Goldie Lennox
Dazzle Jazz: renowned as being the
most hip, most popular jazz spot in all of Denver. To look at it from
the outside, though, you wouldn't necessarily believe that right away.
The Dazzle Jazz club was a single-story establishment, flat and long and
hugging the sidewalk with a bit of a slump like it's been there for so
long. Neon declared 'Dazzle' at the end ofthe building, right above the
door, marking the place where you should form a line if you're queing
up for a show.
This wasn't the kind of club that needed bouncers,
though. It was all ages allowed, and didn't have a dance floor and DJ
and loud loud thumping bass. It was set up with tables and booths and a
bar, a dance floor was cleared up front near the stage but it wasn't
chock full of bodies. This was a Tuesday night after all, and there
were no major performances happening.
Inside the walls were
arguably 'faded red' or 'burnt orange', depending on who you ask, and
decorated with canvases painted by several local artists that the club
owners were putting on display this month. There were a couple dozen
other patrons scattered throughout the establishment, enjoying their
drinks at the bar and filling some of the tables in small groups and
duos. Up on the stage a band of six twenty-somethings were setting up.
Old jazz blown from the horns and crooned from the throats of the
famous and long gone played on the speakers in the meantime.
One
table, pressed up against the wall and lit with a greasy electric
lantern light just like the rest, housed Goldie Lennox. She sat alone,
sipping on a cocktail and doing something with her cell phone-- one
could presume texting people to come join her so she wasn't so lonely
sitting there. But an air of lonesome did not hang around the New
Moon-- she was too stalwartly full of energy and charisma for that.
Even alone in a dark club texting for company, she seemed like she was
precisely where she wanted to be.
Such was the confidence of young werewolves.
Mary
Here
is Mary, descending. Mary, a simmering disc, a pale moon Mary, a no
moon Mary, Mary sailing with an air of utmost confidence and assurance,
Mary who is direct, here she is, Mary, right through the crowd such as
it is, and doesn't the music trail in her wake? Mary, all about that
bass, hé? The voluptuous Silver Fang is a wise-cracker, a jester, a
joker, never the life of a party, although certainly she has been used
to all things revolving around her one way or another: Here she comes,
thighs rubbing together making a face a big grin her mouth painted a
perfect pink and her eyes dramatic with smoke and paint and her copper
hair sleek and the color of sunset's clouds that sort of copper tinting
toward strawberry like there might be gold under all that dark blood and
her hair is in waves and waves and curls and curls and she looks good,
even in that witchy black 70s throw-back thing she's wearing, and she
heads right on over to Goldie's table, throws herself into a seat or
into the booth and says,
breaking whatever va va voom spell accompanied the walk,
"Hey! So what sort of badassery do you want to explore?"
Doesn't even miss a beat, conversation continued!
With a grin, "How are you tonight?"
Goldie Lennox
Mary
with that va-va-voom, and Goldie with her languid ease. It was a fine
juxtaposition that the Ragabashes made for one another, and when Mary
dropped into the chair across from Goldie the Fianna looked positively delighted
to see her. Maybe a little surprised, just at first, just for a
second, but the appearance of royalty didn't shake her for long.
"The
spiderweb of badassery has so many threads, so there's a lot that we
could explore! Me myself? I was thinking the one that turns you into
an assassin. Delivering death to the Wyrm from the shadows before it
could even find me in its nostrils, you know?"
Smokey eyed and
dressed in black and pulling it together so well, Mary's company for the
night was dressed to oppose-- Goldie herself wore a cream-white dress
with loose-braided straps that held it up over her shoulders, but it
slung so low, oh so low that her back and sides and shoulders were all
quite bare. She wore a band of many decorations on her upper left arm,
bracelets on her right wrist sewn from leather, and a brown bandeau
strapped across her chest under the dress for the sake of avoiding
flashing too much. She had a straw hat on the chair beside her, a thick wool brown sweater slung over the back of that same chair.
Sandy-dusty
brown-blond hair was left down in kinks and waves that spilled over
Goldie's shoulders, and she wore pink lipstick as well, perhaps their
one shared visible similarity, and for the eyes there was gold liner to
accent.
The drink that Goldie sipped was colored like citrus and
had a foam on its surface. She sipped it and reached for the drink menu
that was propped against the wall so she could offer it to Mary.
"Me? I'm great. I got a big fat tip at work today so I can buy you a drink. What's your poison, Mary-Lou?"
Mary
"Gimme'a Moscow Mule. Kicky!"
An
exaggerated eyebrow waggle, her elbows hitting the table with an
unquiet rattle and her fingertips coming together to steeple and touch
the tip of her chin, just where that determined hero's dent is: it's all
the valor one could want; a shining example; doesn't she shine with
oblige? But her hazel [Spanish seniorita, dark dazzle boozy] eyes are a sparkle too with expression. Mary
puts aside the drink menu and reaches for the other menu, eyebrows
lofting at the delectable sounding other-things, lips pursing into a
cartoon wolf Awoooooooooo sans sound only consideration. Her fingers are
taptaptapping taptapping on the table, restless energy needs a release
somehow.
