Goldie Lennox
Earlier that day Goldie and Mary had
been outside of the city, out in Roxborough State Park as a matter of
fact. They met one another as Ragabash do-- in a test of stealth, one
where Mary was doing the stealthing and Goldie, an old pro at that game,
picked up on the Silver Fang in the brush. A sniff and a whisper later
they were playing a game, and there's really no better way to build a
friendship between New Moons than with games, was there?
Even if the Ahroun that was supposed to become the monkey in the middle simply didn't play well with others.
That
was okay, though, because there were fallback plans. Goldie suggested
that the newly found Moon Sister come with her and her Kinsman back into
the city. "I'll buy us ice cream," she'd offered, even though Silver
Fangs traditionally came from much more wealth than Fianna families did,
and even though Mary was dressed neat and pricey with her pretty blouse
and make-up. So they had gone back to the beat-up old car to find Matt
reclined in the driver's seat with the windows down, smoking a spliff
and surprised to find that Goldie had brought a guest along.
The
good thing about Matthew Murphy, though, was his lack of give-a-shit
could contribute to good causes, such as bringing a stray Young Queen
home with them.
Home turned out to be a little brick house in a
neighborhood not far from the downtown heart of Denver, with precisely
the kind of furnishing that you expected a pair of loafs in different
stages of their 20's would have-- ecclectic and pieced together. They
weren't there long, though. Mary would only have enough opportunity to
hover for perhaps five or seven minutes before Goldie had returned,
clothes changed to something better for the streets than the sticks, and
proclaimed that they should be on their way. They'd find their own
way, Matty didn't need to chauffer them wherever they went.
So
this-- this is how we ultimately find the girls at Washington Park in
this early evening while the sun was beginning to skirt nearer to the
tops of the mountains to the west. They were set up someplace, on a
cement edge or a bench no doubt. Goldie with a small paper bowl of ice
cream instead of a cone, chattering happily like the loudmouth she could
be.
"....and I was actually there last night? It doesn't seem
quite as uptight as I'd expected. Like, I thought I'd walk into 1999
Broadway and be confronted by guards in black suits, but it's just a
bunch of people, you know? Like us."
Otto Larsson
“Just…
take him home.” Otto shuts the passenger door and steps back, watching
someone else drive his car away from the kerb. He scruffs a hand through
his hair and over his face, silencing a frustrated sigh. Dinner had not
gone as planned and, not only was his stomach empty and his appetite
vanquished, he now had a hostile little hothead taking over his car, his
home. Their home.
He glances around the unfamiliar area, body
following a glance across his shoulder to turn towards Washington Park.
Its tree-lined walkways offer a refuge from towering buildings and busy
roads, and the grass was inviting to even his polished feet. Although he
may long to walk bare toes across the brush, feel the softness of soil
and the tickle of green blades across the soles of his feet, this was a
city sprawl and not some country estate. He had a certain air, a
reputation, a status to uphold even if all those around him are
insignificant an ignorant.
Cutting across the grass, the Kinsman
strolls in a pair of deep ebony slacks and a stone coloured, long sleeve
shirt. He fiddles with the buttons at the stiff collar, popping open
the first few as if this would relieve some of the pounding pressure in
his temples, and allow him to easily breathe in the cooling night air.
Within a few minutes the shift of atmosphere has started to chip away at
the tension, leaving his shoulders to slide from knotted clumps into
smooth, relaxed lines.
Mary
Two infants born when
the moon was black instead of silver; if there'd just been a sliver of
light, surely oh then there'd be wisdom. As it is: they're doomed to
constantly search, aren't they, to search and to search, dooms and dooms
like dooms of love, and
well. Perhaps they do not feel too doomed
to quest(ion) just now. They're two young young women making a friend
in a new new place.
Mary used the restroom at the Fianna House.
There: she splashed water on her cheeks, cooled off, generally powdered
her nose, and with her back to the mirror and her generous hips against
the washstand she texted, laughing once silently before Mary was a
virtue Mary is a virtue Mary is like patience Mary is patient outside
waiting for Goldie.
Mary asked for a waffle cone and strawberry
ice cream and atop the strawberry ice cream a scoop of pistachio because
it is green and on top of that a smidgeon of blood orange gelato
because it is magenta.
Mary, who is a royal Mary with dark Spanish
eyes and copper-gleaming hair and a mis-buttoned (polka-dot
black-and-white blouse) and jeans that show the wear and tear of hiking,
Mary who does indeed have an air of casual heroism (shining potential)
as far as some people go, who can draw herself right up if she so
chooses, totally bets Goldie that she can swallow the whole thing in one
go.
This does not work out. There is ice cream on her nose and on
her chin and she is laughing; wiping it with the palm of her hand with
fucking dignity.
"Really?" said like she's got a secret, elongated, Re-eeally? "Are you going to join up? Is that why you came here?"
But
what ho, light through yonder window breaks- it is the east. Or
something. At least it's a kinsman with a familiar sort of cache (who
looks from a distance rather Henryish). Purity of lineage is never fair,
even if it was hard-won once upon a time.
Goldie Lennox
The
attire change left Goldie as she is now: Petite, slender, almost
waifish looking in contrast to her robust and voluptuous friend for the
evening. Beyond size, though, the two perhaps could be mistaken for
related in that their hair and eyes were very similar in tone. Except
where Mary was copper and precious metals and crowns and prestige,
Goldie was instead sand and earth and dust, some American-bred remnant
that would suit a picture of an immigrant family back during the Great
Depression.
She wore a pair of black combat boots with gray socks
up to her calves. A pair of denim shorts replaced the khakis from
before, and now a black band T-shirt was worn loose and cut loose
(swooping low, revealing on the sides), but with a gray blazer overtop.
Her hair was down and in waves untamed that she'd raked back behind her
ears to get at her own ice cream.
Ice cream batter, with raspberries worked in. Plus whipped cream.
Asked
why she'd joined up, Goldie shrugged her shoulders casually and licked
at her spoon between words when she answered. "Yeah. I'm here to be a
badass. I was telling Matty--" She called her Kinsman Matty, but the
man gave off the air that he probably wouldn't let anyone else get away
with such a youthful shortening of his name. It was apparent right away
that they were raised together, though their drastically mismatched
lineages stood as neon-bold proof that they were not in fact related.
Perhaps she had been adopted or something. They didn't elaborate.
"I
was tell him the other day that I should just put in to be an assassin
for the Sept. Like a roaving Guardian, you know? Because I need to
start building my Badass Resume. Then I won't have to worry about packs
or being a barista anymore."
But there was light breaking through
yo's yonder window, and Goldie turned her head and leaned drastically
forward to spy Otto coming across the lawn to where the pair of New
Moons were perched. Recognition splashed over her face, and a broad
broad grin came to follow.
"Oh, yes. He's here too. I think you'll like him."
The smile flipped to something just a bit brighter, and she waved to Otto in greeting.
Otto Larsson
Along
the way he passes a jogger - drowning out the world by musical
earplugs, couple – still young and stupid enough to be in love, and an
older lady - who looks just like the poodle she tugs along. The grass
affords him some distance, enough that he’s not compelled to smile or
nod, or greet, or acknowledge them in any way. Until the two sitting on
the cement edge lining the flowerbed, separating those delicate beauties
from the heavy slab of concrete path.
Goldie he recognises, her
voice, then her hair, and the way she sits. Languid, he views, and
young, as though there is not a care in the world and that she does not
bite and tear, and generally render nightmarish things into pools of
bloody lumps. His stroll slows, just enough for him to look at Mary. His
soft pewter gaze, even in the dark, is pale and highlighted by the
colour of his chosen shirt. It skips across her face, her attire, and,
importantly, the way her posture sits alongside Goldie. He compares the
two, the contrast and similarities, seeking to read the signals that all
animals do, in the secret and silent language of bodies and the
gestures they make.
By then, he has avoided the wide garden bed
and steps out onto the path, gradually making his way towards the two
enjoying chit chat over ice-cream in cups and cones. Removing his hand
from his hip pocket is a simple gesture, a subtle and often overlooked
sign of decency. The timing was perfect for him to return Goldie’s wave
albeit a little less enthusiastically. For him it was a lift of a palm, a
short signal of greeting but his smile said more. It filters through to
the pale of his eyes, warming the cool colour with sincerity.
“Miss
Goldie,” he greets, slowing to stand a few feet away, respectfully.
“I’m starting to wonder if you’re the cities mascot, hiding beneath the
trees.” It was not long ago that she had climbed down from one, trying
to weasel out his name.
What follows is a direct glance to Mary, inquisitive, and accompanied by an acknowledging nod. “Ma’am.”
Mary
Now
Goldie's quest of badassery: Mary listened to that not gravely because
Mary is not grave (Mary is utterly grave, as grave as the End of the
World, baby: or no that' a song), Mary listened to that not gravely but
with a certain air of thoughtfulness and planning, of plottery, okay?
Plottery.
"What kind of badass? I've got a bright idea."
Here is Otto.
Mary
thanks God or Gaia or whatever the name of the Holy Power there is
which gives her visions like: Matt, with his hearth-fire, heath-fire,
smoke and stagsome glory, and now Otto, with his too-familiar,
too-kingly, too-something that hooks Mary right in the gut, and all the
other kinsmen who are just fucking fantastic to look at because look at
them. Seriously, look at them. So: Goldie thinks that Mary'll like oh
he's here too and Mary grins at Goldie a conspiratorial girl's sort of
crawling grin which bites off at the ends to become demure again because
manners, and she shrugs.
I think you'll like him and ma'am
is followed by: "Probably," she agrees, surfer's casual drawl and more
casual lilt. She removes one hand from the ice cream cone to offer Otto a
wave but not a handshake. Her fingers are sticky. "Hey, mister."
Goldie Lennox
The
question about what kind of badass would have to wait. Goldie glanced
to Mary, saw the recognition of a Kinsman and her grin turned just a
little bit smug because she recognized that stomach-hook when she saw
it. So when Otto approached and spoke Goldie looked back at him and
left the smug in her smile when she straightened up and glanced down to
her ice cream cup. She spooned some up while she answered.
"You'd
be mistaken, pal. I haven't been here long enough. And I'm not a
maniac full of teeth either." That could be argued, but as to whether
either party would stood to be seen.
She glanced over at Mary's
sticky-fingered wave while taking a bite from her own bowl. The benefit
of utinsels was that you avoided the sticky fingers. But then, the
Ragabash had gone nose-and-chin deep into the cone a minute before,
hadn't she?
Attention turned upon Otto once more.
"How's your night treating you, Sir Otto the Eminent?"
[Perception 3 + Empathy 0 : Cause nosy girls be nosy! Also, I have no idea what I'm doing!]
Dice: 3 d10 TN7 (1, 9, 10) ( success x 2 )
Otto Larsson
Mister’s
and waves and bright grins, make him feel old. He’s amused by this,
ducking his eyes down briefly, trying to conceal the smile that tugs oh
so easily on his mouth. He admires them, their spirit and fortitude,
that they can sit about and eat ice cream until hands are sticky and
swing combat boots while wearing dresses or, tonight, short denim
shorts. It gives him a little hope and that, in turn, pleasure. He may
not understand them but he can admire them, which he does, openly – not
in some lewd stare, but in the softness around his eyes and the near
smile that lingers just beneath the polished surface.
“I’m Otto,”
he says to Mary, placing a hand to his chest. A gesture that once might
have been accompanied by a light bow of the waist, even a duck of the
head, but now has been simplified to a more modern, and still rare,
brief palm to heart touch. He didn’t mind the lack of handshake, she was
a woman anyway, and probably more he suspects. Handshakes weren’t their
thing.
But Goldie grabs his attention shortly after and her
denial has a dark blond brow arch, surprised, before it smooths out. He
had been sure of it yesterday and now a hint of doubt creeps in. Good
thing that she continues, so that he doesn’t have to draw attention to
that. Instead he’s thrown back into the restaurant, with the sour face
and iron eyes glaring at him across the table, refusing to participate
in the simplest civil activities. The hushed argument, the quick glances
for witnesses, and the struggle to regain the upper hand without coming
to harsh words or ultimatums.
“Let’s say, I’m glad it’s a
Friday.” He pockets his hands, both of them, and widens his stance. Gravity plants him on the edge of the sidewalk, still a few feet away,
but not like an obnoxious prat in the middle of the walkway. He’s left
plenty of room for people to move around him on the wide path.
To
divert attention then, and because he’s genuinely interested, he asks,
“And yours, ladies? It’s still early. Plans for strife?” He means that
in the sense of clubs and parties and not in the gory horror movie
style. That comes to him a moment later, but he’s schooled enough not to
be too concerned about it.
Goldie Lennox
"Oh, Otto, the plans are just hatching, I--..."
Goldie
was cut off by a shrill shriek of a cell phone in her blazer pocket.
She paused, blinked, then dug around to find and silence the device.
She also caught a name on the screen and huffed a bit.
"S'cuze me,
guys," she said, and hopped down off the wall to trot away from them.
She grinned over her shoulder before answering the phone and added:
"Get acquainted!"
