it's a small fuckin world

cash veicht
it's been a harsh winter, not just up north but in the lower 48 as well. the snow is deep and the ground is frozen and the temperature has been below freezing for longer than both man and beast care for. there is a sept not far from this little hole in the wall bar which sits just outside of the city of hamiliton. this bar only survives because of its proximity to the ports and a small airfield a few miles to the south. the locals here are a muddy mixture of kin and human and wolf ... for example the woman slinging drinks behind the bar is kinfolk. sister to the blonde wolf that doesn't quite lead the garou in this area in all things but does most assuredly in all things relating to war. the juke box doesn't have anything loaded on it that's hit the charts within the last ten years and the people populating the tables (and there are just a handful of them) are either locals or were unlucky enough to be stuck here because of the weather.

fat flurries fall from the night sky, the moon is fat and heavy with stringy dark grey clouds stretched  out across it. a group of men move on foot from the tree line in the distance, past the cars covered in new snow and toward the door of the bar (named 'shady's place' if the sign perched on the roof is accurate) with gaits that are confident and comfortable.

the door is pulled open and three men enter and with them comes both the ice cold air from outside and the pressure of their rage. cash makes his way in after them, shaking the snow off his army green coat with a shrug and lifting a hand to tug the knit cap from his head. he's older and his hair is longer, a beard has started to cover his jaws and cheeks. the eyes are the same and that's how sam would know who he is...the icy pale blue of his eyes and the heavy weight of all that rage.
a finger drags over his nose and while the men he's with filter through the bar, cash stands at the door surveying everything and everyone in it.


Sam Evans
It's been a harsh winter, even for those born to colder weather. The world outside is blanketed in white, snow still falling in fits that for the moment don't add much to the overall accumulation. One wouldn't consider this place an ideal tourist destination, at least not this time of year. Those unfamiliar with the weather could end up trapped here, or worse trapped out in the freezing cold.
And yet that is precisely what brings them to this place, or rather what brings them through it. It's the first time in years it seems that the entire family's been free to get together for any length of time, and Marshall Evans is going to make the most of it, damn it. By subjecting his wife and children to the rigors of their childhoods.

The Garou of the family aren't here, of course. The trio with Rage have gone to the sept itself, to make their introductions and assure the inhabitants that they mean no challenge or disrespect. They're passing through the area on their way to Lake Simcoe and need to rest the night in their section of the city. If the weather clears enough they'll be on their way by morning, but in the meanwhile if they need assistance with anything, the Elder Ahroun, the Adren Theurge, and the Fostern Ragabash are at their disposal. Of course they are.

It's only Sam in the bar tonight. Her mother and younger brother are getting everyone set up in a motel not far from here. It's been so long since the family's gotten together, and this time around there are more members. All of them children, none of them comfortable with the Rage of their aunt, uncle, and grandfather. Sam would have offered to help, but there's no point arguing with her mother when she sets her mind to something. There's no arguing with Sam, either, but in a test of wills there are no winners when she and her mother are involved, not anymore. Sam has grown into a strong woman in her own right.

So, she took her parents truck and headed out into the wild. Or to the bar. The door opens and there she is, sitting at the bar, dressed in jeans and a dark blue sweater and thick boots, her long brown hair down, face turned away. There's no breeding to her to set her apart from anyone. She's still small, a size that seems it'd be easy to pluck from the ground and toss over the shoulder like a sack of potatoes, but solidly built in a way that suggests there'd be one hell of a fight if anyone tried.
She stands out because she is a stranger, but strangely she does not seem unfamiliar or out of place. She is currently charming her way into the hearts of the bartender and at least two patrons sitting with her at the bar, perhaps more. She's not keeping track, merely being herself. Friendly and warm and open. When she feels the chill of the outdoors brush over her she glances over her shoulder toward the door, and looks again, brows furrowed over dark blue eyes that are dark-lined and dark-shadowed.


cash veicht
The sept is an odd mix of a few ranking fangs and a larger majority of fenrir. To the west are the Wendigo and Uktena, and further north too. There's no love lost between the Sept here and the two held by the big and little brother. This is what Sam's garou relatives would hear: that this sept is isolated fighting the leeches from Michigan and Toronto alone. It's the fangs that do the talking while the fenrir remain tight lipped and territorial. Thankfully the fangs are there to greet the Walkers, luckily they seem to be at least mostly in control of the dangerous fenrir that expect them to do just that : lead.

The young woman behind the bar has the same pale eyes as the wolf at the door. Their features almost mimic one another ... same dull blonde hair, tan skin and full mouth. Their noses are different though that's likely because cash has had his broken more than once. The girl pouring drinks and passing out bottles of beer is laughing at something Sam probably said when she too sees the men enter. One is her mate, the other her brother. The latter she waves at, the former she spares a gentler smile for.

He's wearing big boots, hiking boots perfect for the weather this time of the year, and worn out faded jeans. The closer he gets the leaner his face seems despite the hair covering his jaws. It's him though, the asshole who took her into the mountains of d.c so long ago where fomori lived in a little house with little children. The same guy who tried to educated her on the ugly way of things in their world.
"I know you." Rumbles the modi, dropping his knit cap on the scarred bar top.


Sam Evans
As he nears, that dubious look of hers begins to ease away. Her expression can't really be said to soften, that implies gentler feelings and her feelings for the man are not all that gentle. The last time she saw Cash Veicht was the night he took her into the mountains without explanation and led her to a house where he said a fomor dwelled, waiting to explode into being. She had not responded well.

Which isn't to say it had ended all that terribly, all things considered. Sure, she'd had something of a freakout when she realized his intention and tried to run, fully aware that he could catch her (and worse) if he had a mind. But that's how strong her convictions were, and how good her upbringing. He'd tried to teach her the ugliness of their world she already knew. He'd tried to crush her empathy that day, like doing so would in some way protect her, keeping her from becoming some kind of liability, or through her loss protect good Garou. She'd tried to show him the opposite, that the absence of hope and compassion is no way to win a war. It's no way to live.
Thankfully, he failed in that particular mission. She's sitting in this bar, unkilled and with no Garou bodies lying in her wake. There are only lives saved in her rearview mirror, mostly figuratively but sometimes literally.

He knows her. She quirks a crooked smile up at him. She looks like a child sitting on that stool, heels hooked on one of the rungs. He can be sure she was duly carded, heavy makeup and full figure be damned. It's not something that bothers Sam, her size, and is in fact the wedge she uses to open up conversation with bartenders like his sister.

"I don't think knows the word I'd use. It's Cash, right?"


cash veicht
His sister starts to rattle on about fate or coincidence and how the stars are in virgo or capricorn or some spiritual shit that Cash doesn't understand. He looks at his sibling with a confused expression even as he's lowering his mass onto the bar stool next to Sam. "Always said if she'd been born wit' tha' touch she'd'a been a goddamn theurge." He half growls at the kin next to him. The prettier and younger Veicht sibling sits a beer in front of her brother with a dramatic ha. ha. ha., expressing the humour (or lack thereof) she finds in his opinion on what she might have been.

"Yup." He's nodding at her,  "Sam." It's no question but a clear statement of her name that says he remembers her clearly. " ....tha fuck ya doin' ways up here?" his coat is hooked over the back of his chair  and the long sleeve grey thermal shirt is speckled with dark red spots at the wrists and near the shoulder. Could be anything. Oil,  the blood of a moose or bear.  But Sam knows its probably something not quite as simple as game he's hunted and killed.


Sam Evans
She smiles, thoroughly enjoying the sibling reparté. It's a bond she hasn't always seen in the positive in others, not every family gets along well, but it reminds her of her own family. Even of Reese, who spent so long estranged. Time hasn't healed all those old wounds, but what it hasn't, the children have gone a long way in soothing. That's a story for another time, though.

Here, now, in a bar in the middle of nowhere in the southern edge of the Great White North, Sam picks up her own bottle of beer and takes a generous drink. She looks him over, a quick but appraising dip of dark blue eyes that seem darker for the black that rings them. She knows in a way most, particularly those out in rural areas like this, don't think a Glass Walker and a kinfolk would know that the specks on his sleeve are not oil from a vehicle. He did not come in from a day at a mechanic shop fixing cars.

Tha fuck's she doing way up here? Grinning, she sets her bottle down and leans foward over arms folded on top of the bar. Her upper body may be faced straight ahead of her, but her knees are angled toward him, and she turns her head to look at him. "Family vacation. Almost the whole clan is headed up to Lake Simcoe for our semi-yearly migration. What are you doing way the hell up here? Last time I saw you was Virginia."

Sam Evans
Dice: 8 d10 TN7 (1, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )

cash veicht
His beer is brought to his mouth and he downs almost half of the bottle in one guzzle. Rough hands turn the beer around a few times while his sister heads down to the other end of the bar to properly greet her mate and his packmate. "Killed enough fuckers ta make adren. Shit hit tha' fan in Virginia and we migrated up this way. Fell in wit' some fuckin' fangs." He shrugs and takes another drink. When he sits the bottle down again it sounds a whole lot more hollow.

"Lake Semcoe? How 'bout 'at..." A finger taps on the bar which brings his sister down with another beer. "....small fuckin' world. lotsa natives up 'at way....tell your family whut can handle it ta watch out."

They're both older. Maybe a little wiser. Sam is still small and  cash is still corded through with muscle. The longer hair and beginnings of a beard make him seem aged beyond his years and maybe that's why he keeps them that way. The years though seem to have been kinder to her than they have him; he is scarred on the parts of him she cannot see and at the back of his neck just beneath his ear.  Cash told her once, his life was spent doing the things no one else wanted to do and it doesn't seem like that's changed very much.

"....ya in here alone?"


Sam Evans
Mad's a strong word. Annoyed might be better. Or peeved. The passage of time hasn't wiped away the memory of a crazy Fostern tricking her up a mountain to skirt danger with reckless regard for her safety, but it's allowed other, more important things to take precedence in her life. She watches Vee head down toward her mate, looks away when she gets there.

"Shit hit the fan in Virginia? Did that stuff in Browntown not get settled after I left?" She asks this with a frown, she'd had friends in Virginia, in Browntown in particular. And in the city, too, though she's long assumed those wolves have returned to the Homelands.

As for Lake Semcoe, she shrugs a shoulder. "I'm sure my dad's taking all the proper precautions. Or he's got thirty contingency plans, just in case." It's said fondly. Growing up, Sam accepted their life in a way her older brother never could. The trips to the cabin in upstate Vermont, these 'vacations,' they're all her father has ever been able to do to ensure his family's continued survival on this earth. In this war. All Garou were made for war, the Ahrouns in a way wholly different from the rest.

They're the soldiers on the frontlines, the first wave of warriors, they were made to take the hits and to be a living, breathing shield for as long as they are living and breathing.

The years have been kinder to Sam, though, it's true. Her life is not spent fighting on the front or even in the second or third wave. She fights an entirely different battle. The scars she has she doesn't wear on her skin. Sam wears her age in her eyes. She will never again walk into an employment agency unaware of the habits of the company that reaches out to her.

Her brows lift at the next question. Tapping her finger on the bar, she asks, "Here? In here, yeah. Some of the family's off saying their helloes. My mom and my brother's mate're taking care of the kids. My other brother and I took off as soon as we could to get some air. He shouldn't be too far from here, actually." A frown of concern shadows her face suddenly. Shifting her weight, she pulls her phone from her pocket, checks the screen, and puts it away with a little exhale.

And then she brightens. "Oh but you," she pantomimes a punch to his massive shoulder, a swing of her fist that comes nowhere near to connecting. "Congrats on Adren, that's a big deal."


cash veicht
Blue eyes cut toward her despite his head not swivelling with them. He watches her check her phone and notes the frown and the hint of concern lacing it. To it, he sniffs. The new beer is taken up in one strong hand so that he can take another guzzle from it. The fact that Sam is alone in the bar makes him maybe more aware of their surroundings. He's comfortable in this place and the perimeter around it because they've just come from ensuring they're safe and secure but things change and when a few kin congregate in any one place it makes him edgy.

"Yeah. Kill enough of the right fuckers and don't kill the wrong ones and makin' rank ain't too hard for a modi."  Sounds like he's trying to be modest maybe? Maybe. If so it's something new for the Fenrir, something perhaps that comes with age and time.

"Ionno." shrugging, " We left not long after tha' leadership went to fuck. Fang ain't know his ass from a hole in tha ground. Full moon whut acted like a god damned judge." he takes another drink. "Heard tell...well I heard tell ain't nuttin' good happened out 'at way."


