Nights out in Chicago are drastically different from nights out in Browntown. You see, when Drew decided she wanted to get the hell out of the house and break routine in Chicago she would call up one or two of the Kinfolk gals she knew and declare 'Put on something sexy, we're going to go make poor choices!' Here, though, the only Kinfolk she'd really had a chance to become very close with was a mother of two with a busy job, a Mate, a big extended family, and not a lot of free time for just going out and wasting time. Drew, on the other hand, was childless and lived alone. She didn't have the responsibilities (or company) that came with Josie's life.
So Drew was out on her own trying to make the best of Browntown Nightlife. Sure, she could have driven to Washington D.C., but that sounded more exhausting than worthwhile to her. A nigh-two hour drive for a nightclub just to have to keep sober enough to drive home, or choose to waste money on a motel room? No, no thank you at all.
Tonight Drew was keeping warm at the town's bar, sitting at a table rather than up at the bar itself. She's got a rocks glass of some amber liquid or another (no ice) in front of her and is doing some work or another on her smart phone-- checking an email, perhaps, or shifting funds in bank accounts, who knew? There was a half-eaten plate of nachos in front of her, and a jacket along with a scarf was hung over the back of her chair. She'd dressed for the nippy autumn nights in a dark olive-colored long sleeved shirt that clung nicely (but wasn't low cut, so she felt it was appropriate), and a pair of light colored jeans whose legs were tucked into short comfy brown boots.
All in all, she looked pretty secluded there tonight, letting the regulars at their corner of the bar have their conversations without her trying to wedge her way in. She wasn't that desperate for human contact, though, not just yet.
Erich ReinhardtPoor choices. That could be Erich's middle name for any number of reasons. Ask the Fenrir and they'll point at his tribe. Ask that blonde across from him right now tomorrow morning, and --
well; let's back up a step. Set the scene. That Bar in Browntown again; the only one in the whole damn town. The Mustang wasn't anywhere to be seen the last couple days, but tonight it's back again, parked in front of That Bar and its driver is inside. There are tables. There's a tiny dance floor where some forty- and fifty-year-olds are grooving to yesterday's music. This isn't a swanky hip place by any stretch of the imagination, and most everybody knows everybody else here. There's a dartboard in the back.
There are also tables in the back, a little more shadowed, where the youngsters of the town sometimes hook up in the spring. Later in the summer there are usually weddings. But it's neither spring nor summer right now, and Erich isn't a youngster of the town. He is there with some blonde though; looks a bit like some homecoming queen-type who graduated two summers ago and has been stuck at a semi-dead-end job ever since. Looking for a little adventure maybe. She's talking. He's listening, or maybe just nursing his drink, and she looks two and a half sails to the wind already and right about to make some Poor Choices when
Drew walks in, and Erich's eyes lift over her shoulder. He gets sort of a faint little smirk on his face. A moment's thought; then he swipes his drink off the table with a scrape of glass on wood. 'Scuse me, he murmurs to his bombshell companion. Her affronted glare
and a silence in the wake of his Rage
follows him across the room. He puts his drink down on Drew's table; he hooks a chair out with his foot and drops down across from her.
"What's a good girl like you doing here all alone?"
Drew RoscoeDrew hadn't been there for too terribly long-- Erich had been able to watch her walk in, get her drink and her nachoes, and go find a table in the back to nibble her condiment-covered tortilla chips and start dinking around on her smart phone. He'd allowed her time to settle, though perhaps not intentionally. Not much time, but just enough for her to be a quarter of a way through an email when Erich dragged a chair out across the table from her and plunked down to sit in it.
Her eyes hopped up to his face and there was a quarter of a second before recognition sunk in. Dark brown eyes had gone from sharp and investigative to relaxed, and dropped back to her phone so she could close out of what she was doing and push it to the edge of the table to be ignored. As she did this, there was an expression on her face of 'You again,' but without any terrible amount of disappointment or disdain to go along with it.
