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.
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