Night's Reprieve [Patrick, Quinn, Hunter, Bridget, Hatchet, Kristiana, Simon]

[Hunter Matthews] The fangs are always the most fun, and this one doesn't disappoint. How lovely for you, she says, like she's the god damn queen of england looking down on him from a great height and it only makes him grin all the more. They can see his eyes now, impossibly green eyes beneath a short mess of thick brown hair.

"Ain't it just? Fuckin' lovely alright. You gotta name ta' match that--"

But there is politeness from the stag, which halts his words - which aren't mean or biting, full of jest - his eyes turn on her. It's not every day he has to consider that a kinfolk doesn't know what he is, after all he spends most of his time watching humans run as fast as they can in the opposite direction. What else could he be?

He scratches his chin briefly.

"Don't think so, nah. Would'a remembered you fo'sho. You too blondie." He almost laughs and considers dragging the game out a bit longer of just what he is, but it's a new year after all, time to be nice. "Some call me Burnout, Alpha of'tha Vanguard." He grins and raises his hands palm out in a sign of peace. "Don' worry bout me girls, ain't no dancin' crazy come ta' drag ya' off. Though if I was ya'll be passin' tha test of caution"

A nod of his head.

"Yessir, yo Guardians be proud."

[Bridget Geroux] This gives the Stag a bit more ease. The smile might actually morph into something genuine now. She gives Kristiana's hand a gentle assuring squeeze before speaking again. She gives almost a sigh of relief.

"So you say," she says with a small laugh.

"Alright, so which do you prefer.. Hunter or Burnout? We're on the prowl for chow if you'd like to be our escort for the evening? And... sorry about that just then. Things are a bit tense right now."

That should explain things well enough until they can talk in a more private location. The two look like an odd pair: the Fianna in secondhand punk clothes, the Silver Fang in her usual prim and tidy street wear. But they look cozy enough.

[Bridget Geroux] "Oh," she says while shaking her head, eyebrows quirked up. "Jeez, where's my head? I'm Bridget."

She offers a hand to the Ahroun.

[Kristiana Coleman] "Yes, please join us." She nods, glancing up at him before looking back down. "We're getting tacos or something. My treat."

Which is, of course, rich Fang for 'Please accept this monetary offering and don't kill me'.

[Hunter Matthews] He raises an eyebrow at her and a pained yet amused look crosses his face.

"Hunter, please."

Things are a bit tense she says and Hunter knows all about that, he doesn't need to hear more at least not out in the street. And then there's the hand which is grasped by the Ahroun, perhaps a little too tightly but he can't help it. These things just happen.

"Nice ta' meet ya Bridget, and taco's sound amazing, fuckin' amazing. And your treat too blondie? Well shit, you know how'ta sweeten a deal."

And he motions with his arm, sweeping it out in front of him.

"Lead the way, ain't been here in awhile."

[Kristiana Coleman] She waits for Bridget to lead, having very little idea where she's going herself.

[Bridget Geroux] The Canadian winces, takes back her hand and shakes it out. She doesn't seem injured, so no foul. The brunette smiles again and starts walking....

"This is Kristiana, by the way. She's uh... she's shy."

She's not familiar with this part of town, that much is obvious. But the Silver Fang has a smartphone!

After about a block, she turns to Kristiana, "Uh.. I really don't think they have street vendors this time of year. Except for hot dogs. And I'm not too familiar with this side of town. I'm sure I could call Simon and ask him, though."

[Kristiana Coleman] "That's okay. Let's go in someplace. I'm freezing" She gestures with her free hand to a cafe across the street.

[Hunter Matthews] "Shy eh? Well, we'll sort that out won't we bridgey." He says rather cheerfully. Yes he just called her Bridgey. And they cross the street, directed by the Fang kin. Some fancy looking cafe (they're all fancy around these parts, at least to Hunter), the tables and chairs are all inside, doors shut against the cold. But a light is on, and when the door is opened by the Ahroun the smells of hot bread and coffee greet them.

He holds the door open, let's them both in before stepping in afterwards.

[Kristiana Coleman] Ragey kin and punk chick in a wealthy area. Between the two, it's not after Krist leads them to a table in a far corner that the room begins to clear out on it's own. She orders soup and coffee, indicating the others to get whatever they'd like.

[Kristiana Coleman] (Ragey guy, rather. Oops)

[Bridget Geroux] The Canadian nods her dark head and looks for an opening in traffic before leading the other kinswoman and the Ahroun across the street. The girls scurry across the street like a couple of birds just released from the roost. Bridget also starts to shiver, perhaps from her poor wardrobe choice.

Even with tights, thick socks, and a jacket, it's not much against the cold. They enter the cafe with haste. Bridget gives Hunter a quirked eyebrow at her newly acquired petname, but just shakes her head as if to say Okay. Whatever.

The smell of coffee, pastries, and deli treats makes the Canadian's eyes go wide. She orders a hot spiced cider, then has quite the internal debate over whether or not she wants soup or a sandwich. After some jittery movements she finally decides on a sandwich.

She can't really help being hyper around the Garou. The Rage makes her nervous, brings out this weird jittery, loud, sometimes flirtacious, and slightly obnoxious like some teenager. She's probably the legal drinking age, but it's obvious she hasn't been out much.

"Kristiane," Bridget goes for the French pronunciation again. "You should get some water, too. Trust me. Oh, and here."

Ever the Fianna, the kinswoman pulls out a bottle of aspirin and forks it over to her blonde companion.

[Kristiana Coleman] She looks confused, but takes the aspirin. Apparently, the bit of blonde fluff hasn't dealt with very many hangovers in her days.

[Hunter Matthews] He sits, and his eyes scan around the cafe as he does so. People look away, even shift tables or leave all together when the Ahroun enters. It's something he has never quite gotten used to, but at least he doesn't turn his face to the wall and avoid eye contact any more. One step at a time.

Water, aspirin, new years.

"You feelin' a bit fragile Kristiana?"

He orders himself two sandwiches and a coke.

"Bridge's got it right ya know, drink lots'a water. Feel fine in no time."

[Kristiana Coleman] "I don't usually drink so much." There's a tiny pause, and her voice lowers to a whisper. "Hunter Rhya"

[Bridget Geroux] "I wouldn't be much of anything if I didn't know how to handle a hangover," she declares. She takes two aspirin herself and washes it down with the coffee that finally comes.

The Stag kin whips out her phone and tries to text something for a moment before chiming in again.

"So, Hunter. Where are you from and all that jazz?" She's feeling rather chatty.

[Hunter Matthews] His brows knit together and a tiny smile creeps into the corners of his lips, he even flicks his green eyes over to Bridget briefly before looking back at Kristiana.

"Just Hunter, we all friends here right?"

Fangs and their etiquette, it's not lost entirely on a Garou like Hunter, he appreciates the sentiment, but he never even called his mentor Rhya. Certainly doesn't expect other people to call him it now.

"LA, dog town. Though that was awhile ago now, guess Chicago's ma home for a little while longer. What about you two?"

[Kristiana Coleman] Her head snaps up, and she looks at him more closely for as long as she dares.

"LA? Los Angeles proper, or one of the suburbs?"

[Bridget Geroux] We're all friends here... Usually this would be a cause for alarm, but Bridget's warm brown eyes find this concept rather amusing. She approves.

"Never been. I'm from Canada. Some little sept in Alberta you've probably never heard of."

This would explain the slightest touch of an accent she has. It's hard to place, really. Not quite being French and having the faintest hint of the typical Canadian accent that dumb Americans tend to stereotype the lot with. She hasn't even said 'eh?' once.

[Hunter Matthews] "Proper." He nods his head. "Moved around a bit, Compton, inglewood for a bit, long beach. Ain't no canada that's fo sure. You must think this shit's positively balmy." He grins. "Scuse ma french"

[Kristiana Coleman] Her nose wrinkles almost imperceptibly. Inglewood, for Gaia's sake? Compton?

"I'm from Malibu." She smiles and offers it up in a friendly tone. They could practically be neighbors.

Except for the poverty, and the crime and the gangs.

[Hunter Matthews] He raises both eyebrows and sucks in a deep breath, crossing his arms over his chest in a sign of exaggerated realisation. But the grin is still there, that smile that never seems to fade from Hunters lips.

"Oooh Malibu. Right." He nods as if she's just answered all his questions.

Yes, practically neighbours.

[Kristiana Coleman] Her head ducks again, and she becomes very, very interested in stirring cream into her coffee.

[Bridget Geroux] The Canadian watches with wild-eyed fascination. She doesn't say anything about Hunter's very American quip about French. He probably doesn't know she's Quebecois. Their interactions draw a laugh out of her. Their orders are up soon enough, and Bridget goes to get them without being asked, shaking her head the whole way over.

When she returns, Kristiana is pretending to have her chin stuck to her chest. And Hunter is staring at the blonde with his arms over his chest like he's won the moment. And he has.

Bridget disarms the two sandwiches Hunter ordered, then sets Kristiana's soup before returning to her own spot with her food. She tucks in like she's got the metabolism of a teenaged boy. She probably does, with that lithe frame.

The grazing stops for a moment, "Nah, we still get cold. Only difference is I'm not in some cabin on the mountain curled up next to a giant wolf."

As was explained before to another Silver Fang kinswoman, Canadians just don't get cold. Because they cuddle.

[Kristiana Coleman] She glances at Hunter, then smiles at Bridget and stirs her soup.

"That still doesn't explain why you dress so lightly when you're not around other people. I'm always freezing here."

[Hunter Matthews] The gaze from his green eyes is distracted by the arrival of food. "Thanks." He says to Bridget and takes a sandwich up in each hand, biting heartily into the right one, almost devouring half it in one go.

"That's one lucky wolf." He mumbles as he chews.

[Bridget Geroux] To Kristiana's comment, Bridget shrugs while she's in the middle of chewing. "Guess I'm just used to it," she says.

Hunter's mutterings draw another laugh out of the Stag kin. She doesn't feel the need to explain that she was talking about her father. Some don't understand their closeness. Really, though, Meuric Geroux finds his daughter to be the one tie he has left to the human world. Some older Garou are just bitter like that. Some find swift ways to die, others cling to their families, whether kinfolk or their packs.

She tries not to choke on her food, stopping to savor the coffee. She taps her foot absentmindedly, like she's got a song stuck in her head. Bridget isn't really that jittery when she's alone or just with other kinfolk. With a rare few Wolves she's found an uneasy trust she can use to channel that reaction to their Rage, to their wildness.

[Kristiana Coleman] She stirs her soup more than eating it, absently playing with a lock of hair.

[Bridget Geroux] [Jacqui!!! *glomptackle*
to Patrick Llewelyn

[Patrick Llewelyn] [Can I crash your scene or is it uninterruptable? :P ]
to Bridget Geroux, Hunter Matthews, Kristiana Coleman

[Kristiana Coleman] (Crash away!)
to Bridget Geroux, Hunter Matthews, Patrick Llewelyn

[Bridget Geroux] [totally crashable. I had B send out a text invite to Simon earlier. If Patrick has a phone, that would be a convenient entrance.]
to Hunter Matthews, Kristiana Coleman, Patrick Llewelyn

[Bridget Geroux] [I dunno if Nick is actually going to join or not though]
to Hunter Matthews, Kristiana Coleman, Patrick Llewelyn

[Hunter Matthews] "Soooo" He says after he has finished his first sandwich, reaching across the table to grab his coke and sip at it loudly.

