Standard Answer [Imogen, Bridget, Howard]

[Howard Ivers] LAST TWO BECAUSE MY LIFE STORY RESEMBLES MEMENTO

[Howard Ivers]
He can tell when a woman is smarter than he is. Granted, he goes into most situations simply assuming that if she has breasts and no obvious brain injury that she's going to be smarter than him, but the way the kinswoman talks just seems to drive home the fact that he's completely out of his depths talking to her. Part of it is the disparity in their accents: the kinswoman sounds refined to the American passersby with her West Country accent, while the young man sounds like a criminal of some sorts. His accent is largely muted, as though he's spent a good deal of time watering it down, but there are some sounds that has him sounding--to the uneducated--Australian.

That doesn't exactly help with the criminal impression that strikes most people at first exchange, but there it is.

They smoke, the kid trying to angle his body to the wind isn't smacking him right in the face; in order to do that he'd have to turn his back to the kinswoman, and he doesn't seem to be in too big of a hurry to either do that or to keep on walking.

She doesn't offer a hand. His right plunges into his jacket pocket for warmth, and then he stares blankly at her for a count of three. That's how long it takes for him to realize she's just given him her name.

"Oh!" he says, as if the metaphorical light bulb has just gone on. As if to try and recover, he takes a drag off of his cigarette. James Dean, he is not. "Howard Ivers."


[Imogen Slaughter]
It says something about her, that she allows that count of three to pass without clarifying her intent, allowing him to figure it out instead.

A small smirk touches her mouth as the light bulb goes off and he covers for himself. "A pleasure," she says, taking another drag of her cigarette. The words are off hand.

"Normally, now would be the moment I'd offer t'direct yeh to wherever yeh might need to go fer yer family or whatnot," she continues, pausing a moment to exhale cigarette smoke. "But I imagine Kora has already done that, am I correct?"

[Howard Ivers] There is nothing about him that suggests, outright, that he isn't the sharpest tool in the shed, that he isn't operating with a great deal of intellectual horse power. He doesn't have a vacant stare, doesn't speak with a stammer or pepper his speech with 'ums' and 'uhs.' Aside from that blank silence that comes over him when he encounters something he doesn't recognize--which, truth be told, is exaggerated like the majority of his actions are--he is fairly quick on the uptake.

They stand there and smoke, Imogen smirking as he has that momentary lapse into stupid territory, and the Theurge flicks his eyebrows as if to repeat her sentiments: oh, yeah, sure, a pleasure, he can tell. He takes a thoughtless drag off of his cigarette, blows the smoke into the air over her head. It doesn't take much effort; she only comes up to his shoulder.

"Yeah," he says, his speech lazy, his attention easily diverted. "Well... probably. I've been told talking about shit like that makes me zone out and drool on myself, so I really can't be fucked pretending to care anymore. That's more Patrick's bag, man."

He says, as though Patrick is the affable if obnoxious social butterfly and Howard the Harano-bound brooder.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen is a brilliant woman. It's clear if you know her profession - one does not become a doctor, even a doctor with no living patients without some modicum of intelligence - though Howard does not. It is clear in her word choice, in her immense vocabulary.

She is can call herself intelligence without boastfulness, and she was likely the kind of child that irritated most in elementary school. Too good at everything, every class easy, every teacher impressed.

Perhaps, at first, she considers everyone less intelligent than her. It would be easy and it would not be altogether inaccurate, at least a good proportion of the time.

Their conversation, currently, is going through the motions. Politeness and etiquette. She has had this conversation a dozen times, more than.

She is quiet briefly after he's spoken, an eyebrow arching slightly. "Is it?" she asks, the question clearly rhetorical. "Alright, then."

A pause, and then a brief tilt of her head. "Let you get back to wherever it is you were going, shall I?" and she moves to move past him.

[Howard Ivers] [Oh! Fuck! Hi! We're on the sidewalk by the bus stop.]

[Howard Ivers] Moving past Howard doesn't take too much effort. Imogen is a little slip of a thing, short and beyond slender, but Howard, for being as tall as he is, does not take up very much room. He's thin as a rail, not by virtue of malnourishment or starvation but because he has the metabolism of a hummingbird. He has difficulty sitting still but lacks athleticism; he smokes and drinks but eats like a goddamn horse even when he hasn't been inhaling marijuana. His hair, that curly mop that it is, probably makes up a good ten percent of his body weight. To look at him, people automatically assume that he's up to no good: he's got that look about him, that air of mischievous failure to take anything seriously that can be sensed from ten feet away.