"No one to call on to come with," she answered casually enough. She straightened some and reached out across the table, first to slide the plate of nachos to the center of the table-- an obvious offer to share, then to snag the rocks glass and take a small sip of whatever amber liquor was held within. Lips pursed when the alcohol hit her mouth and tongue and throat, but she breathed deep through her nose and passed the sting without too much fuss.
"What makes you think I'm so good? You've met me once." There's nothing coy there, no invitation or suggestion to be found. It's as simple sounding as it would be if she was asking if he brought cherry or apple pie to the party.
Erich ReinhardtA Fenrir would dig right into those nachos she offered, but he'd thank her for her generosity and hospitality. All that shit. A Shadow Lord: well. She offers, he takes. Simple as that. Grabbing a handful of chips, dipping them generously in melted cheese, Erich brings his oozey prize back to himself and tips his chair back on two legs to drop it in his wide-open mouth. Crunches, setting the front legs back down with a thump that rattle his glass on the table.
There's something intensely physical about him. As if the air around him is ever in motion, lit up by his very presence. He smirks at her, a lightning-quick quirk of his mouth, one canine bared and gleaming.
"Have you looked in the mirror lately, Drew Roscoe?" Just a touch of mockery in her full name given back to her, just the way she introduced herself. "You kinda scream good little girl."
He leans forward again. Grabs another handful of chips, sucks a dollop of cheese off the side of his thumb. A few yards away there's a huff and a hustle: Erich's date or would-be-conquest or new friend is getting rather noisily to her feet and storming off. He doesn't look her way. He eats his nachos.
"Then again," he adds, "you did show up to a bar all by your lonesome when your friends left you hanging. So maybe there's hope for you after all."
Drew RoscoeDrew doesn't look like she was expecting any kind of thanks. She's dealt with Shadow Lords before, and frankly there was only one that she's known to break her general view on the Tribe. She didn't care for them too much, there was one in particular from her past that she had (half drunkenly, she'll admit) gone after when a friend had died because she despised and distrusted him so much that she believed that her friend's death had to be his fault personally. That young, wild-haired man, stood as template for the Shadow Lord tribe in her mind.
So he tipped his chair back and crunched happily on the offered nachos, and Drew took another small sip of her drink. He smirked at her, and she surveyed him in turn from over the rim of her glass. She didn't smirk back, not immediately, but rather let her distracted gaze hop from Erich's face to the blonde woman that was glancing over toward him, glaring unjustly at Drew, and making a small show of leaving the bar. Erich doesn't notice or care, Drew puts together the dots, then quietly chuckles, just a little, and sets her glass down on the table again.
"I didn't invite friends. I haven't been here long enough to really make any just yet. I just...," there's a pause while she looks for words, and her left hand twirls listlessly in the air in front of her as though doing so may summon forth what she was trying to say. After a second it does, it seems, because she puts her hand back down and continues speaking. "I just had to get out of the house, I guess. Same quiet walls without so much as a damn goldfish to blow bubbles at me." She reached out to take a couple of nachos, squish some cheese and sour cream and taco meat between them like a sandwich, and munched contentedly.
.
Erich ReinhardtThe predator's eye follows motion. He looks at the aimless motion of her hand. She's a pretty girl; he notices this sort of thing. He notices the slender taper of her fingers, the dexterity in the wrist. Then he reaches for his glass and he takes a healthy swallow, grimacing faintly.
No roots left for Erich. No family to go back to. No mission in life. No purpose, no path. But somewhere along those wanderings he's tasted the best liquor and the worst. The shit they serve here isn't the latter, not quite, but it's a long shot from the former. He sets the glass back down with a firm click.
"That sounded like a confession," he remarks. There's that thread of mockery again. It's a sort of armor. "The time honored tradition of pouring your heart out to a stranger over a drink. Not sure it's wise though. I am a Shadow Lord. Might use it against you when you least expect it."
A flick of his fingers. Quick, deft. He slides that half-filled glass across the table to her; doesn't spill. It's amber. It could be scotch or bourbon; cognac doesn't seem likely for the likes of him.
