car crash.

[Jesmond Krutova] Late Thursday evening and all the stores in Lake View still have windows blazing.

It's the night before the night before Christmas and shopping has become a more deadly sport than ever before. Women no longer allow another to purchase the shoes they've been eying, they turn predatory stares on the other and credit cards are snatched out of wallets like pistols being drawn at dawn. It was every last human for themselves in supermarkets to battle trolleys laden with foodstuffs against others in the bid to lay hands on the last Turkey, the last pudding; that final bottle of carbonated water.

Luckily, for those without many to buy for, or who simply did not possess the monetary means to spend hours trolling designer stores for the perfect gift, it was a relatively painless experience and one that the dark-haired female now moving along the sidewalk; stopping occasionally for bustling, impatient shoppers had completed in little over an hour. Jesmond Krutova was a slender woman made of fine parts; her wrists and ankles were delicate; and her face was the sort that drew admiration if only because it seemed to have been made with some loving attention to its detail.

The nose was long; the lips quite wide and prone to smiling and the eyes a fierce dark blue; like a stormy sky drawing near to storming. It made sense of course, such a comparison given her ancestry. Storms were a part of the bargain, after all. But the young woman, no older than her mid to late twenties but no younger than twenty-three was not precisely the atypical Kinswoman to the Shadow Lord tribe. She was not in possession of a particularly violent nature, nor did she ever seem the sort inclined toward deceit.

She was, quite frankly, sweet.

Without being boring; polite without the lack of spine to speak up against what she did not agree with. It was hard to dislike Jesmond Krutova because she worked very hard at giving little reason for such a reaction to her presence. She was tolerable, and calm and rather like a placid lake; put against the choppier waters of some of her relations in the city at present. Presently; she's approaching the intersecting streets where the shoppers tapered off and were replaced by those pursuing other endeavors -- such as the theater.

[Kristiana Coleman] She's feeling homesick, and after some high end shopping, she's busily wandering the streets of a strange city alone. Since the shopping was all for herself, she's loaded down with bags and is considering trying to find a cab or maybe a small neighborhood child to ferry her packages back to her car.

[August] A few moments before, August had stepped out of a popular resturant on the same side of the street. No, it didn't appear as if she were out for a night on the town, but perhaps that she'd just gotten off work. Her blonde hair was neatly pulled back and makeup tasteful. Her black peacoat was left open and thus the black shirt with a logo upon it and apron over a knee length skirt could be seen. Yes, it seems Miss August has taken a second job. Not really because she had to, but because she wanted to have more social interactions. And yes, she wanted interaction with normal, sane people (read: no crazy werewolves).

She'd only meet Martin once, and for a very brief time before their arranged meeting had been derailed by some sort of conflic between himself and the one she knew as Lukas. They'd meant to meet again, but in most happenings of 'we'll reschedule' neither party calls and thus it just doesn't happen.

One earbud is in place and the blonde woman seems to jammin' to the beat as she approaches the stoplight on her way home.

[Remy] [don't wait on me, folks, i'm juggling two scenes! i'll post in when i'm ready]

[Martin] "It has to be."

Now, while Martin is certainly not old enough to even be considering retirement, still has at least a quarter of a century before he can cash in his Social Security on the off-chance that such an option continues to exist by the time he hangs up his keyboard and relegates his opinions to his grandchildren instead of millions of readers, his memory isn't what it used to be. When he first encountered August Grant, it was via a plaintive notice left on the noticeboard of The Brotherhood of Thieves. He had called her; they had attempted to meet; the conversational equivalent of a flying tackle had occurred.

They haven't managed to meet up again since, and Martin will be damned if he can keep straight and separate all of the blondes in his life. There is one who is of the utmost importance, and the rest tend to fade into the background unless they make the attempt themselves. Whether he has wanted to meet up with August again is irrelevant: they just haven't had time.

It's the holiday season. One of them has a teenage son; the other has a nearly four-month-old daughter. They have jobs. Circumstances have imposed themselves, and it would appear as though Martin is either committed to the conversation he's having or else has simply forgotten who August is, because he doesn't pick her out of the crowd and call out to her.