When Imogen decides that she has better things to do with her night than stand here and continue attempting to be diplomatic with a kid who barely looks half her age, he watches her go. This does not mean he lets her go; he watches her, and he pivots to keep her in his sights, and when she's gone past him, he draws a breath and speaks.

"Oh I'm sorry, I must have forgotten my line. Thought we were havin' a conversation, not goin' through another riveting scene from Nothin' Better To Talk About: The History of the Nation: The Musical."

If she turns around she'll be treated to the sight of Howard moving his hand as though emblazoning the title of a novel, or a play, or whatever that's supposed to be, in the air.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen does half turn as he speaks, their distance nearly the same as it had been, though now, she's nearly on the other side of him. The sidewalk is not very busy. It's the time of night, or their location, or the weather. Whatever it is, there are not many about.

"I'm sorry," she says without meaning it, her voice elaborately polite. "Was there somethin' you wanted to talk about?"

[Howard Ivers] "I'm sorry," he says, as if this has become a game of ping pong, as though this is amusing to him, "did I come up to you soon's you got off the bus and start givin' you shit for your testicles crawlin' back up into your body because it's so fuckin' cold out?"

[Bridget] December finally arrived in its frigid glory. Feh. Nothing an Albertan can't handle. So walking a few city blocks from whatever gig Bridget was playing at towards the bus stop was no big deal. She wards off the bitter cold with layers and a knit scarf, like so many without fur of their own to keep them warm. In truth, it had rained all day, and all throughout the city, the wetness threatened to transform into a slick glossy sheet of ice.

Bridget carries an overstuffed canvas bag and approaches the sidewalk while muttering part of a song. "...in a field behind the cages. He walked in circles til he was crazy, and he lived that way forever."

Ahead, she spots a redhead and a somewhat familiar face from a week or so ago.

"Noswaith dda, Howard. Nice weather, huh?"

[Bridget] (Good evening. Meant to add that. Sorry))

[Imogen Slaughter] "I daresay that's a no." The smirk flickers, then fades. "I approached you to introduce myself. I have done so. I'm sorry that yeh confused it fer conversation."

She lifts her chin, indicating Bridget who has approached, "but perhaps you will have better luck, now. Goodnight."

The kinwoman glances at Bridget, and nods slightly, but the other's presence does not stop her from stepping away.

[Patrick Llewelyn] It's not the first time, nor going to be the last that Patrick Llewelyn comes to find his pack-mate and Alpha having a not quite splendid conversation with a member of the Nation.

They were not, either of them, supreme examples of their auspice, or of warriors in the most general of senses. Patrick was also fairly confident that he was not the brightest or the best singer that had ever shared Fianna blood, either. He was, in so far as he could measure himself -- pretty average. Which really was not drawn out of self pity, he didn't care so much about being average. He was the last child of a family that had two other warriors to their name -- not much was expected of him but to perhaps not humiliate them on his way to the grave.

He could do that much, he was confident about that.
Of course ...

Patrick rounds the corner, not so much in search of Howard as tracing him down via other, more standard means. He's rugged up for the weather in an old leather jacket; once a nicer brown than it now is with heavy duty gloves on his hands and a black scarf tied around his neck. The Galliard's eyes were ridiculous; impossibly blue, they drew attention purely for that reason alone, which was not to say there was no reason not to glance at the man. Broad shouldered, with sandy hair and pleasant, if not striking, features, he was a nice package.

Decidedly different to the man Imogen Slaughter was just now stepping away from.

When Patrick notes this, notes Howard and beyond him Bridget; he winces a little. When he's closer to her, he addresses the woman he'd noticed his first night directly. "Hey, sorry if he said anything. He means well, he just doesn't know when to shut up."

[Howard Ivers] Now, he recognizes the language as being Welsh if only because he's heard Patrick speaking it before, because despite the fact that he's a few more knocks on the head from losing another handful of IQ points he does have some semblance of an ear for language. It's not that different than attempting to determine what key a song's written in, really.

That does not mean, however, that he is capable of reproducing the sounds necessary to give off the impression that he speaks the language.

Imogen clarifies what it is she wanted when she came up to him tonight, and he lets one of those bird-like laughs that's far too loud but, thankfully, only lasts for a second. She leaves, as any intelligent woman would do at that point, and Bridget takes her place, speaking to him in Welsh and asking him about the weather.

Green eyes lift, as if to remind himself of what the weather looks like, and then he does something vaguely similar to that display of assholery that he'd put on the first night they met, when he ranted in a cartoonish Irish lilt for two minutes straight.

