dropping in on drew.

[Drew Roscoe] The first day of the weekend had been as average as the Kin could hope for. Errands were run, groceries were brought home and the fridge and pantry were restocked, along with her first aid kit. Laundry was done, sheets were washed, floors swept and swiffered and all that good stuff. The weather was overcast and chilly, it was a good day to be inside catching up on everything that needed tending to. Tomorrow could bring excitement if it wanted, today Drew was content being a homebody.

Dinner had been finished about an hour ago, leftovers still cooling in the fridge. The Kin was in the living room in the recliner with the footrest kicked out and a laptop in her lap, fingers flying deft and quick across the keyboard. A few lamps were turned on, the rest of the lights left off to save on the electric bill, so the harsh glow of the computer screen was what illuminated her face the most.

Still-damp hair was piled up on top of her head in a sloppy half-bun while wet strands licked loose around her face and on her neck anyways, and she was dressed in a pair of green sweatpants and a white long-sleeved tee.

Nothing worth noting here, folks, no wild parties or suspicious vehicles out front to draw attention from the neighborhood baddies. Just another night at home.

[Linus] His entry is sudden. It's always sudden these days. The sort of domestic shattering one attributes to blatant shows of 'You are not normal and do not belong with the normal' in this line of work/duty/familial obligation.

The air sunders, sucks in hard as once empty space is suddenly occupied by the forceful insertion of mass, density and identity. Reality, as a result of quantifiable necessity, hiccups in order to catch up and the balloon of pressure plugs ears and thrums chests with a vague ache, not worthy of being called pain for the dullness of it (Weaver re-asserting dominance) and the speed with which it vanishes (Gaia's ever so brief touch).

He's sitting on the kitchen counter, back up against one of the support walls, legs arched over the kitchen sink, with feet planted on far chrome edge. His attire is the brisk, black volumes of over-sized cargo pants, hoodie and worn out sneakers. The drip of sodden clothes on the counter leaves behind small puddles, while the run off of rain above his head falls down off the tip of nose and the thin, pallor of lips and cheeks.

He rolls his jaws and leans forward without looking up, scrubbing at a week's worth of fresh hair growth, spraying micro-drops of water in all directions. He has the decency to lean over the sink while he squeezes out his hood of excess waters, a grunt of exertion for the effort before his had comes back up again to stare at her. The eyes are no where near as tired as they may be in other situations.

Must be a slow day.

"Beer Me." With a smile, that is not exactly shit eating but hardly one of courtesy's ilk.

[Drew Roscoe] There's always about a fifteen to twenty second warning when someone (something) is about to appear nearby. Sometimes she would get an idea of it about two or three minutes prior, too, if that person or beast was having a hard time pressing through the tightly-woven webs of the Gauntlet, but always a dozen plus seconds prior to the actual appearance her ears began to pressurize like she was ascending in an airplane, her chest began to feel heavy, and she'd be unable to concentrate. She was learning to recognize this, but by the time recognition settled the pop! had already occurred and a figure swathed in black, all lean limbs and exhausted visage had appeared on her kitchen counter.

She was half up in the chair, laptop pushed aside, turned about to regard. Tense, ready, studying, but not ripping out of the room like her life depended on it. She was wary, not skiddish. Recognition settles in another few seconds, and Drew relaxes some, exhales the weight off her chest and yawns to pop her ears. The laptop is closed, footrest folded back down into the chair, and after the portable computer was set on the coffee table she stood up on bare feet and stretched her arms over her head.

Still perched on the counter, dripping and wringing himself out into her kitchen sink, Linus requests (we'll go with that) a beer. Drew's already crossing from hardwood to linoleum into the kitchen.

"Feels like more of a wine night, you sure you want the Bud?" Even as she's going to the fridge, she offers.

Whatever tension, intense dislike or irritation that there had been before, it appears to have melted away. Or it is simply slumbering, waiting for provocation to rear its ugly head.

[Linus] "Wine's for pussies, fags and arthouse students looking to show Ma 'n Pa they're all grown up." Absent-minded dismissal, like some off-hand insult meant as a fact of life. Linus continues wringing various parts of his sweater out into the sink, clearing his throat, coughing and finally spitting down the drain in one quick successive deluge. Drew's moving for beers and upon handing him his, he takes it up and tosses back a sip that turns into a few quick gulps before wiping lips on the back of a now damp sleeve.