"Jehophasat, some of this looks delish. And
I'm impressed you manage to get a sweater over those bracelet
doothingies on your arm by the way," menu down, attention paid again.
She'll wait for her drink before launching into:
"So I have this idea. The badassery I'm
in pursuit of isn't so much the surprise it's an assassin sort. I want
to find the battle before the battle finds us. I want to be in the thick
of it moving and silent then leading the valiant hubbub whatever, you
know, the," her train of thought derailed for a moment, "claws to where
they should be. Assassination moves optional."
"Help me look for shit. Specifically, Goldie, let's pick a couple days and not show the Wyrm what a couple of no moons can do, aroo! Buddy cop movie style. What d'you say?"
Goldie Lennox
The ladies at the table had an air of something
about them. It wasn't a wall of fire and hate and violence that kept
the man waiting their table at bay. Goldie had a theory about Rage and
Kinfolk and Humans all alike. Rage could be compared to a flame (it
could be compared to a lot, she was a Fianna so she knew plenty
of ways to describe it), and if you offered a flickerflame instead of an
inferno the moths would come.
So the waiter took their drink
order, and maybe a food order too because Goldie did well at work and
was happy to pay for a drink and split the bill on a pizza or appetizer
platter of some kind-- whatever it was, they figured it out.
When
the Moscow Mule, extra Kicky, found its way to their table, Mary
proposed an idea that had Goldie lifting her eyebrows and widening big
brown eyes that were already wide to begin with. They twinkled with
excitement even in the dingy light that the jazz club had to offer them.
"Aroo, says I, because that sounds like the best
idea that I've heard since I crossed into this time zone." Goldie even
went so far as to stick out her hand, but with the elbow bent and the
hand itself pointed up, so that they could clap hands like people
wearing cloaks over old tables and cups of mead would do in the ages
long gone past. She was grinning wide enough that she was starting to
look seasonal-- that is to say, like a bit of a Jack O Lantern.
"I can dig us up some leads so we know what way to point our noses and go, too!"
Mary
"Yes!" Innocent (Saintish) enthusiasm.
Mary
shifts her weight from one thigh to one thigh, thickly mascaraed
(lacquered almost) lashes slipping down then up again like la calavera
catrina, but this is just so she can rest her elbow on the table and
take Goldie's palm in her own warm warm warm one and there-by pump
Goldie's hand as they do in Ye Old Tavern.
When she pulls her hand
away, it's only to steeple her fingers and rest the point against the
dimple in her chin, tapping those fingers like a-tap a-tap
e-e-e-excellent.
"I'm glad to hear it. I'll see what I can shake
down too. Say we compare notes next [some day that's a few days but not a
full week from whenever], unless it's something too good
Though if we're going to pull off the buddy cop thing," a cocked
eyebrow, she leans forward seriously one hand slamming on the table,
"we're gonna need to work on being proper opposites."
As if they
aren't already? Mary takes a sip of her Moscow Mule, eyebrows dragging
together forehead wrinkling as it goes down. She does not smack her lips
but somehow the face is all the more emphatic for that.
"This is good. It tastes like," Mary takes another sip like she needs to test it. Then she pronounces- "Buzzing and sweat."
Goldie Lennox
Palms
came together so hands could squeeze out an agreement; not with a
slap, for Mary had her graces even when words like 'shit' and 'extra
kicky' came out of her place in a dim-lit jazz club. That
Jack-o-Lantern grin stayed on Goldie's face as though it were painted
there. Clearly, she couldn't be more pleased with this agreement.
Hell, she even lifted her drink (the Bee's Knees) and drank to it.
"That's
because of the copper mug-- it's real important to making a Moscow
Mule," Goldie advised when Mary commented on her own beverage. Licking
her own lips free of gin and honey, Goldie groped around in her sweater
to nab the cellphone she'd stashed away previously. Apparently she was
the type of person that needed to leave notes or reminders for herself
to make sure that shit got done. That may be a worrying indicator of
how often she actually did get shit done. We'll just have to see.
Her
face took on a thoughtful cast while she was typing into her phone's
keypad, as though something had occurred to her. "Waidaminute," she
murmured, did some amount of mental math, then looked up to Mary while
tucking her phone back into the folds of her sweater.
"The Moot's next week-- should we bring a hunt to it? Then we can look all badass and productive when we introduce ourselves."
Matthew
Well look who just got out of work.
Dazzle
is a little over half a mile from Pints. It doesn't take Matt very long
to hoof it after he passes responsibility for the register over to the
night tender. The air has a bite to it and when he walks into the lounge
he looks like he might have gotten lost. This isn't his scene. Short
skinny guy wearing a knit cap and a leather jacket overtop a sweatshirt
hasn't shaved his face in a few weeks looks like he ought to be rolling
into a dive bar. Someplace he can sit in a corner and drink unmolested.
Maybe someplace with a pool table or something.
That's what he looks like but the scruffy veneer does little to bely his blood.
Matt
swipes the hat off his head when he finds the table with the two Garou
sat at it. This place isn't crowded and it doesn't take him long.