Sam Evans
She can't help that her presence puts people on edge, not because of her but for her. She is so small compared to him and to all of them. Cash himself has at least a foot of height on her. She can't help it and she doesn't try to stop it. This is the way of their world. The Garou protect the kinfolk and save the humans. Sam can handle herself if she has to, but the number one rule her father taught her was not hever have to handle herself. Everything she knows, everything she can do, they're all just in case. Chances are that phrase was almost a mantra to her growing up.

She doesn't recognize the descriptions, all she knows is Nate never behaved like a Philodox around her, in fact he was a lot like Cash. Older than his years but still too young in some ways.

Her gaze lowers, then turns to her beer. Holding it up to him, she says, "To old friends and past adventures." Fallen allies and whatever things happened before duly toasted, she finishes off her beer.
"I should get going. My kid's gonna need his bedtime story soon and my mom hasn't learned any of the voices."

just stop crying

Georgie Kingsley-Lockwood
The bookstore is not small, but the height of the rows and rows of shelves make it seem closer than it is. On the outside the storefront doesn't stand out much from the shops on either side of its door. There are books on display in the window, a poster advertising a signing, and the name of the bookstore painting directly on the glass. Handpainted, even. Inside, the smell of old paper and bindings and a mixed bouquet of coffee and tea smells permeate the air. There's a table to the side with Styrofoam cups, napkins, sugar, and powdered creamer arranged around a Keurig machine and its coffee options. On the table is a handwritten sign advising patrons to throw out their cups rather than leave them on a shelf. Be kind to your neighbors, and to the people who operate the establishment. The place feels nice and cozy like a favorte, well worn pair of shoes.

It does not seem the sort of place for Georgie Kingsley-Lockwood to be found, and yet soon as the door opens those with a sense for it can tell one of Falcon's children is here, somewhere, lost in the stacks maybe, or perhaps in the back office.

It is the back office, actually, where one might find the girl behind a closed door. Having an interview. She had been upset the day before, having just been fired from a grocery store where she had tried to be a cashier. It had not gone well, obviously, but the girl is learning to be resilient. Sure it's by necessity, she is running low on money and has a threat of homelessness hanging over her head driving her out into the world drumming up work. The bookstore isn't her kind of place, but she's desperate. That's why she'd practically begged the manager to give her an interview this morning. A charmer when she chooses to be, she knew if she could just get her foot in the door she might have a chance...

Which is what she's trying to do back there in the office with the door closed to the public. She's trying to get herself a chance.


cameron hart
There have been perhaps stranger things to happen than an ahroun in a bookstore on a full moon in the children's section. But, to up the ante further, he's holding a copy of George and Martha....the intriguing story of two best friend hippopotamuses. A look of consternation has worked itself fully across his face as he thumbs the pages his hands cradling the spine carefully like a man that appreciates the written word. His eyes hang at half mast and his posture is relaxed, spine curved and lazy. The moon may not be visible but Cameron can feel it as sure as he can feel the weight of the book in his two hands.

Rage vibrates on a low frequency from his person, not as strong or suffocating as it has been but it's there and noticeable and enough to keep others in the shop at a distance. Does he know Georgie's here? Who knows. He isn't sniffing the air or hunting her down and at the moment he seems completely captivated by the large print and colourful pictures of hippopotamuses on the pages of the book he's currently perusing.


Georgie Kingsley-Lockwood
Georgie doesn't know anything about hippopotamuses, or children's books in general. She's not much of a reader, you see, at least not for fun. There have always been so many other things to take up her free time. But she is well enough read. She went to school, she read the classics, she (mostly) wrote her own reports on them. And when she turns on her charm (desperate, desperate[please please please I need this stupid job so bad!] charm), she can sway a person's mind to her way of thinking.
And her way of thinking at the moment is that she should totally work at this smelly old bookstore that reminds her a little of home for some reason.

The door to the office opens and out comes Georgie, a couple of steps ahead of a surprisngly young-looking woman with a head of long white hair. There are tattoos on her forearms and ink crawling up the woman's neck, hinting at more beneath her clothing. "I'll see you on Monday, Georgie, and we'll see how this goes."

Georgie's voice, not terribly loud really, sometimes quite pleasant (when she's not screaming or crying or throwing a fit) carries into the nearby children's section. "Thank you. I'll see you then."
The young woman comes around the corner, around a shorter collection of shelves - the better for lower eyes to see the brightly colored book covers - smiling with relief. The smile starts to fade when she realizes she is starting to feel a creeping sort of dread. Eventually, she'll start to recognize Rage as a force of nature and a part of Garou. For now it just makes her queasy and uncomfortable. She turns her head as she starts to pass the section, glancing in, and does a doubletake. Now there is something she never expected to see. A big werewolf curled over a book about, are those hippos? Elephants? She can't tell from a distance. Never the less, her walk slows uncertainly and she glances up ahead. Back here, it's hard to imagine there's a world beyond the walls of books, but she knows there must be an exit in that direction somewhere. The question is, should she make a run for it?


cameron hart
A crooked, haphazard smile drags itself reluctantly across his wide mouth as a thumb drags down the face of Martha the hippo to page number 10. These are simple things that call to the parts of him that he doesn't know. Once he craved these things, maybe not books about hippo friends, but any shade of book and knowledge in general. He knows this as sure as he knows that he's being watched by a pair of eyes he's only passingly familiar with.

"I think I'll buy this." He says with a nod, the smile that has found a place on his lips seems settled there, almost comfortable and terribly out of place. His Rage is tempered and rather than dragging all the air from her lungs and threatening her very existence ... it's like an old heavy blanket: warm.
The hand that had been cradling the book (his left) snaps it shut while the opposite (his right) reached across to tend to an itch along the scar etched into his jaw. A glance is thrown sidelong at Georgie, lasting only a beat or two, before he looks back to the book.

"I'll send it home."

Not that he'll go home. Nor will he take it home. He won't hold the child it's meant for and read it to them. But he'll send it home to their mother and that will have to do.


Georgie Kingsley-Lockwood
She watches him, fascinated for a second. Then the book closes with a snap! and she jumps, one foot shooting forward. She hadn't had long to develop her flight reflexes but now that she has them they are very easy to fall back on.

"Are you talking to me?" she asks, not even looking around to see if there are others he might be speaking to. There is no one else willing to brave even his tempered Rage on a day like today, no one courageous enough to go in and look for All My Friends are Dead or Elephant and Piggie books. Either he's talking to her or he's talking to himself.

"Because I don't work here yet and I don't think they ship, like away."


cameron hart
The book hangs from one big paw at his side, his body shifting to angle so that he's facing her. He forgets that even in the moments when he is tempered, when his Rage has been spent to the point of exhaustion, he is too much for most to handle. The store is filled with the sounds of footsteps and books sliding onto and off of shelves. Of coffee or tea brewing and the faintest conversations off in a corner somewhere so as not to disturb the whole of the shop. He can hear them all, every human in the shop and every sound that they make. Were he to close his eyes and focus, he could hear the sound of Georgie's heart thumping along in her chest.

He doesn't do that though. He leans faintly on the heavy wood book shelf, a shoulder seemingly propping up the weighty furniture. His lips part to say something, something probably simple because cameron never really says anything that's too deep in meaning, but instead his lips close tight.
Somewhere, up near the front of the shop, someone is expertly strumming an acoustic guitar.  He doesn't even know the tune or the person plucking the strings but it settles him further, makes the wolf that paces the shadows behind his dark eyes curl up, nose tucked into tail, and sleep.

It's as if every ounce of whatever fight might have been left in him has left him... which is both terrifying and comforting at once. Georgie is free to say or do whatever she likes even if she doesn't know it.  They're also both more vulnerable than cameron ever cares to be.

"Away?" Confusion is met with a tentative smile. "I'll ship it to..." A pause, brow furrowed. "New York...myself."

"Who else would I be talking to?" Is asked with a cock of his head at the kin.


Georgie Kingsley-Lockwood
He's clever, even if it's accidental. The mention of New York, of home, of comforts and her own awesome soft bed and not having to work (or be nice to strangers) keeps her rooted on the spot.
Who else would he be talking to? Her brow lifts almost of its own accord. She looks at him no higher than about his neck. "Yours-eh," catching herself a little too late. Best not be familiar with any of them, Georgie. They're all sneaks and you're just property. Not even property, someone else's toy that's somehow found itself in the unwanted possession of others.

It's weird, though. There is still something about him that would set her hackles up if she had any, but he seems even more chill than he had in his hotel room.

"To your child, huh?" she asks, hopes maybe. Why else would a grown man, a werewolf besides, be reading a children's book? Not for himself, right? She's wearing her grey coat as usual. Actually, she's wearing the exact same thing she wore to his room that time. The same white buton-down with the circular, polka dot cut outs over a plain white camisole and jeans, hair even plaited into a thick, messy braid.


cameron hart
He nods to her, likely alleviating any fear she might have had that he'd be sniffing at the hem of her coat or worse. Leaning there like a man holding up the world with just the proper placement of his shoulder, cameron drags in a deep breath and then sighs it out slow and easy like. "It's not for me..." Said as if she should have known that, what good would a book on hippo friends do a big bad wolf like him?

"I did enjoy books...once." But the way he says it makes it seem as if he isn't so sure about the validity of his own statement. Did he? He's sure he did, once. And then, her words come back around (I don't work here yet) and poke him in the ribs, twisting his mouth out of the smile it held and into a more studious thin line.

"You're employed here?"  Curious, that.

"Your mother knows? Or ...have you decided to...fly the coop....as it were?"


Georgie Kingsley-Lockwood
It hadn't occurred to her that he might sniff her like a dog. Not here, anyway, not now. If that was going to happen anywhere it probably would've happened when she was alone in his hotel room, in supposed privacy from prying eyes. It's either a sign of her youth and naivete, or some innate sense of trust that she agreed to go there at all.

Her worry is more a faceless thing, a cloud that's been hanging over her since she left home months ago. She's afraid he'll force her home. She's afraid that he won't. She's afraid he'll pick her up and put her in his pocket for safekeeping. She's afraid he's going to abandon her in this awful, awful city. But, no, she can't put a name to that confused swirl of fear.

She breathes out a laugh, then quickly sucks in her lips, expecting the outburst to earn her a new chiding. The uncertainty of his confession doesn't make any sense to her. "You say that like you can't anymore." She waves her hand behind her, indicating the rest of the store. "They're just books."

He asks after her employment and she looks at his eyes and then quickly away, swallowing hard. Whatever surprised and probably misplaced mirth she'd been trying to reign in, it dies completely at mention of her mother. Georgie's fair complexion goes even more pale.

"I don't know," she says, words short and clipped, eyes on the floor now. "Someone- I was told she already knows where I am. She's always known." Despair in that knowledge, she had tried so hard to put distance between herself and New York and it hadn't mattered even remotely. "I was only hired like now, though, so I don't think she knows I'm here here."


cameron hart
Another nod accompanies a deeper furrowing of his dark brow. He could never enjoy the books the way that he might have once loved them. He'll never take pleasure in the feel of pages bound between leather, the smell of ink on old paper. It's a shake of his head that she gets this time, not in any answer to any thing she's said of course...but more to empty his head of those thoughts, it's not like he can remember anyway.

Long arms cross, the book ending up held loose against one pectoral muscle. "She did." Confirmation is given and all he can comfort her with afterwards is the faintest of shrugs at his shoulders. "Sending me here....it wasn't because she didn't know. She always knew. I think she wanted eyes on you for whatever reason." He pauses for a moment while his thumb sweeps back and forth over the back of the book. "...maybe she just wanted to give an old man something to do."

"The thing is, Georgie, it's about knowing your enemies as well as you do your friends. I don't believe your family is the enemy...but it's not about what I think...is it?"


Georgie Kingsley-Lockwood
She doesn't understand. This thing, though, his aversion to books, the melancholy that comes with it, it's not something that she ever could understand. Georgie's body will never change the way that his changes, of that everyone is certain. She will not be Garou, she will not find her senses heightened, she will not shoulder a Rage that makes a comfortable place like this too tight and close. She doesn't know where he's come from, either before or after his Change. She doesn't know his life.
Just as he doesn't know hers.