"Speaking of which," he says, "have a drink."
Drew RoscoeDrew's answer to Erich's words is a laugh, and the sound is a little rough. She doesn't seem like she's had much to drink yet-- after all, she has only the one glass in front of her and she hasn't even finished half of it. She doesn't seem particularly bitter or distressed, either. It's just, well... He's not Family. She doesn't feel like she needs to make a very good impression on him, especially not after he declared that her tribe hates him and nearly took her out with a heavy car door. She's just being herself minus the bubbling good impression-- she's just honest instead.
"Confession nothing. That's no secret. I mean, I'm close enough with one gal and her family, but she's doing the mom-and-Mate thing and probably can't get away too easily for a Saturday Night Drink." To this she shrugs, takes another chip, and looks at the glass Erich slides over, watching the cup and his hand carefully for a second before looking him in the eye. "What leverage do you think you could get against me, now? Better yet, what the hell've I got to give that you'd use it against me?"
The hesitation is there, and it's obvious. Call it prejudice if you like, but trusting a Shadow Lord was a mistake. Any dealings with them were a gamble, if you asked her.
She reached for the glass he offered, took a small sniff of the drink, then a drink to follow.
Seemed tonight she was okay with throwing dice.
Erich snorts; the mockery fades. He looks cross. "Better yet," he mimics, "why the fuck would I go out of my way just to screw you over? You fuckin' Fenrir and your stereotypes."
It's bourbon. Cheaper than scotch. When she sets it down he reaches across the table, briefly in her space; he takes his drink back and downs the last of it.
"My uncle Ben's an Athro of the tribe," he says. It's sudden; hardedged. "Used to give me rides on his shoulders when I was a kid. Day I Firsted, he told me he was proud of me and always would be. Day I left for my Rite of Passage, he told me he knew I'd make him proud.
"Day I came back and chose Thunder over Fenris, he spat on my face and told me to get out of his sight. Kill me if I ever came back." A beat of pause. Softer: "An Athro of your glorious tribe, and my mother's brother."
Drew RoscoeHe accuses her of believing sterotypes, and, once she'd finished processing the bourbon that he'd given her a taste of, she sat his glass down, closer to him than where her own glass sat, and scoffed right back at him. She'd leaned forward some, not across the table or very far over it, but enough that it made a statement.
"Blame your own tribemates-- they've done nothing but enforce it." She leans back into her seat, sitting as she had before and even going so far as to shift and cross her right leg over her left at the knee. "You're more than welcome to convince me to abandon those sterotype, though."
Then Erich is telling the story of his Uncle Ben-- of how they were close, a family, and how when Erich went off for his Rite of Passage his Uncle Ben had told him how proud he was. When he came back a Shadow Lord, his Uncle Ben wrote him off, hated him for his choice and promised to kill him if he ever saw him again. Drew listens to the story with a nod and is respectful enough not to munch on the nachos while he was speaking. Rather, she took a sip of her own drink (scotch, good and smokey), and answered thoughtfully. "Why did you abandon your Family?" The tone is sincere and softened, more than she's been toward him yet. She isn't sympathetic for him, but she can appreciate a potentially tender subject when it arises. But still, the question is asked, just framed in softness to try and ease the jab.
Erich Reinhardt"What's more important," he counters, "family, or winning the War?"
Drew Roscoe"Neither."
There is zero hesitation in her answer, to the point that it nearly cuts off the last constanant of Erich's sentence.
She makes eye contact and holds it, firm in the answer she is giving him to the point that she almost comes across as zealous. This is a nigh-religious belief of hers, and she might be attempting to convince him of what she is convinced to be truth. "You win no wars without Family. They're the drive behind the fight, the very reason we fight, and without them there ain't a purpose to the war."
MaximilianThe man of short stature walks the streets of Browntown. He carries a hunting rifle slung over his shoulder opposite his duffel bag. A weeks growth of facial hair marks him as some sort of hipster survivalist. He looks around and is careful to make a visual inspection of dark corners as he makes his way toward the general store.