"Your boy Eli's moved out of his old hood. Staying with the Pack for the time being. I figure at some point we'll find him another place." A pause, distracted pointing at Drew without setting eyes on her, scratching behind one ear like some common mutt, eyes closed in concentration.

"...But you knew that already I think."

He finally pulls his head back up again and slugs some more of the beer away, finally turning to look at her with something like scrutiny. Not so much the dissecting sort, as the check and rhyme of directness.

"Flip is still clear at that, something at least. Trust you've been keeping a low profile..." The tone there is suggestive. Even daring. Like some asking after of business that may or may not already be known.

[Drew Roscoe] Wine is tossed completely off the charts, and Drew just grins, the expression dusted on her face instead of filling it up like it usually would, and takes two bottles of beer from the fridge. They're popped open with a tool from a drawer, and one's handed off to the Godi, the other kept for herself. Rather than flicking the caps into the sink as so many would, seeing as how Linus was using it to wring out (and spit phlegm) into, she instead tugged open the door under the sink and deposited of them in there.

He keeps up on the counter, she leans against the island across from him, feet crossing at the ankles, one arm folding over her stomach, the other keeping loose so she could be free to take sips from the bottle as she pleased-- as was her style she started the beverage by taking two or three deep swigs from it and eased into sipping from there.

"Yeah, he'd mentioned." It's easy to leave it there, she didn't need to talk about Eli's reasons for leaving and whether or not she found them valid. She'd instead nod and offer: "Said he's looking for someplace bigger, maybe making it a halfway point for those who need. I'm still fresh off the real estate hunt myself, I could lend some aid too."

He's then pinning her down with his gaze, trusting her to have kept a low profile. To that she chuckled and shrugged with the arm that wasn't over her stomach. "For this past week, at least. There was a... hiccup in that, but I've already talked to Kora about it and have been making progress in setting it right."

[Linus] "Good."

He turns off the counter and slides down onto the floor with a grunt, taking his beer with him while straightening. A quick yawn flashes over his features, stifled a moment later with a shake of the head and a puffing of cheeks. He drifts off through the kitchen, out the archway and into her living room, taking generous glances at everything present, probably for the first time given his attentions were somewhat distracted during his last visit.

"I gotta admit, keeping track of all of you is a chore. Not entirely sure how Kora does it most of the time." Head shaking, another absent gesture, easily the identifier for when the Godi is speaking his mind rather than actively conversing. "But she manages. She's good like that." A beat or two, while the Godi's eyes take in the hallway leading to the rest of the house. He lifts his face slightly, nose sniffing briefly. Then around toward the corners of the low lit room, sucking in a quick breath.

"No new room mates or friends come to stay I take it? Keeping clean and clear?"

[Drew Roscoe] The house is empty, quiet, clean. It smells like Pine-Sol and the stew that she'd made for herself and put away an hour ago. Drew doesn't move when Linus dismounts from the counter and leans to glance down the hallway that led back to bedrooms and a bathroom, she doesn't frown or look worried when he scents the room like an animal.

The closest he gets to concern is when he asks about her keeping clean and clear. There's a rolling shrug of that free shoulder, another drink from the beer bottle, and catching the excess off her lower lip before answering.

"No one sticking around. Eli visits from time to time, Gina too. Drawn in Blood walked me home the other night, so he was on the turf, but I doubt that counts for much." The tip of her upper lip is caught between teeth, held for a second in a manner that had her chin sticking out some. Her eyes were off Linus's face, level more with his ribcage, out of focus and distracted for a moment, before she speaks again.

"I'm tryin' to. Was just looking around to see what I could find on your church's history when you showed up. But listen:" Eyes lift to his again, and her elbow hitches on the counter behind her, bottle dangling between her fingertips by its neck. "You aren't trying to play matchmaker for me or anything, are you?"

[Linus] Linus stares. Openly. Frankly. Then there's something like calamity going on around his face. Half-way between humour and irritation. Like a crazed scientist bothered by his dancing monkey, despite the entertainment value of it all.

"What the fuck are you-" And a hand is held up to forestalling any further explanations or descriptions. His mouth hangs open. He snort-laughs. Hands fall to knees, doubling over to enjoy the moment's mirth and finally back up with one hand still hovering to indicate a 'Hold on'.

"First off, even if I did make it my business to put you on the pole of the nearest Pureblood I highly doubt Kora would allow me to take the lead on ensuring that happened. Secondly, my interest in you and the other Kin extends only so far as Kora's demands, necessities and designs for you which are pretty much your well being and safety. Which, let's face it? Isn't exactly part and parcel with the Mate thing..."