"Things are tense yeah?" And suddenly there's a side of seriousness that neither of these two kinfolk have seen from the Ahroun.

"Tell me all about it."

[Bridget Geroux] Kristiana's idleness draws Bridget's attention. She smiles to the handsome, green-eyed Garou and nods her head. Her attention goes back to Krist for a moment. She leans down close and speaks quietly.

"Quelque chose sur votre esprit, de miel?" (Something on your mind, honey?)

It occurs to her that Kristiane is too shy and probably doesn't know much about what's going on, so Bridge explains while the blonde has time to think things over.

"Oh, excuse me. Yes. There have been a few attacks lately from our friends on the other side of things. One of yours fell today defending a cousin of mine."

One of yours. Obviously she means a Garou, because she has no idea of his tribe. Bridget is good at making the conversation appear casual on the surface.

[Kristiana Coleman] Her head shakes and she returns with her own quiet comment to Bridget.
"J'ai fait un fou de moi-même. Ma famille serait mortifié."

[Hunter Matthews] He sucks in his cheeks and the grip around his glass of coke visibly tightens before he relaxes.

"Mmph." Is all he says at first, just a grunt. "Never good." Of course, he is no stranger to death. It is something that those of his kind and even their half blood brothers and sisters have to deal with. Everyone has skeletons in their closet, everyone wishes they could have done more at some point in their life.

"Chicago's a rough town, that's fo'sho." His ears twitch at the sound of a foreign language and he casts a glance between the two kinfolk. He doesn't know what they are saying so he just admires the scenery. They are rather good looking.

"Je mai faire du velo." He randomly blurts out the horrible barely even French words. "S'all I know."

[Kristiana Coleman] She giggles a little "Je me faire du velo. You should not go to France, if all you know is how to claim a bicycle."

[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick doesn't own a cellphone, so it wasn't any invitation from the charismatic brunette Kinswoman of his tribe that brings him to the Cafe. It's just serendipity. The garage where the Galliard spent many of his days was only two blocks from where they currently sat, discussing the Fenrir who had fallen earlier today over caffeinated beverages with a near-stranger.

A more discreet Fianna might take them to account for that, so close on the heels of death by the Wyrm to be hanging about with just anyone who felt like they breathed and slept with Rage as a pillow at night. But -- Prayers to Broken Stone was not particularly discreet, and his Rage was not because he was so irate at another of his kind dying while he was not present to aid him.

He was not that honorable, not Patrick.
It was the waste.

When he reaches the Cafe, he pushes the door open abruptly, and cold swirls in, in the wake of his anger and jacket-clad figure; the collar turned up against the chill factor. Blue eyes flick about the diner, note the way the remaining patrons shift their weight awkwardly as his eye draws near them, spot the two Kinswoman with the unknown male and halt there a beat. There's the tightening of his mouth, and he returns his eyes to the menu.

[Bridget Geroux] [cha+emp. you'll see why]

[Bridget Geroux] Bridget is attentive, but there are two entirely different conversations going on and it has her attention split evenly. She's a lot more liberal in attitude when it comes to honorifics, and some Garou would find this behavior rude. Among the Fianna, however, she's being quite polite. Especially when you consider what Fianna she's been hanging out with lately.

"Yes. I was ambushed just last week. Luckily, I had some friends nearby and a shotgun handy," is all she says, but clearly there's a bigger story there.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I know some people think it's rude, but like I said, she is shy. Excuse me for just one second."

Bridget turns to Kristiana, touches her shoulder gently, and speaks to her with a soft, compassionate voice.

"Écoutez-moi Kristiane. Je n'aime pas vos traditions familiales, mais je sais deux choses. Ils ne sont pas ici pour être mortifié. Aussi, vous devez simplement vous-même être, car qui sait quand vous aurez l'occasion une fois que vous êtes marié."

She makes a damn convincing argument to the Silver Fang, who's already giggling when Patrick bursts through the door like the raging winter wind. His kinswoman immediately whips her head around at the sound, as if she's been caught off-guard. It doesn't make her argument less convincing.

However, the woman looks as if she has something urgent to do. Bridget looks to Hunter with wide eyes and raises to her feet.

"Excuse me. That is my cousin. I'll be right back."

And with that Bridget makes her way over towards the Welshman.

[Hunter Matthews] Well shit. Hunter Matthews doesn't really know what to pay attention to now. This cute little fianna got ambushed last week but fortunately she had a shotgun handy. Isn't that great. He's no fenrir, he doesn't perk up at the slightest inclination of a female wielding weaponry, but he's no child of Gaia either. He seems amused, impressed sure.. but amused.

His grin broadens into a smile and then a pfft of laughter.

"Well shieet girl, remind me not'ta bump into ya in a dark alley."

And when she gets up to leave his head turns to see what cousin she is talking about. He doesn't recognise him, so his gaze drifts back to Kristiana and he gives a shrug of his shoulders like Whatchu gon do?

[Kristiana Coleman] She winces slightly at whatever Bridget says to her, forcing a minuscule smile. When the woman scoots away, she glances to Hunter again, giving him a shy smile.

"How long has it been since you were in LA?"

[Kristiana Coleman] (Kicks AIM for dropping me)

[Hunter Matthews] "Oh, I stopped in not long ago just'ta check it out n'all. Ain't lived there in awhile now though, six months or so."

A pause and he sips obnoxiously at his coke through the pink straw that came with it.

"What'bout'chu?"

[Kristiana Coleman] "I've been here... two weeks? Almost three. You make it sound like it's been a lot longer"

[Hunter Matthews] The smile slowly drops from his face, only for a second before he runs a hand over his chin and smiles.

"Feels like it."

[Patrick Llewelyn] Bridget heads toward him and the Welsh-born Singer's shoulders tense. He turns his head to note her as she draws near in a cloud of pure breeding and nods, vaguely. He's very unfriendly tonight, apparently, or else his misery is just riding a little closer to the surface than usual.

Were his Alpha present, he'd note this was common for Patrick after someone he knew was cut down as a part of the War. His depression grew empowered, and threatened to overwhelm him, it was almost stifling right now, to be close to him, the way his eyes seemed to glow with some unspoken sentiment; the way his voice seemed in knotted with some low-level snarl cught in his throat.

"If you're coming to tell me about Night's Reprieve," he says in an undertone, handing money to the cashier and collecting his coffee. It steamed, black and bitter -- there was simile there, no doubt, between itself and its purchaser. "I already know," he moves, and the scent of coffee, and snow, and grease lingers.

"Been to the Caern."

[Kristiana Coleman] She stares at him for a full thirty seconds before glancing away again "Do you miss it?"

[Hunter Matthews] His eyes snap up from the glass of coke and meet Kristiana.

"What LA? Shit no." He laughs, a cheery bark of laughter. "I mean, it's'ma home town'n'all but nah, that's the past. Ain't nothin' for me there."

[Kristiana Coleman] "I thought it was nice, the few times I went there. Exciting." She stirs her coffee and sneaks looks at him. "I'm sorry about before. I didn't know who you were."

[Bridget Geroux] Bridget just stands there in awe of his rage and depression. She doesn't reach out for him, but she just stares... and nods quietly. She switches to Welsh so they can perhaps talk a bit freely. That Trilingual bitch!

"Doeddwn i ddim. Yr wyf yn cyfrifedig ydych yn gwybod. Fe ddes i weld sut ydych chi," she says with a certain softness in her voice. Her hands shiver from the sheer force of being caught between an Ahroun she doesn't know and this face of Patrick she was unfamiliar with.

"Roedd yn rhyfelwr wych."

Bless her for trying. The young woman, dressed like a total punk with a studded leather jacket, a blue tartan print dress, blue tights, thick black socks, and her usual combat boots. Her expression finally looks defeated, so she lowers her head and tucks a lock of dark hair behind her ear.

[For Jacqui: I didn't. I figured you knew. I came to see how you are.

He was a great warrior.]

[Hunter Matthews] He flaps his hand and then slaps it down on the table with a grin.

"Don't worry 'bout it. Hows you to know I ain't some horrible person? Never'pologise for bein' careful. Specially not in this town blondie."

[Kristiana Coleman] "Everybody says that. Like I'm going to be murdered at any second.

[Bridget Geroux] That is a very real possibility in this town. Kristiana doesn't know the half of it.

[hahaha look at my irrelevant commentary post!]

[Hunter Matthews] "Hah! Well, I mean. Happens to tha' best of us ya know? When ya see some battle hardened veteran full moon go down, hows one ta' think a halfies safe ya know?"

He shrugs.

"Do tha best we can n'all. And there's worse way's to go fo'sho."

Spoken like a true full moon.

[Kristiana Coleman] She nods a little, still stirring her coffee.

"Do you stay at the house?"

[Kristiana Coleman] (NM got it!)

[Hunter Matthews] "The house?"

It takes him a few seconds to realise what she's asking and as he does this he just blinks.

"Oooohhhh." a pause. "You mean tha' broho. Nah, ma Beta's got a sick ass warehouse out in bronzeville. It's mad. We stay out there, keep an eye on tha street's n'all."

He smiles and his eyes drift off into the distance.

"Brotherhood. Shit, ain't been there in ages."

[Kristiana Coleman] She puzzles out what he said, translating it into 'rich white girl' before nodding.

"You. Live in a warehouse. That's... lovely."

[Hunter Matthews] He frowns, not quite sure what she is trying to say by that. He sounds rather defensive and incredibly innocent when he says

"It's got rooms'n'all! And heaps'a space for fightin' and shit!"

[Simon Zahradnik] He had been summoned and so he arrived, like a really pissed off genie in a bottle who doesn't grant wishes but might kill you if you piss him off, the location was a little hard to run down but he arrived soon enough. Dressed well for the weather with an extra heavier coat atop his outfit. Goddamn the cold sometimes... Sure it might be natural and he might follow a god of the Storms but his god was a god of Thunder and Lightning and Rain! Not fuckin' ice! That shit was for Fenrir and Wendigo both of whom were known to have a major masochistic streak!

He arrived with his hoodie pulled over his head and a bandanna covering his mouth though the bandanna comes down and the hoodie is slipped off as soon as he enters to let the genuine warmth within slip back into his core. His eyes close for a moment or two and he just soaks it all in.

[Kristiana Coleman] "How lovely." She makes sure to add a bright smile now, so as to not be offensive.

[Hunter Matthews] "Yeah." And it's his turn to gulp and look at his drink before taking a loud slurp through that pink straw.

[Quinn] The entrance to the cafe opens, and in steps a tall, dark-haired kinswoman of the Fianna. As the door shuts, she unfastens her leather jacket, revealing a grey t-shirt with black heart outlines done in a brushed paint style. Jeans and heeled boots complete the outfit of the unusually somber Quinn.

She steps in and looks around, looking for a table whens she spots Patrick and Bridget, the first familiar faces she's seen outside of The Brotherhood and the bawn, outside of death and sorrow all day. Her eyes light up, more so than they have all day. She looks tired, the kinswoman. It was a long night, and has been a longer day. But when she spots the melancholy Galliard, she looks a little lighter.

