Drew Roscoe
It's been two nights since Erich whipped his car into Drew's driveway, said he needed to hide it (and maybe even himself) from the police for a while, and took off. Drew'd helped to stash the vehicle in her shed and offered to buy the things needed to paint his car a new color.
Today, somewhere in the early evening, Drew was out on her front porch on a wooden rocking chair, painted a muted pea-green with a taupe cushion to make it more comfortable. She was dressed simply in jeans, sneakers, and a loose black T-shirt with "Murder!" on the chest in jagged white letters. She had a red zip-up hoodie on along with a gray knit beanie to keep her ears warm. Hair was loose, down her shoulders and back, and she was holding a bright orange mug with a Jack-o-Lantern face on it in her bare hands, letting whatever liquid that caused steam to pour from it warm her hands.
Yesterday she'd come home with a truck full of car painting supplies and stashed them away in her shed. She'd also purchased a car cover that was assured to fit, and that had been rolled about in the dust and dirt of the shed floor before she'd tugged it over the car to cover it up. This did a pretty good job of making it seem as though the vehicle had been there for a year or so now, just gathering dust and not running.
Sure, she didn't have to go to any of these lengths. Erich wasn't only not of her Tribe, but he'd apparently betrayed it a few years back to go to the Shadow Lords instead. If anything, she
shouldn't be helping him. She should probably have turned him away and told him to go find one of his
new family members to help him out.
It's not that the Kinfolk didn't have it in her to be that mean, rest assured of that fact. It was just that she liked Erich, she saw a need, and she was determined to meet it, as was her habit.
So, that Kinfolk of Kind Gestures sat on her porch, rocking in her chair like she were some seventy year old woman, sipping at her mug and listening to the dying song of the crickets struggling against the autumn night's promise of frost.
Erich Reinhardt
Erich, social butterfly that he is, has yet to meet a single other Shadow Lord in this city. Or well. That's not true. He met one a couple nights ago, while getting out of a ticket in the worst way possible. Just didn't know he'd met one, is all. But the point is: would Erich have gone to a tribesmate with his stash-a-car issue, had he known of one? Possibly. Probably. Or maybe his car would still be here, draped under a car cover that looks older than it is, awaiting a new coat of paint.
Hopefully not bubblegum pink.
It's been two days since Erich hid the incriminating evidence away. He's been on foot the whole time; today's no different. Drew goes a-rocking on her porch like a woman three or four times her age, sipping hot tea or hot cocoa or hot something on this large-mooned autumn night. It might be gradual; it might be abrupt: sooner or later, she feels it -- a second presence, a distant tremor of rage. A sense of no longer being alone in her own territory.
Then the long dying grass that borders her driveway parts. A wolf peeks cautiously out of the foliage: just a long muzzle and a broad ruff; thickly furred and muscled shoulders. The pelt is a solid iron-grey. The eyes are frosty blue, so pale as to nearly be colorless. His ears swivel. He sniffs the air. Then he vanishes back into the grass.
A moment later he bursts out, loping, the grip of a familiar duffle bag seized in his teeth. His claws tick as he hits asphalt, scrabble against wood as he bounds up the steps of her porch.
The sound changes all at once to the heavy thump of work boots as he shifts. Erich takes the duffle bag out of his mouth, drops it on the ground, and offers Drew a rueful, crooked smile.
"Took me a couple days to get enough work to cover what I probably owe ya for supplies. Anyone come sniffing around here?"
Drew Roscoe
Drew didn't
know that Erich was coming back tonight, but she did know that he was coming back some night soon, and that could very well be tonight. So she was casually on the look out, expecting but not knowing. She was taking another sip from her Halloween-themed mug when the untrimmed grass that marks the end of her yard and the start of the wild field-space that hugs either side of her house (trees to the back, though, dense and untamed) shifts, bristles, then parts.
She is a fairly alert woman, and the rustling might have gone unnoticed had the sensation of a predator lurking nearby not welled up in her chest. She'd stopped rocking, ceasing the very quiet 'creak' that came with the motion, and stared out toward the road for a second before the rustling caught her attention and she looked left instead, just in time to see a steel-gray wolf poking its head out from the tall grasses.
She doesn't launch to her feet and go for a gun, and she may be one of the only rural people who would abstain from doing so. Rather, she just watches as the wolf, with a duffle bag between its teeth, lopes across the length of her yard and scuttles up her porch. It's with the kind of muted interest that comes when you already know what's going to happen that she watches when the big gray wolf turns into a big blonde man.
"Nope," is her answer, simple and easy, to his question as to whether anyone's come asking about him. "There's no reason for any cop from the city to think you know me. Any authority figure around here's either got their hands full with reconstruction, or, again, has no idea we even know each other." She shrugged some, took a last drink from her mug, and set it down on the small round end-table beside the chair (painted to match, by the way) and rose to her feet.
"Shall we get down to business?"
Erich Reinhardt
"Good," Erich says. "Didn't see any wanted posters or anything either. Though I guess in this day 'n age I wouldn't."
She gets up. He takes a step back to give her room. It's very nearly his moon in the sky; the fullness of it is under his skin, leaves him restless, a crackling presence. Down to business, she says, which he instantly interprets as
money business.
"Yep." Erich reaches for that battered wallet he keeps in his back pocket. Whatever 'work' he gets is obviously piecemeal, and obviously pays in cash: the billfold is stuffed with rumpled small bills, fives and tens. "How much do I owe you? And what color'd you get?"
Drew Roscoe
Erich has the good graces to step back and give the Kinfolk a little space when she stands up. He's very aware of the moon. So is Drew, but they are aware in different ways. Drew is aware because it's a necessity in her world to know these things-- how you talk to someone may change depending on whether the sky was dark or bright at night-time. Erich was aware in his chest, his belly, his bones. He felt it bubbling within, and Drew felt that as a radiant heat from the force of the Ahroun's very being.
But she didn't react to it, not in any real or visible way. Her will was strong, her experience great. Rage was an intense thing, but she'd learned to tolerate and exist around it.
Her eyebrows lifted, curious, when he reached for his wallet while agreeing with her. She shook her head and waved her hand. "Couple hundred. I'm not expecting full reimbursement, just... whatever you feel is appropriate. I don't want your whole damn wallet, leave enough there to take care of yourself."