His arms cross in that way adults do when they're getting ready to talk down to a child. And Georgie, grown woman that she may be, responds to it the same as any child would. She closes up. She frowns. Unconsciously, her body arcs away from him. Whatever approximation of a civilized conversation they were on the cusp of having begins to crumble into ash.

A thought occurs to her. It comes when he says her mother wanted eyes on her, that she wanted to give an old man something to do. Her mother probably wants to ensure her daughter's honor and purity remains intact. Whatever arrangement she's made probably depends on it. She does not mention this, but her face darkens.

"I never said my family was my enemy," she says sharply, straightening, lifting her chin defiantly though her eyes still refuse to lift to his. She needs to retain her dignity. She's supposed to workhere, starting Monday. "It was nice to see you again, sir." Pivoting cleanly, she starts quickly looking for the exit.


cameron hart
Cameron has been agreeable, however begrudgingly, to giving Georgie her space when needed. He has walked away and left her to find peace or solace or something between the two on her own. But the way that she snaps back, arcs her body - the way that she seems so sure of her answer when he isn't sure at all of anything, makes him move after her. And, despite the age he carries, he is quick and his body moves smoothly with just the flicker of thought to do so. He doesn't touch her, just follows in her wake with the book still gripped in his hand, arms at his sides.

"No? You didn't? Who is then Georgie? Are you really just the petulant child you claim not to be, rebelling against your Mother and hoping that your fits and tantrums will get you your way? You told me it was so bad for you, that I didn't know. Do you remember that? I didn't know...what the fuck are you running from your family for - and your obligations to them - if they're not your enemy? If they're not an adversary? You obviously don't believe they have your best interests at heart do you Georgina?"  

His voice is a rumble of a whisper at her back and though his Rage is strangely absent, it won't be once their feet hit the pavement outside of the bookstore.


Georgie Kingsley-Lockwood
He doesn't touch her but he doesn't have to. Just the presence, the knowledge that he's right there, hunting her down like a wolf hunts a rabbit, fills her with a prickle of fear, spurring her forward, making her want to run but she can't, can she? He'd said it himself when he first found her. Pieters had said it himself in his apartment office or whatever the hell it had been.

There is no running. They will always find her, no matter where she goes. And they will take up like a doll and make her do what they want her to do, make her answer to their whims and plots and desires, without a care that she's a person. She's a girl who okay maybe she didn't have any concrete plans for the future, but nobody asked her, did they?

And as he chases her through the bookstore she realizes that nobody ever will.

Just before she reaches the door she spins around, light and quick and too fast. He'll have to react quickly or he'll plow into her, knocking her to the ground. Her face is red again, an ugly mess as fat, angry tears follow a fresh trail down her cheeks.

"Who's my enemy?" she asks him, voice raised and hoarse. "YOU ARE!" She points at him, that hand moving quickly into a sweeping motion away from her. "YOU. ALL. ARE. You don't care about me, me," her palm slams into her sternum, "Georgie. I'm just Georgina the toy you're making sure doesn't get broken before my mom can give me to someone else. You're all only happy if you can just...pull my string so I say yes when you want me to say yes or nothing if you think I'll say anything else! None of you has my best interest at heart you know how I know?" She doesn't wait for an answer but charges forward if he doesn't cut her off. "Because nobody asked."


cameron hart
There is a scene being caused and, of course, cameron and georgie are the two primary actors in it. He's moving after her with a deftness that speaks of a skill at stalking things. The guitarast plays her song, people move on about their day until the kin wheels around on the werewolf and barks at him with a voice that is both hoarse and frustrated and maybe even slightly anguished. He knows all three of those emotions rather well.

But let's back up.

She spins around so quick that she doesn't realize (or ...maybe she does?) how close and quick cameron is moving behind her. Their bodies collide but he is graceful enough not to cause her any damage. George and Martha crash to the ground, tumbling end over end only to come to rest between them.

There's something symbolic in that.

She points at him, roars against the injustice that is her life but he just holds her waist with one long arm, one strong hand. Her face has taken on a red shade and rivulets run down her cheeks. Her palm slamming into her sternum leaves her skin red there. It leaves his brow furrowed and dark and he looks both confused and horrified at her reaction.

Or maybe just at her words.

The hand that isn't holding her waist brushes back her hair, tucks the blonde streaks back behind an ear so they don't get stuck to her cheek in the wetness of her own sadness. "I asked." Didn't he? Maybe not the way she would have liked, but he he told her that he would do what he could. He would make sure she wasn't being married off to a monster who would treat her badly. "I tried to ask..." Comes then because replaying their conversation now he isn't so sure.

But she's crying. Jesus fucking Christ. She's crying again. 

"Don't cry Georgina." He says the same thing he always says but this time it seems more of a plea and less of a demand while all around them things move on and people wrongly assume this is some sort of lovers spat...a romantic entanglement they should just try to avoid completely.


Georgie Kingsley-Lockwood
He grabs hold of her, keeps her upright, keeps her from falling to the ground. Keeps her closer than she'd probably like if she weren't a slave to the tirade. Every horrible thing she's thought or she's learned about her place in this world of theirs is vomited out of her even though she knows, some part of her knows anyway. He was nicer to her than most have been. He tried to understand.

And then she'd met the Elder of their tribe, who was kind to her, too. Who was friendly and gentle in his tone even though she was fucking terrified in his presence, she was traumatized by the way she'd been brought before him. He'd seemed understanding, too, until she didn't do what he wanted her to do.

They're all the same. She's crying because she's scared, of Cameron only a little, of her future a whole lot more. He'd said himself he wasn't sure he even liked his mate, and they had a child, maybe children together. She's almost never seen her parents in the same room together since she was a child. Her mother never asked her what she wanted, never gave her a choice. None of them do, none of them care.

He moves to tuck her hair behind her ear and thoughtlessly her hand comes up in a futile attempt to swat his hand away. She doesn't try again if he's insistent. By the end of her tirade she is well and truly crying, her slender body shaking with every shuddering sob. She covers her face with her hands, like those small, delicate things can possibly shield her from the horror and embarrassment of the scene she's caused in the place she'd just been hired to on a trial basis. And she's crying. Again. She hates to cry, but she has just as much control over it as Cameron has over his Rage. Except in her case, music doesn't soothe her as it does him.

Speaking of music, the musician stopped playing shortly after the blonde young woman and the tall man with the silver-tipped dark hair burst into the entry of the store. The whole store seems unearthly quiet in the way of her shouts which still ring in her own ears. She doesn't think of what people must be thinking about her, about this scene which is straight out of some kind of romance movie. She's thinking that she's probably lost this job already and she didn't even get to start it yet. Why couldn't she have just made it out the door before turning around?

Don't cry, he says. She sobs in reply. From behind her hands he hears her weak and miserable voice hiccup, "I can't- I can't help it."


cameron hart
She tries to flail at his hand in an attempt to make him stop but he doesn't. Warm fingers push back through her hair and the look of concern continues to grow on his features, amplified when she doesn't stop, or rather the crying seems to intensify. With the music stopped that low thrum of Rage returns. He has wasted a wealth of it on nothing important in an attempt to not cause panic among the flock, but it's still there ... lying just beneath the surface of his warm skin.

"Come on." He rumbles at her, his arm around her waist and his body angling her own toward the door. If she was to be employed here they had no business seeing her this upset and because it is his fault, cameron tries to fix it.

He's always trying to...fix things.

Martha and George lay on the bookstore floor, a present never bought for a child not yet born. The door is thrust open with his free hand and Georgie is manoeuvred outside where he turns to face her, both hands cradling her warm and wet cheeks. "I know. I know." He says, head nodding at her. "And that's ok. I'm nobody...Georgina. I...don't know anything about myself before I became what I am...I have no rank to speak of, no ... authority within the nation or the House of both of our families. I'm...without a pack...I'm...a killer for hire. Or a child-fetcher depending on who's requesting my time..." A corner of his mouth quirks upward in an attempt at smiling.

"I'm as useless in all of this as you feel...they point at  things and I kill them, and maybe I get killed but if I don't that's great because I can go and kill more things and maybe not get killed then too."
"Point is...I'm not the bad guy...at least, I don't mean to be."  His thumbs rest just a small space away from the corners of her mouth but he's holding her lightly - delicately - as if he were afraid she might break if he applied any pressure whatsoever. "I don't want to be the enemy."

And that's the crux of it.  He doesn't want to be the enemy of kinfolk like Georgie.


Georgie Kingsley-Lockwood
She lets herself be moved. Not that she has much choice, or rather the choices she has are not terribly agreeable. She could remove her hands from her face, show it to her potential coworkers, let them see how upset she is, an upset that's compounded exponentially but the mere fact that she's upset. Or she could let the Ahroun guide her out the door. It's no Sophie's choice, that. It isn't the choice between the unknown prospect of a mate she's neer met and a fate worse than death alone. This choice is an easy one.

Outside, the cooler, wetter air helps. It's not quite a splash of water to the face, but perhaps it will do. Then he cups her face in his too-warm hands. She is so small, this girl, compared to him and to almost anyone. Her height is not the issue, though she is a great deal shorter than Cameron. But her figure is so small, so thin. The cheeks he cradles should be fuller as she leaves the chubbiness of childhood behind and enters womanhood, but her face is all angles. He holds her delicately and he would not be the first, likely won't be the last to treat her like he'd crush her with a breath. She's so skinny, the end result of a Garou mother trying to care for her infant herself. Georgie will always be a little slip of a thing.

He holds her face in his hands and there's nowhere for her to look except directly at him, which she does with wide, uncertain, watery eyes. Her nose is red and her cheeks, the skin around her eyes. She would be so pretty if she would just stop crying. Maybe if she'd adjust that attitude, too.
He tells her that he's nobody, tells her about himself, tells her of the jobs he's sent on because of this, and she frowns, eyes pulling away from him. Child-fetcher. She really is just a child. Running away from home because she wasn't given the right attention at the right time on a matter that should be important. Thinking she could borrow some time away to figure things out for herself and finding...just more of the same, really. More people reminding her of her obligations and the fact she has no choice in any of this.

Her eyes squeeze shut, trying to shut out that bleak train of thought. When she meets Cameron's eyes again she's almost not crying anymore. Her arms hang uselessly at her sides. Finally, eyes closing, she takes a deep breath, taking in the smell of his skin and his closeness and the scent of the wet city around them, and she nods.

"Okay," she says, and again, looking up at him, "Okay."


cameron hart
He smells like cologne, some fragrance that costs too much and smells earthy. Musky. But there's him beneath him, the smell of what a man - not a boy her age - smells like. There's a difference, she'll learn this as the years go on and experience becomes her own.  The pads of his thumbs swipe gently up her cheeks, wiping  away streaks of moisture as if they had never been, before releasing her and taking a step back. His Rage buffets her but it's a weak thing at that moment held in place by the full moon over their heads. Tonight, he won't be bearable.

Georgie had looked the same today and so too did cameron. Dark pressed slacks, clean and crisp long sleeved shirt button neatly up the front. No suit jacket to speak of, no tie. With his hands free now he shoves them into the pockets of his slacks and looks around them. "I'll hail you a cab."

Which he does, stepping to the curb and looking in earnest for a yellow taxi either way on the semi-busy street.

it's always something, georgie

Ben
Maybe it's break time, maybe it's a day off, maybe Ben hit one of those flaky times where he fell into a bottle or a needle or a line or something - who knows?  Regardless, it's a relatively nice day - gray and damp and occasionally misting, a bit cold to the desert flower, but still greening, turning towards spring.  Soon, trees will have buds and flowers will be pushing to the sky.  Now, though?  Torn jeans with thermals underneath, a work jacket and a flannel open over the matching top to the bottoms.

 Open.  And a skinny, runt-ish, hispanic (at least part - maybe part white, too, but no one's guessing) lying on the wet brown-gray-green grass looking up through the tree branches above him, lost in something only he sees or hears.

How long he's been here is anyone's guess.

Georgie
Georgie is storming down an avenue bordering on a park, looking highly affronted in a pair of jeans, ankle boots, and her long grey coat buttoned nearly to her knees. Moisture from the constant drizzle that hangs over this city, its weather baseline, weighs down the waves of her golden hair, causing little tendrils of it to curl and almost frizz annoyingly.

Her blue eyes are stormy and her cheeks are flushed in the way they get when she's upset. The source of her agitation is a couple of blocks back. The source of her salvation is a couple blocks further in the form of the nearest bus stop that goes in the direction of home.