Her steps carry her in a straight line toward him, and regardless of the conversation, despite who he's talking to, she grips him by the shoulder and turns him. Patrick has just enough time to register that she's not a threat, that she's his kinswoman, that he's being turned against his will before he finds Quinn's arms sliding around his shoulders and pulling him into a hug.

[Kristiana Coleman] She sighs and squirms in her seat.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Bridget talks to him in Welsh, perhaps in an attempt to console him for the loss.

But the problem was, Patrick's anger is not that of grief; or perhaps the grief is encased within his anger, who knew, but for the most part his reaction was the impotent rage of the nonbeliever. He was no pacifist the Fianna, he understood that War as a whole, as the kind humanity wrecked upon itself was sometimes a necessity. But he did not comprehend this war. This one he was branded for, that he bore scars as a result of.

Where was the good to it, where was the point.

Instead of headed to the table Bridget had been seated at, Patrick slides into an empty booth and presuming Bridget follows in his stead to finish addressing him, she gets his response, his voice melodic in the tongue of the Welsh, a strange juxtaposition to his Rage, and the cloud of misery cloaking him. "A oedd ef? Yr wyf prin wedi cael amser i wybod."

His eyes tick over her face, drop, fall away. He frames big hands around his cup. "Nid oes angen i wastraff tosturi ar mi, Bridget. Dydw i ddim yn galaru ef."

A beat, he grimaces.

"Yr wyf yn ddig am y rheswm pam ei fod yn marw."

He's lifting the coffee cup to his lips when Quinn enters. He'd been at the Caern, he'd heard the story of Night's Reprieve's own lack of such from death itself, and knew of the Fianna Kinwoman's own part in the events. He freezes mid sip and his pale eyes narrow fractionally as he watches her approach. Something flickers in those bright eyes, that's for sure. She reaches him, he's sitting, looking steadily at her.

She turns him, touches him and then puts her arms around him. For a moment, his eyes find Bridget over Quinn's shoulder and knit; then, slowly, stiffly, his arms enfold the Kinwoman and one braces the back of her head; much as one might imagine a parent would comfort a grieving child. He does not pet her; or rub her back, but rather simply holds her for a moment.

His expression tight.

[Translation: "Was he? I barely had time to know. You don't need to waste compassion on me, Bridget. I'm not mourning him. I am just angry at the reason why he's dead." ]

[Patrick Llewelyn] Bridget talks to him in Welsh, perhaps in an attempt to console him for the loss.

But the problem was, Patrick's anger is not that of grief; or perhaps the grief is encased within his anger, who knew, but for the most part his reaction was the impotent rage of the nonbeliever. He was no pacifist the Fianna, he understood that War as a whole, as the kind humanity wrecked upon itself was sometimes a necessity. But he did not comprehend this war. This one he was branded for, that he bore scars as a result of.

Where was the good to it, where was the point.

Instead of headed to the table Bridget had been seated at, Patrick slides into an empty booth and presuming Bridget follows in his stead to finish addressing him, she gets his response, his voice melodic in the tongue of the Welsh, a strange juxtaposition to his Rage, and the cloud of misery cloaking him. "A oedd ef? Yr wyf prin wedi cael amser i wybod."

His eyes tick over her face, drop, fall away. He frames big hands around his cup. "Nid oes angen i wastraff tosturi ar mi, Bridget. Dydw i ddim yn galaru ef."

A beat, he grimaces.

"Yr wyf yn ddig am y rheswm pam ei fod yn marw."

He's lifting the coffee cup to his lips when Quinn enters. He'd been at the Caern, he'd heard the story of Night's Reprieve's own lack of such from death itself, and knew of the Fianna Kinwoman's own part in the events. He freezes mid sip and his pale eyes narrow fractionally as he watches her approach. Something flickers in those bright eyes, that's for sure. She reaches him, he's sitting, looking steadily at her.

She turns him, touches him and then puts her arms around him. For a moment, his eyes find Bridget over Quinn's shoulder and knit; then, slowly, stiffly, his arms enfold the Kinwoman and one braces the back of her head; much as one might imagine a parent would comfort a grieving child. He does not pet her; or rub her back, but rather simply holds her for a moment.

His expression tight.

[Translation: "Was he? I barely had time to know. You don't need to waste compassion on me, Bridget. I'm not mourning him. I am just angry at the reason why he's dead." ]

[Bridget Geroux] [WHAT IS THAT LOOK PATRICK!!!
Per+Emp]

[Patrick Llewelyn] That look, that look is part confusion, part uncertainty.

Emotion, that look panics at. She wants comfort from me? There's incredulity to it, and some sense of reluctant acceptance that this was his role. He doesn't want it to be, but such is life, his eventual response to her embrace reads. She can see this, can sense that Patrick wants to help Quinn, but knows he's useless at it.
to Bridget Geroux

[Quinn] Quinn doesn't hold onto him for long, and when she pulls away, perhaps surprisingly there are no tears welling in her blue eyes as they did on Christmas night. There's a sadness, true, but it's not spilling over. She's not drowning.

When she pulls away, she doesn't linger on him but rather looks to her hands to begin peeling off a pair of blue and white knit gloves. They match the hat she wears. For the moment, she looks alright again, like that brief, awkward embrace was just the recharge her batteries needed.

"I'm surprised to see you guys here."

And then she looks up at them, barely a handful of seconds later. "Oh my god, were you on a date? I'm so sorry, I didn't even think..." Shoving her gloves into her pocket, she smiles at Bridget apologetically and starts treading backwards toward the counter. "Hey, good to see you."

[Bridget Geroux] Bridget certainly did not mean to "summon" Simon, merely grant a friendly invitation for him to get out of the packhouse if he wished. Thank goodness for the dark of the moon, or else the rage in this room would be entirely unbearable for the poor two kinfolk.

The people however, area different story. They pile out seemingly as Simon enters, followed by Quinn. She observes the exchange that goes on between them, saying nothing about what Patrick said to her.

They're seated at the back, probably taking up two tables' worth now, or fairly soon. Bridget squints at Patrick, then her face relaxes and she gives a very slight smile, nodding. He's doing the right thing.

Quinn starts asking strange questions. Bridget laughs and shakes her head. Her eyes drift over to Simon. She welcomes the Ahroun with a smile and gestures to a vacant seat.

"Hey, you made it. Great."

[Kristiana Coleman] Her eyes track Bridget as more people that she knows start to surround her, and lock on Simon when he enters.

[Kristiana Coleman] (BRB!)

[Hunter Matthews] His eyes lift from the table and his head turns to see where Bridget had got to. And there she is, with yet another pure blooded kinfolk and a pure blooded Garou. Shit. There's so much purity in here the Ahroun feels like he's stepped into the twilight zone.

Over hearing something he quirks a brow at the booth of blood nearby.

"Date? Shit bridgey, and here I was thinkin' we was on a date." He's grinning, probably joking, but he's always grinning so how the fuck can you tell?

"Ya know, you got me a sandwich, it was tasty. There were sparks." He flaps a hand and turns his eyes onto the tall.. jesus. Incredibly tall, OTHER fianna kin.

"Shit where they make you doll?" He says to her. "Grab a brew, come sit down. We'll start our own sandwich-romance and bridgey isn't invited." He smiles and holds out his left hand.

Which has a sandwich in it.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Quinn draws back after a few seconds of embracing, much, it should be easily read in Patrick's body language, to his relief. It was not the relief of the boy attacked by some female he had no interest in and was repulsed by but rather the action of someone clearly not at ease with close, physical contact of the sort that required the investment of his emotions, too.

Prayers to Broken Stone had enough trouble dealing with his own.

So she lets go, and says something about a date and Patrick's sandy eyebrows draw down over his eyes, his eyes flick to Bridget, then to Quinn when she starts backing up, still talking. In contrast to her constant motion, and words, the Galliard is like a statue. He's got both hands on the table and one eventually reclaims his coffee cup. But he doesn't prevent Quinn's departure any more than he prevented her from extracting from his physical presence the comfort she apparently needed.

He opens his mouth -- the other Garou starts calling things out, and his expression twists a little -- of course, then the Wyrmfoe is upon them, and the Gibbious moon draws in, rounds his shoulders down and hunkers a little over his coffee cup. He nods at Simon, but it's clipped. Terse.

"What is this." He mutters, for nobody's benefit but his own ears.

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon takes the time to pull his gloves off and look around the room slowly. His smile lifting when he catches sight of Bridget and then he glances at Quinn and finally in the direction of Patrick. His eyes linger there for several cautious moments as he takes the time to stuff his gloves into his coat.

However there is this nagging feeling rolling through him. The feeling that eyes are upon him, and soon enough his eyes find the source. He catches sight of Kristiana and his smile lifts just a little. He could feel the purity of her blood radiating off her in waves. In much the same way it radiated off Bridget. He took the time to nod his head in greeting to the Kin acknowledging the woman for what she was without really needing to shout it out across the room.

Before he could meet anyone, however, he needed to get something. Coffee was always good... Maybe a little snack. So up he went to the counter flashing a smile to Bridget in passing. She had invited him and so it would be impolite of him not to at least show he was there even if she appeared at first glance to be quite busy. No worries he could use something to eat anyway so it really wasn't a big deal.

[Bridget Geroux] Bridget finishes her damn sandwich before everyone decides to label her the town slut without her knowledge. The punk-for-a-night does so while she can, then washes it down with her coffee, glad to not have to talk to anyone or be split between three conversations for one gorram moment.

But surely the moment fades when she feels Simon eyeballing her and Kristiana. It brings a smile again.

"Anyone up for a game of poker?" she asks finally. "I don't have much cash, but we could always swap favors or something."

[Quinn] Bridget laughs, Patrick stands stone still. No one denies that the two Fianna are here together. Together together. Maybe on another day Quinn would look more closely at the pair of them, see more than what's just on the surface. Today she simply doesn't have the energy.

Backing toward the counter, she catches the attention of a stranger. A stranger with Rage. Quinn stops and looks at him, brow quirked with disbelief and amusement. Her blue eyes study his face before dropping to the offered sandwich. Casting a glance back toward Bridget, she gives her a look. You know this guy? It's not really a confirmation she's looking for, but more of a Seriously?

And she shrugs, because why not? Lifting her messenger bag from her shoulder, she sets it carefully on the floor and takes a seat between the Garou and the quiet kinswoman.

"No thanks," she says to Bridget over her shoulder. "Unless you're planning on wagering for sandwiches?" she asks Hunter. Shrugging out of her jacket, she leaves it draped over the back of her chair. That grey t-shirt is worn over a white long-sleeved shirt, and she leaves her hat on. Holding out her hand for the sandwich, she asks, "What kind is it?"

[Bridget Geroux] "It was just an idea," she says with a shrug. Bridget confirms with Quinn that, yes, she knows Simon.

She moves closer to Quinn and whispers something in her ear. A devious kinfolk plot of the notorious knitting circle fellowship called Sluts Anonymous. To be sure!