She walked past him, down the porch steps and along the sidewalk, headed toward the shed. Her hands went into her hoodie pockets, and she spoke clearly enough to be heard as she led the way. "I went with white. It's common, inconspicuous. No one really pays too much mind to white cars, they don't remember them the same way they do yellow or red ones."
Once to the shed, she pulls open the door, waits for him to come into the shed, and slides it closed partway-- leaving the door open a couple of feet so there would be ventilation, but not enough room to give anybody driving by a show of what is going on within the shed. From there she pushes the sleeves of her hoodie up to her elbows and grabs one corner of the cover on the car, and pulls it away with the same whipping motion that's associated with throwing a comforter over the bed, or playing with the parachute during gym class in elementary school.
"The stuff's over in that corner," she advised and gestured to the wall that had all of her tools and lawn equipment set away against it. He'll easily be able to see the new supplies set on and before the workbench that came with the shed, old and wooden, but sturdy.
Erich Reinhardt
"White?" Drew can see him processing this; he's too polite, or at least too aware of the fact that he owes her one, to complain. "Well, maybe I can put some black stripes on it in a couple months.
"And it's not hard to take care of myself. I'll pay what I owe. And I was taught that by my mama, so don't give me any 'that's not how we Fenrir do things' bull."
He follows her as she heads down to the shed. She walks with the easy assurance of someone who owns the land, the buildings on it. Erich can't help a glance around -- just in case someone was watching. Spying. Getting ready to tattle. Nothing but shadows and crickets answer his suspicion, and so he ducks into the shed with her, feeling around until he finds the light switch.
Drew whisks the cover off. Erich helps, unsnagging it from a side mirror, waving dust out of the air. Then while she folds the cover he goes over to the workbench, inspecting the supplies: primer and paint, air compressor and paint gun. "Nice. Thanks again." He tries to be subtle about it, at least: he sets the money down next to the supplies, pinned in place by a nearby staple gun or something. "You have old newspaper or anything like it?"
Drew Roscoe
There is an insistence, not pushy but certain, that he will pay her back the full amount, and he says that his mother taught him that so she can't call him out on that not being the Fenrir way, or something silly like that. Her answer to this is a rolling shrug of one shoulder and a small grin flashed for him, and the topic of money is left there. Apparently Drew doesn't hold cash too close to her chest-- as long as she can keep a roof over her head and her fridge full she's pretty much happy, it seems.
Well, as far as money goes, anyways.
So they're to work-- Drew was folding the car cover up and Erich was inspecting the supplies available (and tucking a small pile of bills under a staple gun so that they don't flap away or get lost in the shed when strewn by small animals that no doubt nest in there). Drew put the cover off to the side, tossing it into the dust against the side wall. She wasn't careless to the point of wadding and throwing the cover, she made sure to keep the inside of it clean as possible-- it was the outside she wanted convincingly dirty.
"Newspapers? ...'eh... Yeah, I think there's something around here." And the Kinfolk is off, joining Erich on the side of the small-ish shed/two-car garage that isn't filled up with muscle car. Tucked away on top of one of the shelves that lines the wall was a series of medium-sized cardboard boxes. Drew analyzed for a moment, selected one, and went up on her tippy-toes to reach. One hand held a lower shelf's edge for support, and the tips of her fingers nudged at the bottom of the box that hung over the shelf, nudging it until it was loose enough to seem like it was going to fall right on her head.
She seemed like she knew what she was doing, though. She was making casual conversation while doing this.
"You figured out where you're going to stick around here, yet? Like, in the city or out here? You've seen Browntown and what it's been through. If you're seeking influence, I'd say you should probably stick around here. Help rebuild, all that."
Maximilian Krieg
The short man walks the shadows of the small town. Tonight he has elected to forgo carrying his usual load of duffel bag and gear. He moves light of foot. Perhaps there is a small bulge under his camouflage jacket where a short weapon resides. He slowly picks his way through the rubble of the residential area investigating something. His nervous eyes constantly aware and searching.
Drew Roscoe
[Just so's you're aware, Max-player-man: Drew's house is about 3-ish miles outside of town, along the road. :)]
Erich Reinhardt
There's something nefariously amusing about watching a rather small woman attempt to reach for a very large box on a very high shelf. While Drew strains -- confidently, one must admit -- to get the newspapers down, Erich stands over by the workbench. Nominally, he's inspecting the power sander. Actually, he's watching Drew, repressing a smirk. It's only when she gets the box out far enough that any second it might tip over and give her a concussion that Erich sets the sander down with a thunk.
His approach is as tangible as a heat wave. "Okay," he says, brushing her aside, "stop. Move over before you kill yourself. Who put this up there in the first place?"
He gets a solid grip on the box and tugs it out from the shelf, lowering it smoothly to waist-high before letting it drop the rest of the way. It smacks on to the floor, a layer of dust puffing up. Erich starts unfolding the newspapers, tucking them around the wheels, taping them over the chrome.
"I look like the type to seek influence?" He's smirking again. "Probably keep drifting, same as I always have. More work in the city. Easier to rest my head out here without getting arrested though."
Erich Reinhardt
[and fyi they're currently out in the shed with the door cracked open]
Maximilian Krieg
A Stealthy sneak maneuvers out of the town in the cover of night. He is sure that evil Illuminati company has blanketed the small town with their infestation of the plague that will be the demise of the citizenry. He deftly moves through the underbrush and the shadows to make his way out of town.
Another successful trip to Browntown unscathed. He should probably not press his luck. But, he certainly had not seen that kin in a few weeks and should at least spy on her. No need to bother her. He could just watch through the windows for a while to make sure she was okay and not entertaining any questionable guests.
Drew Roscoe
Erich lets the petite woman be capable for a minute, taking the same sadistic joy out of watching her reach for something tall that anyone over 5'8" does. She pretends not to notice, and actually doesn't really care (you grow up on the smaller side and you'll get used to that kind of thing), and just keeps on nudging the box further and futher out until Erich can see it balancing precariously, about to slide off the shelf and onto Drew's head.