Ben
Angry steps tattoo along the sidewalk and as they come closer the Uktena kin winces, almost flinches, and gets up.  He's a bit on the sluggish side, but already defensive.  There's no Noah here, so there's not really any reason to draw attention to himself . . . and yet, when he sees a certain blonde princess Ben's lips tug into an amused smirk.  Of course it's here.  And he's just out of it enough . . .
"Hey, princess.  Someone didn't bow low enough?"

. . . to tease.  Yeah, he thinks he's funny; Noah'd probably laugh, he thinks.  And then make him drink all the water in an attempt at detox.

Georgie
Hey, princess.
The semi-familiar voice calling out to her makes her stop up short and look around, confusion all over her face. Then she sees him. Then she sees his smirk. If she weren't already fighting off a wave of upset she might simply snap at him and keep going.

But she's already fighting off that wave, and his words just make it crash over her. Face reddening further, her pretty face screws up in a most unpretty way.

"STOP CALLING ME THAT!" she yells, voice breaking as she ends in a sudden and wholly unwanted sob. Standing in the drizzle on the sidewalk, she starts to cry.

Ben
Normally, Ben would apologize, try to make nice - he's the kind of guy that most people like, after all, once they get over the part where he's a blind spot in some pretty important primal ways - ways that most people don't even realize matter.   Now, though, he frowns and looks at her for a moment, considering.  It's a moment for tough love, maybe.

"Then . . . stop acting like you think you are one?"

It's a question, not a statement.  And certainly not an order.

Georgie
Georgie has no idea what Ben would normally do in this situation, he's only ever been mean to her. The worst kind of mean, too. He makes jabs at her with a smile on his face, stabs at all her softest spots (which, to be fair to the Uktena kinsman, there are many) with the infuriating air of friendliness. Georgie has always ignored that tone and responded to his words, his remarks about her size and lake thereof and the assumed habits that make her that way.

"You!" she says, jabbing a finger at him. There is something she wants to say, something she can't quite place in her mind and can't quite fathom into shape. Something about how he treated her in that seven-eleven, something something. But she's too upset, face red, angry, bitter tears streaming down her cheeks. She shoves the pointing hand into a pocket of her coat, turns away from him, and continues to make her stormy way down the sidewalk.

cameron hart
Cameron is just there. There's no particular reason for him to be in the park, no purpose that he can attest to and nothing that seems to be anchoring him there on the bench with long legs spread wide and arms cocked back with elbows hitched on the back of the seat. The looks are the same (surly expression and dark stormy eyes, hair that's in need of a trim and the scars that haven't magically gone away) and the clothes aren't much different (long sleeve shirt and slacks - pressed) either.
His movements are slow, slow like a body moving through water. Running to stand still. He leans forward with elbows pressing into knees and covers his face with his hands. People avoid him naturally, all of that Rage unspent is too much for the majority of humanity to bear, and so when he looks up from between splayed long fingers (claws) it's not because anyone skirts too close to the circumference of his personal space...no, it's just the mere vibration of Georgie's presence.

That singular, familiar vibrating pulse that part of her sends out to wolf's like him. The yell just cements her presence in his mind and his eyelids hover at half mast before closing slowly, his hands drag back up his face and for a long period of stillness and silence he just sits there, face in hands focusing all of his attention on the beat of footsteps and the pitch of a yell.

Maybe she'll miss him. Not even notice he's there in her mad tirade or whatever the fuck is wrong with Miss Georgie on this fine Wednesday, but he's sure that he's got about as good a chance of that happening as she had of him not noticing her.

Like calls to like, baby. It's just the way that it is.

His hands slide back down his face and he cuts deep brown eyes toward the sound of her voice and ...Ben's. Hackles raise, or would if he ran on four legs, but his teeth bare faintly...pearly whites exposed between pink full lips. She can't miss him now. No chance of it, she's headed right his way. A deep rush of air fills his lungs and slowly the tall Ahroun uncurls his body from where he'd been sitting for who knows how long and starts to straighten the cuffs of his shirt.

Habit. 

"Why are you crying this time?" He says to Georgie, quiet considering the distance still between them but the deep roll of his voice manages to close the space between his lips and her ears.

Georgie
[wits+etiquette: conduct yourself respectfully, Georgie. let's say base diff +1 for cryface]
Dice: 6 d10 TN7 (1, 2, 2, 3, 6, 9) ( success x 1 )

Ben
Something about how he treated her at that Seven-Eleven - of course.  Of course it's how he treated her - because that's how it is with entitled princesses, isn't it?  Sure, he was a jerk - he'll admit that.  But not at first, oh no.  Never at first.  And now?  Well, again there's that thought and then he's keeping pace with her because why not?  It's more difficult than it seems it should be, given that she's taller, and he's (probably some kind of) stoned.

"Hey.  I'm sorry I was a jerk - but not about the princess part.  That's just fact - if you act like you're the queen and everyone else is a bunch of nothing below you, people are going to respond to that."
It's common sense, he thinks, and there's a wall of Rage and he hauls up as another voice breaks through the haze.  Why are you crying this time, it says, and the Uktena kin can't help snickering a bit.  Quietly, of course.  Into his sleeve.

"Hey, I remember you.  From the diner."

Georgie
The Uktena kinfolk catches her up and she angles away from him, not letting herself curl up, trying so hard not to let him see just how well and truly he's added to her upset. It puts her to the very edge of the sidewalk, where one misstep could have her toppling into a street which is, for the moment at least, fairly quiet. She steps away when he almost apologizes.

Stopping again, she turns on him. "I'm not a queen! I'm not anything, okay? I don't have an eating disorder and I can't afford fucking Starbucks, okay? Will that get you to take a hint and leave me-"
She hadn't noticed the Rage, not on a conscious level. That'd be the byline of Georgie's biography: Too wrapped up in herself to notice the world around her. She notices it when he rises, that slow deliberation catching her attention mid-sentence and yanking it away from the kinsman. When she sees the older Garou her chin lowers abruptly, shoulders sagging, all the fight in her, all the upset abruptly melting away. Rubbing beneath her eyes with her thumb, she misses Ben's snicker. That's probably for the best. Or maybe this is the best time for him to get in all his jabs, all his laughter, all his mocking taunting of the differences between them.

Looking away from the Garou, she says with as much dignity as she can muster (which isn't much), "It's nothing."

cameron hart
His shoulders roll, like a big aging lion woke from slumber in the noon day sun. They roll and with the movement his hands fine their place in the pockets of his slacks. A furrow settles along his brow and though his eyes remain on Georgie he speaks to Ben. "Yes." A pause, "The brave one." The statement (compliment? slight? who the fuck knows with Cameron...) is met with a quick dash of his eyes to the kinsmen before looking back to the kinswoman with that same perplexed expression on his face.

"I shouldn't think it was 'nothing'." He rumbles at her shifting his weight evenly on both feet. Georgie is free to move along the path as she intended, all she has to do is step around the six foot something wall of pulsating Rage.

With a faint cock of his head to one side he looks at her again, studying the rubik's cube made flesh that is the much younger woman in front of him.  Finally he leans in, from the waist up only, and situates his lips not far from her ear. His Rage is a heat that pulsates from his flesh outward, warming every thing near him.

Stop crying. Not here. Not now.

Those few words are a rumble of sound. Human words formed on an oddly comforting inhuman growl.

Straightening his spine he looks away from her. He isn't so dull as to not know that his eyes on her aren't helping matters any. "What was your name again?" Is said to Ben, and that quickly the spotlight is removed from the young lady in front of him and shifted to the Uktena kin.

Ben
"Then stop. acting. like. it.  And for fuck's sake, try not acting like everyone and every thing is below you."  He can get not being able to afford Starbucks. after all; a lot of the time he can't either, though it's never bothered him.  A lot of the time, he and Noah are lucky to have a roof over their heads.

Or, that was what he would have said, but then there's a fucking giant leaning in to the princess (who is in another castle on another planet, as far as Ben's concerned - though given their interactions he hasn't really stopped to consider her youth (not so much younger than he is anyway, really) or attractiveness.  She's a brat of a girl who treated him like dirt and, given his background and series of chemical imbalances and neuroses, he can't help wanting to prove her wrong.  Nor can he help when he steps nearer to her at Cam's leaning, all 5'7 of him that's about a hundred seventy five pounds soaking wet if that, frowning.  "Hey," he says, and it's calm and nice but there's a surprising amount of steel there behind the voice that's gained a quaver, behind the skin that's taken an unnatural pallor.  "Leave her alone, yeah?  I don't know what her deal is, but she's obviously having a bad day."

It's funny how sweet he can sound, how quickly and easily he becomes most people's best friend - and it's funny how there's nothing on the air that speaks of him.  Just Georgie and exhaust and the park awakening in spring, and empty space where 'the brave one' should be.

"I'm Ben.  Jackson."

Georgie
The irony of Ben telling her that she acts like everyone and everything is below her, is that she is currently cowed into something at least resembling submission. It's also that she has tried, mostly and in the worst ways possible, to get him to leave her alone and he, for reasons she cannot begin to fathom, won't. But at the moment it's mostly that she is most definitely not behaving as though she belongs on whatever pedestal he has imagined her onto.

And there's some irony in Cameron telling her to stop crying. If she were the same spoiled girl she'd been when she first left home in December her tantrum would immediately intensify and she would explode at him that she's trying while also crying harder. The irony here is that yes, she has been trying to stop crying since long before she even started. The wall of Rage leaning in close to her makes her wince, the angry heat of him so far outside of his control too much to bear.

His words cause the hastily formed and flimsy dam she'd erected around this current surge of out of control emotion to break. Eyes squeezed shut like that might actually help in some way, the tears that had barely stopped for little more than a second leak their way down her cheeks again.

The greatest strangeness of all is that Ben, who has done nothing but needle and stab at her weaknesses since the day they met, moves in closer to her, almost defensively. Georgie lifts her chin just slightly, looking at him with open confusion. He's taller than her, actually, or would be if they were both in bare feet. The slight heel of her boots makes them about even. Weirdly (to her), it bolsters her.

She does not move any closer to either male, in fact looks a bit like she's trapped between spike walls closing in, but she lifts her chin a fraction higher.

In a voice that is soggy despite her deepest desire that it not be, she says to Cameron, "I mean it's not important, sir."

cameron hart
There are things that Cameron can't possibly know about Georgie or Ben - or they about him. They're all going on what the cover says about the content inside the book that is all of them and ...well..sometimes the outer sleeves read far easier than the content on the pages between. Cameron doesn't even know himself. He doesn't know his past any better than he does either of the kin before him. But, like Georgie, it's not the past that wakes him up at night sweating and teetering on the edge of exchanging skin for fur and fingers for claws ... it's the future.


Ben can't stop himself.  Cameron is familiar with the disorder that plagues the dark haired kin, that inner motor that drives a man to protect the things they feel need protecting. The difference between the two of them is that Cameron carries a wolf inside of him. It paces just behind his eyes and shakes his bones until they tremble. He's a full moon too and because of that suffers from a territorial streak that cuts through him like the main artery to his heart and the nerves to his brain.

On instinct his body straightens though it doesn't tense up necessarily; he is loose and limber, but the vibration and anticipation of action is palpable to each of them standing there and those that skirt a wide berth to go around them. A slight dip drops his chin a little toward his chest and he takes a step forward, head cocking once again faintly to one side. The growl that had brought to Georgie's ears words now only bring a warning to Ben.

"Don't." Is the most he can manage for the young kinsman, and that word rumbles and rolls from between his lips. He told Georgie that he could control himself. He wouldn't hurt a kinfolk. And he makes good on that promise, his own Willpower like a choke chain tightening around the animal waiting for release.

When his eyes lower back to her, his expression threatens to soften. He almost looks helpless for a flash of a moment when his eyes roam over the glistening of tears that rolled hot as his Rage down her cheeks. Dark eyes lower to his hands, appendages not made for comfort or healing or holding but instead are designed perfectly by a Goddess for killing and destruction.  It wasn't always that way though....he can remember, in confusing flashes, that he was once not so long ago very...very much like Ben.

Ahhem. 

He clears his throat and looks back at Ben. "Don't tell me what to do."  Then to Georgie, "I'm not sir..." Though that is said much quieter than his warning to Ben.