[Hunter Matthews] He seems absolutely jubilant that this tall kinswoman has not only accepted his offer of a seat but is now possibly about to accept his offer of a sandwich too. It's not often the Gnawer gives away food, the fact that he didn't pay for it is beside the point. It's his now, given to him. And now he's handing it to Quinn.

"Smoked chicken, avocado, salad.. things like that."

And it's passed over.

He sips on his pink straw, peering at Quinn as he does so. Slurp.

"I'm Hunter." He says after his thirst is quenched.

[Quinn] "Oh, sounds pretty good." Pulling a napkin from the dispenser, she unfolds it one-handed into a makeshift plate and rests the sandwich there for a bit. "I'm--"

A tap on her shoulder, and Quinn leans back to catch a whisper in her ear. Her brows lift, her head angles at the strange Ahroun -- not at all a surprise -- and her mouth quirks in a smile. "Thanks, Bridget. And she turns to whisper somewhat loudly, or at least loud enough for their table to hear, "Don't leave your date alone too long, he'll turn into a statue."

Slurp.

A low chuckle, and her attention is back to her own small gathering. "I'm Quinn. Thanks for the sandwich."

[Patrick Llewelyn] Quinn needs him to be something to her, perhaps simply to stand up and go to her and correct the assumption he's here on a date with Bridget, the woman who has been spending time with and at the very least kissing his Alpha under mistletoe and while high. He has no idea what Simon wants from him with that glance shot his way -- probably for him to get up and inform him that he didn't mean any of what he'd said the last time they met and could he be put to work, Sir.

Please, Sir.
Or, something.

But the blond Galliard doesn't do any of that when he does get to his feet. "I need some air," he informs, who, exactly, and strides to the door; pushing it open and stepping out into the freezing night. He lets the oxygen out of his lungs, Patrick and moves a few paces from the door.

A packet of cigerattes; Howard's brand, is extracted from his pocket and he taps one out, scowling into the night in reaction to the chill rather than the result of some mood.

Shk, shk

The lighter flares to life, and he bends to light the end of the smoke; the eerie orange glow giving the Garou a scarier presence than perhaps he warrants.

[Quinn] [Aw, what's up, Pat?: empatheee]

[Hatchet] And what to Patrick's wondering eyes should appear but a jolly old elf and an utter and complete lack of reindeer.

He's just strolling by. Patrolling the area, maybe. Checking on an old apartment, maybe. Or walking. Walking through the cold, familiarizing himself with the city that changes too much in eight months. He pauses when he sees Patrick outside lighting up, tips his head, then comes and quite silently stands beside the other Fiann.

[Hunter Matthews] He sits there patiently, big emerald eyes staring at her and his face tensed in a grin of anticipation. Go on, eat it! Eat it up! But she has to thank him first so he finally relaxes and lets out a breath, leans back in his chair.

"No probs, Quinn. Quinn hah! Like that old show fuckin' what's it called. When we was little the fuckin' nurse at the orphanage was like"

And his voice changes into something trying to resemble an old woman.

"Take ya fuckin' medicine or sully will getcha with a fuckin' tomahawk!"

[Patrick Llewelyn] [Man + 'Sub', just because. Watch this hilarity. +1 Diff because of his complete and utter lack of credibility without Sub.]

[Bridget Geroux] Bridget watches Patrick leave in a huff to go get filtered air. Bridget shakes her head, squints, and makes a hand gesture as if to say. No, you've got it wrong.

Brown eyes do flick back to watch Patrick smoke, however.

Jeez, Quinn. You playin matchmaker or somethin? she thinks to herself, staring back at her coffee with wide eyes.

Soon enough, she's distracted. The girl retrieves her harmonica from her bag and starts to furiously polish it. After Paul put his skeezy paws all over it, she hasn't felt like taking the senitmental heirloom out in front of the other Garou.

But now she does. What Hunter says catches her off guard. Bridget looks puzzled for a moment, but finally puts it together.

"You watch Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman?" she asks flatly, eyebrow quirked.

[Patrick Llewelyn] He's angry. He's rankled by the Wyrmfoe's presence and he's not sure how to deal with what just happened between Quinn, himself and Bridget. Patrick is not someone accustomed to being held to account for anyone but himself -- and Howard. The entire scene is making him edgy.

He can't deal.
to Quinn

[Kristiana Coleman] (My internets hate me :( )

[Kristiana Coleman] The Fang kin comes shuffling back in from her lengthy phone call, scowling and making her way back toward Bridget.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Alright, so storming out of the Cafe was amateur.

Were Howard present he'd be giving him grief for it via totem-phone, calling him names and questioning his manhood. But, then again, that was pretty much every other day of the week for Howard and Patrick; the lads of Volcano. In so many ways their totem was so well suited to one who could not hold his tongue, and one who did until he could no longer and said the unspeakable things.

The simmering and the explosion.

Right now, as Buried Hatchet comes to stand beside him, Prayers to Broken Stone was neither; he was the smoldering ruin after the fact. He offers the cigarette to the Fostern silently; and lets out a long breath of smoke; it's captured by the wind, and dragged off to pollute the ozone.

"Patrolling?" He asks idly. "Or caffeine hit?"

[Hatchet] One question about Hatchet is answered when he takes the cigarette from Patrick and puts it to his mouth, but what that question is depends on who is wondering about answers, at all. He takes a practiced but unaffected drag and then hands it back as he exhales. "Walking," he says lightly, and glances over his shoulder through the window of the brightly-lit cafe. Sees people. Smells and senses breeding, and his eyes fix on Bridget, then Quinn. But he doesn't go inside. He looks back to Patrick.

"Having a moment, or are they just all non-smokers and wouldn't join you for a puff? I mean not that it isn't positively balmy out here, but it seems kind of depressing nobody would keep you company."

His tone is dry. His wit is, too. He laughs, and Patrick's seen it, but what levity there is to Buried Hatchet is kept neatly in check by a profound groundedness. If Patrick had known him before he left, he wouldn't recognize him at all. And: he'd recognize him too well.

He holds out his fingers for the cigarette, after Patrick has another hit.

[Bridget Geroux] Kristiana storms back in from where Patrick left. Either the combined Rage in the room has the Canadian jittery and nervous as hell (hence her behavior), or she just-- no, it's just that she is feeling a bit uncomfortable.

So she does something that might mortify the Silver Fang kin. She gets a big grin, stretches her arms out.

"Mon amour. Nous pouvons courir loin de tout ça!"

In this moment, she's channeling pure Howard, only she has a moticom of tact by reverting to French. She pats her knee at the kin, then starts laughing hysterically.

"Je suis désolé. Désolé! Revenez. Vous avez été cruellement défaut." The tone is more sober.

[Quinn] Quinn is distracted from conversation with Hunter as a familiar brush of Rage stalks past. Her head snaps up, and she watches Patrick, sees the conflict on his face. A part of her wants to reach out to him, touch his hand, do something.

But she knows better. She didn't even know she wanted comfort from the Galliard when she entered the cafe, just knew that when she saw him, one of the few people she's spent the most time with in this city, it hit her. She lost a friend this morning. And damn it, she just needed a hug. Patrick isn't the same. He needs solitude and air. So she lets him go.

Which keeps her from catching what Hunter says until Bridget asks that flat question. Quinn fixes the Ahroun with a stern eye, one belied by the grin that curves full lips.

"Oh my god, don't you even...Do you know how many people made fun of me in grade school for that?" Chuckling, she leans back in her seat, and makes a show of straightening her napkin. Then she picks up her sandwich and takes a bite. "Mmwow," she says, after she's had a moment to masticate and swallow most of that first bite, "this is pretty good. You've got good taste in sandwiches, Hunter. I approve."

[Kristiana Coleman] She laughs, hugging Bridget and surprising herself by kissing the other Kin's cheek.

"Je suis d'accord. Allons rejoindre le cirque."

[Patrick Llewelyn] "Neither," he answers after the Philodox's queries.

Breathes out; turns his head so that Hatchet is no longer gifted with merely his profile; the suggestion of whatever it is Patrick is hiding out from; pretending isn't affecting him. Or simply his detachment from everything. "It's just stifling." He qualifies; and doesn't expand on it.

Just hands the cigarette back to the other Garou.

"Another one died last night, first one to go here that I knew." A beat, he ducks his head, his face forms the portrait of negligent distaste for it.

[Hunter Matthews] His smile cracks wide and his mouth opens in silent laughter when Quinn begins her swift shut down of any future Dr Quinn jokes. It calms and relaxes as she eats and his lips press back together. He seems proud, like only a Gnawer can be.

"Hells yea, tasty eh? But nah, can't be makin' too many jokes." That's a lie, he can and may. "Ain't seen much of that show ya see?" And he offers the words to both Bridget and Quinn. "Had ta' have good behaviour ta' get TV privileges."

He makes it sound like the orphanage was a prison. It probably was.

[Bridget Geroux] Two cute french-speaking girls of good breeding. Surely, this is some sort of Garou porn waiting to happen. Only, it's not. Because no one is that lucky.

Bridget returns the cheek kiss, because it's customary. "Yes, the circus. We must!"

She laughs again and returns to her coffee. Hunter talks about the TV show, but she has nothing really to say about it.

"I think we had three channels on a good day back at the cabin."

[Hatchet] If Patrick is lying -- he might me -- and Hatchet can tell -- he could if he wanted to know -- the Philodox doesn't call him out on it. The Galliard, not terribly surprisingly, mentions the honored dead.

Hatchet just nods, absently. "I heard. I didn't know him." And that's it. No sorry, no that sucks, because the criteria Patrick mentioned were just that Night's Reprieve was the first one here that he actually knew. Others have died, other places. Others have died that he didn't know. So it goes. Hatchet expresses neither sympathy nor sorrow.

He takes the cigarette one last time, hands it back again, and looks at the other man. "Thanks for the smoke. Can't stop walking, though. You get too cold if you just stand still."

With a little nod, and a second glance at the girls inside as though to implant their faces into his memory, Hatchet pushes off from the wall and puts his hands in his pockets. He walks on down the sidewalk, and he doesn't freeze. Tonight.

[Kristiana Coleman] She settles in again, pushing her cold coffee away from her.

"We have a screening room, with cable and two satellite services"

[Quinn] "Hm," she says, because it's all she can say with a mouth full of delicious deli sandwich. It's obvious she has a question, though, in the way her brows quirk and the way her jaw works just a little faster.

Before she can fully swallow her most recent bite, Bridget mentions three channels. Quinn's brow quirks, and whatever she was going to ask gets lost when she swivels to look at the girls at the booth. "You should sit with us. I mean," angling her head to include Hunter, "I don't think he really meant you weren't invited to the sandwich date, did you?"

[Bridget Geroux] "Girl!" Bridget exclaims in shock. "I need to take you camping the second this chilly weather goes away. You need to get out into the world."

Quinn's talking to her again. She looks like she's been caught in the headlights because, frankly, she has deep respect for the woman. Actually, there's not a single kinfolk she's met yet that she doesn't have respect for.

"Oh, no," she replies, then takes Kristiana's hand. "We should go be social. It's good for your skin, donchaknow?" Bridget fakes her best Palin impression.

[Hunter Matthews] A laugh is left out with a pftt of pursed lips at Kristiana's comment and he taps his chin as if he's thinking about whether or not the other two are invited to the sandwich date, green eyes resting on each kinswoman one by one.