Erich Reinhardt[we're in browntown's one and only bar, max!]
MaximilianHe licks his dry lips and eyes the neon lights of the bar as he passes. It had been a long time since he had a proper Rum Runner. Could he chance it? This place was suppose to be safe. But, there are always people willing to sell their souls to the Devil for their own twisted beliefs. He was racked with indecision for a long moment as his hand took several attempts to open the door to the bar. His fingers twitching. He finally snatched the door open and walked inside. He stood just inside the door and looked ready to fight or flight as he scanned the establishment.
Erich ReinhardtA faint twist of the young Ahroun's mouth. His face and form are pure Fenrir, but his manner isn't. Too dark, too brooding, too fucking melancholy, too cynical. "That's well and good to say," he says, "but sometimes you just can't have both.
"You can believe what you want," he adds, "and I'm not gonna try to convince you otherwise. But way I see it, the Fenrir way of doing things isn't going to cut it anymore. The thinking's outdated. They're holding to traditions centuries old, and a few centuries ago shit wasn't this bad. Death before dishonor, and a glorious death as the crown achievement of a life. Fuck that. We're in the last days of the war, and if we aren't willing to give up all honor, all glory, every last thing we have in the name of victory, then we won't win.
"There's shit my Fenrir cousins would never do. Not even if it was guaranteed to win them the war. Their pride gets in the way. Or their masculinity, or their honor, or some such shit. Thunder's children are simpler than that. If it gets the job done, then you do it. Period.
"What happens to you in the aftermath, and how history judges you for your part -- that's just collateral. Acceptable losses, when push comes to shove."
MaximilianThe open conversation about the pending apocalypse makes him almost bolt for the door but, that would attract more attention to him. He silently slips his bag and gun off his shoulder and nods to the bartender as he sets them down in the corner of a booth. He then takes the few steps to the bar and hops on a stool. He orders two rum runners and nervously taps his fingers on the bar.
Drew Roscoe"Mmm...," is what Drew has to say to his answer at first. It's mostly because she's taking another small sip of her scotch when he concludes his speech about what it takes to win wars and why Fenrir aren't cut to do it anymore. When she puts the cup down, she reached out to take another of the few nacho chips left between them, slides the plate closer to him as a sign that he's welcome to finish what's left, and leans back more comfortably in her chair.
As she's chewing, arms stretch over her head then fold behind it. She's almost lounging in the chair, but still manages to be largely upright without slouching too deep into the seat.
"I can't really say if what you're claiming about Mine is true or not, I don't think I know nearly enough on the subject. But I'll tell ya this-- you can go all in on the war, sacrifice everything else for it, and strive to be the absolute best. But at the end of the day, what drives you? Why are you fighting, Erich?"
Erich ReinhardtThe reaction is slight, but instantaneous. Hard to hide. A flicker in the forehead: blond eyebrows darting toward each other. A wrinkle between.
A confession, he'd mocked earlier. This, though: this has the true air of a confession, quiet and confounded and laced with shame:
"Because fighting is all I know how to do."
MaximilianHe takes his two drinks and pays the bartender, including a tip. Then turns to look at the two talking about their motivations. He tilts his head slightly as he watches them. He then looks around the bar again. This time looking for the hidden cameras and the effects off Big Brother. He double takes at the dart board to make sure it is not a listening device.
He clears his throat. "You should first learn how to survive."
Drew Roscoe
Drew recognized a confession when she saw one. She couldn't call Erich's tone vulnerable, that word was incredibly inaccurate. However, she did sense that there was a particular kind of truth in his words. She may have tossed (albeit playfully) in his face that he was revealing tender information about himself in other circumstances, but she simply didn't want to right now. It'd be too mean.
So instead she nodded and opened her mouth to reply, but paused when the man sitting at the bar stool closest to her and Erich's table spoke up, advised that Erich learn to survive before he resolve to a life of fighting and nothing more. Drew's gaze was cautious, she didn't recognize the almost hilariously petite man at the bar. She doubted he was bad, per say, but he was a stranger none the less.
