Goldie Lennox
"Frankly, Matthew Murphy, I just don't understand why you're so pissed off."
Of
course she did. When those words came from a Ragabash's mouth, it
could be almost guaranteed that they were full of falsehood. Goldie
Lennox had done something to aggravate the hell out of the Kinsman, and
couldn't leave it alone enough to even give him a break at work.
The
setting: Pints Pub. A stylized bar that was all United Kingdom and
that was hard to mistake. It was two in the afternoon and the time of
day where the bar wasn't very busy at all. There may have been a small
lunch push, because the food here wasn't bad at all, but this time of
day the place had all but emptied out again. This left Goldie and
perhaps another at the bar.
Goldie didn't look old enough to be
here, that was for certain. One way or another she'd made her way in,
though, and was sitting up at the bar with a half-eaten plate of food
and a pint of dark beer in front of her. The weather was much warmer
than it had been last night, so Goldie wore a pair of high-waisted denim
shorts with a white tank-top tucked into them. A loose red flannel
shirt was over top of all of that, unbuttoned with the sleeves rolled up
to her elbows. There were black military-inspired boots on her feet,
one lace dangling below the rest. Sandy brown-blond hair fell past her
shoulders in almost frizzy waves, and she had on lipstick as bright red
as the ketchup she was dragging her french fries through.
"Almost like you didn't sleep so good last night."
Matthew Murphy
He's
in the middle of washing pint glasses from the lunch rush and he looks
as if he'd stab someone if it meant he could go outside and smoke a
cigarette but showing weakness in front of a Ragabash isn't the
brightest idea in the world. So he just keeps drying the damned things.
Means he doesn't have to pay too much attention to her. The cluster of
college-age kids killing time before their kickball game or whatever the
hell it is they're all doing in here have moved onto a table and the
only other people at the bar are way down the end and don't need him
right now.
"What're you talking about?" he asks. Glances up once
to make sure she can see the scowl he's wearing before reaching over to
pluck up another glass. "I'm in such a good mood, I can't even begin to
describe it to you."
Amy
Well, there is one other
person in the bar, but she is well versed at blending in, hiding in
plain sight. It helps that she's of the class of society that people
very carefully refuse to see. People have been known to walk right by
their closest family members when they are on the street, and not even
notice. It's like that.
Matthew probably knows she's there -
likely because she's already devoured a plate and a half of fries, and a
burger, and is just now starting to maybe think about slowing down.
She's in a booth kinda near the bar - curled up in the shadows of it,
her feet tucked under her. A backpack is between her torso and the wall,
and her one prized possesion is on the table in front of her. Its a
laptop - or well, it looks like it might have been one in it's previous,
unbattered life. It's covered in stickers and held together by duct
tape and looks like it's on it's very last legs.
Looks can be deceiving.
Her
dreads hide her face, head bowed over the keyboard as the keys click -
faster and faster. She only pauses to shove another handful of fries
into her mouth. Matt's gonna regret offering to feed her. That face
might be pretty under the dirt - though she did make a halfhearted
effort to wash her hands and face before taking up residence in the
booth. Her clothing though - yeah. That could use a wash.
or ten.
She's mostly oblivious to anyone and everyone though - that keyboard has her entire attention...
Goldie Lennox
"Well you went to school to be a verbose motherfucker, so I don't see how you couldn't describe it to me."
Another
french-fry was saturated with ketchup and popped into the Ragabash's
mouth. She spoke with Matthew the Bartender while he scrubbed glasses
and looked aggravated as hell, leaned forward against the counter so she
could keep an eye on what was happening on the television.
She
was aware of Amy in the booth-- had been since they had come to share
space in the bar. Occasionally Goldie would glance over her way. There
may have been a flickering bloom of inspiration for proper harassment--
switching keys around on the keyboard if the ragamuffin ever got up to
go to the bathroom, or something to that effect. For now, though,
Matthew was doing a fine job of keeping her preoccupied.
For now.
The
french fries were washed down with a deep drink from her pint glass,
and with a smack-smack of red-painted lips she carried on.