"I dunno.. I mean.. It's getting kinda' intimate'n'all. First a sandwich, then maybe we share a piece'a cheesecake next thing ya' know we're shoppin' for strollers."

[Kristiana Coleman] "Camping" She says it slowly, in a tone much like one she'd use if Bridget suggested they get naked and wrestle in sewage.

[Quinn] Quinn laughs at that. "I think you're missing a few very important steps there, hon. Cheesecake does not lead to strollers, unless it's some kind of chocolate covered, chocolate crusted, chocolate madness."

[Hunter Matthews] "Camping! Shit!" And he looks utterly enthused. "We should totes do it. I mean, It's fuckin' winter'n'all but who cares right? Get some warm clothes, head out to tha woods for a campin' trip."

[Quinn] "Yeah, you have fun with that," Quinn chuckles. "I'll save my camping trips for when I don't need to use a jackhammer to break through the ground to plant the stakes."

[Bridget Geroux] "Yes, camping," she repeats. "I swear, get a bunch of people together and you won't miss the electricity. We might even be able to rent a cabin."

Bridget leaves out that she knows well enough how to survive without most things... like packaged food. The fact that the bumpkin has trapped rabbits and gone deer hunting with her Dad is... well... unspoken. Simon is the only one present who knows about it at all.

She seeks him out in the crowd, having nearly forgotten about him.

Hunter says something that catches her attention. She lights up. "Tabernak! Hells yeah." Bridget makes a face.

"You need a few people or it's not so much fun."

[Kristiana Coleman] She blinks at Bridget, then Hunter, then at Bridget again, looking more and more horrified as the seconds tick by.

"What do you mean, not miss the electricity? There's no electricity?!?"

[Hunter Matthews] Hunter's eyes flick to Quinn like he's taking mental notes.

"Right so.." And he pretends to write on the back of his hand. "Campin's out, but what was that? Chocolate covered madness chocolate crusted with chocolate -- " He pauses. "What about strawberries, where does that get me? Bottle'a wine?"

[Bridget Geroux] The Canadian cracks up at Kristiana's reaction. As if she'd die without her connection to the world. Tears come to her eyes, and she can hardly breathe for a moment. She just, loses her shit.

When she finally does come to, Bridget wipes her tears and looks for Simon, still giggling.

"Oh dear," she says with a sigh.

"Kristiane, do you know you have cousins that do without it their entire lives? They do without electricity, spas, smart phones, even hot showers. And they do just fine."

She giggles again,"They have fur though, so I guess that makes things a bit different."

[Kristiana Coleman] "But. I'm rich. I don't have to do without anything." She likely doesn't even realize how that sounds. It all makes perfect sense in her head.

[Quinn] "It's out for now," Quinn corrects, pointing her index finger down at her crumb covered napkin. "And I think," those incredibly blue eyes of her move up to the overhead lighting, and she squints in thought, "a bottle of wine will get you varying degrees of hand-holding, depending on how good it is."

It's obvious, at least from where she's sitting, that Kristiana and Bridget are talking from opposite sides of a spectrum. Namely, Bridget on one side, who knows a thing or fifty about surviving outdoors, and Kristiana, who does not. Quinn watches their interaction, smiling. Then she folds up her napkin, pushes first one arm, then the other into her leather coat, and shrugs it on.

"Well, ladies and gent, it's been real. I'm gonna grab a coffee to go and head out. Something tells me I should start keeping an eye out of strollers, just in case." She winks at Hunter, goodnatured and friendly rather than alluring and enticing. And she pushes her chair back and rises.

[Hunter Matthews] He's stands when she does.

Oh sit down Hunter. But he doesn't.

"Yeah, okay well. How bout' I let you buy me'a coffee ta' go as well and if we happen ta' see a shop sellin' strollers I mean--"

And he grins at her.

"No harm in just browsin' right?" His tone turns falsely serious. "I mean it'd be such a shame not to, what with all em' afta christmas specials n'all."

He raises an eyebrow at her.

[Simon Zahradnik] Somewhere in all the confusion Simon stops to look at Quinn and then over at the others and then, finally, back to Quinn. He lifts his muffin to his lips and takes a bite. He chews quietly while studying the woman with curious eyes as she wanders out before shifting his eyes towards Bridget and her friend.

"Busy place tonight."He says to Bridget before smiling politely and pulling up a seat nearer to her.

[Bridget Geroux] To this, Bridget just shakes her head, finishes her cold coffee. Hunter says something that is definitely eyebrow-quirk worthy. She's done trying to convince Kris that she needs to delight in the outdoors, because she knows the Babe would be miserable in the woods.

But at least she found potential camping buddies, even if they are jesting about future baby-making plans. Masterful, Quinn.

It has to be getting late. Bridget checks her watch, then her phone. She's missed a call from her Dad in all of this. A scowl forms. The drag and shuffle of Simon moving catches her attention. She turns her head.

"Oh, hey."

[Kristiana Coleman] She squirms around a little, enough to lean her head on Bridget's shoulder and more or less keep her voice to a whisper.

"Qui est votre ami avec les tatouages?"

[Bridget Geroux] To this, Bridget blushes. Bright friggen red. She met Kris the night she drunkenly said something stupid about getting into trouble. She hides her face by whispering back to the female.

"Seigneur des ombres. Il ya une pleine lune," she replies.

"Simon, this is Kristiana Coleman," she decides to introduce the two so she can turn her head down, pretending to dig furiously through her bag while hoping Kristiana doesn't remember or doesn't say anything.

[Kristiana Coleman] She apparently doesn't.

She does, however, offer her hand and an excessively charming smile to Simon. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

[Quinn] No harm in just browsin' right?

Quinn bends to retrieve her bag and pulls it up to her shoulder. She takes a moment to fasten up her coat before pulling out her gloves. When the Ahroun stands, one this becomes abundantly obvious: in these shoes, at least, Quinn is taller. Adjusting her hat, she says, "Sure, why not. I could use the escort." She's smiling when she says it, but she means it.

After all, she was jumped outside her own bar this morning. It can't hurt to have a bodyguard of sorts on her arm.

"Alright, I guess we're out. See you around, Bridget. Oh, hi," she says to Simon before she goes, and she looks a little surprised to see him. "I didn't recognize you without the elf costume. Happy new year, everyone." Nodding her head, after you at Hunter, the Gnawer and the Fianna exit the cafe, with a brief pit-stop for a couple of coffees.

[Bridget Geroux] Bridget waves at her kinswoman before she leaves. (meant to add that)

[Simon Zahradnik] He looks towards the other woman and takes the offered hand in his own."And you as well... I take it this means you two know each other then?"He asks with a soft little laugh before taking another bite from his muffin. He looks between the two of them and then back to Bridget.

"Have you met Kate yet? She's a sweetheart you should really meet her before too long. i'm sure there's a few others but she's the important one I guess."He says before turning his head back to Bridget."So what's up?"He asks her with a little smile."I got a text to meet you here. I am assuming you aren't in any kinda trouble by this point."

[Simon Zahradnik] He looks up at Quinn and grins back and nods his head."Well I do like to get festive."He says with a nod of his head."You two take care."

[Kristiana Coleman] "I haven't met her officially yet." A slight blush starts to creep up her neck, but she squeezes his hand and amps up the smile a tiny bit to cover her discomfort.

"I keep her out of trouble, usually."

[Hunter Matthews] "Nice ta meet ya Bridget, Kristiana. Try not ta' let her scare ya off campin' by the way. S'all good fun."

And his eyes tip upwards ever so slightly to meet Quinn's. This makes him grin, makes him smile that smile of his and when they step out onto the street he tucks a hand against his hip, offering his arm to her.

They see my stroller, they hatin'..

[Bridget Geroux]

[Bridget Geroux] "Oh, no. I just wasn't sure about that guy, and I was in the area."

And... her composure is regained. There's a slight twitch in her face between movements from having her attention drawn from the bag to Simon and Kristiana.

"Yeah, she's my conscience. Who knew?"

Her smile seems genuine.

[Kristiana Coleman] "I am." She nods in agreement, then drops her voice to a near whisper for Bridget again.

"Il est mignon. Vraiment, vraiment mignon."

[Kristiana Coleman] (He's. Not it's. Oops)

[Bridget Geroux] "Oui, il est. Je pense qu'il pourrait ne pas être ... droite? Je ne sais pas. J'ai l'habitude de traîner autour de lui beaucoup avant Caldera s'est présenté," she replies to Kris. Her words are deliberate so the important ones do not come across as cognates.

Afterwards, she gives Simon a smile.

"Do you mind? You told me to give you a buzz anytime."

[Simon Zahradnik] He nods his head slowly and smiles between the two."Conscience... Damn. I hear I could use one of those things. You mind if I borrow yours sometime?"He asks Bridget with a playful smile of his own before glancing back to Kristiana.

"I dunno about that guy."He says looking at the door as Hunter walks away."I mean I've seen him around but that's about it. i'm sure you're safe with him though. Least I think you're safe. I've never personally determined this or anything."

[Patrick Llewelyn] Eventually, the Fianna re-enters the Cafe.

He brings with him the wash of cigarettes; and the cold. He glances in passing at Bridget, Kristiana, Simon. Makes some mental note of who has departed and walks on by to reclaim his very likely all but stone cold coffee. He picks it up, and downs the entirety of it in a single gulp.

Impressive, were it not, as suspected, luke-warm. "I'm headed out," he calls to Bridget, and turns the collar of his jacket up, then heads for the door to do just that.

[Kristiana Coleman] Her eyes darken just a touch when Simon's playful smile is directed at Bridget. After all, she's used to being the girl that gets all the attention.

[Bridget Geroux] Patrick re-enters. Bridget raises her eyebrows. "Okay, bye Patrick!"

Only after he leaves does she swear under her breath. "Fuck. I meant to ask him where their packhouse is."

Read more...

Brawlin' at the Winchester [Quinn, Howard, Night's Reprieve, Rain]

[Quinn] [Quinn] It's a good thing he doesn't get far. It's good that he's Garou, that he's strong enough to catch a kinswoman falling off a bar-top. Almost before she goes over, he's there, hands moving to her hips, catching her. Turning her head, Quinn barely avoids cracking her nose into the solid muscle of his shoulder, slaps it instead with her cheek. Her arms drape over his shoulder and around his other arm, and for a brief second, she's still half-perched on the bar, one leg having unfolded just a little bit too late to stop this whole thing happening in the first place.

The second passes, and Quinn carefully lowers herself to the floor, one sneaker touching down, then the other. Leaning back so that her hands are on his shoulders, she looks up at him, her face a little flushed, her heart racing from a near-catastrophe.

"Thanks," she says with a shaky laugh. It doesn't even occur to her to blame him for it. She shouldn't have been so hasty, should have simply hopped down from the bar like a normal person.

[Night's Reprieve] All these good things combine to create one very bad thing, Night's Reprieve with his hands on the kinfolk. He caught her, of course he did, but now he won't let go or at least it seems like he may have forgotten how to. Thankfully she turned her head in the fall to avoid breaking her nose, so when she carefully slides her feet down to the floor and looks up at him, there isn't blood dripping down her face. No in fact her face looks quite nice, flushed with colour from her little accident.