"'Productive'?" he asks as he comes to stand between the two of them.
Mary
"You say so?" Skeptical,
Mary eyes her reflection in the copper mug, curling one finger into it
with the air of a naughty child -- no! Scratch that, the air of an
impervious lady, to slip out the sodden mint-sprig and bite off a leaf,
chew, chew, chew, where are those appetizers? Unreasonable to expect
them to come already, but it sounded so good. She watches Goldie fiddle
with her phone for all of a moment, but doesn't feel the need to fiddle
with her own, lets her eyes roam over people at other tables, rather
daring the Wyrm to show its ratty face, which of course it does not
because this is a jazz club and jazz music really is impervious to the blandishments of corruption.
And
then Mary's shoulders even out and she considers Goldie's idea. Mary is
judicious, when she is considering something like that. The small but
expressive mouth twisted to the side and then a decisive taptap of her
fingers and,
"Let's make it happen, yes." Waver, when Matt joins.
Mary scoots scoots scoots in the booth with a why hello why don't you
sit over here by me sort of thing going on, "Super productive," she
agrees. "Have you ever seen two women as clearly on a productive
work-roll as Goldie and I?" she points between them. Can't be done,"
with another slap of her hand against the table and a lean back
head-shake.
But to business with a half-straying apologetic look but by Mary wants to say this before she forgets it:
"If
we don't find anything good enough, cool enough, big enough, we at
least declare ourselves. Maybe scout people out during the after-party
who look like they'll do well with this sort of arrangement. And maybe
keep an eye out for toes we can step on, because heck, if your toes are
getting stepped on, time to pick up the pace."
Goldie Lennox
To
say that Goldie smelled Matthew coming up behind her and Mary at the
table they sat would be inaccurate. She was a werewolf, yes, but with
the nose of a human at this time. Besides, pure blood was more than
just a scent; it was a presence. It was better described as feeling
some combination of cold at your back and shoulders that was
simultaneously introduced with a gust of warm. Like smoke-and-fire came
in on the wind as well. A particular brand, like wood from only a
certain region of the world was burning on the hearth. The region that
the Murphy family line came from.
The region of the Fianna.
Goldie
had her hair down, kinks and waves and all about her shoulders, and it
shifted off one shoulder to show a lot of back and arm left bare by the
swooping-hanging cut of her dress. She grin-smirked up at the Kinsman
and gestured for him to join them. Mary had already been scooting and
indicating the seat beside her, so Goldie's gesture went over to that
side of the table as well.
"I'm busily pulling the wool over these
peoples' eyes with our friend Mary here. We've ordered appetizers!
They should be here soon." He just got off work from tending a bar, but
there was zero reason for Goldie not to pass off the drink menu to
Matthew once he was situated.
Soon enough, Goldie's attention was
pulled from Matthew back to Mary, classy Mary with her perfect make-up
and noble colors and lines and swoops and lilts. The cloud of heritage
at the table could be enough to make one a little dizzy-- there was a
certain vertigo to being in the presence of queens and kings, similar to
what peasants probably felt when looking up at the tall tall ceilings
of a grand court after a life of dirt floors and hand-made huts.
"Well
y'know, if we don't come up with something we don't come up with
something and that's that." She shrugged bare shoulders dismissively,
and how one corner of her lip curled when she did so made for the
perfect air of 'who gives a fuck, what's the hurry?'. As for scoping
out others, Goldie curled a cheshire smirk across the table to her
Silver Fang companion.
"Why Mare-Bare, we're to recruit more? Are you trying to build us up a strike force? Or, daresay, something more?"
Matthew
It's
easier to kick Goldie underneath the table when he's sitting across
from her anyway. Matt eyes the empty space Mary has made for him and
nods to indicate that yes in fact he will have a seat. Shoves his cap
into the pocket of his jacket and shrugs off the thing and finds a place
to stash it. Maybe he can sling it over the back of the bench.
Once
he's seated Matt blinks bleary at the menu come his way. Exhales heavy
and reaches over to take it. He must have lit a spliff as soon as he got
off of work. Human nose or not tobacco and cannabis smoke are not
subtle odors.
"Right on," he says to the matter of appetizers.
He
has nothing to say to the matter of recruitment or strike forcing. It
takes him about five seconds to decide what he wants to order. The menu
falls back on the table and Matt leans back in his seat and listens to
the two of them talk without interrupting. When the server comes by he
orders a shot of Wild Turkey and a root beer.
Partying hard over here.
Mary
Mary gave Matthew a neat pleased smile (the kinsman is hot)
when he slid into place, but it didn't stop her from talking. Business.
Authority. Noblesse oblige: what-have-you. Mary was raised up properly,
even if sometimes it's difficult to tell (without preternatural senses
to tell you so).
"Actually, yes!"