It's at that hanging moment that Erich interferes, brushing her aside and reaching out to catch the box as it slides. Drew didn't sulk about it, but rather shifted out of the way only when Erich was right near her side, not wanting to let the box fall and break on the floor and strew papers and goodness-knows-what-else all about the shed. She'd step a foot or so away, giving him space to smack the box onto the ground, then lean down to help grab old yellowing newspapers and magazines and pin them over things that he didn't want to get paint on.
"The box came with the house. I poked around them and figured out the stuff on the top shelf was probably the 'I'll get rid of this someday' graveyard for packed things."
As far as influence goes, though... "A little bit, yeah. Not in any big, sweeping, obvious way. But I think you would like your word to carry some amount of weight. I mean, doesn't everyone? ...And that's always the case. It's typically easier out in the wilds, but there's more that needs doing in the city. ...But these days, with that Fog and whatever the fuck fucked Browntown up..." She shrugged helplessly and went back to pinning papers to cover tires and windows and headlights....
......and outside the shed a spy lurked. A small man, built for the forest, built for travel and stealth and capability in ways that the muscle-bound couldn't fully understand. He'd discover Drew's little one story house unperturbed, with the truck parked in its same place in the driveway as always. The porch light is on, as is the floodlight over the shed. There's a light on in the front window, but the blinds are always drawn here, so it's rough to peek inside and determine what's happening.
The land is pretty quiet, though, so it's not too rough to figure out that there are people moving and talking in the shed at the end of her short driveway, kiddy-corner to the back of her house.
Erich Reinhardt
If Max is here looking for questionable guests, Erich might well qualify for that. A male, a Garou, not of the Fenrir tribe -- and standing rather close to Drew. At least for a moment. At least until that precarious box comes thudding down on the floor.
They part, then. They work in the manner of people accustomed to working with their hands, without complaint, because if you don't do it yourself no one does it. Crouched down to tape newspaper over the headlamps and the grille, Erich raises his head to shoot a dubious glance Drew's way. " 'Came with the house'? You know there's probably a severed arm at the bottom, right?"
He's good at this whole masking thing. Keeps a roll of tape around his forearm, tapes and tears one-handed while holding the newspaper in place with the other. Probably did this before. Maybe on this very car. Drew's relegated to tire-shielding duty; the more precise, challenging work of glass and metal Erich handles himself, with surprising swiftness.
A shrug answers her when she says everyone wants their word to carry some weight. "Maybe. I dunno. Truth is I don't really talk much to people. I mean, not like this, just talking. Serious talking. Planning-shit or deciding-shit talking. I mostly just make up my own mind and do my own thing. Worked for me so far. Toss me another stack of newspaper, will you?"
Maximilian Krieg
Some could mistake the little Fenrir for a voyeur or peeping Tom. But, he was just looking out for the tribe. The tiny man was linking in the darkness trying to make sure that he would not get caught by the black helicopters or satellites that were certainly paying so much attention to the place. It really was dangerous for him to be there. He could not get it out of his head. But, those prophetic dreams he had included her. He would hate to have to cut her zombie head off and watch her twitch as her decapitated body flung itself off the small cliff.
He pushed the thoughts of that out of his head as he made his way to a vantage where he might see into the shed from a great distance. Perhaps she was not doomed and he could still save her, without sacrificing himself of course.
Drew Roscoe
Drew had been stuck on tire duty, and she was perfectly fine with that. She was happy to work with her hands, but that didn't mean that she was adept at every job that involved manual labor. She didn't actually know how to paint a car, she was just figuring it out as she went along. Covering the parts that you didn't want to get covered in paint just made sense, and the fact that Erich had a much better idea of how to go about a job like this made it easy to let him take lead on the project. It was his car, after all.
So, as they worked, they made small talk, and it was friendly and innocent enough (peeping ears could confirm that in voice tone). She went to fetch more newspapers and magazines to tear pages from to supply what was needed and leaned down over the box, pausing only to glance back at Erich, then look into the box and shuffle the contents about. "Nah, no body parts. They would've rotted the bottom of the box, and probably the shelf too." One way to kill a silly joke is to suck the humor out of it entirely by pretending you didn't realize it was a joke in the first place.
An armful of old yellowed newspapers was gathered up, then split into two. One pile was dropped by Erich's knees, then Drew moved to his side to start covering the next tire, comfortably setting her knees in the dirt, unworried of how it may sully her clothes. "Didn't think doing your own thing really ever worked out for pack animals. I mean, that's kinda what I've seen anyways. My Boys were sort of like that, but got drawn to each other. It's bound to happen sometime, Erich, ya can't be lonesome forever." Note, the 'ya' in that sentence was intended in the general sense, not just him specifically. The tone implies that, along with the rounding of her shoulders to indicate that she might well be talking about herself as well.
Max is snooping, assuring the visions (spirit-conjured or sickness-conjured, it's rough to be too certain sometimes) were not true, not put into play just yet. He finds an angle off of the gravel driveway, not too far from the tall grasses that marked the edge of Drew's yard, to peer into the gap left between the shed door and its place when closed. He'll see a black muscle car, partially covered with newspapers, but not much movement from where he is. Just shadows off the dim yellow lights within the shed, and the rustling of paper and indiscernable words on a pair of voices, one male and one female, from within.
"....I named the fish. It's The Wugly Ump."
Maximilian Krieg
Clandestine whispers in an old shed. Certainly it could not be a meeting of the Illuminati slaves trying to influence the kin. He crept and belly crawled closer. He had to be certain they were not injecting her with the zombie serum. Why did it have to be him. He could just walk away. She was probably dead already anyway. He'd lay in ambush for them when they came out of the shed. That's what he would do.
He might not be able to save the girl but he could avenge her untimely death. Fenris would be proud of him. What were they talking about in there. He had to know....
Erich Reinhardt
"Ew," Erich says of rotting limbs in cardboard boxes; doesn't seem terribly committed to being grossed out. "And that's a ridiculous name, even if it's for a fish.
"You know what I think though, Drew?" He slaps a last piece of tape down, anchoring a last fold of newspaper, and sits back on his heels. "I think you're projecting. At least to some degree. I mean, you're really concerned about whether or not I integrate into Garou society, and I'm sure a good part of that is just you being you. Caring and worrying and stuff.
"But that's not all of it, is it? I'm not the one who's brought up how lonely he is just about every time we've talked. You are. I think you're worrying about yourself as much as me. I think you're the one that really misses the community." A pause; a shrug. "Sorry for being so blunt."