[Exit Goldie, stage left]
Monday, September 29, 2014
Welcome to Denver - 9.26.2014 [Matthew, Mary, Javed]
Goldie
Another bright and sunny day, with the perfect shade of blue sky that came from the beginning days of autumn stretching high up ahead. Only a few clouds here and there raced by to give a visual of how quickly the wind blew. It wasn't brisk, but refreshing-- it cooled the skin of the sun above that still soaked and baked it.
Goldie was in goddamn heaven.
"It's too fucking gorgeous out," she'd told Matthew around 10:30am on a rare mutual day off work. "Trade in them trainers for your hiking boots, Matty, let's go pay our dues!"
And that's how they wound up walking through the Roxborough National Forest's land, having parted from hiking trail about twenty minutes back. Goldie was dressed in a pair of hiking boots and tube socks up to her knees, with a pair of khaki shorts and cropped white top and green canvas vest. That's impractical, she'd have been accused, but Goldie just insisted she would be fine. As has been the case since she was 15 and came across her own sense of style, she refused to be told otherwise when it came to her choice of clothes.
"Besides," she would advise, "It's not like I'm going to stay wearing them anyways." And that's precisely what had her chattering excitedly behind Matthew on the hike out toward and into the Bawn, glancing over her shoulder and tugging the bill of a cap she was wearing her hair ponytailed through the back of.
"We're far enough out that I can change, right? You think? Because I don't know if I've bitched about this in the past five minutes or not, but just to be sure we're clear-- you are unfair to hike with on two feet."
Matthew
"Yeah, you know, it's a good thing you keep saying that, otherwise I'd start thinking you were staying humanized on account of it's easier to talk a mile a fucking minute."
10:30 in the morning had seen Matt lying on the couch like he'd never left it last night even though she knows damned well that he was out the door before the sun came up and had gone through the shower before she had even started thinking about waking up. Of course he had already smoked a bowl and put down a beer or two. That doesn't mean he wasn't going to fucking drive it just meant he had to sober up a bit.
The bane of every Fiann's existence.
It's 80 degrees right now and Goldie's outfit is more practical than Matt's is. He's wearing jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt because fuck ticks and chiggers and whatever the fuck else lives out in the woods. It's a wonder he isn't wearing a hat. He is wearing sunglasses. Blue eyes are not particularly renowned for their ability to deal with bright light even if the owner isn't hungover.
He does take a moment to look around before he answers her question though.
"Yeah, you're fine. Go for it."
Javed Anubis-Sight
Javed Anubis-Sight is known for his wandering. Go figure, he's a Strider...that's what they do. As such, while he identifies as a member of the Sept of the Cold Crescent he can often be found around the rural sept. One might argue that he considers himself more of a visitor here than he does in the city sept, but that would demonstrate a lack of understanding: to the Striders, and as such to Javed, they are visitors at any and every Sept no matter how long they stay. Such is the way when you have no home.
He's sitting some distance up ahead from where Goldie and Matthew are, in the path of their eventual approach. He likes to meditate here. He doesn't look like the meditating kind, but when you radiate as much Rage as he does, you have to try to find piece of mind. For Javed, a creature for whom discipline is paramount, it's doubly the case. His army jacket sits at his side, leaving him in his heavy pants, A-shirt and military-style boots. As he hears voices, he doesn't immediately respond; he has his focusing to finish. It is only after a few moments that he finally opens his eyes and rises to stand, reaching to get his jacket and them moving to approach.
Mary
Mary has been hiking, too. It has dawned on her that she has neglected, this past week, some of her rites and rituals, and while her conscience is slow to stir her desire to avoid nagging is ever at the ready, so to the wilderness she went.
The past hour or so: hiking, hiking, hiking, tromping and ambling and bumbling, annoying and aweing and annoying and glorying whatever crosses her path. There was a jack rabbit or a bunny or something a bit earlier. Mary isn't good naming small things that run fast, unless one counts four year olds, and four year olds start out slow and small. Are bunnies wild animals or just rabbits? What about ponies? This is the kind of thing one would expect an educated young woman given every advantage to know without thinking about it. This is also the kind of thing one begins to think about when one has been hiking and it is hot and one likes nature and one certainly feels, or knows one is supposed to feel, and even in unguarded moments may attest to feeling (although sometimes one needs to think about it or forgets about it or takes it for granted), a certain holy reverence away from those dirty dirty dirty scabs, which is to say that Mary is or is not an affectionate creature and she may or may not enjoy being out in nature (she does! She does, it's just), but then she got hot.
And the whole nature thing just kept on being nature and vast and beautiful and wild, and Mary remembered that she does not like exercise or really anything, and Mary has sharp ears too! Very, very sharp ears, so naturally once she is close enough to the Fianna and the Strider those sharp ears will bring her bounding
or at least dragging her feet
to say hello and be bothersome. But how often do convergences happen all at once? Soon, however: EH? PEOPLE? PEOPLE TO INVESTIGATE? First: mm, trail mix.
Goldie
The only pack that Goldie had carried along with her was the same smaller one that she was toting around the night before-- she'd added a bottle of water and canister of nuts and dried fruit and called it a day. She glanced about, to the left and to the right, then stopped walking and shrugged the thin straps of her pack off her shoulders to let it thump onto the ground.
Out here there weren't so many trees as back home. Coverage and shelter weren't quite the same concept-- you wanted to find a ditch or some taller grass and shrubs out this way more realistically to hide in. But Goldie had also been checking a map she'd picked up from the city Sept-- a big fold-out brochure from the state park's office marked with highlighters to indicate boundaries. Yesterday had proved a helpful visit. It was a good thing that she got doused in Wyrm-fungus after all.
The map had been consulted a few minutes previously. They'd crossed into the Bawn border already, and after passing round the side of a hill they were out of sight of the hiking trail. So Goldie wasn't worried about who might be up ahead when she crouched down onto her knees and found her way through one form into another-- choppy but effective and quick a change from girl-skin to wolf.
Given a dozen seconds or so to complete the transition, the wolf Goldie appeared as an almost storybook representation of her namesake. Her pelt was best described as precisely that-- golden, with lighter white-yellow on the underbelly and chest, and a dark muzzle and paws. The big brown eyes carried through all of her forms. Small, and still sleek with a summer's coat, she immediately rolled on the ground and kicked legs in the air, then wriggled her way on her back to her pack to make a show of trying to get her head and leg through the straps so she could wear it on her back like some kind of pack horse.
Matthew
When the Ragabash returns from her costume change the kinsman is scrolling through text messages on his cellphone and not paying attention to his surroundings. They're out in the woods in broad daylight. Broad daylight doesn't mean anything to their people and it sure as shit doesn't mean monsters and mutated humans and other minions of the Wyrm are can't stumble past any moment but he'd like to think the odds of their encountering a boogeyman two days in a row are fairly fucking slim.
So he's on his phone. He puts it back in his pocket when Goldie rejoins him and then stands watching her as she rolls around on the ground trying to get her upper body through the pack straps.
The sight makes him laugh.
"What the fuck," he says and steps forward. "Why don't you let me carry the fucking bag, huh? You look like you escaped from the wildlife refuge or something."
Javed Anubis-Sight
He approaches slowly enough, so that they have time to see him coming. The metis is not the kind of person who takes pleasure in sneaking up on people, even ones he knows well...but then, how many people he ever really know well? It takes him so much time, after all, to get the outward clues that allow him to bypass his curse. It's a slow process, as face blindness has the added problem of making it difficult to cognitavely associate details with people. Anyway, he's no prankster and if it's people he can't be sure he knows well, he's even less inclined to do so.
So it's not difficult to see him as he walks onto the path, several yards ahead, slipping his jacket on. He walks up toward Goldie and Matthew, offering them a nod with his ever-neutral expression. However unamused he may seem, the gravelly baritone of his voice is nothing but courteous.
"Good afternoon." He leaves it there, so as not to make assumptions of whether these are people he has met or not. It's easier to rely on their response as to whether they recognize him or not before trying to make introduction (or not, as the case may be).
Matthew
[you bet your sweet ass i'm rolling recognize garou]
Dice: 5 d10 TN4 (3, 6, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )
Mary
Time for:
EH? PEOPLE? PEOPLE TO INVESTIGATE?
Though strictly speaking, one is not currently occupying people form in her small honey and cream gold and ivory fairy tale wolf shape. Laughter and the thud of pack through dirt make more of an impression, at first, than any sort of visual, because of that distance thing. And also because Mary is someone who listens more than she looks.
And unlike the metis, Mary is a prankster. One wouldn't say that she takes pleasure in sneaking up on people, because she isn't as good at it as she'd like to be, perhaps, but also because she's just supposed to be sneaky so she can be sneaky or unsneaky as she pleases as long as she does first what she is supposed to.
Trail mix away, sneaking toward PEOPLE power activate!
[Dex and Stealth, sneak sneak hide hide spy spy]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 4, 5, 5, 6, 7) ( success x 2 )
Goldie
[Is there a sneak about?? Perception 3 + Alertness 2, -2 diff Lupus]
Dice: 5 d10 TN4 (1, 3, 6, 7, 9) ( success x 3 )
Javed Anubis-Sight
[[Per+Alert, +1 diff due to One Eye]]
Dice: 5 d10 TN7 (5, 5, 6, 10, 10) ( success x 2 )
Matthew
[derp.]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (2, 9, 9) ( success x 2 )
Goldie
Bits of dust kicked up from the dirt that Goldie squirmed and writhed in. She had the pack strap between her teeth, pulling her upper lip to expose gums. This was how she stilled when Matt laughed and walked over to detangle the situation and carry the backpack for her instead.
He asked a wolf a question and got a chuffing noise and thump-thump-thump of the tail in answer. Matthew's blood was very close to the Wolf, but that didn't mean he was able to transcend language barriers like that. So she waited until Matthew had gathered the pack up before she twisted about and found her feet once more.
Nostrils wriggled wet in the breezy air. There were scents, plenty of them, but two distinctly human-fleshed ones that stood out in the air among foliage and animals and things brought in on the wind. There were bootfalls, rustling leaves and grasses, and footsteps that were being placed oh so deliberately off in another direction entirely. Then came the deep-voiced greeting, and Goldie swung her head to look over at the dark-skinned man making his way toward her and Matthew both.
Hello! I'm Little Uproar, and we're new! Where do I check in?
Goldie's wagging tail and whuffing yipping noises translated to this for Javed when combined with ear-stature body language. But she was a distracted thing, one ear turned back toward where Mary lurked and listened.
Matthew
The man who joins them on the path does not look like a park ranger or a game warden or anyone else who wields authority but in the moment between their convergence and speech Matt stills. Now that he has the pack in his hands it occurs to him that talking to vicious predators and manhandling knapsacks away from them isn't normal behavior. No way in Malfeas would Goldie pass for a domesticated dog.
This isn't a hiker come upon them though. Recognition comes to Matt quick as it would have come to anyone else quick. Same as Javed can recognize the man for what he is. He looks like he put no more effort into his appearance than picking his outfit off the floor and climbing into it after checking it for rude odors. He keeps his brown hair cut close to his scalp and hasn't shaved his face in so long the scruff is threatening to become a beard and despite all that it's obvious he's a member of the Fianna tribe.
He has accomplished nothing of note and seems hellbent on maintaing that streak and yet he carries himself like he's worth something. It's unintentional. He doesn't realize he's doing it.
"Hey," he says to Javed.
Yes. Brilliant. That will go down in the Silver Record as an introduction worthy of his blood.
A breeze slinks through the trees. The kinsman is oblivious. He doesn't notice Goldie's ear perked.
Javed Anubis-Sight
"Hello, Little Uproar." That is a name that he's sure he doesn't know, so he nods his head. "I am Anubis-Sight, Fostern Ahroun of the Silent Striders." The introduction is to both of them; he doesn't ignore Matthew, but it's rude to specifically ask someone's name if they're not willing to give it so that goes unaddressed.
And here he gives the appropriate instructions for Where do I check in because it's been a while and the player has actually forgotten the details that he thinks are "make introduction here" but Javed would know and not have to guess so yeah.
Something is sneaking through the trees. Whether it is the rustle of a leaf of what, Javed picks up on it. He turns his head in that direction but doesn't see her; only detects the presence. He doesn't say anything, just watches the treeline to try and track with his one eye.
Mary
Mary slows and slows and loses something of what Goldie is communicating before she can see the Fianna but then she has reached a good place with a slanting view and she crouches down on her haunches, sucking in her stomach so her belt doesn't annoy her, then exhaling not all at once because that would be a dead give away.
It is not her best sneaking display ever, what with it being a display, but it will do.
She has crouched beside some plant that offers a shield, grass & scrub & something brown and dessicated and dead (sleeping, autumn's here), in the dappling of shadow offered by a sparse tree leaning dawnward lightward horizonward reaching as plants do twisting in an attitude of prayer, and she is herself a reverent-seeming invisibility, dark dark Spanish eyes nothing but shadows cast through the sere-yellow of grass.
Her ears don't prick up; human ears don't, but she hunkers further down (ridiculous, dust on her black and white polka-dotted blouse).
That Fostern sees her, doesn't he? Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn't? He's looking he's looking oh shit and he's a Fostern Ahroun and oh shit isn't that the name of one of those guys who --
Mary doesn't move, or at least attempts to play statue.