When the server returns it
is with the appetizers: apple and brie grilled pizza with caramelized
onions and maybe some of those crab-stuffed button mushrooms or that
crispy wild-caught calamari with orange-marmalade-horseradish sauce or
maybe bacon butternut squash and kale pizza is what exerted its autumnal
wiles and of course there must be some garlic hand-cut french fries
crispy and steaming and golden and flecked with green and vampire-coma
inducing garlicky goodness. Mary orders another Moscow Mule because
while she is not almost done with hers she is willing for a second. How
often does she actually go somewhere and drink drink drink? Not that
often: Henry and Juliet require some upkeep, even though they're
self-sufficient, readying themselves for that day the No Moon is No More
maybe (or perhaps Henry just knows the score).
"That's not what I
meant to say, but it's completely true. Buddy Cops don't work without a
nice secondary cast, you know what I'm saying? And I'd like to have
more eyes ... Eyes, ears, nose, the full complement. What I meant is we
could just pick out the marks who will have the opportunity to be graced
by our bounteous knowledge first, like."
"I'm new, but Christ!" A
guilty glance toward the door as if by taking the Lord's name in vain
somebody will descend on her; it's a quick thing. "Let's build us an
occupation. Be indispensable. Take out the Beloved Horror, single
handedly. Know everything. Start small."
She grins, and when she
grins, she grins big. Mary is gregarious tonight; the energy isn't
steaming off of her, exactly, because it IS composed within languid
lines- but when she's not talking she is tapping her finger taptap.
The
grin flicks off: "We have to talk seriously about Mare-Bare though. No
go, Goldie, no go... Sounds like some sort of hybrid Horse-Bear
monstrosity."
Goldie Lennox
Tobacco
and marijuana smoke caught Goldie's nose, and she thought for a moment
to kip outside and have a smoke herself (for the goodies that Goldie
stashed in her knapsack bag, which rested on the floor under the chair
beside her that was left unoccupied, knew no bounds, and were not
limited only to things for work function). Soon, though, came the
appetizers: pizza and fries and oh goodness such delicious smells did
overtake the one that gave her the urge to smoke.
Goldie breathed
in deep through her nose, thanked the waiter quite genuinely, and
snatched up a piece of pizza and some fries and piled them onto one of
the mid-sized white plates that had arrived along with the food.
"Buddy
Cops do need to have their informants, this is true," Goldie agreed,
and paused long enough to take a bite of pizza and gush for a second,
"Homygod this is delicious and really damn hot jesus."
This was
washed down with a water glass that had up to that point been largely
ignored, and Goldie requested a hot spiced cider drink to replace the
nearly-finished cocktail she'd been enjoying before. Dusting salt and
garlic off her fingertips each time she picked up and nibbled a fry,
Goldie carried on with Mary for a moment longer, barking out a laugh
about the terms of the nickname she'd tossed out.
"Mary we are a crew of badasses,
I cannot stress this enough. I myself can't think of anything quite as
badassed as a bear the size of a horse-- I'm pretty sure there are
packs of wolves that follow totems like that. But! I can probably come
up with better than Mare-Bare anyways."
"Although, a bear-horse
might not be what we need to carry out the small task of taking out the
Bogeyman that plagues the nightmares of our friends and cohorts out here
in Denver. Maybe it's more like a poison dart. Or flooding his cave.
Or some really bad Mexican food. Hey!" A quick-turn of attention to
Matthew now.
"I talked to Magz the other night. Did you know that
she doesn't find my story about you coming home with a bullet nearly as
entertaining as I did?"
Matthew
His
shot cannot get here fast enough. He's starting to look like he's going
to get up and grab it from the bar himself when the waiter returns with
it. Pitched-low gratitude and he's just removed the paper from the end
of his straw when Goldie turns the conversation away from mutant animals
hybrids and onto his little sister.
The expression on his face
morphs into one of dread. Like he knows what's coming and he's powerless
to stop it. So he just tips back the shot and thunks the empty glass
down on the edge of the table and breathes out fire.
"First of all," he says, "it was buckshot, not a bullet. Second of all, why would you tell her that?"
Oh good. Root beer. He somehow manages not to look ridiculous drinking from a straw. Thank you, noble blood.
Mary
"Wouldn't
a bear the size of a bear be more badass?" Skepticism again; healthy
dose of it- inserted in the spirit of friendly argument around the time
Goldie's talking about packs of wolves. Then she just looks neat and
pleased again at something better than Mare-Bare in the offing.
The
Hey! draws her attention back to the super-hot kinsman. Werewolves
aren't human. They might boast a parent who thinks of themselves as
human (and for all intents and purposes IS), but they themselves aren't
human beings. They react to things that a regular person would never
see, like cats hearing the footsteps of ghosts. Purebreed, baby.
"Wow, who-or-what-shot-at-you? You guys are holding out an interesting story on me!"
She
settles to listen while carefully digging into one of the pizza slices;
look at that cheese string out all glorious and beautiful and her eyes
aren't shining because of the pizza but it looks pretty good. Her eyes
are shining becaue they look to shine, and also perhaps because of the
Moscow Mule. The remains of her mint sprig get put on the pizza and
disappear. Her fingers are greasy but she daintily deals with the grease
one tip at a time.
Goldie Lennox
The last of the
Bee's Knees was swallowed in a final gulp, and Goldie made a little bit
of a face when the gin stung her sinuses more than she'd anticipated
with the swig.