Drew Roscoe
The Kinfolk paused in her work when Erich started telling her what he really thought about 'loneliness' and 'joining the community'. Brown eyes were focused on her hands, paused up in the passenger back tire well, but they didn't stay still the whole time he spoke. Rather, they started again, tearing a page from an old National Geographic magazine and pinning it properly in place. She kept working, but more slowly now.
When she answered him, it was with the same note of mild shame that came when a parent calls you out on trying to keep a secret from them. "Well, I can't argue that. It sounds pretty much right." But, again, comes that loose shrug of her shoulders and she's tearing another page out of the magazine, very focused on looking at her hands rather than glancing over to the Shadow Lord crouched about the car along with her. "Not a lot to be done about it, though. When you're new to a small town like this you gotta earn your place in the community. It takes time, I guess."
Not that it's really any easier by the fact that she spent most of her time working from home, and didn't get into the town very much especially now that half of the buildings were burnt or destroyed and the general store was closed up. She had to make runs into the city for things she needed anymore, and it was becoming vastly inconvenient and time-draining.
And outside, still unnoticed by a Kinfolk that was confident in the rural seclusion of her property, a man lurked and scooted closer to the shed, straining to know what was happening inside. Words don't become any clearer, but he may be able to remember Erich's voice as well as recognize Drew's. She's in there with that Shadow Lord, it seems. Does that make him one of the Illuminati?
Maximilian Krieg
Silence of night is never silent. The sound of crickets and night birds was as loud as a concert when you were straining to hear a conversation just out of ear shot. Though he did hear her voice and the voice of the Shadow Lord that would be punishing himself for his poor decision of tribe. He scooted a little closer to the shed. He took refuge under a bush.
That little sawed off shotgun of his slipped out of his jacket and readied to assault any Illuminati scum that came out of the shed. The Garou and Kin were safe. Unless of course he heard their plans to aid the Zombie Apocalypse. You never know who has been converted to the schemes of the conspiracy to ruin the world with the Wyrm's Zombies.
Erich Reinhardt
[i'ma roll percep+alert! feel free to counterroll for dex/stealth.]
Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 10, 10) ( success x 1 )
Erich Reinhardt
[fail. lawl.]
Maximilian Krieg
(stealthy midget:
Dice: 07 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 1, 2, 5, 6, 10) ( fail )
Drew Roscoe
[Perception + Alertness, 'cause why not]
Dice: 5 d10 TN6 (6, 7, 8, 9, 10) ( success x 5 )
Erich Reinhardt
"That's good," he says of the tire. She's distracted by conversation; she's been remasking the same wheel over and over, a little slower every time, until he reaches over and gently plucks the last newspaper out of her hand.
"Gotta ask though. Who exactly are you trying to get accepted by? And what exactly counts as accept-- "
Erich pauses mid-sentence, cocking his head. Frowning. "You hear something?"
Maximilian Krieg
He crouches in the bush. He freezes in place as he can't hear the words but he notes the change in tone. Had he stumbled on them at a moment that would incriminate them? He could not ambush them. He would have to hide and get away to warn others of their treachery.
Drew Roscoe
She's still papering a tire that doesn't need it anymore, and Erich pauses this by reaching over, slow and aware of the impact that his Rage combined with sudden movements can have on a soul, and takes the next sheet of newspaper out of her hand. It's at that point that she stops pretending she forgot how to look people in the face and turns her attention back onto Erich directly. Her eyes search his when he asks who she's trying to be accepted by, but not like she's trying to find an answer within blue, but rather searching for intent.
But this is interrupted, for both at the same time. Noise rustles up from outside, and Drew's brow creases. Erich interrupts himself a word and a half later, then asks quietly if she hears something. Her head turns so that her right ear is pointed toward the door, then further so that she can peer outside. There's a pause after Erich's question before she answers, her voice low and cautious.
"There's a man out there. Sounds like he's creeping, can hear him dragging, I think that was gravel and metal. Like, not clothing metal, but hollow, like a... gun barrel." Her tongue ran over lips that felt dry very suddenly, and she slowly flexed her calves and thighs to bring rise smoothly and gradually to a stand, more breathing her words than speaking the, she was making such an effort to be quiet. "There's a man out there with a gun. Not a pistol, but a rifle or shotgun or something."
Drew Roscoe
[Just so we all know, now is about the time that I get a text from my man letting me know he's done with work and I need to come pick his vehicle-less self up. So be prepared when I suddenly go "Crap I gotta go!"]
Erich Reinhardt
Erich probably doesn't really believe the in-depth analysis Drew gives of the noise outside. All he heard was a scuffle. Maybe a man. Maybe a raccoon. He crumples up that scrap of newsprint in his hands, drops it on the floor.
"Stay here," he says. "I'll check it out."
His stride is long, his steps surprisingly light. Passing the workbench, he pulls some random tool off the wall -- a hammer, maybe, or a trowel for the garden -- then eases the shed door open just wide enough to slip out. The door closes behind him and latches gently.
Erich Reinhardt
[i'm cool with pausing. i should be around tmrw evening, if you guys are gonna be on.]
Maximilian Krieg
( no worries. I will be around as well.)
Drew Roscoe
[Pausing sounds grand!]
Erich Reinhardt
[should we shoot for maybe 8pmish site time?]
Drew Roscoe
[Works for me, I'll be here. If not immediately at that time at least close to, it's around when I get home from work.]
Maximilian Krieg
( sounds great! )
Erich Reinhardt
Once the door shuts Drew doesn't really hear Erich out there at all. The occasional footstep. A scuffle. Mostly silence, and the sounds of the night. A few minutes go by. Not very long in the grand scheme of things. Might seem longer, though, for a girl alone in a shed, three miles from the nearest town and much, much more than that from any sort of modern city. Isn't this how horror movies start?
Five minutes later the shed door bursts open. Erich comes back in. He doesn't bother to be quiet this time, lets the door bang shut.
"Nope. Didn't see anything," he says. "Probably a cat. Maybe the town drunk at worst. Think you're just jumpy on top of being lonely, princess."
The hammer he'd borrowed gets tossed back on the workbench. It clatters. Erich swoops the power sander back off the floor where he's left it and starts hunting for an outlet.