"I
mean, clearly. I found evidence in the boxes still unpacked last
night." Then came a smile that was worth slapping off a young woman's
face-- it was just that shit-eating.
Matthew Murphy
He
sighs the long-suffering sigh of someone with a hole burning through
his stomach but doesn't look up at her again just yet. Like he wants
everyone in the joint knowing he's got some kind of formal education. It
isn't bad enough that bartenders have a reputation for having
psychology and English degrees. Useless pieces of paper that didn't get
them anywhere at all.
"Who packed that, anyway?" he asks. "I wanna
know whose house I'm sending your corpse to when I'm done beating you
with it tonight."
Amy
"Motherfucker!" It's quick,
the exclamation, the rest of the sentence mumbled through the another
mouthful of fries. "really? watch this, jackhole.."
Who she's
talking to is anyone's guess, as fingers all but blur over the keyboard,
pale eyes following her progress with quick darts across the screen,
reading almost as fast as her fingers move. Fingers, by the way, she
doesn't once glance down at, so it's doubtful at all that switched keys
would bother her. Of course, she'd never leave her prized possession out
of her sight either, but that's beside the point.
There is a
glance toward the bar as Matt says something about a corpse, and a brow
quirks upwards briefly, before her attention is once again on the
screen.
Morgan Roche
The problem a girl like
Morgan had with making appearances -- everyone had a tendency to notice
her. Not generally speaking in the most flattering of ways, either. The
moon was waning, it was past the worst of it but there was still, as the
door spilled open and she slipped inside, that god awful wash of
prickling awareness. That otherness that set the spine and had -- most
particularly in the unfortunate and thankfully few if any mortals in the
vicinity -- bodies shifting in their seats.
For an Ahroun, she's
hardly the worst and many will come long after that invoke far greater
reactions but still, the moment she sets foot inside the bar, it
happens. They notice. Today, the they in question isn't many. And she,
well - she looks like the picture of a tall, slightly awkward teenager
as she stands in the doorway for a minute or two, sweeps a hand through a
long mane of brilliantly red hair and then crosses the room with her
eyes set on the barkeeper.
Goldie Lennox
The
proclamation in harsh language from the booth nabbed up Goldie's
attention for a second, and when the dredlocked woman with the
bumped-and-bruised laptop looked over in their direction she'd find that
Goldie was staring right back. Goldie looked like a teenager, probably
around 18 years old or so. She had broad and rounded facial features,
with big brown eyes that were openly investigating Amy. If eye contact
were to be made, Goldie wouldn't shy away from it. If anything, she'd
quirk a brow right back. She started answering Matthew's question about
who packed his degree while still looking toward the booth, but her
gaze would fall back upon the Kinsman after a couple of words.
"Probably Ma. Or maybe Rachel or Rob. I don't know. If you'd left it at home they would've mailed it out anyways."
Another
swig of the beer, and then came a wave of something intangible-- not a
scent, not a sound, but a sensation plain and simple. It had the hairs
at the back of her neck struggling to rise, and set her spine a little
straighter without her really planning to sit upright voluntarily.
Again, Goldie twisted to look over her shoulder, and this time her eyes
landed on Morgan.
Morgan, with her bright red hair and bright red
Rage. Morgan, with ancestry and blood that sang a song to harmonize
with the belting ballad that was Matthew Murphy's own lineage. Morgan,
with eyes locked on the bartender as she made her teenage-limbed way
across the bar.
Lips parted to show slightly bucked front teeth in
a smile that could only be described as Cheshire, and the Ragabash
looked back to Matthew to raise her eyebrows significantly. "Oooooh,"
she vocalized, but said nothing more because she chose that moment to
cram a good hunk of the remaining half of her cheeseburger into her
mouth.
Matthew Murphy
The few wine glasses dirtied
during the lunch rush are dried now and he has to reach up to secure
their bases to the overhead rack. Does so without much effort. He has
left no droplets of water on the glass and in a few moments they will
only be distinguishable from the other glasses by the fact that they are
cleaner than their comrades.
When Morgan walks in he's shaking
his head at something the scrawny teenager at the end of the bar has
said. If she were too young to be served she wouldn't be sitting there
right now. She has a girlish face and a girlish build and a girlish
demeanor that would have any other bartender in the city asking for her
ID.