"It just kind of came up," Goldie said, all
doe-eyes and feigned innocence in her Kinsman's direction. "She asked
how you were doing, what we've been up to. Y'know, I mean, come on,
it's Margaret. I can't lie to her." Of course she could.
Goldie could lie to anyone, she was actually pretty damn good at it.
But as to whether she was lying about that particular statement remained to be seen.
Mary
inquired after the story, and Goldie glanced to her, then flicked her
eyes to Matt's instead. She grinned and raised her eyebrows at him,
tipped her head a little too; all an indication that he had the floor to
share the story. He was there, after all, and the question was quite
directed toward him.
Besides, she had some pizza and fries to mow down on.
Phoebe
The
pair of cliaths and the kinsman don't know it, but outside and just
around the back of the building a leader in the Sept of the Cold
Crescent is hanging out. Chilling, one might say, almost literally. The night outside is cold and wet from recent rains - drizzle and
downpour and sunshine, repeat! - and so Phoebe Stavros, Mistress of
Rites, is at least wearing a jacket. It's olive green with fake-fur
lining the hood, and it is unzipped to reveal a blue t-shirt. When she
shifts her weight, and she shifts her weight quite a bit, the jacket
shifts to reveal a Star Trek insignia over her left breast. She is also
wearing jeans and sneakers and her hair is messy and there is a joint
being passed her way from a companion.
"I'm hungry, are you guys
hungry?" she asks, because there is more than one companion behind the
bar with her. A couple of mortal friends and the kin of a Bone Gnawer
she knows. She doesn't often need to hang out with this Bone Gnawer
kinsman anymore, it being so much easier to get hold of pot in Denver
these days, but she likes to sometimes just to spend time with a friend,
you know?
As it turns out, the others are not hungry, or if they
are they're hungry for other things. Phoebe smokes, releases, passes
on, and announces, "I'm going inside. You guys take care, okay?"
Then
she makes her way around from the back of the bar, hands in the pockets
of her jacket, a black leather satchel hanging from one shoulder. Her
first thought is that Italian place across the street, but then she'd
have to cross the street and hm pass. Same with Opal on the other
corner. A door opens down the way and out come the strains of jazz
music. Curious, Phoebe wanders over thattaway, until she's close enough
that next time the door opens -
whoa
- her brow
furrows and her head tilts back and she looks the jazz lounge over
suspiciously. She smells falcons and stags in there, what.
So, at
last. The door opens and in comes the tall slim dark-haired Fury,
Fostern of the Nation and Mistress of Rites, Alpha of a pack that
summoned a motherfucking incarna of Water as well as oh, those pesky lost souls of Beloved Horror. Just a little more than a touch high.
She pauses inside as she begins peeling out of her jacket, chin lifted and eyes searching the establishment.
Matthew
It just kind of came up.
"Bullshit."
I can't lie to her.
"Bulllllllshiiiiiiit."
You guys are holding out an interesting story on me!
Matt
looks over at the luminous being beside him looks her right in the eye
even though she is what she is and what she is terrifies plenty of
people. He could look an Ahroun right in the eye. Some nights the only
thing stopping him from mouthing off to one is the fact that Matt knows
damned well what happens when you mouth off. Jaws break easy when
Fosterns hit them.
Huge sigh.
"It's not that interesting,"
he says. He's also stoned. Pot has a funny way of loosening one's lips.
"Just some dumpy motel out in the boonies. It was like The Hills Have
Eyes, man. The broad running the place had a shotgun."
Mary
"Did the broad running the place also have wyrmtaint or did she just finish watching Battlestar Galactica?"
HENRY likes Battlestar Galactica. Mary doesn't know why she puts up with him. Oh: she goes out drinking instead.
Her
eyes go from Matthew to Goldie to Matthew to Goldie to Matthew to
Goldie because either of them could have the answer at any moment and
she sits up turning the copper mug of vodka and friends around before
lifting it up to take another sip and as she does her ruddy hair
reflects in the metal and she glances back at the restaurant proper and
the floor and the people and the Phoebe there is a Phoebe a Phoebe at
the door Phoebe with that subtle whisper of Fury of grape-vines of
wild-wet-earth of wine-dark seas of salt-scrim of cold moons and Mary
perks right up not that she was not already perky seeing as she likes
the Fianna pair and is in, as mentioned afore, a gregarious sort of
mood,
She surges half-out of her seat and waves a napkin, hailing
Phoebe down if she can come over here join join join, before sitting
heavily back in her seat. She doesn't shout because she is not drunk;
her eyes are bright though and if Phoebe starts toward their
table-booth-thing she gives a demure leashed-happiness wave.
Goldie Lennox
Bullshit,
Matthew accuses Goldie not just once but twice, and the accusations
appear to fall upon deaf ears (though Goldie did grin around that bite
of pizza, Matt knew that she did). He dismissed the tale, saying it
wasn't very exciting and that it was just some woman with a shotgun.
"Oh
I heard that there was a lot more than just a lady with a shotgun. I
heard that there was some Norman Bates that tried to eat our favorite
firebranded Full Moon."