"Goeie aand!" he yells, spastically exuberant, and then starts chattering away in a language that sounds like Dutch as interpreted by an Australian, gesturing emphatically, his facial expression indicating that he believes her to not only be following the conversation but actually having an opinion about what he's saying. He does this for a good ten seconds before suddenly switching back into English to say, "And then he gave me ten pounds and sent me on my way."

His hands go to his hips and he sniffs, as if to say How about that. Eyes flick to her bag, and he asks his next question as though he already knows the answer.

"Fuck's in the bag?"

[Bridget] Bridget nods to the redhead as she passes, then folds her arms over her chest at Howard as he regales some gibberish to her. She grins and leans into the posture. This ain't her first rodeo, and for fucks sake, she works with kids all day for her real job. She's not even phased that this gesture might well be a laugh at her expense. By now, she figures Howard is maybe a Ragabash-- seems right based on what she's heard.

"Well at least you got dosh out of it," is all she says.

And then he asks about the bag. She smirks and drops out of the posture, hands going to her sides. "Weapons. Of mass destruction. Just some random things I picked up... Got some tear gas, the kitchen sink, and Bristol Palin's chastity belt, or at least that's what the brochure said."

The Canadian leans against the frigid lightpost and contemplates lighting a cigarette.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen flicks a gaze over her shoulder as Patrick begins to speak loudly in a language of Germanic descent, though interspersed with words of other linguistic branches as well. Imogen is far from a linguist. It is neither German nor Dutch is as far as she can go. Her eyebrow quirks, and she turns back, half-slowing as Patrick rounds the corner and speaks to her.

Her eyebrow arches, her mouth twisting. "Is that yer default response to anyone leavin' yer -" a pause before she chooses a word, "acquaintance's presence?"

[Patrick Llewelyn] There's actually a vague sense of a smile at that.

He lifts his shoulders as one as if to weigh the truth of that question and whether or not she sees this depends on whether or not the Kinswoman decides he's safe enough to turn and face or rather keep at a disadvantage conversation wise by continuing her half-turn of departure. "Kinda, yeah." He raises his eyebrows after hearing Howard rant in, God, what was that? It was possibly Dutch being passed by a Donkey, he simply wasn't sure, nor going to pay attention to it if at all possible.

Instead, he takes a small step closer, then to one side to gain a fairer glimpse of the red head's profile.

"I'm Patrick, I don't remember if we got introduced the other night or not." There's no ruefulness about that, or about what he says next: "I was too drunk by the end of it."

[Imogen Slaughter] "We did not," she says, with assurance, as she had not been drunk and the lack of introduction had been deliberate.

"Imogen Slaughter," she says, though does not bother to add that it's a pleasure.

"I believe Kora mentioned that you were Fianna."

[Howard Ivers] Bridget has only been in Howard's cloud of acquaintances for a combined five minutes and she already knows enough to be able to assume that if he's speaking in a language no one else in this city can understand, he's probably making fun of her. This is why Patrick spends so much time running around apologizing for his brother. Neither of them can bring themselves to refer to Howard as Alpha unless they absolutely has to, unless he needs to introduce himself or someone else asks for the pack's leader to step forward. More than once someone has summoned Caldera's Alpha and they've both had to stop and remind themselves that it isn't Farrah anymore.

While Patrick wears his weariness like a heavy cloak, his burnt out grief like an extra twenty pounds of weight on his body, Howard seems as though he doesn't have a care in the world. Nothing concerns him; being walked away from is a chance to hurl off some verbal arrows not to draw blood but to see the other person jump. They're the same age, the same rank, but they don't approach life the same at all. It has nothing to do with their auspices; they're just different people. If they were born under the exact same moon, Howard would likely still like he does now.

That is to say: like an ass.

"Hope you kept the receipt," he says, releasing his slim hips and taking one last drag off of his cigarette before tossing it into the gutter. Over the totemphone, Patrick hears Suck it Nature! "It's obviously defective."

[Bridget] The skyglow attracts the kinswoman's attention for a moment. She watches her own breath float away and evanesce in the direction of the bus stop. She overhears the mention of the Tribe and gives a short chuckle.

"I didn't know what a brute I was. I dipped my cigarette and rode the bus. Vengeance built me hastily, and I dragged the clanging notion I was nobody."

The words go without melody, but there's an impression they belong to one. It's not directed at anyone. His pass at Bristol Palin's chastity belt brings her back down to earth.

"Yeah, well. It's a bit of a novelty item, I guess. Might be worth something if her mother ever tries for presidential office."

[Patrick Llewelyn] He doesn't offer her his hand to shake, they remain tucked away inside his coat pockets. He just absorbs the name and files it away no doubt into his mental Rolodex of Kinfolk he's met so far in twenty-something years. She doesn't add that it's a pleasure, which is a good thing as he'd simply have had to grimace and look away.