Shit. Maybe Matt asked for her ID just to be an asshole. He knows how old she is.
He
doesn't notice Morgan the way that Goldie notices her. He's glancing
down at his customers down the other end of the bar to gauge how full or
not-full their drinks are or aren't and in glancing that way he sees
the door has opened and lo and behold it's the girl who came in last
Saturday.
Oooooh...
He doesn't even justify that one
with a response. He picks up the last of the dried glasses and stocks
them where they belong and looks up as Morgan finds a place at the bar.
If he shaved his face yesterday he didn't this morning.
"Hey," he says. "You came back."
Amy
Goldie
isn't the only one that doesn't shy from such a direct gaze. Her eyes
meet Goldies, that brow quirks back, and the corner of Amy's lips lift
in a brief smirk, before her attention is back where she prefers it -
on the screen.
Morgan enters, and everyone reacts, involuntarily
in most cases. The familiar feeling dances along Amy's skin, sliding
along her spine to settle at the back of her neck in pure warning. Amy
glances up, and then quickly back to her computer. She'd rather not
attract the attention of that "teenager" anytime soon.
Morgan Roche
In
truth she'd speculated on whether or not she should, in fact, come
back. Her brother would have lectured her long and hard about the
importance of their Kin, especially one with a lineage as strong as
Matthew Murphy's. She knew enough about bloodlines, her own sang of
heroes and stories and moments long dead. She'd sat on the hill at her
(temporary) new Sept and plucked at strands of drying grass, thinking
with no particular order about exactly how wise a chose it was to go
back.
She'd glanced at the crumpled piece of paper her kinsman had
handed her, studying the handwriting, more than once before she'd
cursed something, balled it up and shoved it back in a pocket.
And
then she'd gone patrolling to find something to fight. That, was her
true calling. Minding her family -- well, her track record would speak
against her worth at being any kind of heroine in that respect. And yet
-- here she was, in the same clothing Matt had seen her in the first
time, a denim jacket and shirt, jeans and sneakers and that hair; loose
and wild around her body like a beacon to others attuned like Goldie.
There be children of Stag, here.
Morgan's
eyes slide to the female at the bar, first. Then back to Matthew.
There's another body in their midst, and the Garou surely senses it but
its periphery. Perhaps the way Amy wishes to stay with regards to this
one. This one who comes up to the bar like she has a mission in her eyes
and then stops when she gets there as if she's lost track of her
purpose.
"Well I told you to start a tab, didn't I?" She accuses
without any heat behind it and skirts around a chair to throw her long
limbs into it. "I've been exploring t'city. Takes a girl a while." Back
to Goldie again with those grey-blue eyes. They look about the same age
and neither is one that strictly speaking seems to be one belonging in a
bar in the middle of the day.
"Who's your friend?" It shouldn't sound like a demand, she has no call to make demands.
It sounds like one anyway.
Goldie Lennox
"I'm Goldie!"
The question had been directed to Matthew-- Who's your friend?
-- as though Goldie wasn't able to introduce herself on her own. So
naturally she blurted her name out before Matt even had a chance to get
the voice started in his throat to do so for her.
The petite
teenager, with the ragged cuffs of her shorts riding particularly high
on her thighs since she was sitting-not-standing, twisted about on her
bar stool to turn to face Morgan more directly. One elbow propped
itself up on the bar top, and the other hand jutted out through the air
to offer a shake. She still had a smear of mayonnaise and mustard from
the burger at one corner of her mouth.
"Who are you?"
Matthew Murphy
Well I told you to start a tab, didn't I?
He
laughs a voiceless laugh and flicks his eyebrows like to concede her
that point and hangs the rag over the edge of the sink to dry. Rests one
hand on the handle of a tap while the other rests on his hip.
Nonchalant posture that has him giving Goldie his profile. Could give
her his back but he's learned that lesson already. Don't give a Ragabash
your back.
When she pipes up he lifts an eyebrow and turns his head towards the girl.