She didn't know about Battlestar
Galactica, but the fact that someone tried to eat a Full Moon was
probably pretty indicative of the level of Wyrm activity that was going
on. Something about Goldie's statement made it seem that she wasn't so
much trying to answer questions as she was trying to egg the other New
Moon's curiosity on, to keep the story rolling along with the drinks--
oh, and speaking of drinks! Goldie cheerfully wrapped her hands around
the mug of cider that had appeared for her and brought it to her face so
she could breathe the warm scent and take a slow, tenative first sip
(she'd burned her mouth on hot drinks too many times before, so finally
the lesson was learned).
Then Mary was up, braced out of the bench
on the table and waving a napkin to hail someone that must have just
walked in. Goldie twisted around in her chair to look over at the
doorway, but didn't see any familiar faces. Though she'd been to the
Sept of Forgotten Questions, she hadn't encountered the Ritemistress
before. It would take Phoebe's reacting and perhaps even approaching
before Goldie picked her out, peered through the dim light, and took a
quick surveying analysis of the taller woman with the short dark hair.
Matthew
[recognize garou: AWAY. -1 die bc he's baked, -2 diff bc merit thing.]
Dice: 4 d10 TN5 (1, 4, 6, 9) ( success x 2 )
Phoebe
[charisma+leadership on some poor mortal, -1 die for hiiiiiiigh]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 4, 6, 9) ( success x 2 )
Phoebe
There!
Of
course the finding of the source of all the breeding is a whole lot
easier when the one you're looking for (granted Phoebe didn't know she
was looking for Mary of all people specifically) sees you first and
starts waving napkins to get your attention. Phoebe's smiles
beatifically across the room and adjusts her course so that she will at
some point wind up at their table.
It is not a direct thing.
She's hungry, see, and so she stops a waiter with a tap and an, "Excuse
me, I'm starving and I'm headed over there." Point to the table of Rage
and heroic descendants. "Can you ask the server to come over just
like...quick?" She is not at her best, but she is still a leader. An
Alpha of her pack, a leader of her Auspice, a leader in her sept.
Though she is kind enough, there is a ring of authority in her voice
that one can't help but be drawn to, to respond to. Because who
wouldn't to help a Phoebe out? The waitress promises she'll do her best
and Phoebe's smile of gratitude goes up to eleven, completely with a
lifting of her shoulders and a, "Thanks you're a lifesaver."
Now
she's ready to head over to the table. Where there are young people
sitting around eating pizza and drinking things and oh yes Mary yes yes
yes, Phoebe intends to join. Goldie she does not recognize but then
Phoebe's time at the Caern is sporadic at best. She goes to assist with
things when assistance is necessary, and to refill her well of Gnosis
and speak to spirits and make talens, but her duties lie most heavily in
the heart of the city. No, the only Stavroses Goldie is likely to have
seen are Phoebe's mother and great-aunt, who spend much more time in
Roxborough.
"Hey," she says happily when she reaches the table and
in particular Mary. Phoebe goes to put her arm around the silver Fang
Ragabash's shoulders in a friendly half-embrace. "How are you?" she asks and then looks around the table. "Are these your friends? Hi, I'm Phoebe."
Matthew
The
story will have to wait for another time. So will whatever
tongue-lashing Goldie was about to receive. A tall woman enters the jazz
lounge and draws more than one set of eyes. The kinsman is pulling down
his root beer and giving his tribeswoman an unamused look when Mary
lifts up from the bench and flags her down.
They're sitting in a
booth or maybe a table that looks like a booth. Or maybe it's a table
with chairs on one side and a bench on the other. That makes sense. Yes
let's say that. Phoebe approaches and reaches for the hazel-eyed girl
and Matt sets aside his drink so they can make it through introductions
without him being too rude.
He and Phoebe have something in common
already. They're both stoned. That sense of Stag's presence comes not
from the young woman across the table from them but from the
rumpled-looking kinsman. His eyes are bright blue even in this light.
A
hand comes up and he tips it in a wave. "Hello," he says. Let's not
have a repeat of the other night, Murphy. "Matt. Nice to meet you." He
points at Goldie. "I'm not responsible for anything that comes out of
her mouth."
Mary
Norman Bates that tried to eat our favorite firebranded Full Moon.
These
are such things as do the job when it comes to goading out questions;
Mary, settling, glances again from Goldie to Matthew and back again, so
obvious about being expectant it's a wonder the glance isn't having
puppies to frolic all over the appetizers, and in response to Phoebe's
friendly arm she lifts her shoulders (squee!) in a happy little oh hey.
Indeed one is surprised she doesn't do a miniature little shoulder happy
dance then bite into one of the garlick fries- shoulder up-up, sway
sway, glittering eyes under the long fall of lashes and in the glitter
is the grin, baby, then smile- oh but wait!
That is what the Silver Fang does. Brash regality.
"Have
some pizza, Phoebe, why don't you sit? C'mon Matt, scoot in," oh ho the
cunning plan revealed, although- Mary scoots in closer to Goldie,
giving the other Ragabash a pleased look-this-is-perfect-timing sort of
glance, "Some kind of adventure was had at a motel; sounds like a horror
story! But don't they always?"