Ben
[Oh, what the hell.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 3 )

Ben
The step back, ceding ground, is instinctive - but so is the posture that straightens.  The eyes that clear, at least for a moment, are more physiological, but still; there's a lot to be said for this reaction, so different than fight or flight.  And Ben's still there, not quite between Cameron and Georgie but definitely in a spot that means he has to be passed to get to the girl . . . not that that's difficult.

"No, you're right," comes not-bumbling-and-not-straight-either but somewhere in between - he's not the brightest, is the Uktena kin, but maybe he's not the dumbest either.  "But I didn't tell, I asked.  I called to whatever empathy you have, which is quite a bit all things considered, if I can trust your eyes.  And you almost always can, you know - trust people's eyes, I mean.  Yours are probably the least scary part of you, or at least have been both times we've met."

This last is with a rueful smile - and yes, Ben knows he may well be talking himself into a hole.  There are only so many things that feel the way Cam does, or that act the way he does.

"I'm just sayin', girl's upset and towering over her all menacing isn't going to help any.  Letting her use one of us as a punching bag might."

Georgie
The difference between the kinfolk could not be more marked than at this moment, and that's saying something. There are the obvious class differences. On the surface, there's the muddled genetic pool that created Ben Jackson and the (mostly, almost) carefully pruned tree that ostensibly leads to Georgina Kingsley-Lockwood. There is his tattered and faded layers and her in her coat whose retail value would make a significant down payment on a new car. A new new car at that.

But Ben grew up with a novice Ahroun, was there from the very beginning of that shift in their story. He has grown with a fledgling Ahroun, can tell the moods that come from the Rage and which come from the man. He can see past it, too.

Georgie did not. If her interactions with Garou in this city tell them anything it's that her exposure to Garou and the ways of the shifters is limited, if she's had any at all. She is the daughter of kings, the granddaughter of queens, but she can't stand to be around them. She doesn't know what to do with them. Before she treated them as any other person, but she has learned to be afraid of them. Of all of them. Cameron says he's not sir and her frown deepens as she continues to refuse to look at him.
Ben's words move her, though, much as she would hate to admit it. His comment about Cameron's eyes draw Georgie's attention to them, if only for a moment. Just long enough to see how achingly human they are, despite the Rage. It brings to mind their conversation. Their other conversation? There was something that he said to her then, something that hadn't seemed so important at the time but wants to make itself known now. Before it materializes, Ben keeps talking.

Her head jerks back like she's just smelled something awful suddenly. Her nose even wrinkles like she has. "Look whatever you think, I'm a bitch, whatever, I don't hit people." She looks like she'd rather walk into traffic than try. Looking vaguely in the direction of Cameron's collar, she says, "And taking a step back wouldn't be the worst thing." Sniffing, she takes another swipe at her face. The crying hasn't stopped but at least it has subsided to a light trickle.

cameron hart
Ben's words bring the dark tumultuous eyes of the ahroun land squarely and completely on him. There's a lot hiding behind those eyes but there aren't enough people with enough courage (and lack of smarts) to stare into them for that long. There's no pack to speak of, no mate though his ring finger is tattooed with intricate swirls and hidden glyphs. Maybe there's someone - somewhere - that's waiting for Cameron Hart. Someone who worries about whether or not he'll be coming home or not.
Or maybe there's someone like Georgie sitting in a palace somewhere hoping that he doesn't...

Their words bring him back a step or two, his eyes jerk away from Ben and flash to Georgie. He gets lost sometimes, Cameron does. In his thoughts or dreams. In the red places that never amount to anything good when he crawls out of them. His wide, generous mouth is drawn thin and tight and he takes one more step back. One more look at Ben, then Georgie.

"Maybe you should." He says to her, his tone that same low rumble of sound that drags his words to the both of them. "Hit people."  ...to clarify.

There's a nod from the Ahroun another step back and to the side before he starts to make his way around the pair and further down the path.

Ben
Maybe she should, but Ben is visibly relieved to not have that to explain to his brother - princess-sized fist prints in his tender flesh would be a problem, he's sure.  Noah doesn't like it when anyone puts hands on him, and for good reason.  "It was a figure of speech, Pri . . .Georgi . . . GG."  It'll do for now, at least, until she deigns to give him something to call her.  "I really hope you don't hit people - or me, anyway.  And that if you do, you do it somewhere I can watch, and take bets."
There's amusement there, almost always.  But Cameron - whose name Ben still doesn't know, is taking off and Ben gives his back a wave of clearly broken-more-than-once fingers.  "Good seeing you again.  Maybe we should make a habit of it or something."

Georgie
She probably should. At least one of them would take bets. It is all so mad Georgie can only look between Ben and Cameron's clavicle like both men have lost their damn minds. On the upside, her crying finally stops completely, the turn of conversation having shifted away from Georgie's behavior and attitude and in particular the unfortunate meetings she keeps having with this idiot boy who makes her so mad and upset so easily (which only makes her more mad and more upset).

Cameron makes his way around them then, making his way away from the kinfolk. Georgie's first instinct is to go trailing in his wake. Her next instinct is to bolt in the complete opposite direction. Ultimately, she does neither, not exactly. "Goodbye," she says, chin lowered and eyes away from him as he moves around Ben, not aware that by being overly polite and avoiding him may be just as damaging as her usual fiery attitude. Garou treat their kinfolk differently, wolf to wolf and tribe to tribe, but they are drawn together. There is a simbiosis that exists between the two halves of a single whole whether attraction or deeper interest are present or not. They aren't meant to estrange themselves from each other as Georgie tries to do.

Behind him, Cameron can't see her roll her eyes, but he can hear, "Georgie, not GG. I'm not your pet poodle."

She rubs lightly at her face, too genteel to really scrub at her eyes in public. "Thanks," she says to Ben when she's finished. There is a kind of grudging respect in her too-blue eyes, still murky from crying.

pick your poison.

Georgie Kingsley-Lockwood
Yesterday, in a mostly cleared out diner with only an interloping kinfolk and a terrified waitress for witnesses, Cameron Hart told his target, Miss Georgina Kingsley-Lockwood, to pull herself together and to call him within forty-eight hours or decisions would be made. Visibly upset by the encounter yet sick to death of everyone else dictating her life choices for her, Georgie called the number given within a matter of hours. They would meet the next day at his hotel to discuss things. That gave her several hours to worry and wonder and fret, things she should be used to doing by now but most definitely isn't. Normally, she'd take out her frustrations (sometimes intentionally, occasionally not) out on her housemates, but to their relief she kept to a sulky silence by herself.

It also gave Cameron time to wonder if she'd actually show, or if he'd need to use a stone and a map to begin his hunt anew.

Fast forward to today, to now. Georgie waltzes into the lobby of the hotel dressed in yesterday's jeans and the same long grey coat and a white button-down shirt with sheer polka dot cut outs over a plain white camisole. Her hair is plaited into a fat, messy braid that falls like a cord over one shoulder, and again, her face is half obscured by a pair of oversized, round-rimmed sunglasses. She looks like the daughter of a socialite or CEO, the kind of entitled and privelged youth who walks into the hotel like she owns the place, or could if she placed the right call to Mommy or Daddy.

But calling home is the (almost) complete opposite of what Georgie wants to do, so though she strides to the bank of elevators with pride, behind her sunglasses she is still watchful and wary, almost paranoid. She's imagined all kinds of scenarios, most of which involve her mother leaping out of the nearest mirrored surface to drag Georgie home by the hair. The elevator ride to Cameron's floor is nearly uneventful. A man in an off-the-rack suit attempts to chat her up, but Georgie pointedly ignores him.

And then she's there, walking through the hall to the hotel number she has written on the back of the card she was given. Once she's there she hesitates, but only for a moment. She's not sure what outcome she hopes for most, but the one that she needs is to stop feeling so damn paranoid all the time. So she knocks three times, and she waits.


Cameron
She has every reason to be nervous and wary. Her paranoid in the moments since her encounter with Cameron are far from unfounded and he would tell her as much if she had bothered to ask. There's no telling if he's called Mommy Dearest or someone in between to tell them that he's found her and that she's too much trouble so they should come and collect her. For all that she knows it could be a member of her family on the other side of the door waiting for her.

Or worst.

The walk down the long narrow hotel corridor is uneventful; the carpet is plush and oriental in type and the small worlds that exist behind each door remain unknown to Georgie. As she closes in on the room number she's been given the weight of her imagined fate looms heavy. The sobering sound of Purcell's Dido and Aeneas breaches the walls and doors of the Silver Fang's room, making the atmosphere all around it heavy with sadness and with thoughts of dying, of dirt being thrown on the coffin of a loved one. The ideas that each soulful vocal reach creates is painted with amazing skill and tenderness. It's cosmic yet real, this great lament filled with long phrases that unfurl from the songstresses heart...each lyric being sturdy and merciful and spiritual.

It's loud, but not a soul complains. Not one.

When she knocks the music drops only slightly in volume and she's met with the same man she met yesterday, though his attire isn't suited for adventures out of doors. His chest is covered by a white muscle shirt that he probably wears consistently beneath the finely pressed suit shirts so common in his closet. His slacks are dark and without a belt, his feet bare. His hair is longer and brushed back and to the side and in his hand he's holding a crystal tumbler half filled with an amber fluid.

"Come in." He says to her, stepping back out of the way to allow her entry. Immediately Georgie is likely to welcome the lack of overwhelming, suffocating Rage that she felt yesterday. It's there, most assuredly, but in a dosage that is more acceptable.


Georgie Kingsley-Lockwood
The music filtering down the hall does little to calm her nerves, in fact it does the opposite. Aren't there movies with scenes like this? A lone figure walking carefully down a hallway to the sound of an operatic lament? Even if she hasn't found herself an unwitting participant in a cinematic moment, the music is too somber, too sad. It puts her in mind of all that is at stake for her, all the things that deep deep down she knows she has no control over. Through the door, Cameron can't see the way Georgie swallows hard before she knocks.

Then the door opens and there stands the doorway to her fate, one way or another, clad in muscle shirt and slacks and no shoes. Behind her sunglasses Georgie's eyes widen slightly. Has she ever seen a male of their tribe dressed so casually? Not likely. She frowns at his offer but doesn't refuse it. As with everything else in her life, she's come too far to turn back now. Keeping her chin up, she breezes in past him and is indeed pleased she doesn't feel suffocated by Rage closing in on her from all sides of an enclosed space. She looks around once she's inside, looking at his room with envy as well as wariness. She hasn't been in a place half so nice as this in almost two months, but she is still on edge, still wary of the unseen who might have joined him here to ensure the runaway princess was carted back home safely.

"Nice place," she says, trying to sound cool and detached but not quite able to hide a quaver in her voice. She removes her sunglasses and slips them into a pocket of her coat before shrugging out of it. It is a courtesy, but also she remembers yesterday. Without her coat there's nothing solid but the girl herself to grab onto should she decide to run away again.


Cameron
There's little concern for formalities at the moment, so far as Cameron is concerned. He seems far more calm than he had been yesterday, less likely to wrap a ever powerful maw around a slender throat and snap it ... sealing both of their fates. He has no reason why this music, any music with such a sombre and sobering timbre, puts him at ease...but it does. Georgie has no idea that she is both completely safe and utterly vulnerable at the same time right then. There's no threat of a stray remark or errant comment raising his ire just enough to send him spiralling over the edge of control.
And there's no way he could protect her in that moment if he had to either.

The door is shut and after he takes a healthy drink from his glass he meanders back over to a chair situated neatly in the corner of the room. This suite is one of the more expensive the hotel has to offer and the furniture says as much. The music is turned down a little more before he turns and eases the whole of his weight back into that chair that looks almost as comfortable as the bed or the smaller chair she's offered with a wave of his hand.

For a series of long moments Cameron sits quietly watching her. Thinking. But soon he speaks, slow and careful as if every single word spoken was mulled over and considered.

"What is waiting for you back home?"


Georgie Kingsley-Lockwood
She tries not to show it, but she's not calm. Her heartbeat beats a rapid percussion in her veins that does not match the music that fills the room, but it's not so rushed that she trembles with it. She's nervous, yes, and afraid, of course. However, she's not trapped in a vice grip within arm's reach of a towering wall of Rage. The sense of comfort that alone gives her is paltry at best, but it's better than nothing.

Carefully, she folds her coat over the back of the smaller chair and brings it around to face him. Not head on, of course, but obliquely, and far enough away he'd need to rise up (or Change) to reach her. That, too, is a comfort.