Really?
his expression says. But it evaporates a second later. He takes his
hand off the tap and cuts a glance back at Morgan. He looks amused in
the exhausted way of a man who's spent too much time in the company of a
hyperactive five-year-old.
"Lemme get you a drink," he says and picks up a clean glass.
Amy
A
glance toward the bar. Goldie. The name is heard, filed away until (if)
it might be needed once again. Then there's a quick run of typing - and
a triumphant snort. She sits back, shakes out her fingers, stretching
her hands, before with a practiced flip she closes the laptop. The look
on her face can only be described as... well... satisfaction. Smug even.
The
laptop is shoved into her backpack, the cord wrapped around her hand
before shoved into the depths.. then she unfolds from the depths of the
booth to stand. There is no doubt at all that she's homeless once she
does so - her clothing is tattered - from the legwarmers to the jeans
that are more hole than denim, showing off thermals underneath, to the
t-shirt over top a long sleeve thermal, under a saggy ugly sweater...
and theres the pile of rags that is actually her jacket left in the
booth.
She stretches, slowly, workinng the kinks out, before she slings the backpack over her shoulder. "Hey matt - fry me!"
Another plate? Hello barman. Meet the bottomless pit. He really shouldn't have offered a meal...
She
glances at everyone once more, then heads to the bathroom - leaving
only a stinking pile of raggest jacket for the trickster if she should
decide to mess with the streetrat. Everything else - she takes with her.
Morgan Roche
"Morgan."
She's quick to shake that hand, her grip firm and sure as it shoots
out. She holds Goldie's gaze for a moment before retracting her hand in
favor of settling both on top of the bar and twisting her sneakered feet
around the legs of her chair, bracing herself and then shedding the
layer of her jacket. "Morgan Roche, to be proper, but I'm usually not
very." There's a glint of tribal humor there. "New to Denver." As if it
were her title too.
Young she may have been, but the redhead's
figure was clearly not that of any starving Garou, surviving on scraps.
She had the figure of a woman who ate; her arms were lean but there was
no question there was strength in them. One carried a trace of some
battlescar or other, peeking out the sleeve of her shirt when she moved a
certain way.
Then there's the offer of a drink -- nods, pleased
apparently that he offered this time -- before that other body appears,
demanding another plate of fries. The Ahroun's attention slides to Amy,
stays there as she crosses the room and then flits back.
Her eyebrows raise. "You have an eclectic patronage, Matthew," Morgan pronounces.
Goldie Lennox
The
hand that Morgan grabbed hold of to shake was small, like the rest of
the young woman seated at the bar, with fingernails void of polish and
trimmed short. Hard angles with a bit of dark red something (blood?)
still stuck under the nails of the right hand. She'd probably recently
cleaned and trimmed them in an effort to cleanse, but traces of battle
and memory can't always be scrubbed away.
Sometimes you just had to
wait for them to fleck off on their own.
The ragamuffin with blond
dredlocks called for another plate of something fried before gathering
up her belongings and heading toward the bathroom. Everything went with
her except for a jacket left to claim the booth as taken-- as though it
were in any danger of being claimed while she was away. The place
wasn't exactly bumping.
"Yeah," Goldie agreed with Morgan and
turned to look back to Matt after watching Amy disappear around a corner
to reach the women's bathroom. "I mean, are you paying for all of
those plates, or is she? 'Cause she doesn't look like she is, and man I
know we just paid the deposit so....."
That was going to be a
'mind your own business' answer, Goldie could already tell, so she
leaned over her plate and stuffed more of that cheeseburger into her
mouth to make the bite seem like the reason she'd trailed off instead.
Matthew Murphy
With
one hand on the tap and the other on the glass Matt can do little more
than look across the bar at the young dreadlocked woman and give her an
upward lift of his chin to indicate he's heard her. He is not a
vivacious young spirit overflowing with smiles and good feelings for his
customers. Even if they're regulars. Especially if they're regulars.
The hallmark of a successful bartender is the ability to bust balls
while making the customer feel welcome.
That nod tells her he'll
put in the order just as soon as he can. Bemusement at the vastness of
her appetite disappears quick though. He's afraid to take his attention
off Goldie for longer than a few seconds. That's how shit gets broken.