Goldie
Oh, I forgot. I'm Cliath, Ragabash of the Fianna. My manners are really rusty. The explanation was tacked on with a bit of an embarrassed, maybe somewhat apologetic wriggle of the hindquarters before she plunked herself to sit.
Javed explained where she could reliably find a member of the Warder's pack, where the Caern proper was, who to speak with and all of that. Goldie listened well enough, being still and quiet for a change while taking in what important information she needed. But there was still that one ear, twisted back, paying mind to the fact that the movement had stopped and the breathing sounds stopped too, so whoever (female, thrones of ice and silver and blood-ruby-crowns by the smell she'd caught) was back there had settled still.
Soon the Fostern was looking back in that direction as well, and Goldie made a dismissive sound and shake of her head. It's just an audience, Anubis-Sight. Do you get stage fright, sir?
The shake of her head turned to a shake of her pelt, and Goldie found her way back up to her feet. After bumping a shoulder and dragging her side heavily along Matthew's shins, she circled back to go poke her nose in the shrubs where Mary was crouched in hiding.
Matthew
It isn't until the Ahroun introduces himself that the kinsman decides maybe he ought to stop being rude and tell him who the hell he is. Whatever Goldie conveys to Javed is foreign and formless to Matt. He doesn't ask for a translation.
He draws a breath and then the breeze becomes a rustle and the two wolves react to it. Never mind. Matt is still holding onto the pack from which he'd extricated Goldie in his left hand. He wears neither a watch nor a wedding band. If he has any tattoos they are hidden by the jeans and long sleeves.
Again with the barking he can't understand and then off she goes. The kinsman withstands the force of the physical contact without staggering back and then turns to watch the tree line.
"Should I be concerned?" he asks. "Yesterday she went into an alleyway by herself and came back covered in gray shit." A beat. He spares Javed a glance. "Matt, by the way. Murphy."
Just in case there's screaming or body parts start flying everywhere in a couple seconds.
Javed Anubis-Sight
The additional details as to Goldie's identity elicit a slight inclination of his head. "Quite all right," he rumbles, though his attention doesn't immediately shift from watching the treeline. The Ahroun isn't tense, although to be fair it can be difficult to tell the difference when even calm he's always ready for battle. The gift of the Ahroun in their increased connection to Gaia's fury resonates strongly in Javed and he's never one that particularly counts as relaxed. He is often calm, but never relaxed.
The dismissive comments from Goldie cause the Strider's dark eyebrows to furrow, and finally he looks away to regard her as she moves to investigate. "I do not," is his only reply to her question before Matthew speaks up. He asks if he should be concerned, and the Iranian shakes his head.
"I do not believe so. The Sept is secure, although one can never be overly careful. I am certain you understand. It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Murphy. Welcome to Denver."
Mary
Meanwhile, in the grass and shadow...
Stay still. Stay still. Stay still. Stay still.
Oh, here comes Little Uproar the Fianna.
Stay still. Stay still. Stay still. Stay still.
Mary stays still. Mary crosses her eyes. Mary stays very very still. Playing statue is very serious business; so is refusing to let your muscles so much as twitch. Mary is a voluptuary woman with an expressive expressive face, so she manages to convey just how frozen she is with an expression.
Attempts ventriloquism and a whisper.
Mary
[Eh. Ventriloquism? DEX + Perf.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (3, 8, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )
Matthew
[Fuckin' Silver Fangs.]
Mary
"Why what is this Little Uproar Ragabash sniffing at I wonder because because I could be a log or a vessel for the spirits. I could be a statue just looking like a no good kind of antsy didn't sneak half so good as she wishes but glad to make your aquaintance type. Pretty much perfectly like the land right now right??? I don't think they've cottoned on."
Goldie
The Change is both universal and personal. Garou across the years have described similar yet varied experiences-- the same basic thing, but perceived and coped with (or reveled in) differently. There were those that became so entrenched with their other life as a Wolf that they became wolfish even in human skins. That they gave up life among humanity to go fight a fight protecting Gaia's still-sacred forests and diminishing wolf packs instead.
Goldie wasn't quite that far yet, but she did understand becoming a bit lost to the Wolf when you put on its skin. She was slinking forward, steps careful with a practice pace of a predatory stalk. Her nostrils were quivering, hackles beginning to lift--
--but then a sudden pause. She lifted her head and twisted it about to look in another direction entirely. Ears stood high and eyes were wide, bottlebrush tail stiff. Then, like a youthful pup full of energy, she lolled her tongue out of her mouth and tore off running toward a different cluster of shrubs entirely, tail windmiling excitedly.
THE HUNT!
Matthew
Welcome to Denver.
"Yeah... thanks."
With nothing to do but stand and watch his warder wheel around reacting to things he neither can nor cares to hear Matt slings her pack over his shoulder and crosses his arms over his chest and waits. He has the weary posture of a father used to watching for his offspring to finish tearing ass around the schoolyard before getting into the car. Like he's just waiting for her to get it out of her system.
"So, how secure are we talking, here?"
Javed Anubis-Sight
"Secure should not be a matter of relativity," he says as he watches Goldie dive in an opposite direction. "A place is either secure, or it is not."
And whether it is in relation to that comment or not could be debated, he then shifts his way up into his breed form, the Anubis-headed war shape. Some people really don't take being snuck up on as something to just joke about with. Kind of comes with travelling the world on your own, you see. He doesn't move to follow Goldie; instead he stands there, just as calm-not-relaxed as before. Some people like to be prepared for the worst of situations.
Secure? Yes, but but not impregnable.
Mary
Mary's eyes begin to shine when Goldie darts off and away, but she stays so still.
Still still still still still. Mary is still. Mary is a ghost of stillness. Mary can totally hold being still in the grass for a long, long time -- right?
Javed shifts and it's a thing to watch, the transformation into Crinos, war-form, mightiest-of, the shape of many nightmares, the Delirium-bringing terror of men and women.
The shine in her eyes takes on a curious light. Mary doesn't know what it means, the standing and the shifting, but she suspects it means he is not to be diverted if he was ever verted (???) in the first place.
This crouch is not as comfortable as Mary thought it was when she first crouched. Her muscle quavers.
Okay. A little more stillness. Just to see what would happen, understand. What will happen now? It's a question. Is it a useful one?
[Stamina- can Mary be still for one more round of UM WHAT ME NO?? ultimate question.]
Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (8, 9) ( success x 2 )
Goldie
Though the Kinsman seemed exhausted but patient with her none the less, and that was something that might be noted in a dynamic between the two, Goldie's attention was pulled away from frantically sniffing and brushing against the shrub she had rushed over to before not by Matt, but by Javed. In particular, the subtle ripple of energy that Garou tended to be sensitive to that indicated someone had shifted forms-- never strong enough to track and monitor, really, but just a sense. Like so many other things spiritual.
Goldie-Wolf jerked her head to look where the stern-faced man had been standing, now replaced by a sleek black-furred beast that stood stern like a sentry, staring firmly in the direction that Goldie totally knew her new friend was curled up in, not to be fooled by Goldie's antics to throw attention away from that particular spot.
Oh don't worry, sir, the Goldie-Wolf reassured Javed, and came trotting past his side to stand a couple feet in front of him, somewhat but not 100% entirely between him and Mary with how she'd positioned herself.
This isn't the kind of audience that throws things at the stage. At least, not while you're standing on it.
Matthew
It could be debated. Matthew might even want to debate the point. But then the full moon abandons his human skin to take on one that provides claws and fangs. The kinsman has no way of knowing that this was the body in which the creature was born and he isn't about to get into a semantics debate with a nine-foot-tall monster with a head like the Egyptian god of the fucking underworld.
"Whatever you say, man," he says.
He pulls his cellphone out of his pocket and checks the time and stays rooted in place until Goldie finishes barking. With the return of silence he puts the phone back in his pocket and jerks his thumb back the way they came. She knows he hates stillness unless he has something to smoke or drink in front of him. It isn't like he runs five times a week because he's in danger of gaining weight if he doesn't.
"I'm gonna keep walking. Play nice."
Javed Anubis-Sight
He frowns as Goldie tries to reassure him with idioms he doesn't understand, and Matthew turns to walk off and someone is hiding somewhere in the woods. Nothing about this meeting seems comfortable to him, yet he remains stoic.
As shocking as it might sound, someone an Ahroun has only just met telling him not to worry about someone else trying to sneak around them in a Sept isn't exactly a reassurance. And as such, he remains silent. Waits. He's good at being patient for someone so angry.
Matthew, to his credit, does get a look and a nod, to acknowledge his walking.
Mary
Mary is good, today, at holding her position; is good, right now, at being as still as a log, a shrub, a tree, a bit of earth, a dead thing, a dryad. Mary is trouble. Mary is in trouble? Javed with his Devil-dog ears as black as pitch you expect to see tar bubble out of and of course he's got all that Rage because the Big-bellied Moon is the angriest and Mary is watchful.
Matt is gonna keep walking.
Goldie is between the Metis and the Homid.
Mary waits. And waits.
He's more patient. He's more sure, too. He's more certain of his position here; Mary, her eyelid twitches, and then she stands up out of the grass, which she does not brush off. She stays in her girl-skin, her young-woman-skin, her not-a-silver-blaze-of-glory skin; stays voluptuous and round with her cheeks red from heat and her make-up not running because she has good make-up but her blouse askew. Demurely she buttons it.
Dramatically she clasps her hands, rounds her shoulders, puts her head down and looks up through her lashes, wilting in a Permission To Speak Sir fashion.
It's rote and it's ritual.
Goldie
Javed stared blankly. Matt got uncomfortable with the fact that he'd shifted and expressed that he was going to keep walking, advised her to play nice. Goldie gave Javed a few seconds of staring right back at him, while Mary kept doing a good job of holding-holding-holding....
Finally and all at once both, Goldie snapped back into her Homid form quick as a blink of the eye (because that change, the return to Birth, is always so easy and smooth and right, isn't it?). In an instant the gold-furred wolf was replaced by a young woman-girl, arguably somewhere at the end of her teenage years or barely barely tiptoing into her twenties. She was petite, short, with lean limbs and overall build to boot, with long sandy colored hair in a ponytail under a cream-colored cap. Her eyes were still big and brown, and she rolled them in pleading exasperation at Javed with her hands held out to either side, palms facing forward.
"Oh my gawd, have you never seen fun before? I mean, really, didn't they play Hide And Go Seek in your house? Or litter, or whatever? It's just--"
When Goldie talked her slightly bucked front teeth were more noticeable, especially since she was so expressive when she did. She was sweeping an arm back to where Mary had been hiding when the full-figured girl rose to her feet and adjusted herself. The Silver Fang's sudden appearance had put a halt on Goldie's train of thought, but it would be a lie to say that the full impact of the other Ragabash's royal presence didn't knock the wind from her just a bit as well.
Ooh, look, a pretty ritual. Goldie looked over at Matt, perhaps met his eye and widened her gaze in a silent 'Well that's interesting' before looking back to Mary to see what she was going to do.
Matthew
But all Goldie gets is the sight of Matt's skinny ass walking back down the path. Pack still over his shoulder and sunglasses still keeping the afternoon sun out of his eyes. Once he's gone a few steps he pulls out a pack of cigarettes but whatever he ends up doing with it becomes part of the mystery surrounding the man. He goes around a bend and a copse of trees snarfs him up.
He'll be baked by the time Goldie comes back to the car but that's a story for another time.
Javed Anubis-Sight
There's a slight flicker in Javed's one good eye, before he shakes his head at Goldie's exasperated rant. His expression remains as it is, even as it morphs down into his Homid form once more.
"You will excuse me, Little Uproar. You are correct in that I do not have the clearest understanding of such things. I should have been clearer earlier; I am metis, from the land the humans call Iran. I would imagine that my version of 'Hide and Seek' was...quite different from what you were used to."
He nods to her, and to Mary. "My apologies for disturbing the situation. I should be going back to the Cold Crescent anyway. Good day."
A little nod, as he turns to depart.
Mary
Permission wasn't granted, precisely, was it? But he's a metis so Mary doesn't stay quiet (sad truths [shameful ones]).
"But Anubis Sight-rhya," she is meticulously polite in her tone, "Please do not go away with the idea you disturbed the situation. Hide and Seek is very fun, but if people don't hide and people don't seek, don't you think terrible things would happen?"
"I do hope we can have a conversation in Cold Crescent. I'm so curious about it and those who faced the Pit. You were one of those, weren't you?"
Her hands are still clasped; she sneaks a quick sidelong look at Goldie. She does not pull a face; observe how very virtuous Mary is.
Goldie
There was no shared glance between the Fianna-- the Kinsman was on his way back to the car, he'd entertained his Ragabash ward enough by accompanying her this far. Now that she had Garou to introduce herself to, he could dust his hands and go back to smoke some pot and steal back some time to himself, probably listen to music and dick around on his phone, who knew, whatever he felt like.
That left the three Garou, and the Full Moon among them shrank back down to a man's body once more. Still so stoic, so flat and bland like carbonated water left open, he explained himself.