"I figured that to be Fighting 101 myself. Can't fight if you're dead." She says this more to Max than to Erich, and glances back to the man across the table from her, the one she'd been sharing conversation with. "I'm pretty sure you'll learn more. Men aren't machines."
Erich ReinhardtErich's answer is a bit simpler. A sudden, hard snap of his eyes over. Pale blue, those eyes. Matches the nordic bone structure; the shortcropped blond hair. Pure Fenrir.
Only. Well. Not.
Still, this: "Who the fuck are you?"
MaximilianDiminutive he may be but those cold eyes and angular features of his face surely marked him a Fenrir. He sipped his drink and looked over the man sitting there for a long silent moment.
"I'm Maximilian Krieg. If you want more than that, perhaps you would want to step out of earshot of Big Brother. There are a Litany of things that I would hate for him to overhear." He chose his words carefully. emphasizing the more important ones.
"If not then you can accept that I know what you are talking about. I own the old Krieg farm about 4 miles down AA."
Drew Roscoe
Who the fuck are you?
Perhaps you would want to step out of earshot...
A Litany... If not, then you can accept...
Drew sighed a quiet little sigh and finished the scotch in her glass, even if it was a slightly more sizable swallow than she really wanted to make with scotch. Alcohol abuse, her old friends would scold her. Drew would answer with a shrug and defense that she might well need the extra warmth in her belly for the bickerings that were no doubt to come.
She didn't start pulling her jacket on just yet, rather she'd wait to see how Erich handled talking to this Krieg fellow. She didn't even interject with an introduction of her own for Krieg. Rather, she'd let these two hash things out and observe-- there as a voice of reason in case it was needed.
Erich ReinhardtAnother beat the stare is held. Then a short, sharp snort of a laugh. "Is that what Fenris's boys are doing in this town? Farming?"
He's on his feet. It's a sudden motion, abrupt, forceful. His chair leaps back with a snarl of wood on wood. He takes the last of his drink as well, a single gulp, and jerks his head in the direction of the door.
"Let's get properly introduced."
MaximilianHe slammed down his first drink and then set the other down on the table by his stuff. He lingered there a moment considering if he would need his gun. He seriously would hate if Ragnorok happened at this moment and he was not next to it. He steeled himself and left it their in the booth. There was no reason to further exasperate the situation if the big guy thought this was an invitation to get his ass whooped.
He nodded to Erich and then silently headed to the door.
Drew Roscoe"Great."
Drew mutters the word quietly to herself and rises when the two men do. Erich finds his feet quickly, aggressively. Max is ponderous for a moment, looking at his belongings like he wasn't sure if he would need to bring them or not, then stands from where he had sat without his things. Drew, however, stood up slowly enough, plucked one last nacho chip from the plate and held it with her teeth while she pulled her dark red wool jacket on, buttoned it up, and wrapped a gray scarf about her neck. Her long brown hair did a fine job of keeping her ears warm, so she didn't worry about hats or earmuffs just yet. It was only October, after all.
The men head toward the door, Drew crunches the chip with a quick bite, and follows after. In some circumstances she would make sure tabs were closed with the bartender before leaving, but-- well, Max was unfamiliar and Erich wasn't Family or her responsibility.
MaximilianHe stepped away from the building to make sure the cameras that he was sure were covering the street would not be able to get a clear shot of his mouth for all those Illuminati spooks that read lips. He stuffed his hands in his jacket and waited for them to be within conversational distance. He eyed them both again suspiciously trying again to see if he could trust them.
He spoke just loud enough for them both to hear. He did not want any errant conversation to get picked up by a passing cell phone transmission or other such none sense.
"Maximilian Krieg, know as Devil's Dice, Cliath Godi of the Fenrir. Gamma of Ragnorok's Hammer under Ulfer the aspect of Great Fenris."
Short and sweet. He did not go into details about his extensive lineage. He didn't like anyone knowing who his ancestors are anyway.