He's backing away to continue pacing around the Living room, murmuring the entire way, though it isn't really intelligible what he's saying. Simply an inner monologue that is...not so inner.

"You fuck or friend who you like, just make sure it doesn't cause trouble for Kora or the Tribe and-" He snaps his fingers, a frown creasing the young face "-you make sure he's fuckin' Fenrir before anything else. Some foreign piece comes sniffing, he better have the Jarl's permission beforehand."

A pause.

"Tha' fuck is Gina?"

[Drew Roscoe] His laughter is met with a frown, but it fades away into an expression of neutrality as he goes on down his list of priorities-- why he bothered with her and why he didn't when he could avoid it. She takes this in with the occasional sip from her beer bottle and watches as he moves out of the kitchen, crossing through the open floorplan into the living room, making a circle around the couch and loveseat. The pacing made it easier to see the wolf in him, that she watched with more interest than the sodden wet spots he continued to drip off pants and shoes onto the floor.

Hardwood had been a conscious decision, she knew her Family and how treacherous they were with carpet.

"Alright."

That's all that's necessary for his answer. It confirmed that he answered sufficiently her question and she was accepting what he said, and agreed to keeping to Fenrir, not standing for any non-Tribe sniffing about. He said it'd be fine if it was cleared by Kora, Drew doubted she'd want to take that path anyways. Tribal loyalty had settled deep in her bones and belly since her Realizing, it was difficult to accept much less.

"Gina," she answers, remaining comfortably settled in the kitchen rather than hovering around after the pacing Godi, "is a Strider Kin. She's been around longer than me, knows the city and the people. Smart, warm, soft, and the most trustworthy friend I've got."

[Linus] "Strider, huh..."

And he's pausing, eying the Laptop, the burn of it's screen flaring outward to catch his features, casting them deeper and further into the promise of wane than normal light might. Hollows defined, gaunt features exaggerated until he's more a ghoul in that glare than a man. The pause is momentary, hands lifting to hover a good ten inches out from his chest.

"Tits like howitzers. Jingles like Christmas. Hair you could tie a fleet of chopsticks in?" He blinks, gaze narrowed against the screen's glare during the brief glance cast in her direction. "Caught a whiff of her in the brotherhood the other night." He whistles. A sharp sound, fleeting as attention goes back to the screen.

"What've you found out about the Church so far?"

[Drew Roscoe] Tits like howitzers earns a laugh, fuller and warmer than just a chuckle alone, and spreads a smile on her face big enough to make dimples in her cheeks. Her chin tips toward the ceiling and the beer bottle meets her lips, she finishes off what's left inside it. The bottle is tossed in a spare bin under the sink beside the one for trash, and she walks across the small house to stand beside him, hands tucking under her arms to keep them from being loose and idle at her sides (because that was never comfortable for her, she liked them assigned to a place or a task).

"That'd be her... Not a whole lot yet, I only got started like fifteen minutes ago. Just going through a backlog of old events that it hosted before it went bust right now. Tax information and previous listed owners are a little tricker to come up with. I imagine it would'a been the Church itself." Church like the Religious Institute, not like the physical shell left behind. "But I haven't got anything solid to prove that, and no contact phone numbers yet either."

Eyes cut up to his gaunt face, always tired and worn thin, often times more force of the spiritual energy under the skin than Man, but against any of that always present and controlled enough (from what she's experienced at least) that she did not fret to be near him.

"Booker said you guys wanted it to know about the electrical wiring... You know I could always have an electrician bop through and take a glance, if you guys can clear the space for two hours or so for me? I know three personally, they work for my dad."

[Linus] "Yeah. Brief pleasure, that one." In reference to Gina. He grunts briefly, another dismissive thing, already leaving the laptop behind in favour of continuing the pace around the apartment in search of whatever may catch his eye, which does not seem to be much thus far. The Godi's mood is mercurial in most circumstances and he seems to have that stilled and settled for the time being. Almost normal, almost.

"No, don't bother" To the electricians "Any sort of inspections come with possible issues with Utility companies and the like. That means we'd be on the books and that means bills, paper trails and questions as to why an abandoned church is using power. I can keep the power running in the Church without much effort. Start looking into a few odds and ends that will help out some..." His gaze, narrowing some, with the thought of solving that little tid bit of an issue.