Mary was graceful and gracious and so well poised. She pleaded for him to join in the understanding of fun, and went on to further press for information. To ask about the Pit, to learn the condition here. This earned her a side-glance from the doe-eyed Fianna; so the Silver Fang was new to the area too, huh?
But that, that was just a minor distraction, because something Javed had said caught Goldie's attention even more. One particular word, one confession like a flashing red light in an LED panel of white bulbs, had gotten under her skin and made it crawl enough for her to breathe out the word:
"Gross."
And her button nose even wrinkled a bit so she could hardly deny that she stated such a reaction aloud.
Javed Anubis-Sight
It's conceivable that he was going to respond to Mary . Maybe he wasn't. Either way, he continues walking away after Goldie gives her response, without any pause. He doesn't rebuke her, doesn't show hostility. It's his onus to bear and he does so with dignity.
However, his rank also says that he doesn't have to dignify her response.
And he's gone.
Mary
Mary watches Javed until he is gone.
Then her eyes return to Goldie. She unclasps her hands and her shoulders straighten, her posture becoming less demure and more casual. Demure posture is only for certain moments, hm, button-up precise moments, and Mary is quite buttoned-up believe-it (OR-NOT HERE I COME) sometimes.
"Hey."
"Thanks thanks, so your name is Little Uproar, huh? Mine is Glory's Shadow, Honor's Thorn, and we share a moon."
Little wiggle of fingers.
Goldie
The Full Moon didn't so much as pause when he heard Goldie's disdain for what he was. He kept on walking, and the Fianna watched him go with a particular kind of scorn radiating from eyes and shoulders both until he, like Matt, was out of her line of sight.
Then there were two.
Mary turned to look at Goldie, and Goldie did the same. She blinked big eyes at the other Ragabash, and then her face split into a big wide smile of greeting and pleasure both. Delighted by the news of her moon and the little wriggle of fingers.
"Which one do you use more? Glory's Shadow or Honor's Thorn? Because it's nice to meet you, whichever you are." She didn't wriggle her fingers back, but she did pat her pockets down like she was looking for something-- specifically, her cell phone, which she had left in the pack which Matt was carrying with him back to the car. "Hmm," she concluded when she realized the fate of her phone, but it didn't seem to reroute her all that much. Hands went to hips and her eyes went back to Mary's face.
"You can call me Goldie, though. Hey. How do you like ice cream?"
Another bright and sunny day, with the perfect shade of blue sky that came from the beginning days of autumn stretching high up ahead. Only a few clouds here and there raced by to give a visual of how quickly the wind blew. It wasn't brisk, but refreshing-- it cooled the skin of the sun above that still soaked and baked it.
Goldie was in goddamn heaven.
"It's too fucking gorgeous out," she'd told Matthew around 10:30am on a rare mutual day off work. "Trade in them trainers for your hiking boots, Matty, let's go pay our dues!"
And that's how they wound up walking through the Roxborough National Forest's land, having parted from hiking trail about twenty minutes back. Goldie was dressed in a pair of hiking boots and tube socks up to her knees, with a pair of khaki shorts and cropped white top and green canvas vest. That's impractical, she'd have been accused, but Goldie just insisted she would be fine. As has been the case since she was 15 and came across her own sense of style, she refused to be told otherwise when it came to her choice of clothes.
"Besides," she would advise, "It's not like I'm going to stay wearing them anyways." And that's precisely what had her chattering excitedly behind Matthew on the hike out toward and into the Bawn, glancing over her shoulder and tugging the bill of a cap she was wearing her hair ponytailed through the back of.
"We're far enough out that I can change, right? You think? Because I don't know if I've bitched about this in the past five minutes or not, but just to be sure we're clear-- you are unfair to hike with on two feet."
Matthew
"Yeah, you know, it's a good thing you keep saying that, otherwise I'd start thinking you were staying humanized on account of it's easier to talk a mile a fucking minute."
10:30 in the morning had seen Matt lying on the couch like he'd never left it last night even though she knows damned well that he was out the door before the sun came up and had gone through the shower before she had even started thinking about waking up. Of course he had already smoked a bowl and put down a beer or two. That doesn't mean he wasn't going to fucking drive it just meant he had to sober up a bit.
The bane of every Fiann's existence.
It's 80 degrees right now and Goldie's outfit is more practical than Matt's is. He's wearing jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt because fuck ticks and chiggers and whatever the fuck else lives out in the woods. It's a wonder he isn't wearing a hat. He is wearing sunglasses. Blue eyes are not particularly renowned for their ability to deal with bright light even if the owner isn't hungover.
He does take a moment to look around before he answers her question though.
"Yeah, you're fine. Go for it."
Javed Anubis-Sight
Javed Anubis-Sight is known for his wandering. Go figure, he's a Strider...that's what they do. As such, while he identifies as a member of the Sept of the Cold Crescent he can often be found around the rural sept. One might argue that he considers himself more of a visitor here than he does in the city sept, but that would demonstrate a lack of understanding: to the Striders, and as such to Javed, they are visitors at any and every Sept no matter how long they stay. Such is the way when you have no home.
He's sitting some distance up ahead from where Goldie and Matthew are, in the path of their eventual approach. He likes to meditate here. He doesn't look like the meditating kind, but when you radiate as much Rage as he does, you have to try to find piece of mind. For Javed, a creature for whom discipline is paramount, it's doubly the case. His army jacket sits at his side, leaving him in his heavy pants, A-shirt and military-style boots. As he hears voices, he doesn't immediately respond; he has his focusing to finish. It is only after a few moments that he finally opens his eyes and rises to stand, reaching to get his jacket and them moving to approach.
Mary
Mary has been hiking, too. It has dawned on her that she has neglected, this past week, some of her rites and rituals, and while her conscience is slow to stir her desire to avoid nagging is ever at the ready, so to the wilderness she went.
The past hour or so: hiking, hiking, hiking, tromping and ambling and bumbling, annoying and aweing and annoying and glorying whatever crosses her path. There was a jack rabbit or a bunny or something a bit earlier. Mary isn't good naming small things that run fast, unless one counts four year olds, and four year olds start out slow and small. Are bunnies wild animals or just rabbits? What about ponies? This is the kind of thing one would expect an educated young woman given every advantage to know without thinking about it. This is also the kind of thing one begins to think about when one has been hiking and it is hot and one likes nature and one certainly feels, or knows one is supposed to feel, and even in unguarded moments may attest to feeling (although sometimes one needs to think about it or forgets about it or takes it for granted), a certain holy reverence away from those dirty dirty dirty scabs, which is to say that Mary is or is not an affectionate creature and she may or may not enjoy being out in nature (she does! She does, it's just), but then she got hot.
And the whole nature thing just kept on being nature and vast and beautiful and wild, and Mary remembered that she does not like exercise or really anything, and Mary has sharp ears too! Very, very sharp ears, so naturally once she is close enough to the Fianna and the Strider those sharp ears will bring her bounding
or at least dragging her feet
to say hello and be bothersome. But how often do convergences happen all at once? Soon, however: EH? PEOPLE? PEOPLE TO INVESTIGATE? First: mm, trail mix.
Goldie
The only pack that Goldie had carried along with her was the same smaller one that she was toting around the night before-- she'd added a bottle of water and canister of nuts and dried fruit and called it a day. She glanced about, to the left and to the right, then stopped walking and shrugged the thin straps of her pack off her shoulders to let it thump onto the ground.
Out here there weren't so many trees as back home. Coverage and shelter weren't quite the same concept-- you wanted to find a ditch or some taller grass and shrubs out this way more realistically to hide in. But Goldie had also been checking a map she'd picked up from the city Sept-- a big fold-out brochure from the state park's office marked with highlighters to indicate boundaries. Yesterday had proved a helpful visit. It was a good thing that she got doused in Wyrm-fungus after all.
The map had been consulted a few minutes previously. They'd crossed into the Bawn border already, and after passing round the side of a hill they were out of sight of the hiking trail. So Goldie wasn't worried about who might be up ahead when she crouched down onto her knees and found her way through one form into another-- choppy but effective and quick a change from girl-skin to wolf.
Given a dozen seconds or so to complete the transition, the wolf Goldie appeared as an almost storybook representation of her namesake. Her pelt was best described as precisely that-- golden, with lighter white-yellow on the underbelly and chest, and a dark muzzle and paws. The big brown eyes carried through all of her forms. Small, and still sleek with a summer's coat, she immediately rolled on the ground and kicked legs in the air, then wriggled her way on her back to her pack to make a show of trying to get her head and leg through the straps so she could wear it on her back like some kind of pack horse.
Matthew
When the Ragabash returns from her costume change the kinsman is scrolling through text messages on his cellphone and not paying attention to his surroundings. They're out in the woods in broad daylight. Broad daylight doesn't mean anything to their people and it sure as shit doesn't mean monsters and mutated humans and other minions of the Wyrm are can't stumble past any moment but he'd like to think the odds of their encountering a boogeyman two days in a row are fairly fucking slim.
So he's on his phone. He puts it back in his pocket when Goldie rejoins him and then stands watching her as she rolls around on the ground trying to get her upper body through the pack straps.
The sight makes him laugh.
"What the fuck," he says and steps forward. "Why don't you let me carry the fucking bag, huh? You look like you escaped from the wildlife refuge or something."
Javed Anubis-Sight
He approaches slowly enough, so that they have time to see him coming. The metis is not the kind of person who takes pleasure in sneaking up on people, even ones he knows well...but then, how many people he ever really know well? It takes him so much time, after all, to get the outward clues that allow him to bypass his curse. It's a slow process, as face blindness has the added problem of making it difficult to cognitavely associate details with people. Anyway, he's no prankster and if it's people he can't be sure he knows well, he's even less inclined to do so.
So it's not difficult to see him as he walks onto the path, several yards ahead, slipping his jacket on. He walks up toward Goldie and Matthew, offering them a nod with his ever-neutral expression. However unamused he may seem, the gravelly baritone of his voice is nothing but courteous.
"Good afternoon." He leaves it there, so as not to make assumptions of whether these are people he has met or not. It's easier to rely on their response as to whether they recognize him or not before trying to make introduction (or not, as the case may be).
Matthew
[you bet your sweet ass i'm rolling recognize garou]
Dice: 5 d10 TN4 (3, 6, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 4 )
Mary
Time for:
EH? PEOPLE? PEOPLE TO INVESTIGATE?
Though strictly speaking, one is not currently occupying people form in her small honey and cream gold and ivory fairy tale wolf shape. Laughter and the thud of pack through dirt make more of an impression, at first, than any sort of visual, because of that distance thing. And also because Mary is someone who listens more than she looks.
And unlike the metis, Mary is a prankster. One wouldn't say that she takes pleasure in sneaking up on people, because she isn't as good at it as she'd like to be, perhaps, but also because she's just supposed to be sneaky so she can be sneaky or unsneaky as she pleases as long as she does first what she is supposed to.
Trail mix away, sneaking toward PEOPLE power activate!
[Dex and Stealth, sneak sneak hide hide spy spy]
Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 4, 5, 5, 6, 7) ( success x 2 )
Goldie
[Is there a sneak about?? Perception 3 + Alertness 2, -2 diff Lupus]
Dice: 5 d10 TN4 (1, 3, 6, 7, 9) ( success x 3 )
Javed Anubis-Sight
[[Per+Alert, +1 diff due to One Eye]]
Dice: 5 d10 TN7 (5, 5, 6, 10, 10) ( success x 2 )
Matthew
[derp.]
Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (2, 9, 9) ( success x 2 )
Goldie
Bits of dust kicked up from the dirt that Goldie squirmed and writhed in. She had the pack strap between her teeth, pulling her upper lip to expose gums. This was how she stilled when Matt laughed and walked over to detangle the situation and carry the backpack for her instead.
He asked a wolf a question and got a chuffing noise and thump-thump-thump of the tail in answer. Matthew's blood was very close to the Wolf, but that didn't mean he was able to transcend language barriers like that. So she waited until Matthew had gathered the pack up before she twisted about and found her feet once more.
Nostrils wriggled wet in the breezy air. There were scents, plenty of them, but two distinctly human-fleshed ones that stood out in the air among foliage and animals and things brought in on the wind. There were bootfalls, rustling leaves and grasses, and footsteps that were being placed oh so deliberately off in another direction entirely. Then came the deep-voiced greeting, and Goldie swung her head to look over at the dark-skinned man making his way toward her and Matthew both.
Hello! I'm Little Uproar, and we're new! Where do I check in?
Goldie's wagging tail and whuffing yipping noises translated to this for Javed when combined with ear-stature body language. But she was a distracted thing, one ear turned back toward where Mary lurked and listened.
Matthew
The man who joins them on the path does not look like a park ranger or a game warden or anyone else who wields authority but in the moment between their convergence and speech Matt stills. Now that he has the pack in his hands it occurs to him that talking to vicious predators and manhandling knapsacks away from them isn't normal behavior. No way in Malfeas would Goldie pass for a domesticated dog.
This isn't a hiker come upon them though. Recognition comes to Matt quick as it would have come to anyone else quick. Same as Javed can recognize the man for what he is. He looks like he put no more effort into his appearance than picking his outfit off the floor and climbing into it after checking it for rude odors. He keeps his brown hair cut close to his scalp and hasn't shaved his face in so long the scruff is threatening to become a beard and despite all that it's obvious he's a member of the Fianna tribe.