When she lowers herself, his hands go with her, fingertips and thumbs wrapped around her hips, and the slightest touch on his shoulders makes him forget himself for a moment. There is that, her hands are still on him also though probably without the same intent. Five seconds ago he was going to walk away, now he's about to do something incredibly stupid.

Thanks she says, and laughs a shaken up sort of laugh to which he growls. Or something of a growl. He lets out a low rumbling mmm and tips his head. Why isn't he letting go? Let go you stupid Fenrir. But he's just staring at her, with that inhuman gaze that only a Garou can give.

"You should be more careful."

[Howard Ivers] OH MY GOD I SAID NO BARE ASSES

[Quinn] He helps her to the floor, and for a moment they just stand there, staring at each other. For Quinn's part, there is no nefarious intent involved in her having her hands on his shoulder. The Godi is a solid figure to steady herself on, a place to remain until her nerves have settled. It doesn't take long at all, but Quinn looks up at Night's Reprieve with a look of dawning comprehension. Smiling a bit awkwardly, she pats him on the shoulder.

She clucks her tongue against her teeth. Moving her hands to his, she pushes them away.

"So! Uh, I think it's break time. Guys?" Stepping away from Night's Reprieve, she looks at the kinfolk, staring back at them with wide eyes. Their looks make her laugh despite herself. Going to her bag, she takes out her wallet and removes a few bills. "Can you guys go get food? Just McDonald's or some pizzas or something." Guys. Both of them are expected to go and leave the kinswoman and the Godi alone after that? They look at each other, though, and shrug. Accepting the money, they take off out the door.

This time, when Quinn perches herself somewhere, she sits on the edge of an unfinished table top. "So." One word, and one word only, but it expresses the awkwardness she feels pretty completely. Wrapping her hands around the table's edge, she kicks her feet.

[Night's Reprieve] That's all it takes. Her hands nudging his and he snaps out of it. Oh and how he feels like a complete idiot when he does. Back to work, back to business. The look fades from the Godi and he makes all sorts of promises to himself to keep it that way. If she feels awkward then it's naught but a shadow compared to the awkwardness of the Fenrir. When she steps away he clears back out into that safety zone of being X amount of distance away from said kinfolk who better Garou could make use of. He bends and picks up the fallen sandpaper from the floor and scrubs at a tabletop almost with his back to Quinn.

He really doesn't want to show his face right now.

And how he scrubs, like he's trying to break the damn piece of furniture, like it's done him some horrible injustice and is now being punished for it.

"So." He repeats and the word sound harsh even in his own ears.

Scrub scrub scrub.

If he thought running away right now would make things better he might do just that. But they would run into each other again, and it would be even more awkward because of it.

[Howard Ivers] The combination of having a fairly distinctive voice and an inability to be quiet when common sense and good judgment would dictate that such a thing is necessary makes mistaking Howard for someone else difficult. Even from blocks away, previous packmates and acquaintances have cited the ease with which they've been able to identify him simply based on the decibel level of whatever happened to be coming out of his mouth at the time.

It's morning, and he's, of course, coming down off of last night's inebriation far too slowly for his brother's liking.

"Oh, piss off, gat!" his voice comes from outside the Winchester as the two inside are trying to regain their footing. Distance and architecture conceal the fact that a thinner body is shoving a larger one. "Maybe you should tell your sister to stop fuckin' ringin' me up, huh?"

[Quinn] With is back almost to her, he can't see the look on her face when she cants her head at an angle, watching what she can see of what he's doing. Mostly she listens.

He can hear her huff of a laugh. "Please don't break the table. I spent every last dime I had on paint and varnish and the risers for the stage. Those kids just took my last twenty, and I hope they come back with food because otherwise I'm screwed until my first tips. I really can't afford to replace a table right now."

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [Son of a... Punch!]
to Howard Ivers

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [Damage + 2 + Volcano]
to Howard Ivers

[Howard Ivers] [Yeah right.]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Night's Reprieve] His head snaps up like she just said something far less polite than she actually did, but his sanding slows in pace to something more relaxed and casual. Finally he drops the sandpaper down and props himself up on the table which causes him to turn to face her. Somewhere outside there is shouting and Night's Reprieve quirks a brow.

"We should just, yeah. Nothing happened." A pause as the shouting continues, the voice is muffled from inside yet it sounds familiar. He looks from the door to Quinn and back again. "You want me to check it out?"

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Howard's voice carries; Patrick's ... not quite as much.

That isn't to say that the very distinct sounds of shoving and -- "Don't talk about sister like that, you dick!" -- THUNK a fist connecting with a face don't carry; nor Patrick's raised voice at that, presently. Outside of the Winchester, there's a fight starting.

Or finishing.

Patrick Llewelyn was shaking out his fist; glowering in he direction of his pack-mate.

[Howard Ivers] Patrick ought to know as well as anyone still living that the Theurge doesn't know when to quit. The Godi inside is starting to get this impression, and this only after only having spent perhaps an hour in his company altogether. It isn't that he's any more strong-willed or convicted than any other Cliath to ever walk the face of the planet; it's that he's stupid, and though he possesses a street smarts that lets him read complete strangers and negotiate with criminals, for some reason he loses this ability when he feels safe.

Which could be flattering, knowing that Howard considers himself safe around Patrick even when the man is capable of beating him into a pulp, but not so much when it enables him to make jokes about Patrick's sister.

They're not screwing around: Howard doesn't yell in mock outrage as he does when Patrick gives him an open-palmed thwap as a warning.

"Oi!" he says, more to get Patrick's attention than to protest the treatment. Of course he thinks this is funny. "Twenty-five is well above the age of consent in all fifty states! At least she isn't fifteen and tryin' to get me to shag her!"

Night's Reprieve and Quinn just hear silence immediately preceding that bit of brilliant logic. They miss the expression on his face, the one that usually comes before he appends a statement with ... again.

[Quinn] Quinn looks up at him, completely serious faced for all of the time it takes her to pantomime locking her lips with a key. Which she then negates with a frown and, "Wait, nothing did happen."

She turns when she hears the sound of people outside fighting, she twists at the waist and looks at the entrance. As if she'd be able to see through the walls to the outside world and see who it is causing such a ruckus out there. Reaching back behind her, she pulls her bag toward her, reaches in and pulls out the Ruger. "Nah, I got this," she says, and rises.

Peering carefully outside, she sees...

Sighing, she sets the safety and holds the gun to her side. Opening the door wider, she stands there, letting the cold air wash over her, and doesn't let it stop her from leaning against the door, arms crossed over her midsection, gun held by muzzle rather than the grip.

"I thought bar fights generally happened inside bars?"

[Night's Reprieve] "That's what I said!" He looks at her incredulously, but she's got this so he just lets out a sigh and goes back to sanding.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [I SAID, don't talk about my sister!]

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Here's the thing about Howard and Patrick.

They're mates. Good mates, over and above the fact that they're linked by Volcano they would likely still be friends even were their totem to abandon them tomorrow. Being packed under such a violent force however, does bring with it some issues. Like the fact that losing your temper seems completely valid when your pack-mate is suggesting your sister, who is the only family member who doesn't spend hours telling you all the ways you haven't succeeded yet should stop calling him for sex.

Or whatever else Howard was implying.

They may not actually mean what they're brawling about; but then again, as Patrick's fist again sails through the air with force behind it; even as it continues past Howard's jaw, he doesn't seem to be holding back as he has when Quinn witnessed them play fighting. But, they were Garou. They didn't care for injuries the same way a human would.

The Galliard grunts when he misses, and swings for his pack-mate again.

Howard is already bleeding from Patrick's first blow; and neither man seemed ready to give up just yet.

"Yeah, well at least other Garou haven't tried to mac on my face."

[Howard Ivers] Quinn comes outside to see what the hell is going on on her property, leads with a joke, and Howard--sunglasses covering his eyes, lip split from where Patrick socked him the first time--barely turns his head as he holds up a finger.

"One sec, love."

Pointing that same finger at Patrick, he acquires a tone of mock indignation.

"You leave that poor, sweet... garbage-scented Rat out of this! Who cares that she had like one tooth left her whole head? All she wanted was love! Is that so wrong?"

He can't keep this up. The thought is too nauseating.

"Your sister, however..."

[Night's Reprieve] While the fighting goes on outside, and Quinn goes to investigate, Night's Reprieve has a little chat with himself while he scrubs at the table.

"She's a lesbian, what did you expect you idiot. Duh. Rain is way hotter than you. You're not even allowed at slumber parties." A pause and he looks up into empty space. "Fuckin' slumber parties."

[Quinn] [perception, diff +2 (distracted and mostly outside)]

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Patrick's eyebrows crawl up to next in his hairline.

He shakes his head slightly from side to side and inches forward like a cage-fighter; Howard gets to "Your sister--" and Prayers to Broken Stone is on him; plowing his full body weight into the other Garou with the force of a freight train. Strapping lad, was Patrick.

"That's it!" He's yelling, as he tackles Howard.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [Nest, not next. Tsh.]

[Quinn] ...at least other Garou haven't tried to mac on my face.

At that, Quinn rolls her eyes skyward, as if asking the clouds overhead to grant her strength. Without another word to the kids brawling in the street, she steps back inside and shivers. Luckily for the Godi, Quinn's attention while he had his little chat to himself goes completely unnoticed. At least by her, anyway, and the walls aren't talking. At least not so that Quinn can hear them. "It's colder than a witch's tit out there."

It's probably the most colorful thing Quinn's said within anyone's hearing in Chicago, except perhaps Rain, who had the benefit of spending the night downing beers with the Fianna woman.

The gun goes back into her bag, and while Night's Reprieve continues sanding away at a table, Quinn once again uses a bar stool as a boost up onto the bar itself, swings her legs over, and hops down onto the other side. Much more gracefully than the last time she came down from it. Picking up her own scraper once more, she begins peeling away the finish. What was on there is yellowish and faded and chipped and worn. The new finish should be significantly classier.

"Ah. I should call the guys and tell them to use the back entrance," she says, fishing her cell phone from her pocket and dialing the number. She flashes Night's Reprieve a lopsided grin and rolls her eyes, shakes her head. When they've been duly warned, she sets to work again.

"So. How'd you get to Chicago from Nawlins?" she asks, her accent on New Orleans laughably exaggerated. She moves forward from that strange moment of...something...easily enough. Quinn's good at moving forward from things that are uncomfortable to talk about.

[Night's Reprieve] He spins around when he hears Quinns voice again. Colder than a witches tit and he almost spits. That's the second time this morning that he hasn't been entirely sure that he heard her correctly. Maybe grandpa fenrir's senses are going in his old age. She doesn't talk about what's going on outside, and Night's Reprieve stares at the door for a few moments after she has closed it. But he doesn't ask, not until she mentions something about using the back door.

She rolls her eyes, shakes her head, grins at him and he grins right back but it's a nervous kind of should I be grinning? I am confused, type of grin.

"Greyhound." He says, thinking that she means literally how did he get here. "What's going on outside?"

[Howard Ivers] [WHAM!]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Howard Ivers] [DAMAGE]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Quinn] "Boys letting off steam right in front of my meal ticket," she says with a forced smile. Then she shrugs. "Patrick and Howard," she continues in a way that says that should explain everything. "Those two always seem to be going on about something."