When she sits, it is with a sense of grace in her slender figure. Whatever she's been through the last couple of months, whatever changes those things may have wrought in her, she is still a Lockwood of House Wyrmfoe. And for the moment at least she isn't desperately trying to escape her fate. She leans back in the chair but retains a sense of poise, with her knees together and her hands folded over her lap. Her fingers tighten when Cameron cuts straight to the heart of things, but Georgie refuses to fidget.

"My mom for one," she says after a moment's thought. "She'll kill me when she gets her hands on me. She's making me get married."


Cameron
The man questioning how sound her reasons for fleeing are is older than Georgie by almost three full decades yet there are similar in ways that the young kinfolk can't possibly understand. She believes her fate to be sealed, written in some book somewhere that dictates the path for all Lockwood or Kingsley kinfolk and Cameron is well aware that his own path is set in stone as well. Hers, however, is not as bad as she would like to think it to be ...at least not to him, not at that moment.

Another drink and he's relaxing a little further into the chair with long legs spread open and stretched out comfortably. Arms rest where they should on such a kingly chair and his brow furrowing is the only real hint at confusion the Ahroun offers her.

"Your mother will do no such thing." He says calmly, confidently. "Why is marrying someone such a terrible fate?"


Georgie Kingsley-Lockwood
It is an effort not to roll her eyes, but Georgie manages. Despite the seeming calm of the ahroun before her, she keeps her gaze no higher than about his chin. It seems deferent, and it is, but is at odds to the way she keeps her chin aloft. The blood of kings and queens past flows with less strength through her veins than it does his, but it's there, and to make matters worse she has the brash boldness of youth about her. Georgie has already learned that too much pride can lead to trouble, but that doesn't mean she's learned to temper it.

He doesn't know her family, though, or her mother, not really. Not even those closest to her, even Georgie herself, know the secrets that her mother keeps. No one knows of the indiscretions of Starfall's youth or just how far she'll go to secure power and prestige for her bloodline. And besides, Cameron is a man, and Garou besides. Mateship, marriage, whatever one calls it, it's not the same for him as it'll be for her. There are many kin out there who accept this. It is their duty to the tribe and to the Nation. Georgie is not one of them.

In her incredulousness at his question she looks him in the face before quickly looking away. "I haven't even met him," she says bitterly, fighting an urge to surge to her feet and begin pacing the room, perhaps gesticulating wildly with her arms as she begins the rant she's kept locked inside her all this time. She allows herself to sit up, to lean forward, to clench her hands against her knees.
"The worst is it wouldn't even matter if I did, I don't have a choice. Yesterday you kept going on and on about my duty and whatever, but what if he's awful?" She shrugs her shoulders helplessly and looks again at his chin. "What if you were me?" Soon as she says it she seems to startle. "Oh my god, it's not you, is it?"


Cameron
He listens to her as patiently as a man his age - a man suited up with all of his Rage - possibly could. Her words, the careless way she shrugs off her responsibilities, brings his drink to his lips once more. Cameron is a handsome enough man despite the scar that mars his cheek just beneath one eye. His body is fit despite his years and the grey threads that run through the darkness of his hair, he's not a mangled spectacle the way most Ahroun's can be ...but he's an old man compared to Georgie and the idea that she might think he were her intended mate makes him laugh. Makes him push the fingers of one hand back through his hair.

And it's that hand that he holds up for her, the left hand with his ring finger intricately tattooed with flowing intertwining swirls and sharp angles that make up glyphs if one is skilled enough to notice such things.

"I'm already taken." Is said in a rumble. "I didn't know her either. It happens. You're assuming the worst about a man you do not even know. You're young, perhaps you should reconsider the situation...I'm sure whomever your mother has selected for you she did so with your best interest at heart Georgina." And with that the man stands slowly, as if his bones hurt, and moves to refill his glass with what she can now see is a fine bottle of Scotch.


Georgie Kingsley-Lockwood
[don't throw a tantrum, kid]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 8, 10) ( success x 2 )


Georgie Kingsley-Lockwood
This news is greeted with a sigh of relief that could be considered offensive if Cameron had a mind for it. It's true, he's not bad looking all things considered, and what hot-blooded, straight young woman wouldn't want a strong man to call her own? But he is a stranger to her, an unknown variable. And there is all. that. Rage. A marriage is through sickness and health, but when it comes to kinfolk sharing their lives with Garou there is a risk that comes with trying to weather out the bad days.
It's something he can't understand from his side of the divide. Maybe he did once, before, but whatever came before his Change is gone for him.

"It's Georgie. And you don't know her," she says, to the assertion that her mother has her best interests at heart, and there she does roll her eyes. Because he doesn't know, and wild as she seems to be she's not inclined to talk about her family with a total stranger. This is not Pour Your Heart Out hour at L'Hotel Fangs Argent. He wanted to know what was waiting for her back home and she's told him. A furious mother and a fate he obviously can't comprehend.

He rises and she tenses, lifts her chin a little higher. He moves like he's decades beyond his prime but Georgie figures he could move fast if he wanted to. He just doesn't want to for whatever reason. She watches as he pours himself another glass, nose scrunched at the second drink. The look is gone before he turns back to her, replaced with her usual stormy expression of pent up frustration.

"Look," she says, taking a breath to try to find some kind of calm. This obviously isn't working out to her favor. She can't make him understand why the archaic notion of an arranged marriage would be abhorrent to a modern era teenaged woman. "You wanted to know what was waiting for me in New York and I told you. Just because you don't get it doesn't mean you should make me go back there."


Cameron
"Of course it does." He says simply and plainly, drink drawn up to his mouth. This time he doesn't return to his seat. This time he moves to where Georgie is and as if separating his thoughts required it, he takes another drink. "Do you believe that every single day of my life I want to go kill things? That I want to risk dying every time I leave wherever it is I lay my head at night?" A brow perks up and he squats in front of her smoothly. Cameron moves like a man aged and though that he might be, he could move frighteningly quick if the need for him to do such things presented itself.

"Or that I simply have no desire to be around my child? Or my mate? Do you think there is any of this life that I have wanted or that I have chosen....or that is fair?" With his drink in one hand and the other lying loose on one thigh he peers at the young kinfolk with a quiet intensity, right down to the marrow of her bones.

"This isn't a fair life. I know that. And I also know that I'm no Philodox or Galliard. Words aren't ....my strong suit. If it weren't for that music I wouldn't even be able to have a conversation with you...Georgie. But we aren't so different despite how different we may seem, I get it. But what's waiting for you in New York isn't half as bad as what's waiting for you down the road if you keep running..."

With that he stands and paces to the window, eyes perusing a City that has no ties and no promise for him. "I guess you have to ask yourself...which storm would you rather weather?" She has his back, her freedom and a very difficult decision to make.


Georgie Kingsley-Lockwood
He squats before her and she watches him do it, daring to meet his gaze at last because what else can she do when he puts himself below her eyeline like that? There is a stormy intensity in her blue eyes as she looks at him, a potential for strength. Maybe someday she'll temper her attitude to some great effect. Maybe someday she'll make someone a good mate, or show herself to be worthy of her bloodline. Maybe that day is soon, but it's not today.

For a moment she stares at him, lips pressed into a line as she searches his face for something, some sign that he could be made her ally. But then he's gone, up and away to show her his back and she knows. Whatever he is to her mother to have been sent after her, he is no friend to Georgie.

"It's not the same," she says quietly, hands clenched to white-knuckled fists on her knees because she can feel it. She can feel the hopelessness and the frustration rising up and she can feel the tears that'll come with them. "It's not the same," she says again, more firmly. "I'm not talking about killing things. You like your mate, but you're not married to you, and you didn't have to have your kid." She rises, not to go, though she really, really wants to go. She rises and she twists her fingers together and the tears, they pull in her clear eyes but don't spill over yet.

"Please," she says, imploring. "Please. Don't take me back there. It's not what you think it is."
[manip (compelling) + empathy + PB: trying to tug at his sympathies? maybe?]
Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 5 ) Re-rolls: 1


Cameron
He doesn't want to look at her. Something nags at him, complains incessantly in the back of his mind the way the idea of whether or not you turned off the stove or locked the door does. He can't place it or quiet it and it bothers him in a way that he can't properly explain. She goes on and on and his shoulders lift with a deep in take of air followed by a slow exhale. "I didn't like her. I don't know if I like her now. I didn't want children with her but that is what is expected of me. There are so few of us now that it's my duty. My obligation...just like it is yours."

"If it isn't me...it will be someone else." He says matter of factly." Another drink of his scotch and Cameron rests the palm of his free hand on the cool glass of the window. "I'll check into this guy. If he's a good and decent man there's nothing I can do. You will have to make a decision...either you obey your Mother and do what is expected of you or you leave your family. Completely. And that is if she will allow you to denounce them so easily. It won't be easy...our enemies will know you in the same way that any Garou does. They will try and claim you, drop you in one of their breeding pits in the hopes of making more...insane wolves but it'll drive you insane too."

Cameron drops his hand from the window and turns around to look at her once more. "If your Mother allows you to leave the fold Georgie...I can't - we can't - protect you."

i'll destroy the whole goddamn place (satisfied prelude)

Sue
*it was a perfect day to have a perfect day off.. spending it in arms with Penny.. tugging her along the sidewalk*

Penny Westborrow
What was wrong with this picture? Penny is dragged along like an exasperated mother with an overly enegetic child

"Where are we going?"

Sue
How about everywhere! *she chirped.. all hyper and such.. steering her towards a glamrock store.. or was that a punk store.. all studs, black leather and posters galore*

Alexei Ojala
*Lex steps out of one of the flashy eateries along the main strip. He has a content look, eating a nice dinner helped. Lex turns and waves to someone at the door then starts along, sticking a hat on his head as its cold outside*

Morgan Fellows
Ill professors and time off. Though it's never really time off is it? Even when she's not in class, she's reading or studying...or working on something or another. Today she has work to do in her off-time, and she's grateful for it. Seems the amount of reading for her classes never ends.

She makes her way along in search of some particular spot that caters to both cheap food and reasonable silence.

Penny Westborrow
"Oh good lord girl, no more candy and coffee in the mornings for you. Ooooh, leather"

She allowed herself to be drug along as she looks around noticing Alexei and then the student? She arches a brow watching Morgan.

Sue
*she laughed* Pssh you.. got nothing to do with candy.. besides.. I wanna see if I can find a good dog collar.. *not really paying attention to the surroundings for once.. dog collar on her mind*

Alexei Ojala
*Lex isn't being the most perceptive today but as he hears various languages he knows he tries to tune into those curiously as he wanders along. Finally he takes a break and sits on a bench having that almost overly full feeling*

Penny Westborrow
"Why in the world do you want a dog collar?"

She ceartainly wasnt going to wear one and Sue thought she was then there was going to be an unpleasant surprise in her near future.

Sue
Oh.. for various reasons *she gave shrug* I think a collar with spikes would be better than a bite .. keep the detective and his curiousity at bay.. dontcha think?

Morgan Fellows
She adjusted her bag, cursing inwardly at the weight of it. It's the ambition that does it, or the overestimation of how much she can carry. Morgan pauses mid-step to open the flap and readjust the books. Next time she ought to reconsider how much she might actually accomplish outside of the university.

Penny Westborrow
She was still watching Morgan

"Wait, the detective is going to bite you on the neck?"

She looked back at Sue

"What are you going on about?"

Sue
Noooooo! *she gave a groan and stomp of foot!* noo.. I mean Tay.. what better way to mark me as his but with a spikey dogcollar hmm? Hoping the weasel will leave me alone..

Alexei Ojala
*Someone calls him and he starts speaking in Russian seming a little annoyed like he is trying to explain something or another*

Penny Westborrow
She scratches her head

"How about a fucking ring or a necklace or a choker, a dog collar means you are tame and he owns you and I find it to be a little offensive, all things considered you know?"

Morgan Fellows
Penny and Sue are not easy to miss, at least when compared to the rather normal Ms. Morgan. They're fascinating in their own way. She might assume they are artists of some sort, from classical painters, to modern art, to perhaps even tattooing.

Morgan shrugs a little and gives them a small smile before finds herself ducking into a cafe.

Alexei Ojala
*He watches as the woman enters his peripheral vison and then goes into some nearby cafe. Continues talking on the phone in RUssian and the tone quiets some*

Sue
well fine.. I'll put a collar on him instead.. *she laughed* I own him.. hmm. one for echo too.. maybe.. *already beginning to plot*

Penny Westborrow
"Ugh, Echo"

She shakes her head

"Whats with you hogging all the men folk?"