"However," she had to have known he wouldn't let this go, "I find your original comment very interesting: were you offering up commentary on the nature of critics, or were you attempting to state, in a roundabout fashion, that you weren't satisfied with the play?"

[Kristiana Coleman] Her days since arriving have been a whirlwind of sleeping late, shopping, and people watching. Unfortunately, none of this has gotten her any closer to the Sept, or to meeting those who will determine her future in her new home. Making her way through the crowds on the street, she juggles her packages and tries to make room for just one more bag.

[Slaughter] "I was offering a commentary on both the nature of critics and the theme o' the play," she answers with a smirk, lowering her hand to tap cigarette ash toward the ground. "Though I'll admit tha' cuttin' the ears off th'other bloke's dog was a bit ham-handed, don't you think?"

Her eyes move briefly about them, a steady awareness that goes just an inch beyond what might be natural to a human. She has a keen memory; she recalls August and catches Martin's attention with a brief gesture. Imogen does not speak when a flick of her fingers will do it for her.

"Half-blood," she says, quietly, deliberately, "Her name is August."

Jesmond approaches from behind. Kristiana is as yet unfamiliar, so far, merely a human face in the thinning crowds.

[Jesmond Krutova] Typically, the way such encounters like these operated was they would all converge on the same precise location at the same precise moment and presto; instant connections established. But then, it was easier when one of them was a Garou, they could simply halt the progress of any one of these women and man and say --

you are family or i can sense you're like me

Right now, nobody is doing such but then there were also people like Jesmond around; who glimpse a young woman overburdened with bags and put a little extra speed to their steps to come up alongside her; the flash of red hair ahead of her not yet noticed as one Imogen Slaughter. "Do you need a hand?" The Shadow Lord Kinswoman had a genteel voice; clearly educated, though its origin is hard to place, somewhere mid-western, perhaps.

[August] August shifted her weight from one foot to the next as they stood at the light. Her gaze was upon the phone in her hand. She typed a few things and then dropped it back into her pocket, and set about actually buttoning her coat (it was colder than she'd anticipated).

She wasn't really expecting to see anyone she knew tonight. In fact, she did her best on most days to completely avoid those that she knew who had 'family' ties as it were. Thus, even though Martin was nearby, he blended in quite well with the rest of the men milling about.

[Kristiana Coleman] Kristiana is obviously a girl used to getting help when she needs it, and unloads a few of her packages on the woman with little more than a flashed smile. A little too trusting, this one...

"Can you believe that the stores here won't send packages to your hotel? What kind of uncivilized disaster IS this?"

[Jesmond Krutova] Luckily for Kristiana, Jesmond is the sort of woman who doesn't seem to mind terribly much that her offer is so readily and enthusiastically taken up; packages piled into her arms. She stoops a little to accept them all; and glances at the stranger in passing as she mentions delivery to her hotel.

"Well," Jesmond offers, as they begin to walk somewhat slower paced, now. "It's Christmas so I imagine they're either too busy or there's some other reason. Which is your hotel?"

There were many in Lake View, and none were within Jesmond's price range; but, that didn't mean much since she currently drove a car that had a taped up rear window she'd been meaning to replace for half a year, almost. For this, her attire was neat, and rather on the elegant side. A simple black coat with a buttoned front and dark slacks. There was some suggestion of a white blouse beneath; but it was mostly hidden by the scarf; tied around her neck securely.

[Martin] Martin doesn't exactly 'blend in.' It isn't that he is outlandishly attractive, that his physical appearance causes belts to come undone and garments to fall at the ankles of all those who lay eyes upon him, but for being short and being mutedly dressed, he doesn't shut up long enough to accomplish much in the way of clandestine movement. He doesn't have a magnetic personality, doesn't have an overwhelmingly charismatic aura that draws eyes to him, but he's difficult to ignore unless one is either utterly distracted or purposefully doing so.

His attention is directed across the intersection to a blond server, half plugged-into her mp3 player and fidgeting at the light, and Imogen identifies her. That's when a lightbulb hits him.

"We've met," he says, simply and just as quietly, and ashes his cigarette. The lot where they left Imogen's car isn't too great a distance from here; they'll be gone soon.