You have an eclectic patronage, Matthew.
He
shakes his head and lets out an open-throated breath that could be the
precursor to a proper word. It holds on for several beats though. Ends
when the pour does. A bit of foam head sloshes over the side as he claps
it down on a coaster.
"Are we speculating, Lennox?" he asks.
Turns around to pick up an order pad from beside the register. "I may
have detected a hint of speculation, there." He tears the ticket off the
pad and starts to walk backwards towards the door that leads into the
kitchen. "I could be wrong, though. You're not the speculating sort."
He
opens the kitchen door with his back and disappears through it. As it
closes behind him they can hear him holler to the chefs that he needs
another plate of fries.
Morgan Roche
If there's
blood (or anything else) under Goldie's fingernails, the Ahroun has the
manners not to mention she sees it -- or, and there's a very real
possibility its more likely the case -- she doesn't care in the
slightest. It's likely a very common sight, in all honesty.
She
does snort softly at the banter between the two and take a sip from her
beer, though. "So are you two business partners, then?" Morgan chooses
her wording with deliberate care. As friendly as the petite blonde
seems, one can never be too sure but the use of 'we' and 'deposit'
attracts her attention. She looks between them, as if studying their
faces for some sign of familiarity.
Amy
She's not
gone long. I mean, it's not like she's gonna be cleaning up or anything
because really, what's the point? She washed her face once today
already. Ish. She *does* was her hands though. She's not a complete
miscreant.
Soon enough though, she's back to her quiet corner,
this time sliding to sit in the booth sideways, the pack and raggedy
coat cushioned between her spine and the wall. She crosses her legs at
the ankles, one foot bouncing absently as she flips open a battered
coverless paperback, and reads. Seems she's perfectly comfortable
settling in for the majority of the day. Long as the fries keep coming,
that is..
Goldie Lennox
"Hey," Goldie says, and
the word is sharp with warning. Goldie Lennox had Rage that burned
brighter than it did when she'd first experienced her Change, and it
contributed to adding a bit more flint to the warning than maybe she'd
wanted to be there. The Rage was no furnace, though, and Goldie rolled
with the fact that it licked in her voice here and there as though it
had no real presence after all.
A french fry was brandished across the bar at Matt, pointing to go along with that warning.
"Speculation is the first step to investigation, and that is how codes get cracked."
From the victorious matter-of-fact tone to the statement she made, there may as well have been a bitch
tacked on to the end. Matthew would pick up that there would have been
one if he wasn't at work in front and/or in front of a pretty well-bred
Fianna gal at this moment. So that only means that he just gets to
hear it silent and see it in Goldie's gaze, that bitch, before she swabbed her french fry in ketchup and munched on it too.
As
Morgan studied the pair, she'd find that there is a definite and
undeniable familiarity with how the two interacted. What regional
accent they had they shared. But beyond that, there wasn't a feature
about them that was the same. The first, and most obvious to Morgan,
was the fact that Goldie Lennox's visage and blood offered no tales or
songs of heros from Stag's line. Not a drop of breeding to be found.
Plus her features were rounded, while Matthew's were more narrow. They
didn't really look all that much alike at all-- hair color was probably
the closest thing that they had to match.
After munching her fry, Goldie reached for her beer and shook her head at Morgan.
"Gotta
be in the business of business to have a business partner, don't you?"
She smiled at the red-haired teenager and it was flavored with Rage
like her 'Hey' had been-- it snuck and cycled about under the surface
since it wasn't quite strong enough to bleed and burn off into the air.
"Nah. We're..... Oh, what would you call us, Matty Boy?"
Matthew Murphy
As
he's coming back out the door a question greets him. His other patrons
are paying as little attention to the two girls down the end of the bar
as they can. A blind eye turned in case the redhead turns out to be as
violent as she feels. They're finishing their drinks and considering
where they're going to go next if they want another round they like this
place just fine and they're having a good time.
Amy's order will
take a few minutes. It isn't as if she's going anywhere. She's inside
where it's warm and there's wifi and the fries aren't terrible. If she
isn't paying for it herself it's coming out of the barman's tips but
that isn't any of Goldie's business now is it.