Instead, she mentions Kora, and he can remain as he is, looking at her with some combination of interest and polite (some might say gentlemanly) detachment. "That's what it says in my DNA, apparently."

He doesn't exactly seem thrilled about it, either, but with Patrick, his enthusiasm was about as easy to deduce as his amusement.

[Imogen Slaughter] "Congratulations," she says, mildly, as if his tribe were something for him to be congratulated on, but not as if she considered it something worthy of congratulation.

"Did Kora direct yeh to where yeh needed to go and such?" Were Howard in hearing range, he would find this conversation familiar.

[Patrick Llewelyn] "Yeah, I'm pretty excited about it." He says, equally as mildly, and then as she asks if he knows where to go and was he directed he cuts through the end of her words without much rancor. "It's alright, I got the whole you are here, do not pass go spiel a few times already.

I won't make you do that for, what, the billionth time." He shakes his head a little, and steps to the opposing side; nodding toward Howard. "I gotta go, but see you around, Imogen." Perhaps she'll be relieved with how painless that encounter was, and the fact that despite his impressive Rage that followed in his wake, Prayers to Broken Stone evidently wanted nothing more from her but to get their introductions out of the way.

[Imogen Slaughter] He tells her he's already had the whole spiel and Imogen's reply is simple: "Brilliant."

He says he needs to go and that he will see her around, and there's a flicker of amusement, but hardly more than a twitch of a single muscle at one corner of her mouth. It is internalized, amusement not meant entirely for him, but for her own thoughts.

She does not bother with goodbyes, and merely steps away as he does, starting down the street. She soon turns the corner which he had turned, in the opposite direction and is out of sight.

[Howard Ivers] If he's listening to Imogen speak to his brother, it doesn't register that she's having a repeat of the introduction that they'd had earlier with Patrick. Patrick, he'd said, was into that sort of thing. That was his bag, he'd said. There was no one around to tell Imogen that most of what comes out of Howard's mouth is bullshit; Patrick had told a younger kinswoman this recently, right before the Theurge disappeared into the Umbra and didn't check back in when he reemerged.

Bridget intones a few lines from a song, and the Theurge lifts his eyebrows, watching her with some curiosity; he doesn't rip into her, though, doesn't call her taste in music whatever it is he thinks it to be and doesn't ask her what the hell she's saying. She returns from her reverie eventually, and when she does, Howard is still there.

"Ah, her mother," he says, wistfully, as though he's having himself a daydream. His eyes close for a moment, he draws in and releases a sigh, and when that's over, he opens them. Then he frowns. "Did you say 'tear gas'?"

[Bridget] "Yeah, well that part's kinda true. I keep one of those cans of mace and I guess it's got some CS gas combo... Something the guy at the gun shop said."

Something crawls under Bridget's skin for a moment, and the feral brain in her. The urge to move rises up uncontrollably, so she hops onto the concrete wall separating some building ramp from the sidewalk. She walks alongside it, remembering her climbing adventure with Victor all those months ago.

She hums something along her little trek back and forth on the concrete barrier. Really, she's wondering if she had another opportunity to climb the building, she'd do it in a heartbeat.

"Why do you ask?" She finally says.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Imogen does not bother with goodbyes and Patrick certainly does not cast any lingering, moon-eyed stares over his shoulder in the striking female's direction. Rather, he keeps right on walking until he's directly behind Howard and as the Theurge goes go open his mouth again, he's abruptly nudged from behind.

"Hey, jerk."

Prayers to Broken Stone emerges from behind him and nods to Bridget. "Hey, Bridget."

[Howard Ivers] Bridget clambers up onto a low wall, and while Howard reaches out a hand to touch the ledge, he doesn't hop up after her, doesn't try to show off athletic prowess that is nonexistent. He squints as he watches her, turning to keep her in what exists of his line of sight. His peripheral vision leaves something to be desired... and his depth perception... pretty much everything having to do with awareness of the world around him could use some work, but there isn't much to be done for him.

His brother doesn't exactly sneak up on him, but their totemic connection does not function like a GPS tracker; until Patrick nudges him in the kidney he's near-blissfully unaware of his presence. The taller, skinnier Theurge lets out a noise that's somewhere between a sob and a scream and jumps, the entire reaction exaggerated. A grin splits his lips when he's called 'jerk,' and he winds up as the Galliard greets the kinswoman.

A moment later he hauls off and slaps Patrick in the ass.

[Howard Ivers] [Uh... ON. ON the ass. Christ.]