Erich ReinhardtOut they go. Not that cold yet in the Chesapeake; sixties and seventies by day. Fifties by night. Sometimes rain lingers on the horizon -- the late-dying hurricane season coming off the Atlantic. Not tonight, though. Tonight there's a moon hanging in the sky, just past half. Neither of their moons, as it turns out.
Drew has a coat to put on. Erich precedes her to the door; he doesn't hold it for her, but he does push it wider than necessary so there's more room to backswing across. Noise dies down behind them as the door shuts. Maximilian looks all around, paranoid-like, and Erich's eyes on him hold both aggression and some level of what the fuck.
Eventually Maximilian seems happy with the spot. He gives his introduction, terse, the way most Fenrir did. The tribe doesn't seem to surprise Erich much. He looks Fenrir. Plus, the town was crawling with the Wolf-God's. Erich, though: he pushes his fist against his jaw, pops his neck, sniffs.
"Erich Reinhardt." The last name carries weight; there are a whole lot of Reinhardts out there. All Fenrir. Most reputable. A few, downright famous. This one, though: infamous comes closer to the mark. "Cliath Ahroun. Shadow Lord. And you're a rude little motherfucker. Didn't your momma ever tell you not to eavesdrop?"
Drew RoscoeDrew caught the door and brought up the rear behind the two men. She didn't expect either to pause to hold it, they both had each other on their minds. This is what happened when Garou met each other. They had to establish dominance and know if they stood on mutual grounds or very different ones. Erich had at least swung the door open wide enough that she could catch it easily and continue on out after them.
She let the door close gently enough behind her and followed the pair to where Max seemed most comfortable to talk. They'd wrapped around to the side of the building, off the sidewalk and instead in the employee parking lot, a small narrow stretch of crumbling pavement with a pair of dumpsters hugging the bar's wall.
Max gave his introduction-- he was a Godi. He was Family. She was officially, at least minutely, responsible.
Erich gave his in answer, then followed it up with a quip and an insult, calling Max out on eavesdropping his and her's conversation. Drew didn't interject here, but rather she jammed her hands into her jacket pockets, leaned her shoulders against the building wall, and watched to see how this would unfurl. Why not? She had all night.
Maximilian"Situational awareness. It's the first step in knowing if you are going to have to kill every mother fucker in the place or if you can just get a drink and relax for a minute. Not my fault that your conversation held snips of sensitive materials that I key in on. Our history is long and many have not been so careful with the Veil." He holds up his hand, "Before you go thinking I am accusing you of such, I ain't. But, a person in the know would know what you were talking about. I only interjected so that we could have 'this' conversation, properly. I minor rudeness to result in a greater good."
Erich ReinhardtSomething about Maximilian's logic, or words, or the sheer length of time he talks makes Erich shoot him a disbelieving glare. Or maybe it's none of the above; something else entirely. Doesn't matter: Erich snorts. Then he turns to Drew, hikes a thumb at Max.
"You know this fucker?"
Drew Roscoe"Not in the least. Nice to meet you though, Max." The greeting was accompanied with a smile, and while it's genuine and friendly it's brief. It's directed only toward the Godi.
That said, she falls back into quiet to let the pair hash it out.
"I would say the same miss but, I did not catch your introduction..." He looks her over and then him again. He was pretty used to Ahrouns having no clue what he was talking about. The lack of cerebral response from the Shadow Lord went un-remarked.
Erich Reinhardt"That's Drew Roscoe," Erich says. "She's one of yours." A swipe of heavy knuckles across his nostrils; a tip of his chin up. "You gonna walk her home now, keep her away from the likes of me?"
Drew Roscoe[AFK fellas, keep on without me. Drew's just enjoying the show.]
Maximilian"I have every intention of walking back inside that bar, drinking as many rum runners as they will serve me, then stumbling my ass home in a drunken stupor. Unless of course you think I need to protect her from you. Or more over if 'she' feels like 'she' needs to be escorted. But, 'she' looks like a big girl and I can let her make that decision. I'm not big on treating kin like children. Especially kin I don't know. You end up getting in fights with big brothers and they get all kinds of ass hurt when a short fucker like me kicks their ass."