[Kristiana Coleman] "It's the Doubletree. Just up there"

She gestures with one of her bags, and it doesn't really help as much as intended.

"Where are you staying?"

[August] When the light changed, August would cross the street, smiling and still bopping along with her ipod. She looked quite happy and content, despite recent events. She'd pass on by the other kinfolk with only two of them being the wiser to the situation. Things were more complicated when the garou weren't about in pointing out relations.. but really, things were more complicated when they were around too. You had to take the good with the bad sometime.

The young woman rounded the corner just across the street and disappeared into the holiday crowds.

[Jesmond Krutova] "Oh, I don't live around this area," the young woman walking carefully alongside her notes; her eyes now captured by the sight of a flaming red head standing alongside the smoking form of an as of yet unknown gentleman. The last real occasion she'd had to glimpse Imogen Slaughter had been as she passed by the site of a Wyrm creature's demise at the Fenrir Jarl's hands.

She had a sense then that perhaps Imogen had assisted.

She'd stood guard while they scooped up the remains, and had not much considered the oddity of how she spent her evenings. Then again: Jesmond was also a Nurse, she saw more blood on a daily basis than some of the Garou did. "I'm over toward Cabrini Green." A beat, she doesn't sound terribly ashamed of where she lives, but then she doesn't look the sort for gossip, either.

"So you're just passing through for the holidays, then?" It's the aimless chit-chat of strangers; and Jesmond treats it quite as it is.

[Kristiana Coleman] "No. I just moved here, actually. My parents thought that I might do well with a change of scenery. Where is Cabrini Green?"

[Slaughter] The light changes. They step forward. August goes her own away, and Imogen and Martin go their own way. They cross to the parking lot, where the red-haired kinswoman walks around a sleek, mean looking Aston Martin to the driver's side, offering her companion a drive with a gesture, an arched eyebrow.

He takes her up on it. They get in the car, which roars when she turns the ignition. Perhaps there is conversation. Perhaps there is not. It is more likely that Martin speaks, than Imogen.

(sorry folks, this player is well past her bed time!)

[Jesmond Krutova] [I will post soon! I'm just writing for my other scene. :) Apologies for slowness!]

[Kristiana Coleman] (Take your time :) )

[Martin] [Thanks for the scene, guys, as non-interacting as we were! *LOL* Angelina, I'm going to add you on AIM if that's okay, we should play for real-real sometime!]

[Slaughter] (yes, ditto for me, Angelina!)

[Kristiana Coleman] (Please do! I look forward to it.)

[Martin] [Night! :D ]

[Remy] A previous-generation Honda Civic is hardly the conveyance of heroes, but that's what slows to a crawl alongside the sidewalk the two women. The passenger-side window rolls down. The driver is a young man, darkhaired, with a sharp jawline and cheekbones that could cut glass. He leans across the passenger's seat and calls out the window, "Need a ride, ladies?"

Jesmond or Kristiana might be brewing up a few choice words to tell off this latest would-be Casanova, this half-drunk frat boy trying to rustle up an early christmas gift for himself. He goes on, though --

"Before you get the wrong idea, I'm a Son of Fenris. I respect tribal lines. Just being polite."

Not your average frat boy, then.

[Kristiana Coleman] She was gearing up for full on flirt mode. Toss of her hair, bright, wide smile, shoulders back a little and chest standing high from the posing.

It all dampens a little when he continues, and while the smile stays in place, it's not quite as come-hither as it had been.

"Fenris" She looks over her shoulder quickly to see who might be listening.

[Jesmond Krutova] "Cabrini Green," Jesmond repeats as if she's trying to conjure up the picture in her head of her own apartment, her own tree-lined street with the Asian grocer on the corner, her lips part as she begins; "It's --" before a Honda Civic is slowing to a crawl up alongside them and Jesmond's fingers flex a little in reaction.

She's trying to recall if she packed her gun before she headed out when the handsome stranger amends himself with a tribal affiliation. Kristiana, who Jesmond has known for all of five seconds is ready to flirt; but her companion, while a lovely creature no doubt is far more reserved. She considers Remy for a long, silent moment and perhaps he can sense the familiarity in her voice, the way she talks of his tribe.