Speaking of which
he has to refill some beers down his other customers' end of the bar.
Conversation that the two Garou can hear because they're close and he's
not trying to be stealthy about it. It's boring conversation. Yes indeed
they do need more to drink and how does he think the freakin' Rockies
are gonna do this afternoon. It takes him a couple minutes to refill
glasses and ring up the total and when that's over his customers leave
his tip on the bar in cash but he ignores it in favor of ambling back
down to where Goldie and Morgan are.
"What?" he asks. He leans
against his side of the bar forearms folded atop each other like he's
got all the time in the world. "I'm sorry, what would I call 'us'?" He
turns to Morgan. "Goldie here's the same age as my kid sister, been
hanging around the house since they were both in diapers. Somehow she's
even more annoying than my actual kid sister, I don't know how she
manages to pull it off." He looks back at Goldie. "It's a gift, I think.
You are a gifted young woman."
Amy
It's not as if
she's going anywhere. Warmth, fries, and wifi and a book, and the
unassuming streetrat is settled in to stay fora bit. Sure, she'll clear
out before the dinner rush so that they can disinfect the booth she's
sitting in, but until then..
Until then, she's perfectly content
reading the occasional sentence while she watches and evesdrops on the
conversation nearest her.
And she's paying for at least part -
but he doesn't know that, yet. And should he ask where the money came
from, well. It's how he feels about Goldie - it's none of his business,
now is it.
Morgan Roche
There's a twinge of Rage
circulating now, Goldie's flickers and sparks but doesn't ignite when
she's taunted a little about speculation. It lingers when she answers
the Ahroun and Morgan braces her fingertips around her beer glass and
very slowly twists it as she feels it.
There's a tick, a beat without answer and then -- "I guess that's so."
Matt's
other customers are looking a little uncomfortable, nobody could blame
them. Morgan might be a pretty face, but her presence invokes the same
feeling one gets when passing a guard dog at a fence. The division is
there but the mere idea of that much danger so close at hand
(and what else do Garou feel like to the unaware but danger, but the
flight reflex inbuilt) is enough. He mentions a sister, her eyes tick
back to him.
"You've got a sister?" She chews on her lower lip a
moment as if digesting what that means. "Is she here in t'city too?" One
might say Morgan was fishing for information. Less than discreetly, one
might add.
Amy is back. Morgan's eyes follow her again. Weighted. Curious.
Goldie Lennox
By
now the girl with dreadlocks at the booth was noted but not so closely
followed. Goldie had written her off as harmless a while ago (though
there was a part of her that wanted to comb through the woman's
belongings and check for empty energy drink cans-- or full ones, even,
stashed away for later). Goldie was contentedly wrapped up in
conversation with the other Children of Stag-- one that she's apparently
known since diapers and the other that she'd met only just a few
minutes ago when she came in and sat down at the bar nearby as well.
Goldie
looked proud of herself when Matt explained his relationship with her,
and the fact that all of her smiles and grins were a little bit wicked
was becoming more apparent because she'd been flashing and wearing them
all through the night.
"In more ways than you could possibly
think," she added when Matt called her gifted, and even went so far as
to drag her tongue over her upper lip to drive the pun home. Snickering
to herself, Goldie sipped her beer and nibbled the french fries that
remained on her plate slowly and distractedly. Not really that hungry
anymore, but snacking thoughtlessly on what was left instead.
Morgan,
in the meantime, was gathering information. She was understandably
quite interested in what was going on with Matthew's family-- he was a
blazing beacon of breeding, after all, and it stood to reason that the
rest of his family would be as well. So of course the Garou of the area
would want to be able to keep tabs on anyone else that might be
floating around like pheremone lures for that pesky pack of Black Spiral
Dancers that's allegedly been floating around.
This time she'd
let Matt answer his question for himself. Goldie didn't need to keep
showing that she knew the information, even though she totally did.
Matthew Murphy
Make
that in more ways than he'd care to think. Matt scowls and may be about
to warn her what will happen if he hears her fornicating late at night
when he has to be up in the morning but Morgan wants to know more about
his family. His sister in particular but the sister is the gateway to
more information.