She waves at Morgan before she dissapears into the cafe

Sue
I'm not hogging all the menfolk! You've got several others I'm sure to choose from.. it's not like you like Ginger anyhows.. *she gave retort* besides.. it's my way of building security and protection..

Cash Veicht
It's going to snow. The news has already came up with irritating catch phrases: snowmaggedon! snowquester! snowpocalypse! Cash hasn't bought into the hype, couldn't care less really, but the regular 9-5 joe's in the city are in a hustle to get their bread and milk and shovels.

There's a small coffee shop and that's where he's standing. Outside the front door because while he was in there no one was comfortable. His Rage is like a furnace blowing hot, his eyes speak of nothing but murder. He's 5'11 and about 200 pounds, fuzzy dark blond hair that sticks up at awkward angles and pale blue eyes. His hoodie is black, his jeans faded.

He's standing out in the cool air, his to go cup of coffee steaming in one hand.

Morgan Fellows
A wave from Penny, and Cash in the doorway. Honestly it's either not her day or the luckiest moment of the week. She pauses near the door, for both accounts. Morgan gives a half wave to Penny in response and can't help but look at Cash now. Her glasses slide down her nose a little, forcing herself to look at him over the rim. Uncomfortable, certainly.

Penny Westborrow
"Of course I don't like him, he's an inconsiderate alcoholic without enough care for you to not get drunk and fuck your roomate."

She can't help but be drawn to the rage boiler standing with the hot cup of coffee. She could get pretty damn ragey but this guy was workin it.

Alexei Ojala
*His call ends then he notes someone rushing along muttering snow catch phrases* Hey, I doubt its going to be that bad... Its just snow

*In a who cares its just snow outlook* You dont need a pile of supplies either, just enjoy it. *Laughs a little. The person shakes his head saying its like the end of the world with the snow coming and continues on. Meanwhile Lex is nearby wolves so...

(per)
Dice: 3 d10 TN3 (4, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )

Alexei Ojala
(and for Pen)
Dice: 3 d10 TN5 (1, 6, 7) ( success x 1 )

Alexei Ojala
*Knows there are 2 wolves nearby, one is so scary he just stays in his seat for now*

Sue
but.. but.. Marty always gets.. sloshed.. *she gave a huff, scuffed the toe of her docmartens to the ground a bit and gave glance to the woman that skirted just to the cafe* you know her Penny?

Cash Veicht
Cash wouldn't earn a second glance if it weren't for the barely restrained hold he seems to have crafted over his own Rage. Standing with his shoulders hunched, posture shit, he sips his coffee and looks at Penny first and then down to Morgan.

Nostrils flare, eyes narrow and then relax. A muscle ticks in his jaw but he doesn't say anything for now. Not to Morgan, but he watches her very closely. Even as his attention drifts up to Penny and Sue, he's keeping track of where Morgan is.

Penny gets a jerk up of his chin in a typical street greeting, the coffee lifted to his lips again.

Penny Westborrow
She gave Cash a slight nod back

"No I don't but I was staring so I waved"

she looked at Sue

"Oh believe me I'm not terribly pleased with Marty either but I don't think its my place to spank her for being a bad friend"

Morgan Fellows
Uncomfortable, very uncomfortable, but she stands her ground for the moment. "You'll freeze out here." Morgan reaches up to pushed her glasses back on her face.

Sue
*she laughed, seemingly not have noticed either Alexei or the other ragey type up ahead, it was afterall still a decent gap between them all* I will not spank Marty.. even though you think she deserves it.. I don't think she does deserve it.. just better walls.. and family around her.. to get over her.. past..

Penny Westborrow
"Family like me or family like a reliable lover to keep her on the straight?"

Cash Veicht
Morgan's words give him pause. A brow is pushed up on his forehead and he lowers the coffee slowly, his free hand digging out a pack of pall mall reds.

"..ain't gonna freeze." he pauses, looks her over once more and sticks the cigarette between his lips and talks around it. " You might though."

Alexei Ojala
*He is dressed warmly for the weather but seems stuck at that bench. Now he obsereves the scary ass garou ot sure its a good one or a bad one. Surprised such a scary one comes downtown*

Sue
. a bit of both I would think Penny.. *she gave a defeated sigh* fine. no collar.. I'll have him tatt in a glomp on me then.. something like.. original.. so there..

Morgan Fellows
"Not with the heat you're giving off." Morgan left him then to head in. He's right of course, it's freezing out there, and the smell of coffee was awakening a craving. Coffee...and scones.

Penny Westborrow
She nods

"Well I can help I think"

She frowns a touch "

"Not really sure how though, I'm not exactly very nurturing am I?"

Cash Veicht
The corner of his mouth quirks at one side and he lights his cigarette while managing the coffee in his other hand. His eyes fix on her face and he watches her until she disappears into the coffee shop behind him.

He doesn't make to leave, instead smokes his cigarette and nurses his coffee while his attention flickers from Penny to Sue and the random foot traffic around him.

Alexei Ojala
*He gets up off the bench, the overly full feeling faded to a more comfortable one. Lex does have a feral appearance and knows the garou either foe or not may notice. He starts to make space between him and Cash*

Marina
The sound of the 1951 Hudson Hornet gliding down the street was almost as impressive as the sight of the thing as it glided it's way along the street and always managed to turn more than a few heads with a reflective coat of burgundy paint that seemed to capture the light as it rolled down the street with surprising ease. It was apparent, with just one look, that whoever owned this car took damn good care of it.

The car stopped, pulled over, at the side of the road near a coffee shop and the woman inside slipped out in a T-shirt and blue jeans then pulled a black leather jacket over her torso when she realized how cool it was outside.

She was tall, about 5'9" with long blonde hair done up in the back to give her the image that she had been plucked straight out of the 50's and plopped down in a different time. She was also gorgeous, it would be a lie to say otherwise, and comfortable in the way she looked around for a moment then turned on her car alarm and began to make her way into a coffee shop.

It was about lunch time and she needed to get herself refueled before heading back to work, or so it would appear.

Sue
well.. *another fidget and she pulled out a pack of herbal smokes, offering one to Penny, not that she's ever seen her smoke before and tapped one out for herself* .. I dont know. just be yourself around her.. speak french if you must *she laughed*

Penny Westborrow
"Hmm I forgot we had that in common. Seems theres a few people out and about today."

she locked eyes on the Classic and tried not to drool a little

Cash Veicht
There's a furtive look to his brow when Marina exits the Hornet and slips on the jacket. Another drag is pulled from the cigarette, another sip of coffee and he just watches, a puzzled look whispering over his hardened features.

One more puff and he snubs the cigarette out on the wall behind him and drops it in the nearest trash can. Turning his body he grips the door handle and moves inside the coffee shop.

It's like the air is sucked out of it almost immediately. People dark quick fleeting glances up toward him then look away. They want nothing to do with Cash, none of them, and he doesn't really seem to care.

He's got a purpose for coming inside, and wherever Morgan is that's the direction he takes. If she has a table, he sits at it with her. If not, he'll stand by her.

Cash Veicht
((dark = dart))

Alexei Ojala
*He doesn't notice the car, not his thing. He does pause to look at the snowflakes beginning and smiles a little*

Sue
Hmm? *she first now gave a sweeping glance around the piece of street where they were standing* really.. ? where? I don't see any.. *not recognising the retreating back of Alexei*

Morgan Fellows
She set a cup of coffee on the table, and a scone for herself on a plate. A separate one sat just opposite of her, in front of the empty seat. The trick is to realize that even when they seem like they have no interest, they always do.

Morgan set a binder of papers on the table and opened it up. While he sat down, she was busy pulling out a pen and a highlighter.

Marina
Marina can feel the tension that fills the room as Morgan enters and her eyes wander around the others in the building as she waits for her Latte to be prepared. Her eyes wander from a number of figures and she can't quite place the presence of rage, or even that it's rage, just that someone is making her feel a little uncomfortable.

So instead she turns to chat a little with the woman preparing her drink before taking it in hand and turning around to head for the door. The warm liquid should help her defeat the cool winter air a little! So back out she goes to take a seat just outside the coffee shop away from whatever the hell was making her feel umcomfortable.

Alexei Ojala
*Holds his hand out to try and catch som of the snowflakes and not looking where he is going he nearly bumps into Pens and Sue* Excuse me...

*Steps to the side*

Cash Veicht
He sits in the chair and sits his coffee on the table, the chair beneath him creaks and groans in protest at the solid weight now sitting on it. He sprawls in the chair, no attempt to straight his spine or look like something he's not. One long leg is stretched out, the other bent. His right arm is laid over the back of his chair while the left rests on the table, fingers toying absently with his coffee.

"That cain't wait 'till I'm gone?" He asks her, a brow lifted high up on his face in question. Eyes drag over her papers and the highlighter lazily. "What's yer name?"

Sue
(tagging Pen-p back in)


*she blinked owlishly for a breif moment at being bumped into.. * Oh.. hey.. Alexei.. fancy seeing you here..

Morgan Fellows
"I guess you're planning to get my degree for me then? Do my work?" Morgan lifted her gaze at him then gestured to his scone. "You'll need something other than cigarettes and coffee for lunch."

Alexei Ojala
*He nearly did, he didn't hit them* Well its the city centre, lots to do and see around here. Hi

Penny Westborrow
She ruffles a bit and lifts Alexei up with one arm and then sets him down apologizing and unruffling his shirt.
"Sorry bout that, the car distracted me"

Alexei Ojala
*He is picked up, looks shocked* Huh what was that all about? Oh was it a super hot sports car? I should have noticed that. Sometimes things like Ferarri drive down the road and its so cool. I have some pics of that.

Cash Veicht
His brow furrows deeper and his body coils, a tight wound spring ready to snap. Muscles shift over bone and beneath tan skin as he draws the extended leg in and drapes both arms over the table in front of him - one over the other. Leaning forward now waves of his Rage wash over Morgan like the ebb and flow of a strong tide. It's heat too, as if his temperature just ran hotter than everyone else's around him.

"You gotta a mouth on you." His voice is pitched low and it rumbles around in his chest and throat before leaving his mouth. "What's your name?"

Penny Westborrow
"Wrong social class Alexei, its a 51 Hornet."

Sue
.. Oh here we go again *she grumbled to herself. letting Penny converse with Alexei about automobiles and turned to wander off.. to go peek in windows.. afterall she might see something of dire interest*

Alexei Ojala
I don't know what that is. *He shrugs lightly* Especialy if 51 is the year.... Why drive those old farty cars around.

Morgan Fellows
"That's what my father would say." She said simply, tapping the highlighter on her paper. "Morgan." Those glasses sliding down her nose a little again. "What do you go by?"

Cash Veicht
"Ya oughtta listen to yer daddy." His eyes lower and look at the scone then back at her face. "Cash." The breeding within Morgan lies in her eyes and nose and mouth -- all reminiscent of some hero in her lineage that she probably can't name. He can see it though, as easy as he can see his how nonchalantly she bears his Rage.

"You stay around here?"

Penny Westborrow
"Because some people have taste."

She peeked ove Sue's shoulder

Alexei Ojala
If you say so, give me a supercool sportscar or motorbike anyday. *Gets distracted by the snowflakes again and catches one looking pleased*

Morgan Fellows
"If I did that..." She said with a smirk. "I'd walk right by you, leave you out in the cold and tell you to shove off, I'm busy." She nodded, looking at her papers for a moment to read some bit of words, highlight a passage, and then look back to him. "I do. You're not coming back with me, if that's what you're asking."

Alexei Ojala
And with all the wimps afraid of the snowstorm, I'll have a chance to go out on the road and play with my toys. First thing in Russia one learns when driving is driving in the snow.

Marina
She swings her legs under her chair as she sips from her coffee. Her attention wandering around at her surroundings as she looks at the others who happened to be around passing little smiles from one person to the next.

She had caught Penny glancing over at her car a little and couldn't help but smile with pride. The car was her true baby... And it was nice to see others appreciating it!

Cash Veicht
"Don't be fuckin' stupid." He says, picking up the scone and biting it nearly in half. "If I wanted ta come with you, I would." Words are spoken with a mouthful of pastry. It's chewed and swallowed and he lifts a shoulder and shrugs at her.