He has accomplished nothing of note and seems hellbent on maintaing that streak and yet he carries himself like he's worth something. It's unintentional. He doesn't realize he's doing it.
"Hey," he says to Javed.
Yes. Brilliant. That will go down in the Silver Record as an introduction worthy of his blood.
A breeze slinks through the trees. The kinsman is oblivious. He doesn't notice Goldie's ear perked.
Javed Anubis-Sight
"Hello, Little Uproar." That is a name that he's sure he doesn't know, so he nods his head. "I am Anubis-Sight, Fostern Ahroun of the Silent Striders." The introduction is to both of them; he doesn't ignore Matthew, but it's rude to specifically ask someone's name if they're not willing to give it so that goes unaddressed.
And here he gives the appropriate instructions for Where do I check in because it's been a while and the player has actually forgotten the details that he thinks are "make introduction here" but Javed would know and not have to guess so yeah.
Something is sneaking through the trees. Whether it is the rustle of a leaf of what, Javed picks up on it. He turns his head in that direction but doesn't see her; only detects the presence. He doesn't say anything, just watches the treeline to try and track with his one eye.
Mary
Mary slows and slows and loses something of what Goldie is communicating before she can see the Fianna but then she has reached a good place with a slanting view and she crouches down on her haunches, sucking in her stomach so her belt doesn't annoy her, then exhaling not all at once because that would be a dead give away.
It is not her best sneaking display ever, what with it being a display, but it will do.
She has crouched beside some plant that offers a shield, grass & scrub & something brown and dessicated and dead (sleeping, autumn's here), in the dappling of shadow offered by a sparse tree leaning dawnward lightward horizonward reaching as plants do twisting in an attitude of prayer, and she is herself a reverent-seeming invisibility, dark dark Spanish eyes nothing but shadows cast through the sere-yellow of grass.
Her ears don't prick up; human ears don't, but she hunkers further down (ridiculous, dust on her black and white polka-dotted blouse).
That Fostern sees her, doesn't he? Maybe he does. Maybe he doesn't? He's looking he's looking oh shit and he's a Fostern Ahroun and oh shit isn't that the name of one of those guys who --
Mary doesn't move, or at least attempts to play statue.
Goldie
Oh, I forgot. I'm Cliath, Ragabash of the Fianna. My manners are really rusty. The explanation was tacked on with a bit of an embarrassed, maybe somewhat apologetic wriggle of the hindquarters before she plunked herself to sit.
Javed explained where she could reliably find a member of the Warder's pack, where the Caern proper was, who to speak with and all of that. Goldie listened well enough, being still and quiet for a change while taking in what important information she needed. But there was still that one ear, twisted back, paying mind to the fact that the movement had stopped and the breathing sounds stopped too, so whoever (female, thrones of ice and silver and blood-ruby-crowns by the smell she'd caught) was back there had settled still.
Soon the Fostern was looking back in that direction as well, and Goldie made a dismissive sound and shake of her head. It's just an audience, Anubis-Sight. Do you get stage fright, sir?
The shake of her head turned to a shake of her pelt, and Goldie found her way back up to her feet. After bumping a shoulder and dragging her side heavily along Matthew's shins, she circled back to go poke her nose in the shrubs where Mary was crouched in hiding.
Matthew
It isn't until the Ahroun introduces himself that the kinsman decides maybe he ought to stop being rude and tell him who the hell he is. Whatever Goldie conveys to Javed is foreign and formless to Matt. He doesn't ask for a translation.
He draws a breath and then the breeze becomes a rustle and the two wolves react to it. Never mind. Matt is still holding onto the pack from which he'd extricated Goldie in his left hand. He wears neither a watch nor a wedding band. If he has any tattoos they are hidden by the jeans and long sleeves.
Again with the barking he can't understand and then off she goes. The kinsman withstands the force of the physical contact without staggering back and then turns to watch the tree line.
"Should I be concerned?" he asks. "Yesterday she went into an alleyway by herself and came back covered in gray shit." A beat. He spares Javed a glance. "Matt, by the way. Murphy."
Just in case there's screaming or body parts start flying everywhere in a couple seconds.
Javed Anubis-Sight
The additional details as to Goldie's identity elicit a slight inclination of his head. "Quite all right," he rumbles, though his attention doesn't immediately shift from watching the treeline. The Ahroun isn't tense, although to be fair it can be difficult to tell the difference when even calm he's always ready for battle. The gift of the Ahroun in their increased connection to Gaia's fury resonates strongly in Javed and he's never one that particularly counts as relaxed. He is often calm, but never relaxed.
The dismissive comments from Goldie cause the Strider's dark eyebrows to furrow, and finally he looks away to regard her as she moves to investigate. "I do not," is his only reply to her question before Matthew speaks up. He asks if he should be concerned, and the Iranian shakes his head.
"I do not believe so. The Sept is secure, although one can never be overly careful. I am certain you understand. It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Murphy. Welcome to Denver."
Mary
Meanwhile, in the grass and shadow...
Stay still. Stay still. Stay still. Stay still.
Oh, here comes Little Uproar the Fianna.
Stay still. Stay still. Stay still. Stay still.
Mary stays still. Mary crosses her eyes. Mary stays very very still. Playing statue is very serious business; so is refusing to let your muscles so much as twitch. Mary is a voluptuary woman with an expressive expressive face, so she manages to convey just how frozen she is with an expression.
Attempts ventriloquism and a whisper.
Mary
[Eh. Ventriloquism? DEX + Perf.]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (3, 8, 10, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )
Matthew
[Fuckin' Silver Fangs.]
Mary
"Why what is this Little Uproar Ragabash sniffing at I wonder because because I could be a log or a vessel for the spirits. I could be a statue just looking like a no good kind of antsy didn't sneak half so good as she wishes but glad to make your aquaintance type. Pretty much perfectly like the land right now right??? I don't think they've cottoned on."
Goldie
The Change is both universal and personal. Garou across the years have described similar yet varied experiences-- the same basic thing, but perceived and coped with (or reveled in) differently. There were those that became so entrenched with their other life as a Wolf that they became wolfish even in human skins. That they gave up life among humanity to go fight a fight protecting Gaia's still-sacred forests and diminishing wolf packs instead.
Goldie wasn't quite that far yet, but she did understand becoming a bit lost to the Wolf when you put on its skin. She was slinking forward, steps careful with a practice pace of a predatory stalk. Her nostrils were quivering, hackles beginning to lift--
--but then a sudden pause. She lifted her head and twisted it about to look in another direction entirely. Ears stood high and eyes were wide, bottlebrush tail stiff. Then, like a youthful pup full of energy, she lolled her tongue out of her mouth and tore off running toward a different cluster of shrubs entirely, tail windmiling excitedly.
THE HUNT!
Matthew
Welcome to Denver.
"Yeah... thanks."
With nothing to do but stand and watch his warder wheel around reacting to things he neither can nor cares to hear Matt slings her pack over his shoulder and crosses his arms over his chest and waits. He has the weary posture of a father used to watching for his offspring to finish tearing ass around the schoolyard before getting into the car. Like he's just waiting for her to get it out of her system.
"So, how secure are we talking, here?"
Javed Anubis-Sight
"Secure should not be a matter of relativity," he says as he watches Goldie dive in an opposite direction. "A place is either secure, or it is not."
And whether it is in relation to that comment or not could be debated, he then shifts his way up into his breed form, the Anubis-headed war shape. Some people really don't take being snuck up on as something to just joke about with. Kind of comes with travelling the world on your own, you see. He doesn't move to follow Goldie; instead he stands there, just as calm-not-relaxed as before. Some people like to be prepared for the worst of situations.
Secure? Yes, but but not impregnable.
Mary
Mary's eyes begin to shine when Goldie darts off and away, but she stays so still.
Still still still still still. Mary is still. Mary is a ghost of stillness. Mary can totally hold being still in the grass for a long, long time -- right?
Javed shifts and it's a thing to watch, the transformation into Crinos, war-form, mightiest-of, the shape of many nightmares, the Delirium-bringing terror of men and women.
The shine in her eyes takes on a curious light. Mary doesn't know what it means, the standing and the shifting, but she suspects it means he is not to be diverted if he was ever verted (???) in the first place.
This crouch is not as comfortable as Mary thought it was when she first crouched. Her muscle quavers.
Okay. A little more stillness. Just to see what would happen, understand. What will happen now? It's a question. Is it a useful one?
[Stamina- can Mary be still for one more round of UM WHAT ME NO?? ultimate question.]
Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (8, 9) ( success x 2 )
Goldie
Though the Kinsman seemed exhausted but patient with her none the less, and that was something that might be noted in a dynamic between the two, Goldie's attention was pulled away from frantically sniffing and brushing against the shrub she had rushed over to before not by Matt, but by Javed. In particular, the subtle ripple of energy that Garou tended to be sensitive to that indicated someone had shifted forms-- never strong enough to track and monitor, really, but just a sense. Like so many other things spiritual.
Goldie-Wolf jerked her head to look where the stern-faced man had been standing, now replaced by a sleek black-furred beast that stood stern like a sentry, staring firmly in the direction that Goldie totally knew her new friend was curled up in, not to be fooled by Goldie's antics to throw attention away from that particular spot.
Oh don't worry, sir, the Goldie-Wolf reassured Javed, and came trotting past his side to stand a couple feet in front of him, somewhat but not 100% entirely between him and Mary with how she'd positioned herself.
This isn't the kind of audience that throws things at the stage. At least, not while you're standing on it.
Matthew
It could be debated. Matthew might even want to debate the point. But then the full moon abandons his human skin to take on one that provides claws and fangs. The kinsman has no way of knowing that this was the body in which the creature was born and he isn't about to get into a semantics debate with a nine-foot-tall monster with a head like the Egyptian god of the fucking underworld.
"Whatever you say, man," he says.
He pulls his cellphone out of his pocket and checks the time and stays rooted in place until Goldie finishes barking. With the return of silence he puts the phone back in his pocket and jerks his thumb back the way they came. She knows he hates stillness unless he has something to smoke or drink in front of him. It isn't like he runs five times a week because he's in danger of gaining weight if he doesn't.
"I'm gonna keep walking. Play nice."
Javed Anubis-Sight
He frowns as Goldie tries to reassure him with idioms he doesn't understand, and Matthew turns to walk off and someone is hiding somewhere in the woods. Nothing about this meeting seems comfortable to him, yet he remains stoic.
As shocking as it might sound, someone an Ahroun has only just met telling him not to worry about someone else trying to sneak around them in a Sept isn't exactly a reassurance. And as such, he remains silent. Waits. He's good at being patient for someone so angry.
Matthew, to his credit, does get a look and a nod, to acknowledge his walking.
Mary
Mary is good, today, at holding her position; is good, right now, at being as still as a log, a shrub, a tree, a bit of earth, a dead thing, a dryad. Mary is trouble. Mary is in trouble? Javed with his Devil-dog ears as black as pitch you expect to see tar bubble out of and of course he's got all that Rage because the Big-bellied Moon is the angriest and Mary is watchful.
Matt is gonna keep walking.
Goldie is between the Metis and the Homid.
Mary waits. And waits.
He's more patient. He's more sure, too. He's more certain of his position here; Mary, her eyelid twitches, and then she stands up out of the grass, which she does not brush off. She stays in her girl-skin, her young-woman-skin, her not-a-silver-blaze-of-glory skin; stays voluptuous and round with her cheeks red from heat and her make-up not running because she has good make-up but her blouse askew. Demurely she buttons it.
Dramatically she clasps her hands, rounds her shoulders, puts her head down and looks up through her lashes, wilting in a Permission To Speak Sir fashion.
It's rote and it's ritual.
Goldie
Javed stared blankly. Matt got uncomfortable with the fact that he'd shifted and expressed that he was going to keep walking, advised her to play nice. Goldie gave Javed a few seconds of staring right back at him, while Mary kept doing a good job of holding-holding-holding....
Finally and all at once both, Goldie snapped back into her Homid form quick as a blink of the eye (because that change, the return to Birth, is always so easy and smooth and right, isn't it?). In an instant the gold-furred wolf was replaced by a young woman-girl, arguably somewhere at the end of her teenage years or barely barely tiptoing into her twenties. She was petite, short, with lean limbs and overall build to boot, with long sandy colored hair in a ponytail under a cream-colored cap. Her eyes were still big and brown, and she rolled them in pleading exasperation at Javed with her hands held out to either side, palms facing forward.
"Oh my gawd, have you never seen fun before? I mean, really, didn't they play Hide And Go Seek in your house? Or litter, or whatever? It's just--"
When Goldie talked her slightly bucked front teeth were more noticeable, especially since she was so expressive when she did. She was sweeping an arm back to where Mary had been hiding when the full-figured girl rose to her feet and adjusted herself. The Silver Fang's sudden appearance had put a halt on Goldie's train of thought, but it would be a lie to say that the full impact of the other Ragabash's royal presence didn't knock the wind from her just a bit as well.
Ooh, look, a pretty ritual. Goldie looked over at Matt, perhaps met his eye and widened her gaze in a silent 'Well that's interesting' before looking back to Mary to see what she was going to do.
