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]
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