"It's about to get pretty noisy in here," he says, "And it's really a one-man job. You can stay and watch if you want, but if you're bored go on back to the house. I'm gonna try to get a good start on sanding so I can get the primer coat done by tomorrow. I'll come in later, if your offer to crash in the guest room's still open." He smirks, "Check under your bed for boogeymen and all that."
Drew Roscoe
Erich volunteered to go look for whatever was making sounds that they'd both heard, and instructed Drew to stay put. Ordinarily she'd argue, but the closest firearm she had was out in the truck, and without those she would be of no help. Sure, without a gun she was capable enough-- she could break noses and knew all of the tender parts of a person to hit, but all of this was only enough to inconvenience an attacker long enough for her to start running fast and hard, which was something she was much better at than fist-fighting.
So Drew'd stayed in the shed, standing up against the car, listening and waiting. A few minutes had passed, and in that time Drew had wandered to the other side of the shed and picked up a particularly heavy wrench and waited there instead of right in front of the sliding shed door.
Sooner than later, Erich returned with a dismissive air about him, and Drew was sure he hadn't found anything before he had a chance to say so. She settled the weight of the wrench back on the workbench, but paused after a second of thought and picked it back up when he'd gone on to explain that the next steps were really a one-man job and she'd be doing nothing but getting her ears assaulted by the sound of a sander against a car if she stuck around.
"I know damn well what I heard," she told him, and did so with enough conviction and sincerity that it would be rough for Erich not to at least wonder for a second if he'd searched carefully enough, if perhaps something didn't slip away under his nose. She hefted the wrench to hold with her elbow bent, ready to wield the tool as a weapon at a moment's notice.
"I'll see ya inside the house. It's more secure in there anyway." She confirmed with that statement that her initial offer for him to use facilities and the guest room still stood firmly where it had been made. "Any boogymen that might be hunting me ain't gonna be under my bed. They're gonna be out my window or on the Other Side."
With that, Drew dismissed herself from the shed, pausing to glance about the property cast into sharp shadows and bright lights by the shape of the landscape, the buildings, the moon and the floodlight all. As content as she could be with what she found outside the shed, she closed the door all but a foot behind her and made her way up the driveway and sidewalk to the front of her house, leaving the door unlocked so that Erich can come in when he's done in the shed.
Erich Reinhardt
For a Shadow Lord, Erich isn't terribly good at lying. He's not even very good at keeping his thoughts to himself. Right now, it's obviously to all and sundry that he thinks Drew heard a raccoon or a cat or something and is well on her way to scaring herself into apoplexy. She insists she knows what she heard -- the smirk on his face fades a notch.
Then it's back. "Want me to walk you to your door?" he says with such overwhelming sincerity that it must be mockery. She probably doesn't accept. He turns on the sander as she heads out, and she can hear the muffled machine noise through the thin walls of the shed.
He watches her through the window, though. Makes sure she gets back to her porch unharassed by things that go bump in the night. And, much to his not-surprise, she does.
Erich's out there for a good three, four hours. He'll probably be out in her shed all day tomorrow. If Drew opens her door she can hear him out there -- the steady whining roar of the power sander changing timbre as he runs it over different surfaces, changing contours. Occasionally it stops for a little while. Then it starts up again.
There's some music around 9pm, 10pm. Erich rolls down his car windows and plays it off his car stereo. Around 11 it shuts off; he doesn't want to drain his batteries. Then a half-hour after that the constant whine of the power sander spins down at last. Another five, ten minutes of clean-up after that.
It's nearly midnight when his bootsteps tromp up the porch. She left the door unlocked, but he doesn't assume that. Wouldn't expect that, not with mysterious boogeymen out in the dark. He knocks.
Drew Roscoe
The offer to be walked to the door had been refused with a small shake of the head, and Drew had made it up to her porch unscathed. She'd walked quickly with a forced confidence that came from walking alone through shady parts of Chicago to get home at night from whatever escapade she may have been off on on any given evening during that time in her life.
Time enough had passed, and Erich had been hard at work on his car, filling the property with the sounds of mechanical equipment and thumping bass that carried heavier than the treble could ever dream to do. Come about midnight (just shy of) the Shadow Lord climbed the front porch with heavy boots and knocked on the door.
The answer came quickly enough; a call of: "It's open."
Inside the house, Erich will find the place pretty much the same as last time when he'd stepped inside. The only difference is now there's that beta fish he'd brought her on the end table beside the door, in a little bowl decorated with brightly colored pebbles, a sprig or two of fake seaweed, and a little castle for him to swim in and out of. Looking deeper into the house he'd find Drew at the dining room table visible from the front door.
She's since changed into a pair of black yoga pants, a white tank-top and a hoodie that wasn't as dusty as the one she'd been wearing in the garage-- this one simple, black, a little moth-eaten, just some old thing she'd wear around the house for comfort and convenience. Her hair's been washed and has mostly air-dried by now, leaving it in humidity-sprung waves that hung down her shoulders, tucked behind her ears to stay out of her face. She's been drinking a beer (it's in front of her, half gone, a bottle of Corona) and reading a book about nothing important.
"There's stew on the stove for ya still, and buns in the bowl next to the stove, all covered up with the hand towel. Help yourself, betcha worked an appetite up." Her eyes had lifted only briefly from her book to confirm that whoever stepped inside was the tall blonde-haired blue-eyed man she'd welcomed into her home and not whoever she was positive she heard skulking about. Once assured that her visitor
was Erich, she'd looked back to her book.
Erich Reinhardt
It's Erich all right: blond, blue-eyed posterboy of the Fenrir that he is. He's picked his duffel bag up from where he'd dropped it on her porch. It's slung over his shoulder. He has a sleeping bag too, coiled up under his arm.
"Lock your doors at night," he tells her, dropping his stuff with muffled thuds and clangs in the entryway. He catches sight of the fish -- what'd she name it? something awful, he remembers that -- and bends to peer at it. Gets flared at. Laughs under his breath and straightens, glancing at Drew's feet to see if he should take his shoes off.
Decides on yes, regardless. His boots are muddy. His eyes track automatically toward the kitchen as she mentions food. A half-grin pulls at his mouth, and he comes across her living room on stockinged feet.