Matthew
But all Goldie gets is the sight of Matt's skinny ass walking back down the path. Pack still over his shoulder and sunglasses still keeping the afternoon sun out of his eyes. Once he's gone a few steps he pulls out a pack of cigarettes but whatever he ends up doing with it becomes part of the mystery surrounding the man. He goes around a bend and a copse of trees snarfs him up.
He'll be baked by the time Goldie comes back to the car but that's a story for another time.
Javed Anubis-Sight
There's a slight flicker in Javed's one good eye, before he shakes his head at Goldie's exasperated rant. His expression remains as it is, even as it morphs down into his Homid form once more.
"You will excuse me, Little Uproar. You are correct in that I do not have the clearest understanding of such things. I should have been clearer earlier; I am metis, from the land the humans call Iran. I would imagine that my version of 'Hide and Seek' was...quite different from what you were used to."
He nods to her, and to Mary. "My apologies for disturbing the situation. I should be going back to the Cold Crescent anyway. Good day."
A little nod, as he turns to depart.
Mary
Permission wasn't granted, precisely, was it? But he's a metis so Mary doesn't stay quiet (sad truths [shameful ones]).
"But Anubis Sight-rhya," she is meticulously polite in her tone, "Please do not go away with the idea you disturbed the situation. Hide and Seek is very fun, but if people don't hide and people don't seek, don't you think terrible things would happen?"
"I do hope we can have a conversation in Cold Crescent. I'm so curious about it and those who faced the Pit. You were one of those, weren't you?"
Her hands are still clasped; she sneaks a quick sidelong look at Goldie. She does not pull a face; observe how very virtuous Mary is.
Goldie
There was no shared glance between the Fianna-- the Kinsman was on his way back to the car, he'd entertained his Ragabash ward enough by accompanying her this far. Now that she had Garou to introduce herself to, he could dust his hands and go back to smoke some pot and steal back some time to himself, probably listen to music and dick around on his phone, who knew, whatever he felt like.
That left the three Garou, and the Full Moon among them shrank back down to a man's body once more. Still so stoic, so flat and bland like carbonated water left open, he explained himself.
Mary was graceful and gracious and so well poised. She pleaded for him to join in the understanding of fun, and went on to further press for information. To ask about the Pit, to learn the condition here. This earned her a side-glance from the doe-eyed Fianna; so the Silver Fang was new to the area too, huh?
But that, that was just a minor distraction, because something Javed had said caught Goldie's attention even more. One particular word, one confession like a flashing red light in an LED panel of white bulbs, had gotten under her skin and made it crawl enough for her to breathe out the word:
"Gross."
And her button nose even wrinkled a bit so she could hardly deny that she stated such a reaction aloud.
Javed Anubis-Sight
It's conceivable that he was going to respond to Mary . Maybe he wasn't. Either way, he continues walking away after Goldie gives her response, without any pause. He doesn't rebuke her, doesn't show hostility. It's his onus to bear and he does so with dignity.
However, his rank also says that he doesn't have to dignify her response.
And he's gone.
Mary
Mary watches Javed until he is gone.
Then her eyes return to Goldie. She unclasps her hands and her shoulders straighten, her posture becoming less demure and more casual. Demure posture is only for certain moments, hm, button-up precise moments, and Mary is quite buttoned-up believe-it (OR-NOT HERE I COME) sometimes.
"Hey."
"Thanks thanks, so your name is Little Uproar, huh? Mine is Glory's Shadow, Honor's Thorn, and we share a moon."
Little wiggle of fingers.
Goldie
The Full Moon didn't so much as pause when he heard Goldie's disdain for what he was. He kept on walking, and the Fianna watched him go with a particular kind of scorn radiating from eyes and shoulders both until he, like Matt, was out of her line of sight.
Then there were two.
Mary turned to look at Goldie, and Goldie did the same. She blinked big eyes at the other Ragabash, and then her face split into a big wide smile of greeting and pleasure both. Delighted by the news of her moon and the little wriggle of fingers.
"Which one do you use more? Glory's Shadow or Honor's Thorn? Because it's nice to meet you, whichever you are." She didn't wriggle her fingers back, but she did pat her pockets down like she was looking for something-- specifically, her cell phone, which she had left in the pack which Matt was carrying with him back to the car. "Hmm," she concluded when she realized the fate of her phone, but it didn't seem to reroute her all that much. Hands went to hips and her eyes went back to Mary's face.
"You can call me Goldie, though. Hey. How do you like ice cream?"
Friday, September 26, 2014
Sizing Up the Silver Fang - 9.25.2014 [Otto, Morgan]
Goldie Lennox
On nights like this, where the weather was mild and it was close enough to the weekend that you could make excuses to stay out light, the open-air 16th Street Mall experienced a fairly heavy flow of foot traffic. Thursday was a popular enough day of the week for night life to begin to bustle, and there were a fair number of restaurants and some clubs not far away either.
It wasn't yet ten o' clock, so the night was only just beginning. Elsewhere stiff creatures dusted dirt and dust from their shirt sleeves and rose to greet the open night's air and their grisly affairs. Slimy slippery stalking things in the sewers below listened and waited.
Up above, posted against one of many trees that lined the open walkway between shops and restaurants, was a monster hidden in the disguise of a young woman-- a Werewolf in sheep's clothing, if you would.
Goldie Lennox had sandy-colored hair that waved down past shoulders, some of which was braided back into the rest to keep out of her face. She wore a charcoal-colored dress with half-sleeves, despite the cooling night air, and a mustard-yellow scarf around her neck and shoulders. The hem of the dress was short, the wool-gray stockings high but not high enough to prevent a scandelous amount of thigh exposure. Brown boots went up to her calves, and a canvas pack rested against her lower back, secured by long thin straps situated over one shoulder.
Most girls like her would be looking down at their phone or trying to take the perfect selfie. Goldie Lennox stood with a plastic bag of cashews, picked up from some roasted nuts store, munching and watching the crowds go by.
Like she was watching over it. Perhaps as a guardian, or perhaps as something that perceived them simply as a flock. There was a particular glint to teeth and eye that made it hard to distinguish.
Otto Larsson
With a stomach filled with garlic prawns, lightly seasoned rice and a healthy dose of white wine, Otto stepped out onto the street and breathed in the air. Dressed in nice slacks and a buttoned down, short-sleeved shirt, he looked the part of the every day businessman, neat and tidy with a splash of blonde hair. The breeding says otherwise, that he’s of kings and queens of other eras who, in modern times, cling to the hope of yesteryear.
Breathing in the fresh air, he looked through the pedestrian traffic before picking a way to go. Everything was equally unfamiliar, a strange landscape with similar but not quite replicas of other places in other cities. He’d only been in town a short while, just long enough to get recommendations by a couple of locals, business acquaintances that interjected corporate talk with snippets of gossip.
He walked in the direction of the girl-monster, unwittingly. His stride is casual, without rush. A phone from his pocket, produced when the crowd on the sidewalk is light, has a screen that flickers to life and, with brief glances, he scrolls through the menu and the left messages. He glances only at the new number of emails and doesn’t bother with the inbox, before shutting the device into sleep mode and pocketing it again.
Goldie Lennox
Being watchful over the crowd meant that Goldie got to take notice of the group of teenagers out on a group date discus heading to a party with 'guaranteed vodka'. She spied a couple in their mid-twenties in the middle of a hushed-but-intense dispute in a corner against shop walls where the street lights didn't touch, both self conscious of their broken relationship and not wanting to be seen.
But, beyond all of that, she noticed the man that looked like he belonged in a granite fortress in the Far North, commanding armies and wearing crowns fashioned from Age Old Traditions. Goldie Lennox was not unfamiliar with Garou and Kinfolk of breeding, she'd spent plenty of time around them. But it wasn't every day that you came across real Royalty.
With her interest piqued, Goldie watched openly as the prince-dressed-businessman strode her way. Were he to glance up and feel her gaze, he'd find big brown eyes staring him down unabashedly. The face was young, questionable whether or not she could even buy her own drinks yet, and that was exaggerated moreso by how round her features were to begin with. But she had a full-lipped smile and wore red lipstick to throw that off, and if Otto glanced up to meet her gaze she'd curve them into a wide smile.
Even if he didn't look up, though, she'd greet him with a potentially off-putting amount of confidence. "There's something about you, Handsome Sir, that calls out from a crowd." She lifted her chin and nodded to the direction she'd seen him come from. "Even from all the way over there.
Makes a girl want to ask his name."
Cheshire, that was the best word to describe her.
Morgan Roche
It wasn't close to her moon yet, but it was growing again. The waxing sliver of it up in the sky was enough to prickle the Ahroun's skin when she rolled out of her bed that morning. Or well -- the cheap Motel that Morgan Roche was using as such at the present moment. What did an eighteen year old with little skill but for the bloody brutality of war do with herself, anyway?
Tonight, the child of Stag apparently decided traversing the wonders of her newfound city was the best way to deal with the beginning of another cycle. The moon would continue to grow and unease would keep prickling under her skin until she'd all but want to rip at her hair and shed her human skin and howl up at the sky in dramatic recourse for the way nothing seemed to satisfy. A little too much? Of course.
That's the Fiann for you.
Goldie is sizing up the Silver Fang Kinsman and oh, nobody could blame her for the way he smells. He's Kings and Queens and blood as thick with pedigree as Morgan's own sings of rolling hills and verdant earth. She's the way of the Celtic splendor, as her red hair is gleaned amongst the crowd, strolling down the tree lined walkway with a shopping bag in hand and something that looks suspiciously like a corndog on a stick. You might not pick her for a full moon.
She's a tall girl, fair skinned, long limbed and with the sort of unaffected confidence in self that seemed typical of her age bracket. She hasn't noticed Goldie yet, but give her a moment -- the corndog required a certain prowess to devour while juggling bags.
Otto Larsson
He is not so oblivious to overlook the girl with the advantage above but it’s not until he’s a few feet away that he notices dangling brown boots and grey stockings. Hardly anyone looks up, everyone is focused down or, like him, directly ahead. But there are those instincts that come along with breeding, perhaps not as strong as they ought to be at his age, which is, generously, in his late twenties if not a little older. Still, awareness, self-preservation, or the fine toe movement out the corner of his eye, has him look up.
Then there is a hint of flesh, a too short hem and, beyond that a cardigan and scarf of colour, and rounded cheeks, cut with bright red lips and a smile that lives in youth. Pausing, he steps back, preventing any chance of looking up the hem of anything and moves to the side of the walkway to unblock the path.
Casting a quick glance back the way he came, he wonders just how long she’s been watching him, or if he really were such a beacon in a crowd. It’s been said it’s possible, warned plenty of times over, but he finds it hard to believe that the girl above could be the sort that would have him chained to walls, buried in pits below, and doing unmentionables. As such, his confidence isn’t shaken, and he looks back up at her.
His gaze, soft pewter in the dark, is levelled at her, despite the height differences, and holds intrigue and easy humour. “The girl could ask, “ he says, evidently a foreigner with good English, “but what is a man to say? You’re a little young, Miss.”
Goldie Lennox
Goldie had a decent vantage from where she stood up on the raised platform that was built around the base of the tree. She hadn't gone so far as to climb up branches-- that garnered the attention of security guards and she didn't want her parade to be rained on. Still, she had the advantage of looking down even if she was a woman of petite build.
It was no wonder that he accused her of being a little young. With a disappointed cluck of her tongue and shake of her head, Goldie disagreed. "I look a little young, you mean. But I get how that can be a turn off."
She uncrossed her arms from where they had previously been loosely crossed over her front, and held her hands up in a gesture of defense. It could also be perceived as a showing of her palms to indicate that she was going to do no harm.
"Don't worry, I can take no for an answer." The higher ground advantage was nice but impractical, so Goldie hopped down to stand at sidewalk level once more. She must be accustomed to short hems, because she found a way to do so without giving free shows. "I figured a man could just answer with his name." Her eyebrows wagged, and despite earlier promises she couldn't seem to resist adding a jibe of: "But if he wanted to follow up with a phone number I wouldn't protest."
Morgan was up the street, headed for an intersection. It was a flare of tingling notice not too dissimilar to what Otto set off, but entirely focused ahead for the moment Goldie didn't pick up enough to cast a glance back-- just yet. Things didn't typically fly under her radar for very long.
Otto Larsson
His gaze does the circuit from eyes to arms and open hands, then back up again. Her clucking tongue amuses him, quirks his mouth partly to before he swallows it, and he looks away as she starts a decent, gracefully manoeuvring onto the ground without a hint of a flash. It wouldn’t matter if she did, he didn’t look back until he felt her closer, heard the flat thud of boots hitting the cement.
A handful of inches above six foot, the Silver Fang is tall. Those Kings breed well, their stature fitting their station. Although not broad in the chest or shoulders, he is a man in his prime and fills his tailored shirt comfortably.
“Oh really?” His scoff is humoured, disbelief buried in humour. His smile is concealed by a quick brush of his hand over his mouth, scuffing fingertips across the coarse bristle of well-groomed facial hair, but lingers long after. “Persistence is to be admired,” he tells her, “but, in this case, misplaced.”