Erich ReinhardtThose glacial eyes flick a touch narrower. It's that look again; midway between distrust and disbelief. Something else though -- quick, so shortlived you could blink and miss it. A twitch to his hard mouth. A hint of reflexive amusement, there and then just as quickly gone again. Erich rolls his thick shoulders back, loosening them.
"Your mouth's three sizes bigger than you are," he says, offhand. "And fuck you. Now I owe her a beer."
MaximilianHe smirks ever so slightly. "The name's Devil's Dice. You'll learn to never bet against me. But, I tell you what? You tell me what the bet was and I will cover your debt. "
Drew Roscoe"Excuse me," the Kinfolk asked. Her voice was normal, she didn't raise it at all, but her tone was pronounced and assertive. She straightened up so that she wasn't leaning so casually back against the building wall anymore, but her hands were still in her jacket pockets, unthreatening.
The two cuss and posture for a moment, then Erich pauses and spits an insult followed by defeat: now I owe her a beer. That moment is answered by a grin from the pint-sized Fenrir, a name to go with that, and an offer to cover the debt if Erich shares what it was in the first place.
In that time Drew had tensed, just a little, like she thought one may physically attack the other, then relaxed when the Theurge smirked and offered to pay for a beer. The little Kinfolk exhaled, tension slipping from her shoulders, and spoke up. "Krieg, like he said, I'm Drew Roscoe, and I'm new to the town. Just like Erich here. We're family, you should know, and I'm pleased to meet you." Thing is? She was, and it read all over her face.
Erich Reinhardt"Wasn't a bet," Erich snaps. Then a pause. His eyes flick away; linger on some anonymous point in the middle distance. In profile he's all heavy brow, aquiline nose. Nordic to the last drop of his blood. When he turns back he's frowning again, that brief inordinate flicker of humor long gone.
"Was a prediction," he finishes. "I told you my tribe. You can see my blood. Nine Fenrir outta ten would be trying to put me in the ground for betraying my heritage. Corrupting their kin. All that bullshit."
Maximilian"Pleasure's mine Miss Roscoe. You don't mind if I call you Drew do you?" His hands were still stuffed in his pockets.
He looked at the Fenrir. "I ain't no Forseti.I'll let you make all the wrong decisions you want to so long as they don't involve fucking me over along your way. As far as defiling kin goes. I don't think that shit matters when hordes of zombies or worse will be rolling through here any day. So, you can keep your petty shit to yourself. I got more important things to bleed over."
Maximilian(Looked at the former Fenrir)
Drew RoscoeErich explained the situation wherein he found himself owing the brown-eyed Fenrir Kin a beer, and Max paused his side of the conversation to acknowledge Drew's introducing herself and asking if he can use her first name. She smiled at him in a way that was downright fond and shook her head. "I'd ask you to call me Drew if you didn't."
That smile lingered, half-cocked, while the Theurge explained to the Ahroun that he weren't no Philodox, and therefore didn't have to or want to care about any transgressional acts or offenses. As long as they don't involve fucking me over, he said, and that was all he asked.
Drew's hands drew from her pockets, but only so that she could fold her arms over her chest and adjust her stance so that her weight rested dominantly on her right leg, causing hips to jut further in that direction than the other. "Well," she said, and moved her gaze to the Shadow Lord, "When're we having that beer?"
MaximilianHe was a gruff and simple pragmatist. There was always something more important to worry about like the cameras that were watching them have the prolonged conversation. He eyed one of them and for a long moment he considered what it would take to slip through the town in the dark of night and remove all the security cameras for good. He licked his lips and decided not to anger Digit Eye, yet. He then catches a glimpse of his still full rum runner on the table next to his precious stuff in the bar. The longing in his eyes might be for the drink, or to be near his stuff.