He'd already told her he's from North Carolina.
Father died in battle over a decade ago. There's always more to tell and
he wears a cautious expression as he answers the question. He's got to
be aware of the fact that if he spends too much time talking about his
siblings and their accomplishments someone is going to want to know what
the hell he's doing with himself. They already danced around that
subject last week.
It gets wearisome but that's the point of punishment. Debts don't repay themselves.
"Nah,"
he says, "she just started her first year of medical school out in
Illinois. Everyone else is back east." He hitches a thumb in Goldie's
direction and clicks his tongue. Pushes back from the bar to go on about
his business. This must be a short shift today. Someone else is coming
in the door and that someone else looks as if they're ready to work.
"I'm sure this one would be happy to tell you what we're doing out here
sometime."
Amy
She can feel the weight of Morgan's
gaze, and she doesn't wither under it, nor does she seem to acknowledge
it - unless one knows where to look. There's a slight clench of the
muscle along her jaw, that relaxes almost immediately with conscious
effort. There's a flex of her fingers around the edges of the book,
before those too relax.
And there's her eyes - too light to really
be able to tell what color they are. Perhaps they're a pale blue. Maybe
they're a pale green. Maybe they're something in between.. regardless,
in the light of the bar the only thing one can tell is that they are
pale.
And infinitely curious as they flick up to meet Morgan's gaze. Briefly. Unashamedly. Boldly.
And back to her book.
Morgan Roche
There's
a lot to be said for the Kinfolk who are bold enough to stand up to
their Garou brethren. Even in so small a gesture as meeting their eyes
when they hold on you for longer than a heartbeat. It takes courage, all
said, to look any Garou, especially a full moon in the face like that.
Morgan has no real wish to intimidate Amy, or Matt for that matter.
Heck,
she barely knows either one of them. But its ingrained enough in her to
be curious, no matter how young she is. Especially when one of the two
Kin present has enough purity in his veins to warrant a national guard
of Garou around him at all times. If Morgan were another kind of Fianna
-- it might have already happened. She might have grabbed his arm and
thrown him into protection.
But -- she's not. She barely knows
what to make of him yet. Only that she's back, against her initial plans
and she finds herself paying keen attention when he tells her of his
family situation. And of Goldie. Morgan's attention returns to her, she
flits a grin her way. "I get that impression from her," she agrees and
takes an impressive gulp of beer. "I was also here to give you this,"
she tacks on, setting her drink down and hastily digging in a pocket.
It's
a receipt for soda, and scrawled on the back is an address for a local
motel with a number. The Ahroun's cheeks turn slightly pink. She pushes
it toward Matt. "S'where I'm stayin' right now. Until I find something
more permanent." She blinks aside strands of hair from her eyes. "In
case you need to reach me." A shrug.
"Or want me to pay my tab."
Goldie Lennox
This
One, as she'd been called, grinned to confirm that she probably would
be more than happy to tell Morgan precisely what they were doing out
there. She gave the impression that she might actually have five
stories lined up and turn it into a game-- to try and get the
Rage-cyclone of an Ahroun to guess which one was the truth amid lies.
She
was finishing her cheeseburger with intent now. Perhaps she had
someplace to be besides bothering the shit out of her kinsman sometime
here soon. Either way, she was busy masticating a mouth full of food so
she didn't chime in verbally to the exchange between Morgan and Matt.
She did openly lean forward to peek at the receipt, to spy that the
combination of letters and numbers matched up to an address and phone
number.
And of course the blush, mild though it may be,
didn't go overlooked. Uncommented on for now, but it was never a
comfortable or particularly safe thing to be under the watchful eye of a
New Moon. In that moment, when recognition lit up in Goldie's eyes,
both the other Fianna knew somewhere in their hearts that the glimpse of
information exchanged would come back on them, one way or another.
But,
for now, Goldie just grinned and stuffed the last corner of her
sandwich into her mouth, then dusted bread crumbs from the bun and salt
from the fries off her fingers and over the top of her plate.