“A name.” Musing, toying with her and the very idea of being accosted in the street by some young thing wanting his name, he extends a hand. “Otto.” Despite his comments about her youth and the inappropriateness, it’s first name basis.
Goldie Lennox
The extended hand was accepted happily. Goldie's hands were small like the rest of her, and he'd find her fingers clean and bare of polish, trimmed short recently as well. Her grip did not squeeze or bite, but was casual and enthusiastic enough when she shook at his hand. It seemed the persistent young thing was satisfied enough with a first name, and either very easily coped with his advice that her approach was mis-aimed or pretended not to notice it entirely.
"Goldie," she told him. The name seemed suiting. Though her hair was sandy, one could be gracious and call it gold in good sunlight. The doe-eyed expression and bubbling (boiling, really, beneath the surface, because even this skin held War) personality matched it as well.
She let go of his hand first and hooked her hands onto her hips, situated her stance so her weight was supported more on one foot than the other, causing hip and knee to both to angle relaxed.
"Otto seems about right. Is that going to be Otto the Eminent one day? I could see that happening. You seem more a Noble type than a Greatsword Wielding lunk, to me." She spoke openly, but her tone was musical and casual alike. Easily lost in the evening foot traffic of people because there was no reason for any of them to be paying mind to her. They were all wrapped up in their own affairs anyways.
A glance to the tailored cut of his clothes had her add: "The armor's changed over the centuries, though."
Otto Larsson
His handshake is light, far less so than he would offer another at the end of a business proposal, because as much as she may have the potential to crush the fine bones of his fingers to powder, she is a small woman. In other circumstances he may not have even offered a hand to shake and, instead, a neck. But with her golden-sandy hair and small statue, he reacts to the present rather than the potential.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Miss Goldie.” He does his best not to be caught up in the fairytale of her namesake, but his gaze does flicker, even if momentarily, to her hair.
Hand reclaimed, he steps back and pockets it, fitting his fingers around hidden keys that emit a muted jangle before he silences them again. “If only I were so lucky,” he says, smiling politely at the idea of his future title. “Your words are kind.”
Then, the distraction of that thought to his clothes, has him glance quickly down at himself and, drawing his hand from his pocket, he brushes fingers down the clean, white shirt. He had more to say on the other but it vanishes as she catches him off guard again. There’s diplomatic ways to address this but, for the life of him, he can’t think of anything. “Since when are teenagers interested in prior centuries?” He meets her gaze, smiling less now. He’s not quite defensive but she’s triggered a sudden splash of caution.
He suspects – she can see it in the tension thrumming across his shoulders, in the tightness of the tendons running down his neck and into his shirt collar. Kings do not like to be caught off guard. How easily they can spot him.
Goldie Lennox
Being of the Fianna, there was something vaguely fairytale about her; the name just helped to shine the light on that better. They were the Werewolves whose roots went back to ancient alliances with creatures of other powers and worlds and perceptions entirely. The Fae folk were very real, many a Fianna knew and believed. Sometimes it was rumored that blood mingled here and there, back to the days when they interacted much more.
It could lead one to wonder, when looking upon a fire-haired young woman who appeared to carry strength and nobility as well as any Guard, when looking upon this bright-eyed inquisitor, if it wasn't possible to find an example of such an old union here in these streets tonight.
Goldie Lennox actually didn't have any fairy blood-- she didn't even have any heroes to echo in her lineage and features. That didn't mean that she paid no mind to the history that did exist, though. For someone who had a history of behaving impulsively (a weakness many Fianna shared), she did a decent job of picking up lessons from history here and there.
She also picked up on the tension that grew in the Kinsman, and how his facial and body language were both closing up defensive. She blinked at him, then shook her head and waved her hands in front of her in that same 'don't worry I've got nothing up my sleeves' gesture that she had used before. "I'm not a bad guy, Otto, jeeze.
"I'm speaking from a place of mutual interest. The prior centuries were pretty important, in leading up to where we are now, don't you think?" Hands settled to rest down by her sides for now. "And I'm not a teenager," she corrected as an afterthought. Let's just make that clear.
Otto Larsson
It’s the geez that did it, that casual, so very youthful air that had his guard inch down a little. He’s not entirely ready to jump on board with it but, as she continues to speak, tell him of importance and then rectifies a slight on his behalf, he’s decides that he has to give her the benefit of the doubt and that faith has a place somewhere. If it didn’t, he’d have a long list of suspects and be a paranoid twit.
He’s not that. His shoulders swell outward, spine straightening, preparing to be civil. The smile he gives isn’t as easily humoured as before, but it has potential. It’s a fleeting gesture of unspoken apology, while his gaze flits back and forth between her two eyes, taking in the colour and the depth. Seeking.
“No, you’re not,” he agrees. As she said earlier, she may look like one but she most definitely was not. He couldn’t feel her presence like some of the others, but now that he took the time to actually look and not discard her as some ordinary, self obsessed teenager that bought into the entitlements of the century, he can see it more clearly. “Apologies, Miss.” His sincerity is as solid as his stature.
“And yes, I do think that history plays a crucial role in the present. Whether we should repeat it is another matter, one that many of my relatives may disagree with.” Like that, he flows into conversation that is no longer as unintentionally condescending as comments may have been before. She is no longer a kid but a Garou and, immediately, her station has lifted beyond his. Well, almost.
Goldie Lennox
It was easy to mistake her as a preening teenager. She dressed a bit like she was trying to piss her father off, after all. But Rage and Spirit were there under human flesh, subtle but undeniable when found. Her presence wasn't at all like Morgan's, it didn't pull attention and fill a room. It was the kind of thing that formed a stronger impression the longer you looked at her, watched her move and behave.
There was a bit of war clipped in the edges of her limbs, flinting behind round eyes. She'd battled and killed earlier in the day, though neither Otto nor Morgan could know that. It still lingered a little predatory in how she continued through the night. That was the key element that set her apart from a teenager out to defy curfew.
"Oh it doesn't need to be so black and white, now does it? History's a really big thing-- the whole lot of it doesn't necessarily to repeat itself or stay buried forever. We have the advantage and picking and choosing." She sounded like she could be motivational for a moment there, giving advice both sage and uplifting were it aimed in the right direction and given at the right time.
New-Moon True-Moon to the core, though, she couldn't just leave people with a good impression of her without giving something to counterbalance it and keep them guessing. "Most of it, anyways. We aren't going to choose when the big winter blizzards stop, after all."
Station wasn't something that she was viewing, Goldie was a sleuth and slink for the Nation after all. Station was (mostly) subjective. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said all at once, and her expression went sweet-- she even went so far as to touch fingers to her scarf, near her collarbone, in feigned surprise. "You probably had places to be, and I've gone and gotten you off track. I heard your relatives don't care for waiting."
Otto Larsson
“That depends who you’re asking,” he says on the black and white. This time he does smile and it’s nice, not quite sweet or charming, just nice. Decent. Nearly everything about Otto is decent and upstanding. Like he doesn’t have to command a room by posturing about or try and win over someone with sweet, honey suckle smiles. “Ideals and reality rarely go hand in hand but that shouldn’t excuse the lack of trying.”
It’s a conversation he could have over a couple of glasses of wine, over a good, hearty meal, and probably has had too many times to count, but Goldie has other plans and the street, on a busy sidewalk, wasn’t really the place to conduct a philosophical debate over current realities.
As she speaks about his relatives, his slow nod, an incline of agreement, confirms as much. “They don’t.” And, although he has no intention of meeting up with anyone, he’s going to take this opportunity to escape and prevent further wheedling of information out of him from a pressing young Garou. “And so I’ll bid you safe journey and goodnight, Miss Goldie. It’s been a pleasure speaking with you.”
With another nod, he steps back, preparing to part. He doesn’t, however, turn his back to her, nor shake her hand or kiss her cheek. But his gaze follows her, committing to memory the soft swell of her cheek and the flint under her round doe-eyes. He’s certain he’ll see her again but is unsure whether that will be before or after others came knocking.
Goldie Lennox
Otto Larsson smiled sweetly, and Goldie mirrored the expression with a sweetheart smile of her own. It had to be interesting to see from the outside, because there was probably something about the exchange that made it seem like the lovely expressions were just another form of foil in the hands of fencers.
A lesson learned that he may not even realize he was practicing, Otto stepped away without turning and giving the Ragabash his back. Just as he made note of rounded cheeks and other distinguishing features like how her front teeth were ever-so-slightly larger than the rest, Goldie was making a mental picture of this Silver Fang Kinsman as he backed away. Tall without being exaggeratedly broad to balance, light of hair and eye and distinguished of blood and feature.
He wished her a safe journey, and the smile faltered into more of a smirk. "An absolute pleasure," she agreed.
Soon enough her head turned as though something else may have caught her attention, and she started walking up in the direction he'd come from initially. If his gaze followed after long enough, he'd notice her glancing back at him over her shoulder at least twice before the night and pedestrian crowd swallowed her up.
On nights like this, where the weather was mild and it was close enough to the weekend that you could make excuses to stay out light, the open-air 16th Street Mall experienced a fairly heavy flow of foot traffic. Thursday was a popular enough day of the week for night life to begin to bustle, and there were a fair number of restaurants and some clubs not far away either.
It wasn't yet ten o' clock, so the night was only just beginning. Elsewhere stiff creatures dusted dirt and dust from their shirt sleeves and rose to greet the open night's air and their grisly affairs. Slimy slippery stalking things in the sewers below listened and waited.
Up above, posted against one of many trees that lined the open walkway between shops and restaurants, was a monster hidden in the disguise of a young woman-- a Werewolf in sheep's clothing, if you would.
Goldie Lennox had sandy-colored hair that waved down past shoulders, some of which was braided back into the rest to keep out of her face. She wore a charcoal-colored dress with half-sleeves, despite the cooling night air, and a mustard-yellow scarf around her neck and shoulders. The hem of the dress was short, the wool-gray stockings high but not high enough to prevent a scandelous amount of thigh exposure. Brown boots went up to her calves, and a canvas pack rested against her lower back, secured by long thin straps situated over one shoulder.
Most girls like her would be looking down at their phone or trying to take the perfect selfie. Goldie Lennox stood with a plastic bag of cashews, picked up from some roasted nuts store, munching and watching the crowds go by.
Like she was watching over it. Perhaps as a guardian, or perhaps as something that perceived them simply as a flock. There was a particular glint to teeth and eye that made it hard to distinguish.
Otto Larsson
With a stomach filled with garlic prawns, lightly seasoned rice and a healthy dose of white wine, Otto stepped out onto the street and breathed in the air. Dressed in nice slacks and a buttoned down, short-sleeved shirt, he looked the part of the every day businessman, neat and tidy with a splash of blonde hair. The breeding says otherwise, that he’s of kings and queens of other eras who, in modern times, cling to the hope of yesteryear.
Breathing in the fresh air, he looked through the pedestrian traffic before picking a way to go. Everything was equally unfamiliar, a strange landscape with similar but not quite replicas of other places in other cities. He’d only been in town a short while, just long enough to get recommendations by a couple of locals, business acquaintances that interjected corporate talk with snippets of gossip.
He walked in the direction of the girl-monster, unwittingly. His stride is casual, without rush. A phone from his pocket, produced when the crowd on the sidewalk is light, has a screen that flickers to life and, with brief glances, he scrolls through the menu and the left messages. He glances only at the new number of emails and doesn’t bother with the inbox, before shutting the device into sleep mode and pocketing it again.
Goldie Lennox
Being watchful over the crowd meant that Goldie got to take notice of the group of teenagers out on a group date discus heading to a party with 'guaranteed vodka'. She spied a couple in their mid-twenties in the middle of a hushed-but-intense dispute in a corner against shop walls where the street lights didn't touch, both self conscious of their broken relationship and not wanting to be seen.
But, beyond all of that, she noticed the man that looked like he belonged in a granite fortress in the Far North, commanding armies and wearing crowns fashioned from Age Old Traditions. Goldie Lennox was not unfamiliar with Garou and Kinfolk of breeding, she'd spent plenty of time around them. But it wasn't every day that you came across real Royalty.
With her interest piqued, Goldie watched openly as the prince-dressed-businessman strode her way. Were he to glance up and feel her gaze, he'd find big brown eyes staring him down unabashedly. The face was young, questionable whether or not she could even buy her own drinks yet, and that was exaggerated moreso by how round her features were to begin with. But she had a full-lipped smile and wore red lipstick to throw that off, and if Otto glanced up to meet her gaze she'd curve them into a wide smile.
Even if he didn't look up, though, she'd greet him with a potentially off-putting amount of confidence. "There's something about you, Handsome Sir, that calls out from a crowd." She lifted her chin and nodded to the direction she'd seen him come from. "Even from all the way over there.
Makes a girl want to ask his name."
Cheshire, that was the best word to describe her.
Morgan Roche
It wasn't close to her moon yet, but it was growing again. The waxing sliver of it up in the sky was enough to prickle the Ahroun's skin when she rolled out of her bed that morning. Or well -- the cheap Motel that Morgan Roche was using as such at the present moment. What did an eighteen year old with little skill but for the bloody brutality of war do with herself, anyway?
