he can make his own damn introductions.

"Keep hold of her, Jack, we don't want to lose her before--" And now it's her turn to stop midsentence. She feels it, a tingle in the air that shivers along her senses. The nearness of other Garou as they slip out of the shadows. The girl slumps out of Jack's arms, and Nina shrugs. Well, that solves that.

They're all around them now, the Gaurdians of the Cold Crescent. Nina nods to the one or two she recognizes, respectfully flippant, if that can be believed.

To the question of whether the girl hurt anyone, all she can say is the truth. "Don't know. Not anyone since she walked into the bar, though, I can say that much. There was a bit of a ruckus inside, but I think she," she nods her head to Eva, who hopefully is the owner of the feminine voice she'd heard on her way out, "took care of it."

underdog

[that "I do" was supposed to be in answer to "Do you know him?" in case there's any confusion! i didn't expect to post at the same time as Damon @_@]

Eva Illeshazy

The Shadow Lord's weapon, once drawn from her bag, remains pointed down at the ground. She has turned her frame aslant, mostly forward toward the quartet of Garou in the alley, but still open to the parking lot and street beyond. Her breathing is steady. Most of the physical signs of her tension are easily read, but others are suppressed and swallowed, a long-practiced habit.

Jack begins - and is cut off - in the midst of two questions. The woman's eyes cut warily back to him when he realizes that he is addressing her. She does not respond to the foreshortened question. Merely sets her jaw tightly and - on some level - asks herself a similar query with a different context.

The phone vibrates in her bag with the text. Eva ignores it in favor of keeping her weapon out and her eyes on the strangers. The strange Garou, she asserts to herself now, somehow seeing it in each of them once their status is confirmed - by Nina, when she mentioned the Broadway building, and the Guardians, when they appear out of nowhere, taking over and taking custody of the girl.

Eva's response to Keisha's question is a level nod.

"I don't hear any sirens," an acknowledgment to Nina and Champion of Honor, dark eyes cutting briefly to Circuit Runner with a lifting question. "I think there's no need to stay. Is she," a lift of her chin upward toward the girl. " - tainted? Or just mad?"

Jack

His ears flick at Calden's question, though he doesn't actually look at him. Instead his answer to it is pointed at Champion of Honor.

"She wanted a wolf. She smelled it on me." Then, he stops, the gears turning. Like what Calden asked had made him think of something else that might be worth saying. "She scented my breed. She might be a half-moon. She knew about the seven. Said something about a mu-" he doesn't actually say it, catching himself- "Metis. She's got something to do with that. Wanted to make me into someone else she knew."

There's a shift. A recognition. The question from the kin, who no longer has a gun in his hand, had made him realize this. When he looks at Calden again, the snarl is gone. He doesn't seem as hostile. "Never met her before," answering his second question directly.

Fern

Jack's initial gruff Whatever gets some slightly raised eyebrows from Champion. They're very expression eyebrows, seeming to ask: Wanna try that again? which Jack already is in the process of doing. Champion nods, to both the other Philodox and the Ragabash who tell him what they know of what happened -- the general brushstroke and the specifics. "Good. Awesome. Cool." Circuit Runner helps him drape the girl over his shoulder. He's tall, fit, and wears his facial hair light but certainly present.

To Keisha, he just half-grins. "Well, I was mostly meaning humans, but good to know." It's friendly; he's teasing her, but it's sort of hard to feel belittled, the way he's grinning like that. He does, at least, seem genuinely glad to know that the girl didn't hurt anyone. He is holding her without difficulty, it seems. She groans where she's draped, drugged but not asleep. And not injured, either. The Guardians were there. Her knees buckled but she did not let go of her hold on Jack until they pried her away and lifted her up.

That grip of hers was desperate. Even in sensory overload. She needs him. She wasn't lying, was she?

Champion turns to Calden as he speaks up. He seems to recognize the bloodline, which means he knows someone who knows someone. Hell, one of Calden's distant relatives may have been his frat brother. Who the fuck knows. If nothing else, something about Calden says he's trustworthy, he's respectable. So Champion listens, and he nods. "I guess that's one of the things the Warder will want to ask her."

"Smile," says Circuit Runner to Jack, out of nowhere, and she doesn't mean it, and her phone is snapping a picture of him. As it lowers, she explains: "We'll probably need to show her that when we ask about you. It'll get deleted later."

Champion looks over at one of his number. "Hey. Get her scent and look around the area, see if you find anything." Nods his head at Jack, Nina, Keisha. "Take one of them if they want. Just don't go alone."

Obviously.