"Speaking
of paying tabs," she said with the last of her food pushed into her
cheek so she could make room for speech, "I've got.... Hold on. I think
I've got $15, that should cover a burger and beer...." And she patted
down every pocket she had hunting for a wallet before having a visible
'Aha!' moment and tugging a $20 and a $5 bill both loose from somewhere
inside of the unbuttoned flannel overshirt she was wearing.
Those
go on the counter. It would make for an ample tip, but really Matt's
money just helped keep a roof over her head so it all came back to the
same spot, didn't it? Might as well make herself look good.
Matthew Murphy
Matt
first eyes the printed side of the receipt. The Ahroun girl's
handwriting shows through between the pressure and the color of the ink
and he flips it over even as she's explaining what it is. His eyes flick
between the paper and her face and the light in here being what it is
afternoon sunlight coming in softer and warmer than in the morning the
blue in them is louder than it would be at the bar's first opening or
further through the evening when he's drunk and getting ready to get the
hell out of here.
If Goldie is going to behave herself and not do
anything else to make the adrift Portlander more uncomfortable than she
already is then neither is he. He keeps the receipt tilted away from
his sister's friend and folds it closed but does not crumple it more
than it already is.
"I haven't had to shake anyone down for money
in a while," he says. Might have more to that thought but Goldie chimes
in. Speaking of paying tabs.
He affects an air of surprise like
this is some sort of unheard of occurrence in their lives. He goes from
talking to Morgan like they're the only two people in the conversation
to busting Goldie's balls in a brassy tone.
"Whoaaaa, I get a tip? Who are you trying to impress?" A beat. He turns more towards Goldie. "Wait a minute, what'd you do now?"
Amy
Her
lips curve into a bemused little smirk as she watches Matt and Goldie
interact. It's kinda like home - well, what was home before she decided
to strike out on her own. There's nothing like the obvious affection
that runs under good-natured teasing and banter between friends and
family. Kinda makes her miss Mama and them, but just a little.
She
made her bed - she will lie in it. And likely something disgusting too,
judging by the state of her attire. It really is a miracle Matt didn't
just kick her out, instead of inviting her in.
Morgan Roche
Nobody
does anything to make the full moon feel more awkward than she does,
sliding that piece of paper across the bar to the Kinsman with enough
breeding in him to dwarf even hers. Morgan's complexion is so fair that
the slightest hint of a blush blooms across her cheeks and stains them
in obvious regard. She's not embarrassed, per say, but she certainly is
quick enough to snatch her hand back and curl it around the mostly empty
glass in front of her.
"The man that runs it is a creep but I
told him if he comes near me I'd break his nose with t' ice bucket so he
leaves me alone," she informs him briefly, matter of fact about the
situation.
Goldie drags away his attention then, she's grateful.
The Ahroun hops down from her stool and makes a beeline for the
bathroom. She passes by Amy's little corner of the world and glances at
her as she does. There's a brief incline of her chin, a wordless
greeting of sorts before she passes on. Some of the regulars risk a
glance when her back is to them.
That fiery hair is a beacon of its own.
Goldie Lennox
"Oh
Matty...," Goldie said with a shake of her head and the tone of a
clucking, disappointed mother hen. She finished the final swig left in
her pint glass, then turned her head to watch Morgan slip down off the
bar stool to head toward the bathroom as well. "Hey! Morgan! I'll see
you around, okay?" She called after her with a smile and a wave, but
soon her focus was back on Matt.
"Don't think of this as me paying
off a debt for something I've done. Instead, remember that I'm
probably paying you in advance for something that I'm about to do."
She
widened her eyes and wriggled her fingers in the air at him, to convey
the ominous sound the message was supposed to carry more clearly, and
slid down from her bar stool and back onto the floor. The
finger-wiggling only carried on for two or three steps back from the bar
before that charade was dropped. Instead, she grinned just a bit and
lifted her hand in something of a farewell.
"I'll see ya at home. Gonna go do some sniffing around. Don't get eaten."
She'd
see her way out the door then. If Matty's farewell were as snarky as
any other exchange they'd had before her final goodbye would probably be
a middle finger flown affectionately over her shoulder as she vanished
out the front door.
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