Putting her elbow into it, she continues grinding away the layer of finish on the bar. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, the hair swinging side to side with each scrape of the counter. She's dressed as she usually is, in a t-shirt layered over a long-sleeved shirt. Today's is an old Poison shirt with a skull and cross-bones. Hidden by her place behind the bar are the words Hardcore Rock 'n' Roll. The tattoo on her right forearm is clearly visible, the birds wrapping up from her wrist and disappearing beneath her rolled up sleeve.

"And I mean, why? Why did you come to Chicago? Seems a bit of a jump, don't you think?"

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [Ack! Soak!]
to Howard Ivers

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [er, add a dice to that. Derp, derp.]
to Howard Ivers

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [BLAMMO! Dex+Brawl]
to Howard Ivers

[Howard Ivers] [THUMP]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Howard Ivers] [DAMAGE]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [OW, YOU DICK THAT HURT.]
to Howard Ivers

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [SOCK!]
to Howard Ivers

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [Daaaamage your face]
to Howard Ivers

[Howard Ivers] [ACK!!]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Howard Ivers]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Howard Ivers] Howard lets out a yelp as Patrick tackles him, the two of them crashing to the frigid, slush-covered sidewalk with a thump of meat and bones, and although Patrick is the one who initiated this rumble on the concrete, he isn't the one who throws the first punch: the Theurge smacks him in the side of the head with a left hook that does little more than further piss off the Galliard, and a second later they're both throwing punches.

The Galliard is bigger and stronger than his brother. Although they tend to be, this fight is short by even their standards: Patrick clocks Howard in the nose, at which point the smaller man realizes he is pretty well and fucked if he keeps fighting.

So he starts making a scene.

"Stop hitting me!" he yells, equal parts terror and amusement in his voice. So Patrick hits him again, the smacking of fist against flesh producing a half-scream, half-sob. "Jesus Christ get off me you big ape you're squishing my organs!"

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Patrick knows his brother's dirty tactics when they're brawling, so he says nothing while Howard starts bellowing about his organs getting squashed and just sits there atop him, effectively pinning the smaller, slighter male beneath him until he gives up the goat and quiets.

Prayers to Broken Stone may well turn into an icicle waiting for the day.

"You gonna talk about Addiena again?" He demands, while they both bleed all over the sidewalk; Quinn was going to kick both their asses.

[Howard Ivers] "Am I gonna talk about Addiena again..."

As if that's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard, as if he would never in his entire life dream of continuing to wheedle Patrick for something that he clearly did not find remotely amusing. Howard lies back, one eyebrow then the other rising as he considers this, and then he does something that might make Patrick wish he had thought to hold down at least his left arm if he was going to sit on top of him.

It's called a nut tap.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Patrick let's out a strangled curse in Welsh when Howard hits him right in the groin and rolls to one side; lying beside his pack-mate and panting something out between grit teeth. "Gonna..." Gasp. "Kill... you." Groan. "For ... that."

He reaches over once he's suitably recovered and wrenches the Theurge's sunglasses down his face.

"Dick."

[Howard Ivers] It's funny for the ten seconds or so that his packmate can neither move nor form coherent sentences; if he was truly thinking, if he had done it to escape and not just to get him off of him, Howard would have thought ahead and would be ready to get to his feet and run as fast as is humanly possible, but he wasn't, and he hadn't, so he doesn't. He crows, once, and then starts to get to his feet. It's slow going, the ground cold and his face throbbing from where he'd been hit two or three times, and he's partway to his feet when Patrick yanks his sunglasses down.

"Augh!!" he yells, for effect, bringing his hand up to his eyes to shield them from the sunlight. That rattles his glasses completely off of his face, and he ends up ducking his head and squeezing his eyes closed as he gropes around for the nearest solid surface. Getting to his feet, he shuffles forward like a drunk, holding onto the side of the building so he doesn't lose his orientation.

What comes out of his mouth next lacks the underlying amusement that tends to tell people he's just screwing around; he sounds legitimately concerned, but muted rather than amplified. It's just as loud as anything else, can still be heard by the kinswoman and the metis inside, but his tone isn't a caricature like it usually is.

"Fuck me, I can't fuckin' see!"

He catches himself. As he continues ranting as he stumbles towards where he remembers there being a door, he's joking.

"Jesus Christ, man, that was fuckin' devious. Think you're so fuckin' smooth. I'm onto you. First fuckin' sunny day we've had, 'Let's go out for a walk, Howard! It'll clear your head, Howard! We need to learn the city, Howard!'"

He finds the door, and tries the handle.

"Wanker!" is his rant's conclusion before he stumbles inside.

[Rain] There's a bus stop not too far from here that connects to a bus stop not too far from the Last Watch's packhouse. Rain spent a good half hour sorting out her route via public transportation, since her car's permanently in limbo. Even if she'd gotten it back, it still wouldn't run right now. She's new enough to town that she reads every passing street sign, and checks it against the notes she'd scribbled down before leaving the Church. They'd been a lot more legible before they'd gotten wet.

She rounds the corner and heads for the Winchester, with her guitar case in town and a small messenger bag besides. Rain's wearing all black under her coat, and her hair's pulled back in a low ponytail, but for now the brown of her coat and striping on her scarf break up the monotony.

Rain's a moment too late to see Howard stumble into the Winchester, but she'll discover his presence soon enough. Hopefully without a spear-toting Godi running him down, this time. If Patrick's still laid out on the front walk, he'll get a worried and wary look before Rain pushes open the door, peeks her head inside, and then heads for wherever Quinn is in the dust and chaos of the mid-process remodel.

[Quinn] For a few seconds, Quinn just smiles up at him, and an understanding passes between the kinswoman and the metis. It's all either of them can do right now, understand that this is as far as Quinn goes when she opens up. There's something there, something that hurts, that lurks beneath that cheerful, upbeat surface. It's in all of them, really. They've all suffered in a world of darkness, the trick is to get to tomorrow. Then the next day, and the next, and the next. It'll get sorted for Quinn, in time, that is.

Things fall into a lull outside. Not true quiet, not peace and silence, but they seem a bit calmer. Howard's loud groans are not followed by the noises of some Wyrm beast, so Quinn at least knows she isn't needed to offer some level of support. At least not of the combative sort.

Wanker! they hear, and then the door is swinging inward, bringing with it a rush of cold air the space heaters are temporarily unable to combat. Quinn looks up from where she stands behind the bar, has to lean to the side and look past Night's Reprieve's shoulder to see if it's Howard or Patrick or some wayward stranger looking for a place to rob. When she sees who it is, she quirks a brow. She lets her lean become a step to the side, and she goes to pull down a pair of pint glasses and begins filling one with the cheapest beer she has on tap.

"Hopefully Tuesday?" The date is posted on the door that opens again to let in a particular songbird, along with the announcement that the tavern is under new management. Without a Godi blocking her view of the entrance, she sees Rain enter, smiles and gives her an upward nod of greeting. Her blue eyes flick to Night's Reprieve briefly. The first beer gets set on the counter and pushed in Howard's direction if he's on his way to the bar, and Quinn begins filling the other.

[Night's Reprieve] Wanker!

That has Night's Reprieve turning around at about the same time as Quinn is peering past his shoulder from the other side of the bar. Oh it's just Howard, being Howard. It looks like he lost the fight. Night's Reprieve isn't exactly surprised, Howard doesn't look like the type to hold his own in a brawl.

Hopefully Tuesday.

He turns again to face Quinn and raises an eyebrow. That is awfully soon, and there is still a lot of work to be done. But if the kinswoman says Tuesday, then Tuesday it is.

"Let me know if you need any more help, I'll try to fit in some hours here around my work at the --" But her eyes flick to someone else, and then back to him and he turns his head to look over his shoulder and he gulps. Rain. He looks from Rain to Quinn and then quickly shuffles further down the bar to give the two of them room.

"Something strong if you please barkeep." He calls down the bar to Quinn.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] The blond haired Galliard isn't laid out on his back by the time Rain comes upon Howard staggering around yelling about how he can't see; he's sitting on his ass on the ground, wiping his bleeding lip with the side of his hand and smirking outright in Howard's direction as he retreats inside. Patrick raises a hand and salutes the Kinswoman and sits there for another minute before wrenching himself to his feet.

There's a wince, and he smacks snow and dirt off his jeans and begins what might best be described as a ginger walk inside the Winchester. Patrick's eyes take a few moments to adjust, and then he's wandering over, raking a hand through his hair and hopping onto a bar-stool next to his beaten up Alpha. "Hey, Quinn. Can I get a beer," he glances sidelong at Howard.

"And a gin and tonic for the lady."

[Prayers to Broken Stone] He sets Howard's sunglasses in front of him wordlessly, and smacks his shoulder.

[Rain] When Patrick salutes her, Rain offers him a warm smile. Bloody lip and all. Brawling Fianna and warring Fenrir are some of the first things in the Nation she learned to avoid.

Rain seems to have found good reason to give Howard wide berth, so she moves around him if needs be on her trajectory into the pub. She spies the table where Quinn's coat rests, and heads over to lean her guitar case against the same and toss her jacket over one chair. Her messenger bag and scarf get piled into the seat of that chair, and she's suddenly so much lighter. It's easier to move around without all that stuff.

She casts an odd look toward Night's Reprieve, somewhere in the process of checking out Quinn's space, and something she finds in either the pub or the Fenrir's countenance sends her to sit nearer to Caldera's packmates than the Godi. Maybe she's had her fill of Godi for the week, and their very odd questions.

"Hey, everyone," she chimes, letting that stand in for proper personal greetings. "'S a lovely place, Miss Quinn. I mean, good bones and all. Looks like you're well on your way to fixing up the rest of it."

[Howard Ivers] Howard picks his way across the considerably less well-lit interior of the bar, slowly, stepping around whatever tables and chairs are in his way to find a stool. His lower lip has stopped bleeding, but his nose still oozes somewhat. Slush and dirt cover his backside, and his clothes are bedraggled from the scuffle that took place just now. His hair is as big a mess as it usually is, and he's squinting as if trying to see what's right in front of him, but hearing Quinn addressing someone else, hearing Night's Reprieve's voice, has his bitching returned to the shelf.

He sits down without comment, green eyes flicking around in observation, and when he realizes the beer is for him his mood brightens considerably. Being as his mood doesn't seem to darken even when it's clear he doesn't want to discuss whatever is being discussed, seeing a difference is difficult.

"Oh, hey, cheers!" he says, and after a beat, reaches into his jacket pocket, the effort producing a crinkling sound, to produce a set of rumpled bills. Howard slaps them in Quinn's general vicinity, then finds the pint and brings it to his lips about the time that Patrick is sitting down next to him.

Sunglasses clatter on the bartop in front of him, and the Theurge scowls before snatching them up.

"Prick," he mutters, and pushes them onto his face without another word.

[Quinn] Quinn is already setting a pint before Patrick as soon as she sees which stool he's aiming for. She looks at him, looks him over, at the way he walks into the bar and across the dusty floor to sit at a space.