He looks at Eva. And he definitely recognizes her. Knows her as a friend of his packmate and a widow and someone who works in the building where 'HQ' is and a total MILF. He gives a lopsided smile, nevermind that there's a nearly unconscious girl slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour, and gives her a little upward nod. "'Sup."

Which may or may not increase the chances that she will ignore him and talk to Circuit Runner anyway. Champion just grins, sort of goofy-like, and Circuit Runner rolls her eyes at Eva behind her packmate's back, amused and tolerant, mostly. "There weren't sirens when we found the setup in the parking garage, either. We'll take a look around anyway. As for her..." Circuit Runner looks over, considering the girl, and then looks at Champion, who meets her gaze and then nods. Circuit turns back to Eva and nods. "Yeah. Not much. Maybe she could be cleansed, but... she's pretty far from 'okay'." She seems about to say more, but instead gives Eva a look indicating: Later.

Champion checks around one last time. He's not the highest-ranked in the group, but he seems a natural leader. Personable, friendly, strong, even-keeled -- the others seem to be testing him out a bit, too. So two pair off to scout the area, welcoming Jack, Keisha and Nina to go with them if they'd like. He wants Circuit Runner and another to escort Calden and Eva away from here. Guns or not, that isn't optional. Which leaves him with himself and one other to get the girl back to HQ. It's obvious he's not happy about the limited numbers, the splitting, so he's firm about all of them meeting up again back at 1999 Broadway as soon as they're done.

A cop car slows down, no sirens, as it passes. Officer calls out, seeing a girl over a guy's shoulder in that concerned-threatening way cops have: "Everything all right?"

Champion just smiles and gives a wave, laughing: "Yeah, man, my sister just turned 21 and lost her cookies all over the bar. I'ma take 'er home." He pats her back, and the officer waves and goes back to his slow patrol around downtown.

The cop, obviously, doesn't hear the girl stir as Champion starts to do exactly that, bidding his farewells. She runs a hand over the hair on his jaw, muttering: "I need you," slurring and uncomfortable. "I bet it's even your moon tonight. It is, isn't it? It is..." and she laughs, and jerks, and he locks his hand down on her, looking at his packmate with a we need to go expression.

They go. Crossing over via a puddle in the shadows behind Pints.

Keisha Ballard

Keisha will go with the Guardians to patrol and then head back with them to Broadway, but not before giving her phone number to Calden and Eva. Other people will have her phone number handed out to them post-searching. She will eventually head home and do a Rite of Cleansing on herself just to be safe. Hey, you never know. [And outtie. Thanks for scenage!]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 6, 6, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )

Calden White

A wolf, Jack says. And then a little later, though he doesn't exactly say it aloud: a wolf-wolf.

Calden's expression changes a little at that. It's subtle, it might be more subtle than a wolf-born can read, but he's surprised. Not so much surprised to find a wolf in a city -- Denver is, so far as major cities go, at least semi-reasonably close to the wilderness -- but surprised to see a wolf-born looking like Jack. Acting like Jack. Passing, more or less successfully, as human.

"Or maybe it's your auspice," he offers. "One or the other. Did sound like she was collecting 'em all."

Oh look. He does watch TV.

Then it's time to split - literally and figuratively. So Calden gives the briefcase back to Eva, tells her they'll meet up and compare notes another time. Or maybe just meet up for drinks, who knows. They part -- he waves good bye to Keisha -- he has an escort, which strikes him as vaguely absurd, but which he doesn't argue about. Not worth the effort.

He does offer that Guardian a ride, though -- back to 1999 Broadway, if he or she wants. And along the way, they chat a little,

about Denver, about maypole'd Garou, about things of lesser or greater import.

Calden White

[that'll be my last too! thanks for the RP, guys! and thank you for STing, kai!]

underdog

[i got nothin', my brain be fried. Nina will go on patrol and then head back to CC, probably with her bag of all her worldly possessions. thanks, Kai!]

Eva Illeshazy

The look Eva shoots Champion of Honor is steady and and mild. Her brows are lifted alertly above her dark eyes, and there is no give to her mouth. At least, not until she catches his packmate rolling her eyes over his shoulder, affection embedded in the look.

Champion of Honor's a kid with a lopsided smile. Eva returns it, then, her own a minute sketch of the expression, but visible for all that.

--

She accepts the escort, feeling rather less absurd about it than Calden. They are a quartet to the parking lot - she has walked here from another - and there they pause. She agrees to the exchange of drinks or notes. And she advises Calden that he should invest in a handgun.

She will not always be around when he needs her extra weapon.