"Guys, this is Phoebe," and Matt
already introduced himself, so Mary lets Goldie introduce herself too,
before expanding: "From Desert Oracle," which sounds like a band-name.
Matthew
Then
his player realized she has to be to work in like 8 hours. Oh shit. His
phone starts ringing. Matt frowns and turns to rummage through his
jacket which is on a hook somewhere. When he finds his phone he gives it
a quick glance.
"I gotta take this," he says. Stands and grabs up his jacket. Answers the phone with a, "Heyyy, how's it going?"
And as he walks his skinny ass on out of there the Rage does not subside but the purity does.
Goldie Lennox
"He
sounded too happy to take that phone call," Goldie said thoughtfully
after Matthew as he walked off, just loud enough for him to catch on the
edge of his ear as he walked off. But he walked off all the same, and
Goldie chuckled and added: "I'll bet it's a lady."
And then,
there was Phoebe, and Goldie scooting nearer, which she was perfectly
fine with as well. Another slice of pizza was added to the plate of the
Fianna girl--
--to describe, for Phoebe had never met her:
petite, youthful looking but with legally purchased drinks before her
(who cares, though? fake IDs weren't hard to come by). Her face was
round and with round wide features; big brown eyes, a wide mouth and a
wide (cheshire) smile that hosted somewhat bucked front teeth.
Her hair was just past her shoulders and kinks of sandy-earthy blonde
hair. She had pink lipstick and subtle gold eyeliner, and wore many
bangles in the form of bracelets and an upper arm band on a white dress
that was unseasonably built for warm weather, cut swooping low dramatic
on the sides and back, but fret not for a leather bandeau strapped
across her chest kept her modest and proper for public. It was cold
outside, but a sweater was draped over the chair beside her and that
seemed to suit her okay. She had no breeding, unlike everyone else
gathered at the table (even Phoebe herself!), and looked like she was
bred from the kind of American that survived settling the frontier and
the Great Depression and--
-- and she greeted Phoebe with a smile.
"Well I'm happy to see you, Phoebe! I've heard literally--"
and the emphatic emphasis she put on the word indicated she meant it,
"the best things about you. I get the feeling you and I should have a
lot of conversations in the future so that I can turn into a Real Grown
Up one day, but until then..." she scootched the plate of french fries
toward her, "enjoy the carbs."
Phoebe
Phoebe
gives Mary's shoulders another squeeze before releasing her so that she
can take a seat. Where? The maybe-booth maybe-looks-like-a-booth
table will have two exits, yes? Phoebe looks between them, momentarily
unsure if she should sit beside the highly-bred Silver Fang (wouldn't
her family be envious?) or the Fianna wolf - is she Fianna? Is she even
a wolf? She doesn't seem to mind Phoebe's (albeit fairly low) Rage
combined with Mary's, so maybe? Probably? If Phoebe doesn't find out
tonight she'll find out next week at the moot at the latest.
"Thanks,"
she says, beaming and evidently deciding to sit next to Goldie. She
looks at the chair with the sweater and then looks for a different place
to put her jacket and bag. They smell like pot. She smells
like pot, but then so had the young man who just left, but even so,
Phoebe does try to be considerate. She finds a place to put her things
and then takes that seat finally.
"Oh did you?" she asks,
surprised and at the same time not surprised. She shoots a look at
Mary, all wondering and curious, but it might not have been the Silver
Fang. Several Galliards fanned out from the city to spread the tale of
the pit, and Phoebe's pack had a part in that. One could say it was a
very important part, but as compared to what? Had anyone failed that
night they all would have died.
She accepts a piece of pizza and
then scrunches up her nose. "Being a Real Grown Up is overrated. I
recommend being exactly who you are for as long as you can and let those
changes come on organically."
Mary
"We
were discussing Real Grown Up matters," Mary tells Phoebe, frankly. "Or
were we?" Her glance cuts back to Goldie; it is touched with humor,
effervescence lifting it. Mary is in a 70s black frock; it could be
severe, but not with those curves. All about the bass, eh?
"Does plotting the embarrassment of the wyrm count
as real grown up matters? Or is that fair and balanced speech? Dude,
isn't the pizza fucking amazing? This place is great. Awesome find,
Goldie."
Goldie Lennox
"Already, Pheebs, you're
dropping knowledge. Look at you go. Are you a mom? Because your kids
are going to be like the best Eagle Scouts ever." With a spin of
sarcasm or spite that might have had a backbite to it, but Goldie here,
Goldie with no other introduction-- no pack, no Deeded Name, no breeding
to give indication to what she actually was-- she was sincere when she
said it, and that silk-threaded its way into her voice when she said so.
Then
there was Mary, inquiring about grown up matters and the like. Goldie
wagged a french fry in the general direction of the center of the table,
though Mary sat to one side of her and Phoebe to the other, as she
proclaimed:
"I don't know if it's grown up matters if kids get to march the fields, but on the other hand we're planning,
and the Grown Up difference is that you plan before you march, right?