She grins over at Night's Reprieve, in that way that spells trouble for the Godi, but she's true to her word. She says not a thing about his drinking choices and even decides not to embarrass him utterly in front of the Fianna. Instead, she finds a bottle of Jack and pours him a shot before walking it down the bar to him. If things were further along, she might slide it to him, but there are patches on the counter that have been sanded down.

"Thanks, Rain, and thank you for bringing up an excellent point," she says, smiling beatifically at the Theurge and the Ragabash. Blue eyes drop to the crumpled bills. Stepping toward them, Quinn pushes them back toward Howard. "Drinks are on the house. If."

She waits until she's sure she has their attention. Then: "If you help out. I've only got the weekend to finish cleaning this place up, and I can't afford contractors, so I need all the help I can get to prettify this place. Work is simple, just sanding and refinishing the wood-work, painting the walls, and seeing what can be done about building a little performing area over there," she tips her head toward a corner that's been cleared of furniture. Large wooden planks litter the floor over there.

"It doesn't have to be perfect, it just needs to be nice enough for customers. Who's interested?"

[Rain] "Anytime, hon." She tosses Quinn a winning smile, before moving on to the topic at hand. As to manual labor, she's quiet, but there's a good chance that Rain will pitch in with anything she's asked to do -- menial, messy or otherwise.

"Building a stage?" she asks, and she leans back so she can look past the Fianna True to the area Quinn had set aside. "I know some people. They're not family or anything, but I bet I could barter favors."

[Night's Reprieve] Quinn comes his way with shot of Jack and Night's Reprieve eyes like a kid on Christmas eve. He takes the shot, but he doesn't down it in one go. That would mean Quinn would have to come back and pour him another. Instead he nurses it slowly, taking a sip or two at a time and savouring the light burn on his lips. Rain gets cast a glance or two along with Howard and Patrick and he waves a hand at them, though with his elbow on the bar it's more of a slight wiggle than a wave.

Dear god have mercy someone needs to put him out of his misery. But for now he sits there and thinks he's going to see Rain and Quinn start making out every time he looks down the bar. It doesn't happen, which he finds strangely disappointing. He isn't sure why but the thought of Rain and Quinn hooking up isn't exactly.. unpleasant..

How odd.

"If that doesn't work out we can sort your stage out for you if you would like Quinn, I have a stack of shipping crates at the Bawn that would do nicely with a few decorative touches."

The fenrir is talking aesthetics.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Patrick raises his beer to his lips, winces, and then takes a sip.

The cut has already clotted, and is more an annoyance than anything right now. The Galliard strips himself of his wet jacket and shrugs it over the back of his stool; glancing around at the interior of the place Quinn has appropriated as her own. He's thoughtful as he considers her offer, his keen eye taking in all that was left to be done, tonguing the inside of his cheek.

"Yeah," then he looks across at her, his demeanor post-tussle with his pack-mate relaxed, bordering on upbeat, for Patrick. He actually offers her a smile, which is somewhat amusing given his cut mouth. "I can help out, I mean, it's not a car but I'm pretty handy with a hammer. If it's basic grunt work."

[Howard Ivers] "Don't tell her we know how to build houses and shit, man," he tells Patrick, as though they're alone. "Next thing you know it'll be 'Oh, the bathroom just needs a little remodeling' or 'Hmm, you know, could use a new roof.'" He takes another swallow as he returns his bills to his pocket. "Be gettin' paid in liquor, though. Not a bad deal." Turning back to the bartender without having given his packmate a chance to chime in, the questionable Alpha of Caldera says, louder, "Quinn, love, we're in."

[Prayers to Broken Stone] "We're Fianna," Patrick says, lazily amused this evening. "The sons of immigrants and thieves, all we're good for is growing potatoes and building houses."

Look everyone, Patrick made a funny.

[Howard Ivers] Even when he's got beer in his trachea and sunglasses covering his eyes, it's obvious when Howard has something to say. His eyebrows rise, he makes a noise low in his throat, and he sets his beer glass down to hasten the repartee process.

"You forgot: makin' little baby immigrants and thieves."

[Quinn] The endearment from the southern lass earns her a look of not-terribly-subtle close scrutiny. Though she doesn't find an answer she's looking for, Quinn still looks at Rain like she's just answered all her Christmas wishes. "That would be fantastic!" Happily, Quinn claps her hands together.

And then there's Night's Reprieve, offering...crates. The blue-eyed kinswoman looks at him and, without any part of her body moving to do so, looks around the tavern. What she sees is what it's going to be, not what it is. And what it's going to be is not a place with crates with "decorative touches." Sucking in a breath, Quinn grits her teeth like she's so sad to be delivery this news, but, "Nooooooo, hon, but thanks. My uncle actually has some neat pictures upstairs that I'll be hanging on the walls."

To Patrick, "Oh, yeah, I'm not looking to make anything fancy. Just...nicer. Less ragged around the edges. It's not really going to be a stage," she says, looking to Rain, "just...a place standing out from the rest of the bar sort of thing."

That settled, she listens to Howard's little rant, her thumbs hooking into the pockets of her jeans. Stepping forward, she leans her stomach into the bar between the Caldera boys.

"And drink beer. Never forget the beer. And guys." She lays her hands on the bar, palms flat. Tipping her chin, she fixes first Howard, then Patrick, with a stern look. "I know you're going to fight. It's in the blood and it comes with the territory. What I'd appreciate, is if when you two get the need to pummel each other's faces in, you do it in the alley out back. Not. Right out the front where my customer base can see and be scared off. Got it?"

[Night's Reprieve] Night's Reprieve looks at his drink.

[Rain] Rain and Quinn exchange looks in some sort of muted feminine equivalent of telepathy. The Gaian's eyes narrow, slightly, and she shakes her head either at whatever Quinn's pointedly not asking her about or whatever is the Fianna just collectively said.

Between the thoughts of furnishing a stage with crates and Fianna only being good for a choice few things, Rain's mostly just biting her tongue right now. Neither topic is particularly safe to touch.

"I've gotta sing for my supper tonight, but I'm in for the weekend," she tells the other woman, completing the full count of offers to help.

[Howard Ivers] "Hey, you know what we could do?"

This ought to be good... and stupid.

"Take those crates Grandpa was talkin' about, build a fuckin' boxing ring in the middle'a the bar, yeah? Gamblin's legal in this country, right? Patrick can beat the shit out of me and you can make a bit of scratch while he's doin' it. Everybody wins!"

[Quinn] Quinn actually laughs. "Have you ever actually won against Patrick before?"

[Night's Reprieve] Night's Reprieve ponders this, of course it's the first time he has been called Grandpa before and it makes him frown. In fact, the frown deepens more the longer he thinks on it.

"I have no grand children." He says, and he narrows a gaze at Howard like the boy has lost his god damn mind and it isn't amusing at all. "And I fail to see how you win in this situation."

[Howard Ivers] "Em..."

He scratches his chin as he thinks, brows disappearing behind his shades with the furrowing that indicates deep thought. Luckily, the Fenrir pipes up and thoroughly distracts the Theurge from actually having to answer the question.

"Well, obviously I win by helpin' Quinn here--" He gestures to her with an open palm. "--keep her bar open."

[Rain] Rain just looks at him like he's a bit crazy. She doesn't even have a beer to sip at as a merry distraction. The look only twists further toward incredulousness when Howard explains how he wins.

Rain opens her mouth to say something. Then shuts it.

[Night's Reprieve] He makes no sense, there are so many flaws with his plan that it's hardly a plan at all.

"If you want them, use them."

And he downs the rest of his Jack.

[Quinn] "Well," Quinn steps away and goes to find another glass, "from what I understand, this neck of the woods is pretty rough." Pulling a glass out, she gestures toward Rain, asking without words if she wants a drink. "So why would anyone pay to see what they can see for free just around the corner?"

[Rain] Rain's smile broadens a bit at the offer of something to help all these stellar moments of Howard brilliance go down. "They're prettier than most of the street brawls I've seen, for one," she concedes, whilst gesturing diffidently with one hand.

"But that may not be the sort of atmosphere you want t' cultivate. "

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Quinn asks if Howard's ever actually won a fight against him before and the Galliard simply raises his eyebrows and maintains a fairly clear silence on the matter; his slight smile behind the pint of beer however, says a great deal. Then he starts in about a boxing ring, and Patrick is shaking his head and scratching a hand through his hair.

Night's Reprieve doesn't understand the Grandpa remark.

Patrick's shoulders convulse a little with silent laughter, then he clears his throat. "In all seriousness, yeah, we'll try and keep our brawling to the alley out back and not turn your doorstep into Fight Club."

[Howard Ivers] Howard drains his beer, then stands up. For a second it appears as though he's going to authoritatively slam down the empty glass, but he stops himself. After a mental reboot, the Theurge gently returns the glass to the bartop, going so far as to slide it towards the well rather than leaving it on the business end of the counter, then tugs on his lapels and steps back.

"Semantics, Grandpa," he tells the Godi, jumping back to a prior point of misunderstanding without warning. All the way to the door, he rants, intermittently waving his hands. "Or... biology. Whatever. So you haven't got any grandkids. You still act like one. You're all wise and shit." The door is hauled open, and as a parting gift, he calls, "Besides, I give people shitty nicknames as a show of affection. Don't take it too fuckin' seriously, you'll just blow a gasket."

And out he goes.

[Night's Reprieve] It's like the bag of dicks sketch. Howard goes and says something completely out of the blue and then walks off whilst NR is left sitting there with so many questions. What does that mean Howard? He'll blow a gasket? Howard has affection for him?

"Wait up." He says and waves a hand to the rest of the bar. "Thanks for the Blowjob Quinn. You should give Rain one, she would love it." And rushes out the door after Howard.

[Rain] "I..."

Rain's brow creases as she watches Night's Reprieve hurry off.

"He means the drink, right?" That's the only likely explanation here.

[Quinn] "Thank you, Patrick," Quinn says, lifting her hands palm up toward the Galliard like finally SOMEONE understands her language. She grins with it, though.

Howard leaves, then Night's Reprieve, but not before thanking Quinn for a blowjob. To which she inclines her head graciously and twirls her hand in a mock bow. And then she laughs. "Ahahahaha I bet she will." Winking to Rain, she says, "Yes, he does."

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Patrick is swallowing the rest of his pint when the Fenrir speaks, and almost chokes to death.

He coughs for a good minute, and then calmly sets the pint glass down on the bar; sliding from the stool almost regretfully, though that might just be because he's been left in the wake of Howard's path of destruction -- yet again. The handsome blond is threading his arms back through his jacket, wincing a little at a sore spot he'd bruised tackling his Alpha and nodding with his chin at the door.

"I better go play chaperon. I'm not sure those two should be anywhere unsupervised."

He's headed for the door when Rain finally regains her senses, and just grins. "Let me know when you want me, Quinn," he calls over his shoulder. Outside, they can hear Patrick calling after his pack-mate: "Hey, you with the 'fro."

[Rain] Let me know when you want me, the Galliard says. Rain scrubs one hand over her face and then looks back at Quinn with a smirk.

"They're all just walking innuendos today, aren't they?" she asks, when the last True had cleared the doorway. There's a measure of amusement to her features, peppered lightly with exasperation.

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