"It's like you don't know what to do with yourself if you aren't offering me hospitality," he says. This time he doesn't turn it down: she hears him lifting the lid on the pot, sniffing. "Where do you keep the bowls?"
Drew Roscoe
A glance under the table would show that Drew is barefoot, no socks or slippers or anything. She's got one foot trailing just shy of resting on the floor, big toe able to touch tile but not much more, and the other leg was curled up underneath her rump to allow for taller sitting at the kitchen table. Erich figured that regardless he should probably not track mud through her house and removed his boots, chuckling quietly at the beta when it flared at him upon making eye contact.
"Lock it behind ya, then. I would've if I didn't expect you to be coming in later. Besides, you're on the property. If you heard me havin' to fire my gun I'm pretty sure you'd come see what's up. You full moons love a good fight, especially when the moon's this close to bein' full as it is." She'd looked up from her book again when answering his warning to lock her doors at night. There was a second of contemplation, then she dog-earred the page she was on and closed the book over, laying it face down so that the back showed small script offering up a summary and some quotes from people who could be important in some circles vouching for the content.
"Well, it's better to be good to your guests than to ignore 'em. This is my home, not a motel, I'm not gonna just leave you unfed and unfamiliar with the place." As for the bowls, she nodded her head back toward the kitchen proper, where there were cupboards and a sink and appliances. "They're just to the right of the sink. Ya may want to salt and pepper it a little more, I didn't do that great of a job this time around. First stew of the season's never up to par."
Erich Reinhardt
Nothing seems to keep him from turning his back to her open up a cabinet. Humans might consider it rude. Garou might consider it daring or stupid. Erich doesn't really care. He doubts she'd try to stab him in the back. He seriously doubts she'd get very far trying. He reaches for one of the larger bowls. Inspects the bowl, then puts it back. Gets an even bigger one down, clicking it to the counter.
"Don't ever apologize for the quality of your charity," he advises over his shoulder. The lid of the pot clanks down on the stove. "Anyway, can't remember the last time I had homecooked stew. So don't remember what good stew tastes like anyway."
That hoodie of his must be dedicated; he wears it all the time. He's wearing it again, hanging unzipped off his shoulders. It rode his t-shirt up in the back when he reached for her soup bowls, and while he ladles stew out one-handed he tugs it back into place, absently. It takes him a while to fill a bowl that big. One scoop. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. He thinks a minute. He adds a seventh.
"Spoon?" he prompts. She tells him. He rattles her silverware drawer open. A male Garou invariably makes more noise in a kitchen than a female kin. Drew can probably almost imagine the hinges and rails on her cabinetry coming a little loose under the assault. Erich plunks a spoon into his stew, ignores the buns, grabs the salt and pepper shakers, carries his spoils over to the little table. Hands full, he tugs a chair out with his foot, drops down.
When he leans over his meal he seems to take up half the space on the tabletop. Half the space in the kitchen, maybe the house. Second time she's seen him eat, and he's just as carnivorous: skirting the potatoes and the carrots, wolfing down the beef. It takes him seconds to finish half the bowl, and then he sits up.
"Thirsty," he says. Maybe he'll be down to grunted syllables next. "Got a glass?"
Drew Roscoe
"I wasn't apologizing so much as warnin' you might wanna grab salt and pepper off the stove on your way back to the table," Drew offered to him. Her tone was low, her words a little slower now than they had been earlier in the night. She's winding down-- young thing like her's gotten herself into a schedule of having a pretty early bedtime. Yet, despite the fact that she (probably) would be asleep by now, her eyes aren't drooping and she doesn't seem to be anxious to get into her room.
Rather, she's made herself comfortable. The one dangling leg came up into her seat to join the other, crossing criss-cross-applesauce now. She was turned at the waist so that one arm could sling over the back of her chair, and the other hand reached for the half-empty mug that she'd been drinking from to take a sip.
She watched Erich while he moved about in her kitchen and spooned himself up some (
a whole lot of) stew.
Spoons?
"Drawer right below."
Cupboards and drawers protest weakly against Erich's rough minstrations, but Drew doesn't defend them. He's not going to break anything by slapping doors and drawers closed, after all.
Once he's sat down at the table he's wolfing down his food like someone might snatch it up from him if he's not careful, or like the time of the day might slip away too quickly and he'll have wasted precious time eating that should have been spent elsewhere. Drew just observes, bemeaused, as he skirts chunks of potato, carrot coins, onion and celery and tiny chopped bits of garlic of he can help it. The statement of thirst and questioning for a glass is met simply by a small (but curiously content) smile that manifests in the corners of her mouth but doesn't spread across the whole thing. Rather than explaining, Drew rose and went to fetch.
The cupboard and fridge doors were handled less noisily than they would have been had Erich been pulling them open and slapping them closed, and Drew returned to set a tall glass of milk on the table beside the big deep bowl of stew. "Whenever ya like I'll show you to the shower and towels and all that." Because any good kin knows that a traveling Garou's favorite getaway is a good warm shower.
Erich Reinhardt
There's a quiet that settles in the small hours of the night. Stay up a few more hours and Drew would feel it -- that stillness in the hours between midnight and dawn, when the world sleeps, when instinct hushes the voice and slows the body. She's not the type, though. She sleeps early, rises early, hardly goes to the city except for business, keeps a house too big for herself just in case she gets guests.
She rises to get him water. Or milk, as it were. His eyes follow her, and there's a moment where he almost gets up with her. Doesn't, though, and it's not because he's decided it's his right to sit and get served. When she gets back and sets a glass of milk beside him he's stirring his stew, glancing up with a faint smile.
"Thanks," he says. He picks it up, his hand dwarfing the glass that had appeared tall in hers. "But now you're just suggesting I stink." He nods her toward the chair she'd occupied a moment ago, starting in on the stew again. "Besides, I never got done asking you. Who do you wanna get accepted by so bad?"
Drew Roscoe
"Ah damnit."
This is Drew's answer to Erich's pressing the question he'd had hours ago back in the garage that had been interrupted by a strange and suspicious sound. She was honestly hoping he'd forgotten that thread of conversation and was going to let it die. But no, as it were, the Shadow Lord was curious and pressing the matter.