"I haven't seen you before," she shifts her eyes, scoping out any eager listeners. "Around that family. I have some .. knowledge of them, though. If you've just pulled in." A corner of her mouth twinges; and it's a pretty thing. Oddly comforting; given her tribe, and what clearly sings in her veins.

She doesn't answer as to the ride just yet.

[Remy] The heater is cranked up in the Civic. Small car, small space -- all that warm air pouring out keeps it toasty enough that Remy is down to a t shirt, his jeans. His bare arms are corded, his chest thick, shoulders wide: a regular ball of muscle sitting in the driver's seat. These two women know the type, met them in college or high school. Football captains, wrestlers, water polo stars -- jocks blessed with good looks and bigger muscles than brains, dating a string of cheerleaders.

Except he's not in college. He never went to college. And the pretty girls that would otherwise be all over him are afraid of him for no reason they can explain to themselves or anyone else. And in the place of cockiness, of self-assurance, there's a sort of wary defiance in the young Fenrir's dark eyes as he regards the two women outside his vehicle.

"I'm new," he replies to Jesmond. There's a faint accent in his voice, hard to place; something vaguely british, touched with something more continental, and all of it so faint that it's barely even an afterthough. "Just arrived last night. Come on, get in. It's cold outside."

[Kristiana Coleman] (Sorry guys, I'm falling asleep too. Been a long week.)

[Jesmond Krutova] (NP! If you need to sleep, we can write around your girl leaving. :) )

[Remy] [it's all good -- merry xmas!]

[Jesmond Krutova] Jesmond had met his kind before, it was true.

She'd met many varied sorts of his kind; had been mated to one of his tribe who had grown up in some of the harshest climates the world could offer and come to America and found a nation quite weak, so he'd claimed. The manner Jesmond had lived in when she'd been someone's mate was startlingly different to how she did now; modernized, again wrapped in fashionable, if worn clothing; again able to receive a signal on her cellphone; drive her own car.

She's seen both sides of the Sons of Fenris, and so her gaze as it absorbs this variation of a thousand other faces; a hundred other times when one has approached her and said i'm new is contemplative. Curious is not perhaps contained there; at least not yet. "Alright," she agrees finally and passes over packages to be stowed away in the back seat.

Whether or not her newly met acquaintance follows suit; Jesmond folds herself neatly into the front passenger seat. If Kristiana decides the risk is too great; the Shadow Lord points down the way at her hotel with a nod. She turns to examine her driver.

"Jesmond." She informs him simply.

[Remy] There's stuff in the back seat. Not a lot, but stuff: a thick winter coat, for one, a sort of dull concrete-grey shell stuffed with down or down alternative, hooded. Also some random junk -- a questionably clean blanket, a bag of toiletries, an old Rand McNally roadmap so worn it's falling apart in places -- as though he'd lived out of his car for some time. It's possible. The Get of Fenris are not, as a rule, one of the wealthier, more materialistic tribes.

He helps her push the stuff aside for her bags, though, unbuckling his seatbelt and leaning around to paw his paraphernalia to the far side of the seat. There are a few sparse directions -- put that down there and wait, lemme move this and there you go -- but all told Remy doesn't seem particularly chatty, even if he's just successfully convinced one of the lovelier kin in the city to take a ride with him. Another Garou would leap at the opportunity.

When Jesmond gets in, though, he faces forward again. The seatbelt comes down, crossing wide chest, buckling in beside narrow hip. She's looking at him, but he doesn't look back. That's quite deliberate. There's a visible tension in that clean, square jaw of his, and his eyes are a little too intent on the road. Men like him are rarely shy, and it couldn't possibly be worry over passing inspection. Remy's brand of good looks is the sort that doesn't require a certain lighting, or mood, or state of mind. The proof is there in the mirror every morning, every night. It would take a greater idiot than him to not know he was handsome. Hot. Etcetera.

Still: that straight-ahead stare, that tenseness until she looks away. "All buckled in?" he mutters, and when she affirms, puts the car in gear and starts driving. When she introduces herself, his eyes flick her way, then forward again. He clears his throat.