Erich Reinhardt" 'Petty shit'," Erich snorts. "Just couldn't resist a dig, could you."
Then some niceties. Can I call you Drew? I'd ask you to if you didn't! - Erich restrains the urge to grimace, but he can't restrain the shift of his weight, restless, one foot to the other. His attention swings back when Drew talks to him: she wants her prize.
He grunts. When his arms fold across his chest, the seams of his t-shirt strain. The hairs on his arms are on end; it's a touch too chill for a single layer. "When d'ya want it?"
Erich Reinhardt[sorry, didn't realize you guys had posted!]
MaximilianIt must be the pressure from being away from his stuff because he starts back for the bar now. Every one of his dedicated weapons was in that bar and he was exposed out in the middle of the street for too long. If the Undead unearthed right now he would be ill prepared. He does not hurry back to the security of the bar but he does start that way.
Drew Roscoe"Well, it was good to meet ya Max. You could probably go back to your lady Rum-elda--" oh, god, the puns! -- "now. Enjoy your night, I hope to see you around." Her attention had gone back to Max for a moment to notice him staring longingly back into the bar. It was back on Erich swiftly enough, though, and she observed how he tightened his arms across his chest, more for warming than posture. Then eyes hopped up to his, and she grinned a bit.
"Another night. I ought to head home, I think. But I'm sure I'll see you around, we ain't exactly in a metropolis here."
Erich ReinhardtMaximilian starts to step away. Erich calls after him - the first time he's raised his voice this whole uneasy conversation: "Hey."
Waits until he turns back. Doesn't say anything in the end. Just meets the Godi's eyes. Nods; a faint dip of his chin. That's it. Meaning's up to Max to interpret.
Erich Reinhardt[i enjoyed the scene, dude. thanks for hopping in!]
MaximilianHe turns back and looks at the Ahroun and dips nods to him in return. He would have to keep him close. Shadowlords are so prone to be abused by the Illuminati. Hopefully he could help the Ahroun not be a tool to the conspiracy. "See ya 'round for sure. If you run into my Brother and Sister don't tell them I's in town. They think I am crazy"
Maximilian
It was very fun. I hope my spazzy theurge isn't too weird for you.
Maximilian"Nice to meet cha ma'am. Sure we'll run into eachother."
Erich Reinhardt[not at all :P have a good one, man!]
Erich ReinhardtYou probably are crazy. Erich doesn't say it, but that hardly matters: it's written all over his face. Most Shadow Lords learn how to tell a lie before they learn how to walk. That's the stereotype, anyway. This one: he picked his path later than most. Still in remediation, one supposes.
After Max disappears back into the bar, Erich turns back. Drew's grinning. It makes him frown at her. "Don't you fuckin' gloat at me."
There's an instinct there. She's going home, where she'll be alone. Not even a goldfish, she said. He thinks maybe he should walk her home. Then he thinks that's probably a bad idea.
"Another night," he affirms. "Later, Drew."
He wonders if that blonde's still around somewhere. He wonders if she'll open her door to him, all things considered. If nothing else, he thinks, her bed's bound to be softer than the back of his Mustang.
Maximilian( Night guys. Thanks or the RP. It was fun.)
Drew RoscoeThe men nod to one another, the smaller one mentions not telling his family that he's been in town because they believe that he's crazy. Drew got a 'nice to meetcha' and she answered with a smile and a wave of the hand.
Then Max is going back into the bar and Erich's warning her not to gloat at him. She just moved her teeth-visible smile into a closed-lip one and shrugged her shoulders in a light and bouncy way. There's a pause, they're waiting for someone to say goodbye. Erich is pondering the fact that she's got no one at home with her, that maybe he ought to walk her home. Almost as soon as that thought occurs, though, another fluidly slides into its place and stamps that all as a bad idea.
Instead Erich says 'later', and Drew lifts a hand to wave. "Catch you around." And the small woman turned about and started walking up the sidewalk, off to the eastern part of town, to get home.
Erich Reinhardt[night man!]
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