So Drew settled herself into the same chair she'd been sitting in, folding her legs up onto the seat with her once more and taking her coffee mug in both hands to take a sip. Eyes would study Erich for a moment, half-sullen but not all the way there, then they'd land on the sketch-painted designs of flowers and a blue jay nested within them on the side of her pale-cream colored mug.
"Mostly my own Tribe. I feel like I lost my place with them when Joe passed. I miss what it was and what I used to have so damn bad sometimes that the end goal kinda.... blurs a little and I forget where I'm goin'. These days, though, I'd be happy if any pack had a place for me to support them." She paused to sip at her coffee, thought for a moment, then continued on after a deep breath.
"I like the Cutlers. Josie and Sam and Eric, I like them all. The kids are cute as hell too. But... well, I'm on the outside, nice as they are. And frankly it just feels like a reminder of what I missed when I see 'em whole and happy like they are. Kinda stings."
Erich Reinhardt
For once, the pause before a reply comes from Drew. Her eyes are on Erich for a while. He can feel it, but he doesn't remark on it. He keeps his down. Seems kinder that way, or maybe safer. He has stew, anyway, and even if it was meant to get better later in the season, he thought this was pretty damn decent.
Eventually, she talks. And somewhere in the middle of it he finishes eating. A couple chunks of potato left. A few pieces of carrot. Other than that, just a bit of broth, and his spoon. He sits back, then. Glass of milk in hand like it's beer, his palms are reddened from hanging on to that sander for hour after hour. Listening. He looks a little tired, himself. Slowed-down, relaxed, a bit worn on the edges.
When she's finished he's quiet a while himself. He raises a hand, scrubs at his face. Wraps it behind his neck, kneads a moment, the tendons in his wrist standing out for a moment as he flexes his head back against his own resistance. Then he drops his hand back to his thigh; looks at Drew with a curiously gentle sadness in his eyes.
"I don't think you're actually looking for a pack to take care of," he says quietly. "I think you want a family." He thinks a moment. Amends, "You want your family back."
Drew
Erich allowed the quiet that Drew was probably most comfortable with. The poor thing had a habit of baring her soul when given the opportunity to, and had held true to this habit when pressed for who she was seeking acceptance by. She'd laid it out on the table, and Erich was respectful enough to allow her words to air out some, to let Drew just breathe silence, before he pressed on.He scrubbed at his neck in that silence, the sound of skin-on-skin friction about the only thing inside the quiet home. Drew took another sip of her coffee, and it was while her lips were still pressed to the edge of her mug that Erich caught her eyes and offered her an expression that was gentle, sad, maybe even a touch apologetic. The look was something of an offered crutch to go along with the words that he spoke.You want a family, he said.
You want your family back.
Drew didn't react suddenly or violently. Some, who have had their grief and fears and regrets summed up for them and held out as an offering of self-truth, recoil and spit venom to try and protect themselves. On the complete opposite side of the spectrum, others will shut down entirely. Were Drew to shut down she would probably smile brightly, say something without any weight, and go bustle about cleaning up her kitchen before going to bed and refusing to pick up the subject again.Neither of these things happened.Rather, Drew's head dropped and bobbed in a nod of affirmation. Her jaw clenched, teeth held tightly together as though they were clamped around the reins of her own composure. She struggled for a second, eyes averting his, and switched from clenching her jaw to licking her lips once to drawing her lower lip in between her teeth and biting that instead.Tears didn't come (yet, at least), but her voice was far huskier and quieter when she spoke again. "You're right. I'm pretty fuckin' obvious. But... it's better to want and strive for something you can actually have. I can't have what used to be mine back-- it's gone, dead in the earth. I can't pine for that. I need to find something else to want."
I need to fill that space, otherwise the quiet's gonna eat me up.
Erich
Of course Drew doesn't cry -- not yet, anyway -- being Fenrir and made of sterner stuff than that. Still, her sorrow is as heavy in the air as a miniature rainstorm all her own. Erich feels it. It makes him uncomfortable. He was, after all, raised a Fenrir. Raised to be a Fenrir, gruff and rough and direct and forceful, not good with a woman's tears.
He hasn't learned to revel in the sight of another's misery yet. Probably never will. Just another ugly stereotype, that one. He's met the sort -- rarely, unpleasantly -- but by and large, he can't think of many Shadow Lords who would sit in his seat right now and gloat. Despite the demonizations hurtled from one camp to the other, the truth is what Drew said some time ago is true. Lords and Fenrir: there's common ground. There always is. In the end, they're all wolves and men.
Erich doesn't quite look away from Drew, but he lowers his eyes to give her a little room, a little privacy. He toys with his glass. He takes a sip, then he puts it down again. Some faint humor touches his mouth, quirking it.
"No doubt," he says. "You can't just stew in negativity; it'll rot you from the core. You gotta channel it into something productive. We can agree on that. But I can't help wondering if you've ever even just let yourself hurt for a while without yanking yourself up by the bootstraps and moving right along to being productive. I've known you three weeks and I've already seen you do it half a dozen times.
"You can't pine for what's gone, that's true. But maybe you oughta take some time to look it in the eye and grieve."
Drew
"I didn't at first," she admitted to Erich. He was giving her space by looking away and letting her lower her head. She'd lifted her chin again so it wasn't so near to her chest, had unclenched her jaw and stopped chewing and licking on her lips out of nervous habit. Still, though, her eyes were down, focused into her cup of black (but with sugar) coffee. It was easier to speak to him this way, it felt a lot less like baring her soul if she was just talking, just having conversation without having to focus on such intense energy in the Ahroun's eyes, without having to bare the obvious emotion in her own.
"I didn't grieve, that is, not very well. I mean, I kept my bits of nostalgia and let myself be sad when I was alone, but it never helped me feel better." She breathed deep, sighed on the exhale.
"Besides," she says, and there's a vague quiver to the tone of that word. This is the first she's talking about this out loud, the encounter with the ghost from the past that had occurred a few days ago in her front yard. "Thomas came and took the responsibility of grief away. He said he'd carry it for me, that he'd find Joe and bring his name back where it should be." She wasn't one-hundred percent positive that this had actually happened, but she was now assured that Thomas was at least alive. Perhaps he'd reached out to her through a dream in the way that those living with the Spirits do, sent a message from the Other Side, from the Umbra. That seemed more appropriate, he didn't stay for any longer than half an hour before vanishing once more.