"Keep looking through specifics and details about the Church but try to avoid asking questions that might get people interested in the place again. Don't need anyone coming around looking at the place any closer than they are. Neighbourhood does a lot to protect against unwanted attentions but only so much for the mortal world."

[Drew Roscoe] Linus is moving on, and Drew's leaning forward over the coffee table to scroll about on the webpage she'd settled on after browsing at her own leisurely pace earlier. It's some old event board, made by an amateur using some free hosting site. It's scrutinized for a second before she shakes her head and closes the laptop, pressing the screen down until it mates with the keyboard. The Kin straightens up, hands under her arms once more, and watches Linus as he drifts about the rest of the house.

He doesn't find much worth noting, no personal or family pictures hanging on the walls, no relics that may have emotional attachments or represent any memories from prior. A DVD collection is on the entertainment stand under the television itself, a bookshelf with some old textbooks and a few leisurely reading selections as well-- nothing jumps out, nothing's worthy of more than four seconds of secluded attention. Maybe memories were enough in her mind and heart that she didn't need them on her walls and tables to stare at her too.

"Yeah sure. I'll dig up what I can and give you whatever I find. It's history and all of that, Booker mentioned something about blueprints, I think, so I'll leave that up to him and you boy-folk, seems more your area of expertise anyways.

"If there's anything specific you decide you're after, though, if some spirit whispers something in your ear you want me to confirm, you let me know though, okay? It's faster and easier finding something specific than it is just gathering everything in general." Her tone of voice is a far cry from that of complaint. It's offering, if anything at all.

[Linus] "That's sexist." Off-hand humour, mentioned in passing to her Boy-folk line. His head and gaze lift to travel the ceiling a moment, before, nodding, he sucks in a low breath and points toward the East, down the hallway to the bedrooms and bathroom, glancing at her.

"Eyes remain on the flip. You want to make yourself useful, drop some leftover scraps of meat in the alleys nearby or on your rooftop. Birdfeed works too, though not too much. Don't want to get them too greedy. Anything beyond that ain't your concern. Meantime, I gotta get back to patrols. Already detoured off the main path some."

He dips back in through the Kitchen's archway, stifling another yawn as he goes. Night's ahead of walking the pack paths, Hrafn in one ear and alpha in the other. The godi flicks a few fingers up and over a shoulder.

"Catch you later."

And the air condenses again, volume and mass vanishing with the same suddenness that has the laws of physics playing catch-up and leaving behind a frustrated pop in his wake.

[Remy de Tournieres] Linus is scarcely gone two minutes before there's a rap on the door.

[Drew Roscoe] Linus leaves with some humor, which surprised her for the fact that there wasn't hate or insult laced into it, advice about keeping her house surrounded by happy spirits, and a farewell. The pressure in the home shifted, Linus vanished from kitchen to Someplace Else, and Drew moved her hands to rub at her ears, flexing her jaw 'till they popped again. She scratched at her scalp thoughtfully for a second, shifting the bun her hair was tied in to and fro while she did so, then gathered up his three-quarters finished beer bottle from wherever he'd abandoned it and killed it off while she migrated to the kitchen.

Now-empty beer bottle was scarcely discarded, she'd only just finished rinsing her sink clean of the dirty gray water Linus had wrung out of his clothes and shaken out of his hair when there's another knock at the door.

"Well who in the hell...," is the murmur, and recent visit from the Godi that had given solid (albeit sneering) advice on a prior visit had protocol fresh in her mind. She takes a handgun from where she keeps it stashed in a kitchen drawer, third down under the potholders, and holds it behind her back as she approaches the door, undoes the locks, and opens it.

[Remy de Tournieres] Who in the hell turns out to be another Godi, this one quite different from the one just departed. He stands outside with his hands wrapped into fists, his fists stuffed into his pockets. His hood is up and his collar is buttoned right up to his nose, leaving two bright eyes -- almost black in this light -- gleaming at Drew.

"Hey," he says, muffled. "Long time no see. You eat yet?"

[Drew Roscoe] The face on the other side of the door is, first, half-covered because of how high he wears his coat collar, zipped right up to the tip of his nose. Second, what remains is gorgeous, with dusky skin and dark eyes and perfectly symmetrical features. Third, though, and most important of all, it's familiar. Drew's got one hand on the door, the other behind her back as she stands in the crack opening her door had presented. The hand behind her back relaxes some, finger moves away from the trigger, the safety is clicked back on.