Tonight, the child of Stag apparently decided traversing the wonders of her newfound city was the best way to deal with the beginning of another cycle. The moon would continue to grow and unease would keep prickling under her skin until she'd all but want to rip at her hair and shed her human skin and howl up at the sky in dramatic recourse for the way nothing seemed to satisfy. A little too much? Of course.
That's the Fiann for you.
Goldie is sizing up the Silver Fang Kinsman and oh, nobody could blame her for the way he smells. He's Kings and Queens and blood as thick with pedigree as Morgan's own sings of rolling hills and verdant earth. She's the way of the Celtic splendor, as her red hair is gleaned amongst the crowd, strolling down the tree lined walkway with a shopping bag in hand and something that looks suspiciously like a corndog on a stick. You might not pick her for a full moon.
She's a tall girl, fair skinned, long limbed and with the sort of unaffected confidence in self that seemed typical of her age bracket. She hasn't noticed Goldie yet, but give her a moment -- the corndog required a certain prowess to devour while juggling bags.
Otto Larsson
He is not so oblivious to overlook the girl with the advantage above but it’s not until he’s a few feet away that he notices dangling brown boots and grey stockings. Hardly anyone looks up, everyone is focused down or, like him, directly ahead. But there are those instincts that come along with breeding, perhaps not as strong as they ought to be at his age, which is, generously, in his late twenties if not a little older. Still, awareness, self-preservation, or the fine toe movement out the corner of his eye, has him look up.
Then there is a hint of flesh, a too short hem and, beyond that a cardigan and scarf of colour, and rounded cheeks, cut with bright red lips and a smile that lives in youth. Pausing, he steps back, preventing any chance of looking up the hem of anything and moves to the side of the walkway to unblock the path.
Casting a quick glance back the way he came, he wonders just how long she’s been watching him, or if he really were such a beacon in a crowd. It’s been said it’s possible, warned plenty of times over, but he finds it hard to believe that the girl above could be the sort that would have him chained to walls, buried in pits below, and doing unmentionables. As such, his confidence isn’t shaken, and he looks back up at her.
His gaze, soft pewter in the dark, is levelled at her, despite the height differences, and holds intrigue and easy humour. “The girl could ask, “ he says, evidently a foreigner with good English, “but what is a man to say? You’re a little young, Miss.”
Goldie Lennox
Goldie had a decent vantage from where she stood up on the raised platform that was built around the base of the tree. She hadn't gone so far as to climb up branches-- that garnered the attention of security guards and she didn't want her parade to be rained on. Still, she had the advantage of looking down even if she was a woman of petite build.
It was no wonder that he accused her of being a little young. With a disappointed cluck of her tongue and shake of her head, Goldie disagreed. "I look a little young, you mean. But I get how that can be a turn off."
She uncrossed her arms from where they had previously been loosely crossed over her front, and held her hands up in a gesture of defense. It could also be perceived as a showing of her palms to indicate that she was going to do no harm.
"Don't worry, I can take no for an answer." The higher ground advantage was nice but impractical, so Goldie hopped down to stand at sidewalk level once more. She must be accustomed to short hems, because she found a way to do so without giving free shows. "I figured a man could just answer with his name." Her eyebrows wagged, and despite earlier promises she couldn't seem to resist adding a jibe of: "But if he wanted to follow up with a phone number I wouldn't protest."
Morgan was up the street, headed for an intersection. It was a flare of tingling notice not too dissimilar to what Otto set off, but entirely focused ahead for the moment Goldie didn't pick up enough to cast a glance back-- just yet. Things didn't typically fly under her radar for very long.
Otto Larsson
His gaze does the circuit from eyes to arms and open hands, then back up again. Her clucking tongue amuses him, quirks his mouth partly to before he swallows it, and he looks away as she starts a decent, gracefully manoeuvring onto the ground without a hint of a flash. It wouldn’t matter if she did, he didn’t look back until he felt her closer, heard the flat thud of boots hitting the cement.
A handful of inches above six foot, the Silver Fang is tall. Those Kings breed well, their stature fitting their station. Although not broad in the chest or shoulders, he is a man in his prime and fills his tailored shirt comfortably.
“Oh really?” His scoff is humoured, disbelief buried in humour. His smile is concealed by a quick brush of his hand over his mouth, scuffing fingertips across the coarse bristle of well-groomed facial hair, but lingers long after. “Persistence is to be admired,” he tells her, “but, in this case, misplaced.”
“A name.” Musing, toying with her and the very idea of being accosted in the street by some young thing wanting his name, he extends a hand. “Otto.” Despite his comments about her youth and the inappropriateness, it’s first name basis.
Goldie Lennox
The extended hand was accepted happily. Goldie's hands were small like the rest of her, and he'd find her fingers clean and bare of polish, trimmed short recently as well. Her grip did not squeeze or bite, but was casual and enthusiastic enough when she shook at his hand. It seemed the persistent young thing was satisfied enough with a first name, and either very easily coped with his advice that her approach was mis-aimed or pretended not to notice it entirely.
"Goldie," she told him. The name seemed suiting. Though her hair was sandy, one could be gracious and call it gold in good sunlight. The doe-eyed expression and bubbling (boiling, really, beneath the surface, because even this skin held War) personality matched it as well.
She let go of his hand first and hooked her hands onto her hips, situated her stance so her weight was supported more on one foot than the other, causing hip and knee to both to angle relaxed.
"Otto seems about right. Is that going to be Otto the Eminent one day? I could see that happening. You seem more a Noble type than a Greatsword Wielding lunk, to me." She spoke openly, but her tone was musical and casual alike. Easily lost in the evening foot traffic of people because there was no reason for any of them to be paying mind to her. They were all wrapped up in their own affairs anyways.
A glance to the tailored cut of his clothes had her add: "The armor's changed over the centuries, though."
Otto Larsson
His handshake is light, far less so than he would offer another at the end of a business proposal, because as much as she may have the potential to crush the fine bones of his fingers to powder, she is a small woman. In other circumstances he may not have even offered a hand to shake and, instead, a neck. But with her golden-sandy hair and small statue, he reacts to the present rather than the potential.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you Miss Goldie.” He does his best not to be caught up in the fairytale of her namesake, but his gaze does flicker, even if momentarily, to her hair.
Hand reclaimed, he steps back and pockets it, fitting his fingers around hidden keys that emit a muted jangle before he silences them again. “If only I were so lucky,” he says, smiling politely at the idea of his future title. “Your words are kind.”
Then, the distraction of that thought to his clothes, has him glance quickly down at himself and, drawing his hand from his pocket, he brushes fingers down the clean, white shirt. He had more to say on the other but it vanishes as she catches him off guard again. There’s diplomatic ways to address this but, for the life of him, he can’t think of anything. “Since when are teenagers interested in prior centuries?” He meets her gaze, smiling less now. He’s not quite defensive but she’s triggered a sudden splash of caution.
He suspects – she can see it in the tension thrumming across his shoulders, in the tightness of the tendons running down his neck and into his shirt collar. Kings do not like to be caught off guard. How easily they can spot him.
Goldie Lennox
Being of the Fianna, there was something vaguely fairytale about her; the name just helped to shine the light on that better. They were the Werewolves whose roots went back to ancient alliances with creatures of other powers and worlds and perceptions entirely. The Fae folk were very real, many a Fianna knew and believed. Sometimes it was rumored that blood mingled here and there, back to the days when they interacted much more.
It could lead one to wonder, when looking upon a fire-haired young woman who appeared to carry strength and nobility as well as any Guard, when looking upon this bright-eyed inquisitor, if it wasn't possible to find an example of such an old union here in these streets tonight.
Goldie Lennox actually didn't have any fairy blood-- she didn't even have any heroes to echo in her lineage and features. That didn't mean that she paid no mind to the history that did exist, though. For someone who had a history of behaving impulsively (a weakness many Fianna shared), she did a decent job of picking up lessons from history here and there.
She also picked up on the tension that grew in the Kinsman, and how his facial and body language were both closing up defensive. She blinked at him, then shook her head and waved her hands in front of her in that same 'don't worry I've got nothing up my sleeves' gesture that she had used before. "I'm not a bad guy, Otto, jeeze.
"I'm speaking from a place of mutual interest. The prior centuries were pretty important, in leading up to where we are now, don't you think?" Hands settled to rest down by her sides for now. "And I'm not a teenager," she corrected as an afterthought. Let's just make that clear.
Otto Larsson
It’s the geez that did it, that casual, so very youthful air that had his guard inch down a little. He’s not entirely ready to jump on board with it but, as she continues to speak, tell him of importance and then rectifies a slight on his behalf, he’s decides that he has to give her the benefit of the doubt and that faith has a place somewhere. If it didn’t, he’d have a long list of suspects and be a paranoid twit.
He’s not that. His shoulders swell outward, spine straightening, preparing to be civil. The smile he gives isn’t as easily humoured as before, but it has potential. It’s a fleeting gesture of unspoken apology, while his gaze flits back and forth between her two eyes, taking in the colour and the depth. Seeking.
“No, you’re not,” he agrees. As she said earlier, she may look like one but she most definitely was not. He couldn’t feel her presence like some of the others, but now that he took the time to actually look and not discard her as some ordinary, self obsessed teenager that bought into the entitlements of the century, he can see it more clearly. “Apologies, Miss.” His sincerity is as solid as his stature.
“And yes, I do think that history plays a crucial role in the present. Whether we should repeat it is another matter, one that many of my relatives may disagree with.” Like that, he flows into conversation that is no longer as unintentionally condescending as comments may have been before. She is no longer a kid but a Garou and, immediately, her station has lifted beyond his. Well, almost.
Goldie Lennox
It was easy to mistake her as a preening teenager. She dressed a bit like she was trying to piss her father off, after all. But Rage and Spirit were there under human flesh, subtle but undeniable when found. Her presence wasn't at all like Morgan's, it didn't pull attention and fill a room. It was the kind of thing that formed a stronger impression the longer you looked at her, watched her move and behave.
There was a bit of war clipped in the edges of her limbs, flinting behind round eyes. She'd battled and killed earlier in the day, though neither Otto nor Morgan could know that. It still lingered a little predatory in how she continued through the night. That was the key element that set her apart from a teenager out to defy curfew.
"Oh it doesn't need to be so black and white, now does it? History's a really big thing-- the whole lot of it doesn't necessarily to repeat itself or stay buried forever. We have the advantage and picking and choosing." She sounded like she could be motivational for a moment there, giving advice both sage and uplifting were it aimed in the right direction and given at the right time.
New-Moon True-Moon to the core, though, she couldn't just leave people with a good impression of her without giving something to counterbalance it and keep them guessing. "Most of it, anyways. We aren't going to choose when the big winter blizzards stop, after all."
Station wasn't something that she was viewing, Goldie was a sleuth and slink for the Nation after all. Station was (mostly) subjective. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said all at once, and her expression went sweet-- she even went so far as to touch fingers to her scarf, near her collarbone, in feigned surprise. "You probably had places to be, and I've gone and gotten you off track. I heard your relatives don't care for waiting."
Otto Larsson
“That depends who you’re asking,” he says on the black and white. This time he does smile and it’s nice, not quite sweet or charming, just nice. Decent. Nearly everything about Otto is decent and upstanding. Like he doesn’t have to command a room by posturing about or try and win over someone with sweet, honey suckle smiles. “Ideals and reality rarely go hand in hand but that shouldn’t excuse the lack of trying.”
It’s a conversation he could have over a couple of glasses of wine, over a good, hearty meal, and probably has had too many times to count, but Goldie has other plans and the street, on a busy sidewalk, wasn’t really the place to conduct a philosophical debate over current realities.
As she speaks about his relatives, his slow nod, an incline of agreement, confirms as much. “They don’t.” And, although he has no intention of meeting up with anyone, he’s going to take this opportunity to escape and prevent further wheedling of information out of him from a pressing young Garou. “And so I’ll bid you safe journey and goodnight, Miss Goldie. It’s been a pleasure speaking with you.”
With another nod, he steps back, preparing to part. He doesn’t, however, turn his back to her, nor shake her hand or kiss her cheek. But his gaze follows her, committing to memory the soft swell of her cheek and the flint under her round doe-eyes. He’s certain he’ll see her again but is unsure whether that will be before or after others came knocking.
Goldie Lennox
Otto Larsson smiled sweetly, and Goldie mirrored the expression with a sweetheart smile of her own. It had to be interesting to see from the outside, because there was probably something about the exchange that made it seem like the lovely expressions were just another form of foil in the hands of fencers.
A lesson learned that he may not even realize he was practicing, Otto stepped away without turning and giving the Ragabash his back. Just as he made note of rounded cheeks and other distinguishing features like how her front teeth were ever-so-slightly larger than the rest, Goldie was making a mental picture of this Silver Fang Kinsman as he backed away. Tall without being exaggeratedly broad to balance, light of hair and eye and distinguished of blood and feature.
He wished her a safe journey, and the smile faltered into more of a smirk. "An absolute pleasure," she agreed.
Soon enough her head turned as though something else may have caught her attention, and she started walking up in the direction he'd come from initially. If his gaze followed after long enough, he'd notice her glancing back at him over her shoulder at least twice before the night and pedestrian crowd swallowed her up.
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