It wasn't quite closure, not the kind of closure that the Skald had been hoping to give the Kinfolk at that time, but it was good to know that at least one of the two lived still.
Moments spent recalling and contemplating Thomas's visit passed quickly enough, and after a sip of coffee Drew set the cup back down on the table and looked back into the Shadow Lord's face. She seemed steadier now, if nothing else. "Thomas says he took it, but you need to move along to feel better, and that part hasn't happened." Here the kinfolk shrugged, took another drink of her coffee, and pushed her chair back from the table, unfolded her legs, and moved to rise. Her body language was suggestive of resignation and duty-- a woman about to clean up a kitchen that she's been putting off cleaning for a while now. "It will sometime. Has to, I guess."
Erich
What she says doesn't make a whole lot of sense. He just doesn't have the context. He can guess that Joe's the dead mate. Thomas is probably a packmate. Maybe a brother. There's that bit about restoring Joe's name; it makes him think maybe he's not the first wolf of Fenris's blood she's known who's let that blood down somehow. There's stuff about carrying the responsibility, though, and taking grief away, and --
he shakes his head. "I don't get that," he says. "No one can carry grief for you. You shouldn't let 'em even if they could. Grief might not be pleasant, but that's yours to keep as much as your strength or your will. It'syours. You can't just ... give it to someone else. You'd be losing a part of yourself."
There's a flicker of the young wolf she met on the street weeks ago there: grabbing the door of his car, yanking it out from under her arm. Mine. In almost every way he's perhaps the opposite of what Thomas is. He would never understand the sort of deep, deep bond Thomas and Joe had shared; wouldn't want to. He would never understand carrying the burdens of another, or allowing another to carry his. What is his is his alone. That's where his strength is, and his pride -- not in the typical things an Ahroun is concerned with, winning battles, winning lovely kinswomen, siring cubs -- not in that, but in something rawer and closer to the bone.
Being self-sufficient. Being solitary. Walking a narrow, long path all his own.
"Look -- " she's standing; he doesn't blame her for wanting to be done with the conversation. He doesn't quite let her be done, though. His arm easily spans the table. His hand closes around the base of hers, holds her fast for just a moment longer. "All I'm saying is maybe you should stop trying so hard to move on. Sitting around waiting for the hurt to go away is just another way to focus on it. And trying so hard to fill that void with a new pack or a new wolf or a new somebody to take care of is just going to remind you of all the ways the new stuff doesn't stack up to the old.
"Just let yourself be for a while. Find reasons to like what you've already got instead of looking so hard for what you don't have."
Drew
Drew is stopped from leaving the table, but not forcibly. Erich's hand wrapped about her wrist and the bottom of her hand, kept her from leaving more by the suggestion of the gesture than by any real physical force of restraint. He insists that Thomas, whoever he may be, couldn't carry her guilt because it was very much hers, no one else's.
She flashed a small smile to him then, and the expression was precisely what you'd expect-- sad, weak, but honest about it at least. She didn't argue with him, but rather she heard him out. He advised her to let herself just be sad when she needed to be, to find things to like rather than hunt aggressively for them.
"I know what ya mean. Givin' Thomas the grief was... kind of a ritual. It's been a while, over a year. It was his way of sharin' the burden of loss, as much as sayin' that I've gotta keep a chin up and keep on."
Her arm didn't jerk away when she'd had enough of being near the person pressing the issue of loss. She didn't seem to become particularly skittish at being held by a beast with that much Rage in his chest. Rather, when she was ready to get away from the table and busy her hands, when she'd given Erich his moment to speak and be heard and a response in return for all that, she placed her other hand on top of his, patted it lightly, then eased her wrist from between his fingers.
"But you're right. Ain't gonna cry on your shoulder, not tonight, but you're absolutely right. Now, I gotta get some cleaning done, and you probably wanna rest with all that food in your guts now."
Erich
There's this to be said about Drew: she cares. It's impossible to mistake that. It's in all the little things: the way her face lights up when she meets a Fenrir. The way she opened her shed and her home to Erich, who arguably brought this down on himself.
It's in the way she tries not to slam her burdens down on others, too, when so many others would have poured their hearts out by now, willing audience or no. And it's here, too: in the way she withdraws gently, so it doesn't seem like some sort of rejection of the comfort, or the connection, that he barely knows how to offer.
Her hand pats the back of his. He has big knuckles, big bones. Big hands that release her without rancor, but with just a hint of reluctance. He offers her a faint, lopsided smile as she stands.
"How 'bout you go to bed instead," he bargains. "I'll help you clean tomorrow. Gotta take breaks from inhaling fumes, anyway."
Drew
Drew has been around Kinfolk of all sorts, and made friends and enemies both of them. She's been friends with the most notorious sleep-arounds in the Chicago Kinfolk circuit. She's befriended (and protected) gangly bookworms, half-mute men that were more blue collar than they were personality. Likewise she's made terrible enemies of hardened police officers and pretty blue-eyed mothers.
She's been around the soft of heart, those who will spill their guts to you if you sit them down with a cup of coffee. She's wrapped arms around Kin who have sobbed openly into her shoulder. She knew how easy it would be to unload on Erich, to start crying and hold onto his shirt and shoulders for comfort desperately sought. She also knew the repercussions of such an action, though. She knew it would make him uncomfortable, damage a friendship, and more than that she'd make a damn fool of herself.
She cared, so she didn't want to do any of that.
He cared, so he offered that comfort in his own way anyways.
He smiled, he opened this conversation with her to encourage her to get words off her chest (to better understand her), and he told her to go to bed and offered to help clean up the kitchen with her tomorrow instead. Drew's acceptance of his offer showed by the way that small smile widened some, spread into her cheeks and relaxed her eyes.
"Sounds like a plan." She'd step back enough to offer him up room to stand, and gestured toward the short hallway on the opposite side of the house -- to the left if you were standing in the front doorway. "Both rooms back there are guest rooms, you can pick and choose whichever you want. Bathroom's right between 'em. I'll see ya whenever ya wake.
"And thanks. Y'know, for just bein' empathetic. I appreciate that from time to time, Erich, so thanks."