"Rémy," he says. Quiet, perfect Français. He leaves out the rest, and the story about what his cub name was. She's only kin, after all. "Remy is fine too if you have trouble with the 'r'."

That stubborn jut to his jaw is back. He flicks her another look, as though waiting for her -- daring her -- to make some comment about his name. His nationality and ancestry.

[Eve] You fight differently when you're alone.

First off, you can't always guarantee that you can overwhelm your enemy in the first go, because if one doesn't pace themselves, when their buddies show up you're in a world of hurt. There's a couple philosophies on this. Make it quick. Make it dirty. Make sure no one one has time to call out for assistance or backup and finish it before shit gets bad. Or, conversely, pace yourself because you need to be ready for the fact that your enemy has friends and said friends are right around the corner.

This, however, has nothing to do with what is about to happen. You see, homeless people are typically viewed as little more than living, breathing scenery. Like a smelly mailbox or a malnourished fire hydrant. People rarely pay attention to them, really. Except, of course, when one just jumps right out in front of you. Like a mailbox or a fire hydrant.

Eve isn't running from something so much as she is running to something. Because, really, when something catches her eye she isn't going to let it go. Maybe she just wasn't paying attention. Maybe the Fenrir was driving too fast. Maybe a lot of things. But one minute, there's no one there, and the next minute there's a blonde bundle of clothes running across the street, with absolutely no regard for oncoming traffic.

[Jesmond Krutova] Was she one of the lovelier Kin in the city, it was difficult to gauge. Every tribe took their own perspective on what exactly comprised the term. To be physically appealing, yes, it was certainly helpful when it came to attracting the eye of a potential mate but for her own brethren they expected more perhaps of their relations than simple, uncomplicated prettiness. Smarts, they liked. Usefulness without heroism that incited others to be killed.

The ability to hold their own against their betters; yet never overstep bounds.

For most Shadow Lord Kinfolk, that was a balance that could never, ever hope to be reached and held onto. Jesmond had never really tried to; she was capable enough to be thought better kept around, and was fortunate enough to have a powerful father who had passed on to her enough instinct on survival that she was apt at smoothing the feathers in most situations.

And if she could not; she simply side stepped the incoming storm.

Her innate calmness is perhaps unexpected given her companion when he collects her up, her own purchases had seemed slim for a woman her age; only two bags and a small parcel. Her coat was worn in; and the hem was unfurling as she tucked the ends in to close the door at first. Her dark hair was bound but coming loose; and strands were caught up in the white folds of her scarf.

Jesmond folds her hands on her lap; over her bag -- she'd insisted on keeping it on her person and when he introduces himself; she tests his name out. It's not quite the same when you aren't french, but she does well enough to suit her needs and is quiet; apparently there's no mockery coming, or she's being incredibly subtle about her amusement at it.

"It's a decent city," she says in lieu of little to nothing, but she clearly doesn't just mean city, just as she clearly hadn't meant just family earlier. "There's a least a handful of other Fenrir that I've met, or been told of." Her eyes flick his way every now and then, then return to something out a window. She doesn't smell like an expensive Kin; there's no perfume just a hint of soap, and something spicier; like the aroma of food she'd cooked earlier still clung to her clothing.

"If you need -- there's a woman on the road."

Cars are honking, and one is wildly swerving; Jesmond braces her hands on the dash.

[Remy] Now that they were moving, and the windows were shut, the little Civic rapidly warms up. Jesmond's coat is likely overwarm; it's no wonder Remy's down to short sleeves. He drives with his eyes on the road, but with no particular care. He's familiar with the act, but new to this part of town. Now and then his eyes stray sideways, above, looking at the sights and sounds of this great city while Jesmond tells him about the Fenrir of the city and starts to offer --

there's a woman on the road.

Remy's eyes snap back to the road. "Baisez-moi!" accompanies the sudden stomp of his foot on the brakes. Horns blare behind him. The Honda skids to a stop -- literally -- antilock brakes kicking in with a shudder, tires slipping the last few inches before the whole vehicle rocks to a stop.