"Remy." In the name is confirmation and relief both at once, and she smiles bright and genuine at him before opening the door further, clear invitation for him to come in.

"I did, yeah, but I could re-heat what I made for you if you're hungry. Hamburger stew." Sounds horrific, but it's a midwestern classic. Trust her.

This, however, is beside the point. She's more focused on the fact that it was, indeed, a long time no see. "No joking. Where in the world have you been? You and Erek both vanish at the same time, I was wondering if you guys didn't kill each other, or Kora didn't kill you both and have you stuffed under the floorboards."

[Remy de Tournieres] "Hah," Remy's scoff releases a puff of steam into the cold air, "they couldn't kill me if they tried."

It's raining outside -- snow turning to filthy slush. He stomps his feet and wipes them clean before stepping in, flipping down his hood, unzipping his coat. His cheeks are flushed with the bite of the wind. He gives the air a perfunctory sniff, then looks at her.

"I ran with a pack of Dogs of War for a while. They went out pretty far; I guess I lost track of time. How you been?" His coat rustles as he slips out of it, rumpling it up and tossing it over the nearest chair, or couch, or coatrack.

[Drew Roscoe] There's a coatrack behind the door, and a couch within easy tossing distance. Wherever that coat winds up, Drew doesn't seem to care too much. She steps back to give Remy room to step into the entrance of the home, to stomp and wipe his shoes off on the mat, to sniff at the air in her house (something all Garou seemed to do first, she often wondered if they could still smell like wolves when they were wearing human skins) and then look back to her.

The home smells like the hamburger stew she'd cooked, which as most stews do smells of vegetables and meat that have been soaking and simmering all day. Only a bit stronger than that is the scent of cleaners, mostly Pine-Sol, to say today had been one of those days off work dedicated to staying home and catching up on housework. Drew herself smells like soap and shampoo, her hair's still a bit wet from the shower and wrapped up at the top of her head. She's dressed down for the night in a pair of dark green sweats and a white long-sleeved tee.

The dismissal of death is answered with a one-sided grin, the explanation of where he'd been a nod. His asking how she's been with a shrug and another smidge of a grin. "Alright. Things got pretty fucking ridiculous after we talked last, but then calmed down and evened out just in this past week or so. Had a high, had a low, found my middle ground." A pause, and hospitality kicks in when given a chance. "So, you want something warm to drink? Or should I warm up that soup?"

[Remy de Tournieres] Freed from the confines of his heavy winter coat -- from the anonymity of it, too, the urge to hide that pretty mug of his -- Remy rolls his head on his neck, windmills his arms and flexes his shoulderblades. He cocks his head at her, suddenly alert, when she mentions ridiculous.

"Ridiculous how?" And, grinning, "Warm that soup up, girl. You biscuits to go with that?"

[Drew Roscoe] Hospitality accepted, Drew walks the small but comfortable space between living room and kitchen on bare feet. The way the layout of the house was, some walls must have been knocked out in a remodeling as from living room back to dining room was all open, making the small dreary home seem larger on the inside, brighter during the day, but tonight there were only a few lamps on, so the light was dim and orange.

A container is removed from the fridge, contents put into a smaller pot on the stove, and after a faint click-click-click the light catches and the gas stove is functioning. "Can make some if you're patient. Or you could just butter some bread and be happy with it." As she's maneuvering about the kitchen, she gives explanation to what 'ridiculous' was.

"Some whopping drama involving another Kin from another tribe. Kora says I can't talk on it much, so I won't say a whole lot on her, but..." The back of her hand sweeps wavy bangs from her face absently. "Well, Kora wanted me to take her in, let her live here. I told her no, 'cause the girl wasn't tribe, because I'd never met her before, and because all the traffic I get through here of you guys it's no place for an infant.

"When I tell her 'no' she unloads on me. I get accused of wronging Joe for not coming back with a belly full of baby, get called a slut for presumably sleeping with you and Erek and goodness-knows-who-else she thought, and... I don't know. Dishonorable, selfish, all sorts of venom got slung my way. So I go, get assigned a Keeper, Linus is stuck with me as much as I am him these days I guess-- he was just here, actually, no more than five minutes before you came knocking."

Her hand waves, distracted and dismissive both. "But it's come to its head and boiled back down. Had some long talks with some people and we're evened out now."