[Patrick Llewelyn] [you know how I know you're gay? you type 'in the ass'.]

[Howard Ivers] [You know how I know you're gay? YOU LIKE IT.]

[Bridget] The tall drink of a footballer enters what could be the beginning of another witty fray in opportune timing. Bridget slumps to sit on the concrete wall, her bag resting at her side. The curious pack greetings draw raucous laughter from the brunette.

"Patrick," she nods. "I was gonna take the bus, but I think I'd rather get drinks. You two care to join me?"

[Patrick Llewelyn] Howard slaps him on the ass and for all the reaction it gets you'd think Patrick wasn't touched at all. Rather, he answers Bridget as he simultaneously smacks his Alpha around the back of the head with his palm. "Sure, that sounds good. It's about time I had something in my system other than coffee."

Bridget mentally labels him a tall drink of footballer and honestly, she's pretty dead on. He was appealing, if that was your type. Certainly, his musculature suggested innate brute force was not above him; if his handling of Howard, and car parts was any indication.

[Howard Ivers] "Ow!!" he shouts, seconds after Patrick's rough palm connects with the back of his curly head. He has enough of it to provide a decent buffer between blunt force trauma and contact, but the heavier Garou still cuffs him good.

That ought to have been the end of the scuffle, that smack to the skull, but Howard just bides his time, stands rubbing the back of his head with a look of scowling amusement on his boyish face. He waits until Patrick has finished accepting the offer before he distractedly turns his head to say "Yeah okay sure."

A second later, Howard's left hand shoots inside of whatever jacket Patrick is wearing and latches onto his pectoral muscle.

[Bridget] Bridget hops off the wall, dragging her bag with her. Dear lord that thing must weigh half as much as its carrier. Maybe legends of the kitchen sink are true? The Stag kin laughs again at their interactions. "Ya know, if the elders catch you two flirting, there might be trouble."

Another laugh and she's got her hands tucked into her own pockets for warmth, and looks for cars before stepping off the curb, seeking a place for proper libations.

"Any ideas, gents?"

[Patrick Llewelyn] He knew there would be some retaliation, after all. This was Howard, who couldn't rest until he'd exhausted every possible way of pissing the world around him off and, or, just making as much fun at its expense as was possible. Sometimes, Patrick privately wondered if Howard wasn't really a Ragabash in disguise, waiting until he'd reached Fostern level as Theurge to rip away his mask and cry tricked you!

Honestly, Patrick wouldn't be surprised.

Still, his hands reach up and lock around his Alpha's scrawny wrist and apply pressure to detach his fingers from his chest; he twists with deliberately restrained effort as Bridget laughs at the pair of them and notes their flirtations would be frowned upon by the Elders. Patrick's slight smile surfaces briefly. You'd think he wasn't straining himself at all, the calm in his voice as he replies and pulls Howard off.

"Isn't there an Irish Pub a little way up the block? Claddagh's I think it was called. When Howard is done feeling me up, we can head off."

[Howard Ivers] Other people find themselves exhausted by Howard long before he runs out of steam doing whatever it is that has stricken his fancy at any particular moment. It isn't so much that he doesn't know when to quit, or that he's incapable of doing so, so much that he just doesn't care. When they get into their tousling matches, as brothers tend to do, Howard will not back down until he has been injured somehow, or the other person stops returning fire; on the rare occasion that he gets into a disagreement heated enough to warrant argument he won't back off until the other person either walks away or somehow admits defeat.

Patrick is bigger than Howard, outweighs him by several muscular pounds. Compared to Howard's skinny limbs, the Galliard looks like a bodybuilder. It takes little effort to get his fingers to detach, and Howard starts laughing when he's pried free. It's something of a victory in that Patrick does not strike him in return. He shakes out his gripped wrist, baring his teeth in a staged grimace, and flicks his eyebrows at the conditions under which they can head to the pub.

"Alright, sweetheart, that's all you had to say," he says, as if he's calling a truce. A second later he claps his palm against the side of Patrick's face, not nearly hard enough to sting, and pulls his sunglasses off of his jacket.

[Bridget] Stag's kin stops on the roadside, waiting for the two to catch up. Something just seems right to her, finally being around Fianna after months of virtual nonexistence. Even with Victor and Simon, two who she might be able to call friends, the dynamics are different. She wouldn't want things any other way, but this kin has stayed too long away from any Fianna, kin or not.

Too long without the sort of dark, sardonic humor or the bizarre bonding rituals. Or the fighting. It may be stereotypical, but there's a teeny grain of truth there and it has nothing to do with nationality.

"Aww, that's sweet. You two gonna kiss or are we gonna go get shots?"