If Eve hasn't moved, his bumper is about a foot away from her. Through the windshield she can see the two occupants of the Civic: Jesmond with her hands braced on the dash and those wild eyes betraying whatever demureness, whatever reticence she's locked herself in. Remy with his eyes wide, face caught somewhere between incredulity and anger and shock, both hands clutching the wheel.

"Shit." Anger rapidly flushes over. He punches the window down on his side, sticks his head out the window. "What the hell were you thinking?"

[Eve] [Being the center of attention is scary!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 4, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Eve] Cars are honking. One is wildly swerving. Eve's eyes widen and she's met with two options: brace for impact or just keep running. If she stops, she'll lose her target. If she keeps going, she is going to cause a three car pile up. She's going to break a leg. It's going to heal. There are going to be questions. This is not good.

This is-
beeeeeeeeep

She positions herself in such a way that she is ready for impact. Eve's never been a big fan of cars, but she knows how to lessen impact, and the knows that if she does this right she'll go over the hood of the car instead of being a road block. Unexpectedly, the car stops. Her hands are over her head and she's ready for just about anything. Remy pokes his head out the window, and Eve stands up straight and-

"Pedestrians have the right-of-way, bud, drive slower!" She looks to the alley again, shifts her position and half growls. Eve can barely see him.

[Jesmond Krutova] Jesmond unbuckles her seat-belt; which no doubt draws the attention of her driver. "I'm a trained Nurse," she qualifies (apologizes?) for the action and opens the passenger side door; in the middle of halted traffic. None of it seems to enjoy that, and some jerk who is entirely entitled to dislike her behavior sets the palm of his hand down on his horn for several seconds.

The Shadow Lord ignores all that.
She's braced in the vee of the doors; a hand resting on the roof and the top of the window.

"Are you hurt?" She must feel the Rage; washing over her, somehow. Perhaps its habit, this. Asking, even when she must have already drawn conclusions. Jesmond doesn't sound overly frantic, but the question was sincere enough. "Do you need help?"

The way she words this; she's aware of how it sounds to either a very startled human, or a Garou who can scent her breeding.

[Remy] "Fuck," Remy explodes again. All that quiet tension, that almost-shyness, that straight-ahead stare and scant conversation -- all that flies out the window in an eyeblink. His anger rises precipitously fast. Rage drenches the inside of the Civic. The Fenrir's fist thumps the steer wheel hard enough to rattle it (the horn gives a single surprised bleat) before he's unbuckling himself and getting out of the car.

He's all swaying shoulders, all ferocious eyes. Hard to say what's on his mind, besides some form of violence, but Eve can count herself lucky. The poor bastard behind them leans on the horn. Remy is instantly distracted, turning around to storm behind the car and kick the bumper of the BMW behind him. No, not kick. Stomp. Lifting his foot, driving down from the knee, brutally hard, hard enough to knock the piece of sturdy plastic down from the body of the car.

"SHUT UP," he bellows at the driver. Behind the windshield, behind the wheel, there's one very frightened human: all dinner plate eyes and hands held up in the universal don'thurtme gesture. "GET LOST."

-- and the Beemer gets lost, dragging its front bumper as it goes. Remy turns around, comes at Eve and Jesmond.

"What the fuck."

[Eve] I'm a trained Nurse-
Fuck. Her eyes widen, and she isn't running away just yet. But she looks anxious. Maybe it's the rage, she takes a few more steps towards wherever she had been going. Now, now Eve has to figure out how to get that way without...

She looks at the Shadow Lord kindswoman. She looks at the Fenrir getting out of the car. She was not, it seems, expecting to see a Fenrir pile out of a Civic. Except, of course, he comes out with roadrage and Rage and- it'sjustified, really. She ran out in the middle of the street. Eve takes a step back and to the side. She's still looking. Still in the line of sight..

"I'm okay-" she starts, and looks at Remy, then back at Jesmond "-not hurt yet, don't need help yet-"

She looks at the alley again. Then back at Jesmond.

"You guys should probably get back in the car and keep going."

[Remy] "Wait a minute." The really, really, ridiculously good-looking guy with the really, really, ridiculous bad case of road rage squints at the jaywalker. "I know you." A finger comes up, pointing accusingly. "You were at the Brotherhood last night."


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