Or sneak. Sneaking is probably better than marching, we know." Ah,
Phoebe could take that as a pretty solid hint, this one is a Ragabash."
Phoebe
[don't say stupid things, Phoebe, WP, -1 for high I guess]
Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 6, 7, 7, 7, 8) ( success x 5 )
Phoebe
"Hah,"
says Phoebe, less a shout or a laugh (though there is a curling of the
corners of her mouth like a smile) and more the same beleaguered sound
that escapes her whenever her mother asks if she's pregnant yet. "No,
not yet." And that's where she leaves it, because despite what she said
about being a grown up being overrated, she knows all too well how
their people react to childbirth. In particular, she knows how bad it
can be when she, a pure bred leader on her way to greatness (someday in
the future, Gaia willing), so intelligent and so wise, says she doesn't
want to have children.
Not yet. And with the war as it is, not yet might as well be never.
Even high, even among such young women, Phoebe is wise enough to hold
her tongue. She takes a bite of pizza instead, lets the flavors of the
pizza explode over her tastebuds, and listens.
To Mary, talking
about Grown Up Matters like embarrassing the Wyrm. When she asks if the
pizza isn't fucking amazing, Phoebe nods and, around a mouthful of
cheese, says, "Eht rehweh es!"
Then Goldie, and Phoebe chews and
chews and finally swallows her bite, checks - nope, she needs to wipe
her mouth and swallow again before she can speak.
"When it comes
to the Wyrm, we all lose our childhoods far too early." A look, a
glance really, at Goldie, all thoughtful and for just a moment
sorrow-ish. She is so young and by necessity she is talking about war.
They all start talking about it so early, too early.
"Sneaking,
marching." She waves her hand, one way then the other. There is sauce
on her thumb which she spots and sucks clean before continuing. "Just
be careful. And tell someone what you're up to, for Luna's
sake. Five is better than two. And a hundred is better than five." A
pack over individuals, and septs over packs.
Mary
Mary
is confident. Of course Mary is confident. Mary had a silver spoon
shoved in her mouth when she was an infant, and Mary is a werewolf. Mary
is a tough dark-eyed hazel-drenched force of purpose, or at least she
certainly can be! Mary looks amused at Phoebe's beleaguered sound. "You
got somebody interested?" Not as if that would be a surprise: look at
the pixie-cutted black fury; she's a peach.
Oh girl talk. Girl
werewolf talk. Mary snakes a couple fries and wraps them in one of the
last little slivers of pizza, daintily doing away with the grease that
shines on her fingers again, grease on her pink-painted mouth, lick.
There's some sort of dipping sauce and the
garlic-fries-apple-and-brie-andonion-pizza gets dipped into that and
Mary's player gets a lot hungrier and sighs over her ramen noodles and
then she takes a bite, swallows, says,
"Don't those born when the
moon is hiding its face have a knack for when to reveal?"
Philosophical. She adds, "I asked Goldie to help me out with a scouting
project. I don't know any theurges yet and I am sure you are busy being
Mistress of the Rites," and look, she does pitch her voice low, but the
boozy woozy saxophone is snaking along and there's something so calmly
assured about Mary sometimes because of that silver spoon again no
doubt, "But if you can find time, I don't suppose you'd find time to
make us some supplies? I can barely kiss a cut knee better."
"Are a hundred bees better than five? What is the optimum number of bees to make honey anyway? They ever tell you that, Phoebe?"
Goldie Lennox
Ah,
but this is a night for Fianna to be summoned by electronics, isn't
it? This is the second time that Mary has witnessed this from Goldie
alone, but Matthew had already done this before; the phone in her
sweater began to buzz and sing some melody or another, forgettable and
sold with the phone itself. Goldie blinked, ate the fry she was
previously gesturing with, and peeked at the phone's screen.
She
ignored the call at first. But then there was a text. Goldie glanced
at the text, then rolled her eyes in an exaggerated manner and gathered
herself up to go-- not abrupt, but steady and resigned.
"Ladies,
you're lovely." The sweater was lined on the inside, that was the trick
to the jewelry, and she pulled it on over the slip of a thing she was
wearing. In a series of movements of hands: a twenty and two five
dollar bills were laid on the table to cover her drinks and some of the
appetizers, the phone was put in her pocket, the knapsack of olive
canvas was pulled up by its overlong straps and over her shoulder, a
scarf was knocked loose from somewhere inside the sweater and she
wrapped that about her neck.
"I'll see you sometime soon, Phoebe,
because we still need to talk even if you're Peter Panning us into not
growing up. Oh! And yes, if you wanted to help us while we scented and
found the way that would be awesome! I don't know much beyond, like, CPR, you know? And that doesn't help the stuff we all get to have instead of scraped knees.
"Mary Fair, I'll be calling upon you for our badass adventures soon."
Goldie
pointed emphatically to the Silver Fang, from shoulder to elbow to
fingertip into the gesture. Look out, that Fianna would be blowing up
that phone after some leads were sniffed out and dug loose.
Then,
with a whoop of appreciation to the band that had just finished another
song (they'd long since begun their set, after all), Goldie exited the
club.
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