[Remy de Tournieres] Remy isn't exactly the subtle kind. Pretty much every emotion he has sweeps past the canvas of his face. First there's amusement -- "I'll butter some bread," -- and then there's curiosity. Roundabout when Drew mentions shacking some other-tribe kin up with her, incredulity:

"Doesn't she have her own tribe in town? What is she, Wendigo?"

-- and after that, when the word slut comes out, a flash of outright offense. And more than that: something akin to a sort of kneejerk jealousy. It passes when she sums up the tale. Remy follows her more or less to the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the wall there with his arms folded across his solid chest.

"Linus? Isn't that that other bitchy fucker I met the other night? Man, why are all the Tribesmen in the city so bitchy?" He breaks off, looks around her kitchen. "You got a drink of water? I'm thirsty as hell."

[Drew Roscoe] "Bitchy isn't the word I'd choose to use. More like... worn thin."

The Kin pulls a loaf of bread out of some quaint little breadbox on the counter, next to the toaster, and tosses it lightly on the kitchen island. A butter knife and butter boat find their way over there in the next few moments as well. As before, she's talking, answering questions and keeping up with conversation as she moves around, stirring the pot occasionally so the contents wouldn't end up sticking to the bottom.

"Own tribe's in town," she confirms, but seems tight-lipped about the kin's origins, apparently intent to stand by her promise to Kora not to gossip. She had, after all, lost her rights to spreading an opinion about this woman when she'd spewed hate and frustration and even some fists at her much earlier in the week. "Not sure why this Kin doesn't turn to them, but..." Her shrug is dismissive.

Ice cubes are plunked in a glass, it's filled with water from a purifying container out of the fridge, then passed over to him, quick and brief from her hand to his, before she's back at the stove. "But outta that there's another Kin in town, Elijah Booker. Knew him from before I'd left-- he'd left too for a while. I'd worried some, but he's got a good head on his shoulders, he was alright after all. Smart guy, does the crazy-dance well too when he has to. Good Kin to keep around."

[Remy de Tournieres] "Yeah well, you're a lot nicer than I am. I mean, okay, party line: life sucks then you die, but guess what? It sucks until you die for all of us. Only the weak, bitchy ones whine about it. Especially when they're fucking Cliaths. If Golgol Fangs-First wants to bitch about how world weary he is, I'll shut my mouth and listen, but if some little newb Cliath does it I'm gonna laugh. And maybe kick his ass."

Tolerant, polite and nice, Remy is not. He steps forward to take the glass from her, though, then leans against the kitchen counter while she heats up the stew. A few gulps from the glass before he sets it down, turning his head to cough loudly over his shoulder as a swallow goes down the wrong way.

"Ugh!" he says when he's got his air supply under control again. "Elijah Booker, huh? I'll keep your rec in mind, but I'm also keeping in mind you're a lot nicer than I am. Where's he coming back from?"

[Drew Roscoe] "Ahhh.... Los Angeles, I think? Or San Diego. Someplace in California that I've never been. What matters more, though, is that he is back."

She doesn't argue about who has the right to complain-- she was Kin, after all, built to be the person that some lowly Cliath can come to and find a break. It wasn't the same brand of comfort that, say, Gina or Lonna had been known to offer, but she always had a shower, a warm bed, a beer and a meal ready if you were patient enough to wait for it. Basic essentials, a play at home and something mundane if only for an hour. She doesn't argue about being nicer than him either, that she just answers with a smirk.

Soon enough Remy's got a bowl of hot soup in front of him, some bread and butter to eat it with, and that glass of water as well. An offer's extended to crash in the spare bedroom if he likes, and whether he accepts or declines the night will end about the same-- the house will be quiet within an hour, with Remy wherever he decides to be for the midnight hour and Drew up in her room, no company invited or allowed to meet her there, sleeping under a quilt and freshly-washed sheets.

[Remy de Tournieres] "Hmh," is all Remy has to say on the topic of Elijah.

Soon enough there's stew. Which he eats, quickly and heartily, standing in her kitchen. He bolts down the bread, too, though he hadn't come to get fed. He came to see her -- it just doesn't mean he won't accept hospitality when it's offered.

Not always, though. She offers him room to crash in, and he declines. "Gonna get back to the BroHo," he says. "Just came by to see how you were doing. Anyway, I'm heading out. You know my number if you need anything."

So -- later, when she sleeps, it's well and deeply, in an empty house without the stirring of rage or, for that matter, some kin of some other tribe.