"I guess lucky fer you 'at ain't what I want." His eyes fix on hers and he glares at her, hard and without pause, letting the entirety of who he is wash over Morgan. "There's some trouble yesterday, not far from here. You're blood, I ain't doin' my duty if I don't tell ya ta watch yer ass."

Sue
*the windows bored her.. pulling further away from the company of Penny and Alexei.. pushing towards the cafe, something hot inside would be nice to have*

Penny Westborrow
"Funny, first thing I learned about driving was how to call for the limo."

she caught up with Sue

"Can't find anything pretty enough?"

Alexei Ojala
Your jesting me, right?

*He doesn't seem to think she's being truthful about that. Lex looks at some of the windows too*

Morgan Fellows
She looked right at Cash. "And you'd lose your dick." She said pointedly. Her brows furrowed slowly. "Trouble? Well thank you, for telling me. Any clarification on where I should likely avoid until things have 'calmed?'

Penny Westborrow
She laughed

"Not at all, my family is quite rich actually, but I m not them."

Sue
Can't find the beast I want rather.. unless you can find one for me.. a boa of some dead animal.. mink maybe.. or fox.. or squirrel you think?

Penny Westborrow
She ponders for a moment

"You should try a taxidermist"

Cash Veicht
"What did you just say?" He says to her, as if he isn't exactly sure he heard correctly. The uneaten half of the scone drops on the plate and he stares at Morgan, unblinking, his jaw tensing and flexing.

Sue
*a feigned sigh* nono. I want a boa.. a wrap around dead fur on my shoulders.. not a stuffed beast.. I dont need one of those.. I've already got you

Alexei Ojala
*He smirks faintly and looks in a window of an electronics shop. Seems to be debating going in to look at more toys*

Marina
She takes a few more sips from her drink and stands again to make her way back towards the car. However, she pauses in front of the car when she notices a smudge of something on one of the headlights. She reaches into her back pocket to pull out a handkerchief and she leans down to do a little spit shine of the headlight... It would seem even the tiniest imperfection was unacceptable. Then again the paint job on the car alone looked like it would cost your average person 2 or even 3 months pay. It wouldn't make sense to spend that much on a paint job only to ignore it!

Penny Westborrow
"Yes only becuase you feed me so much of Marty's horrible bar food"

she draped herself across Sue's shoulders like a boa

Morgan Fellows
"You heard me, Cash. Don't pretend I'm the first female to tell you not everything is yours." She can feel the heat, the anger, and it's almost more uncomfortable than a room full of creepers when you're wearing a thin-clothed dress. "Maybe you should go cool off."

Sue
Marty's food is not horrible.. *she groaned again, not objecting to being draped over*

Marina
Once the smudge was cleared off she stood and stuffed the handkerchief back into her back pocket and she made her way around to open the door to the car. She opened it up and slipped back in. The keys slipped into the ignition and soon the powerful rumble of the car starting up rattled nearby windows and likely shook the very core of those who might be standing close enough to the muscle car. Oh it was as authentic as they come but it was apparent that this particular car might have undergone a few adjustments. What's the point in owning the worlds first true muscle car when it doesn't have near as much muscle as anyone else?

She gives the car a minute or two, with the door open while she sips her coffee, to warm itself up.

Cash Veicht
((rage check gibbous diff 5))
Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (2, 3, 4, 9, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )

Alexei Ojala
*He walks on and finds the fancy kitchen shop he likes so slips in there to look around*

Penny Westborrow
"Uh huh"

she watches the woman fuss over the car and smirked a bit

"Speaking of, I'm kinda hungry, feed me"

Alexei Ojala
*Inside the shop they do know him as he shops often there* Seriously the snow is nothing... no need for panicking. The worse that could happen is like a metre of snow and it either melts or is moved away. Also stocking up isn't necessary either. If anything you can still leave and go shopping on skis *He says then smirks faintly and keeps shopping*

Sue
feed you? *she chuckled* now how would I do that best? with chicken nuggets or donut of some kind?

Penny Westborrow
"oooooh I do love not knowing what part of the chicken I am eating."

she hugged Sue

Cash Veicht
He sniffs. Chin drops toward his chest and his tongue rolls out over his lips. One finger taps on the table and a full minute passes before he even says anything. A couple at the table nearest them has the good sense to get up and walk out of the cafe.

A ripple runs beneath his skin, muscles spasm and bones begging to snap and break and shift into something else. His pupils burst so wide that the pale blue is swallowed up then shrink back to fine pin pricks of black in a ocean of clear blue.

"Morgan." he says, his voice a low growl barely controlled. "...yer gonna put that shit away and get up. We're leavin', you and me. Now. Don't push and don't say another fuckin' word or I swear to fuck I'll destroy this entire goddamn place."

(droppin' a WP....holy shit.)

Sue
*outside on the sidewalk Sue gave a squeak albeit a happy one at being hugged by a Penny* then we'll go for the KFC joint.. yeah? Crispy crumbly sticky fingerlickin' chicken..

Morgan Fellows
She looks over him slowly, taking in the rage that is rolling off him. Family and their temper. Sometimes it's a blessing and sometimes it gets in the way of things. Most people don't lose their 'temper' on the first meeting, but Chase seems to be a bit more high strung. Morgan packs her things and slides her coat on. She looks to him again as she rises, ready to speak but thinks better of it and starts to make her way out.

Marina
Soon enough she closes the door, slips into her seat buckles her safety belt and she's off!

Penny Westborrow
"oooooh they have the best steroids! You buying?"

Ingrid
Even the finest of hotel rooms becomes a prison if inhabited for too long. To Ingrid, a night and part of a day is entirely too long to stay indoors. Her car is parked in the closest spot she could find, which is a distance. It's for this reason that the slender Asian woman walks the distance, peering upward at shop signs and into windows idly. The smell of coffee meets her on the wind, and so she heads in that direction.

There are others gathered on the street, breedless ones that gain a brief glance from the Shadow Lord. She has her hand on the door when she notices the one in the car. Her head tilts curiously, but Marina drives away. Ingrid's attention returns to the door. It was coffee she craved, anyway, and maybe a cake, she hasn't decided yet.

Sue
^^ Cash (for my edit later, haha)

Of course I'm buying! You were the one asking after all.. *she chirped again.. tugging Penny away from the spot they've been loitering on a while now*

Alexei Ojala
*He leaves the shop after buying a few small things and starts along again outside marveling at the snowflakes falling and people upset at that*

Cash Veicht
The chair makes a loud and horrible screeching sound as he stands up. It's shoved out from beneath him a good foot and tips back threatening to fall to the floor before righting itself without any help. He's on her heels as she walks, his jaw set firm and his body far too tense for anyone's good. He pushes past a random human, stalks around Ingrid with a firm nod.

Outside, he takes her arm and guides her into a convenient nearby alleyway. There's no concern for her well being at the moment, Cash settles her back against the wall and slaps both palms on either side of her head.

"Have ya lost yer fuckin' mind? 's one thing ta have balls girl, another ta just be stupid. You ain't me, I ain't you. I eat things like you and rip off their fucking heads." Nose to nose he growls at her, presses his forehead to hers and then steps back.

"Go on." Cash will walk away unless she stops him. "Stay away from the waterfront." And he starts back out, toward the shop and Ingrid.

Penny Westborrow
She looks up at the rage monger and the girl from before

"Jesus...."

Sue
*for a fleeting moment the abrupt movement of male pushing afemale around actually had her stop in her tracks.. of course the rage just waffed off him but still.. * I am not going to intervene on that one.. *she said to Penny* not my business..

Ingrid
[-1G Perceptive Servant, followed by listening from the door like a creep, diff -2, dice -1 for owie]
Dice: 6 d10 TN4 (4, 6, 6, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 6 )

Morgan Fellows
Her brows furrow as she's pushed against the wall, nose to nose with him. She takes in what he says. He's right, in a way, but that doesn't stop her from speaking. "Then don't threaten me." He turned to leave and Morgan gave a glance after him. "Wait a minute." She shuffled in her bag for some spare card she might have shoved away. Always happened. Grab a card from some business and never use it. She scribbled on it and held it out to him. "Number and address. Call before you show, if you can. I'm not always there."

Ingrid
She watches the couple that approaches. First there's the woman, overflowing with the blood of Fenrir heroes. Behind her another with the look of that tribe. Ingrid doesn't assume they're the same, that he is some breedless mongrel of the tribe. After all, she knows from experience not every Fenrir born remains under Fenris.

Cash gives her a terse nod, and Ingrid narrows dark eyes, nearly imperceptibly. She does not head inside, but instead lingers back outside. Closing her eyes, she leans against the wall beside the door, casual, like she's waiting for someone, which isn't entirely incorrect.

But what she does is listens. One booted ankle crosses over the other, and she examines her gloved fingers as she might if her hands were bare. The corners of her mouth curl up slyly.

Alexei Ojala
*He feels that scary stay away feeling again and thought that one would be gone by now if its even the same one. Lex pauses at a distance not wanting to approach*

Cash Veicht
He takes the card, looks it over front and back and nods at her. "Stay outta Yards Park, if ya gotta go there, be careful. Ain't my job ta babysit." His eyes look at her face then the card once more and he keeps moving. Out of the mouth of the alley and toward the shop, though he stops near Ingrid.

The card is slipped into the back pocket of his jeans and both hands rake back through his hair. His muscles are trembling beneath the hoodie he's wearing.

Morgan Fellows
Well...there went that cafe. And her scone. And her coffee. Morgan adjusts her bag and with a shake of her head turns the opposite way to find another place to sit quietly.

Penny Westborrow
She nods

"Probably a good idea"

Ingrid
Outwardly there's not much to differentiate Ingrid from other, ordinary people, other than the obvious. Her clothing is fine, expensive, carefully chosen, her hair soft and expertly styled. She's a little too high class for most places, and certainly for the crowd that's inside that coffee shop. And there's no breeding to mark her as Garou, to call out to the world her tribal affiliation.

What there is, however, is something else. Some dark, predatory menace that even Cash with all his rage does not have. She's an animal of a different order.

He pauses before her, and Ingrid pushes up from the wall on which she leans. "Trouble with your lady?" she asks.

Sue
Indeedly.. so.. *having watched the whole thing from A to B to C.. and then tugged on Penny's arm* KFC it was.. I think it's.. thatta way.. *pointing down in the other direction*

Penny Westborrow
"Hmmm. That way then."

She turned and now she was dragging Sue behind her

"Oh my god come on."

Alexei Ojala
(per)
Dice: 3 d10 TN7 (7, 7, 8) ( success x 3 )

Alexei Ojala
*He glances to Ingrid briefly then chooses to just try to sneak by. After all the ragemonger was there too so he gives them ample space*

Cash Veicht
His hair had been an awkward mess before his hands pushed through it -- unstyled, spikey but soft and clean. He sniffs at Ingrid. Then again. His lips curled in a half snarl that fades slowly as he looks the well dressed, well coiffed woman over.

"Ain't mine, just blood." He flexes his hands into fists and throws a glance at Alexi before looking back to Ingrid. "I gotta get outta this fuckin' jungle." He's on edge, eyes jerking to anyone that gets too close and offering a threatening glare.

"Too many people."

Sue
Gah! *another squeak and she laughed being towed along by Penny* I'm coming I'm coming..

Alexei Ojala
*He is dressed nicely as well but cringes as he is looked at-glared at and hurries on his way*

Alexei Ojala
(brb)

Penny Westborrow
"Oh please you aren't even breathing heavy yet"

As they pass the two at the cafe she thought about sticking around in case he did blow a gasket. But hunger and a feeling that they would hear it if he did pop.

Ingrid
He sniffs at her and gets...nothing. No perfume, no soap, no detergent or whatever it is they use at the dry cleaners. If he closed his eyes, Ingrid would all but disappear.

The corners of her mouth lift a little higher, and she tilts her head at him. "I was hoping you would say that." She places a hand on his shoulder, her touch light, barely there. The well dressed man is seen, his attempts to sneak past the pair noted, and summarily dismissed. Her hand lingers just long enough to urge Cash to turn before it falls away, and she starts off in the direction of her car.

Cash Veicht
There's nothing to Ingrid and that was disconcerting for him. He wasn't sure how to take it because for him, scent was as important as his sight and his hearing. Her hand rests on tense muscle, firm and sturdy and scarred. He turns as she directs him and starts off toward her car, though he's really just following her. His gait is a rolling smooth stride, all necessity and nothing used that isn't required.

The modi doesn't reply to her, just stalks quietly behind her until they reach her car.