you'll have to ask more nicely.

Storm's Teeth

Pouring rain would put out any fire, but rage isn't a fire in truth. It's supernatural, beyond the physical -- and Erich's rage isn't even dampened by the downpour. It washes over Ingrid as he catches up to her. His clothes are beyond sodden at this point; his workboots are still squishing in the mud.

"I recognize you," he accuses. "Wouldn't have been so quick to drive off if you'da told me what you were, the other day."

Dances With the Hurricane

[da rolls
Dances With the Hurrican
[rolls from another night: persuasion!]
Dice: 5 d10 TN8 (2, 4, 5, 5, 7) ( success x 1 ) [WP]

Dances With the Hurricane

[lies lies lies]
Dice: 6 d10 TN5 (1, 3, 6, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 3 )]

Dances With the Hurricane

If the slender Ragabash requires extra heat to protect her from the weather, she makes no show of it. Her clothes are soaked through, rain running down her body in rivulets. Her feet are bare, legs muddy clear up past her ankles. The mud and the wet are out of place given the quality of the clothes she'd worn the other night. What she wears tonight, on this side of the Gauntlet, must have been fine once, as well. Not anymore.

She doesn't pay any of it any mind. The way she moves, the sky could be clear and full of bright warm sunshine. It's all the same to her.

Tilting her head to look upward, squinting through the rain, she smiles at Erich. "Maybe if you hadn't been so quick to drive off, it would have come up."

Her words are accented lightly. She's not from around here, but evidently she's been here long enough to make herself understood.

Storm's Teeth

He gives her a look. "I'd just laid a cop out. I think driving off was the right thing to do right about then."

There's a hood on his hoodie. He doesn't bother with it; it's just as wet as anything else. He keeps his arms folded across his chest, though. Ingrid doesn't look bothered by the weather. Erich, however, has been out in this weather for approximately 10 times as long. He's bothered. He's very fucking bothered.

"Speaking of which. Wanna give me a ride?"

Dances With the Hurricane

Or so he thinks. There is no way to gauge by looking at her how long Dances With the Hurricane has been out in this weather. Within a handful of seconds in the torrent, everyone looks the same. Grey, drained of color.

Ingrid does not have the Ahroun's temperament, however, nor the Rage of his moon. Whether she's been out ten minutes or ten hours, she would never be as bothered as he.

"No."

It is a simple, complete sentence. No explanation is offered, and no excuses.

One more step forward, smiling up at him from the corner of her eye.

"But I will."

Storm's Teeth

Erich smirks down at her. "Aw, I knew it. You're charitable after all."

With a motion of his head -- on his big brawler's frame, it is in fact a jerk -- he starts the two of them moving again. His shoes squish, squish, squidge with every step. The mud is getting thicker by the moment. They crest a small hill on the way back to her car; on a clear day they'd see the city laid out before them, the broad coastal plain running out to the Atlantic. Tonight there's nothing but rain and clouds. Reflected city lights cast a sullen glow on the underbellies of those supercells. Forking lightning lights their depths; the flashes are nearly continuous, the thunder a steady low rumble, peal after peal.

"What happened after I left?" he asks. "With the cop, I mean. And the whiny cellphone girl."

Dances With the Hurricane

With no shoes to catch in the muck and mud, Ingrid's movements are freer, which is good. The Ahroun's legs are longer, so the mud may slow him down.

Not that Ingrid rushes to keep pace. She goes at her own speed, leaving Erich free to slow to her, or leave her behind. Given that she's just agreed to giving him a lift, it's unlikely he'd rocket away from her.

She watches him from, always from the corner of her eye, taking in his countenance, his temper, his attitude toward the storm. There is always a slight curve to her full lips, something mischievous and secret, like she knows something, she just hasn't decided to let him in on it.

The lightning flashes in her dark eyes, and she looks away, shrugging.

"Medics came, took him away. I don't know what he might have told them. But," she says, angling her head so her gaze falls down and away from him.

Storm's Teeth

But.

And.... nothing. Maybe she was leaving it hanging. An ominous but. Maybe she was thinking of what to say next. Maybe she has nothing else, and that was her way of concluding a sentence. It hardly seems to matter; Erich waits for what's next -- waits for it, gets impatient for it, finally turns to her to prod:

"But what?"

Dances With the Hurricane

[decepterfuge]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 4, 7, 8, 8) ( success x 2 )

Storm's Teeth

[i'm a shitty shadow lord.]

Dice: 2 d10 TN6 (1, 8) ( fail )

Dances With the Hurricane

Ingrid looks up at Erich, expression sad, almost pitying. She continues to walk forward at her leisurely pace unless he stops her.

Pitching her voice to carry over the storm, she says, "I have it on good authority that someone gave a testimony."

Storm's Teeth

Give him this much credit: he doesn't fly into a panic. His jaw clenches and his teeth bare for a second. A curse hisses out so fast raindrops fly off his lips, propelled by the sheer power of fuck. He glowers; he thinks for a moment.

"Who? Cell phone girl, right? Should've given her a fuckin' concussion too."

Dances With the Hurricane

She watches him clench and bare his teeth and curse.

"Hmmm..." Ingrid shrugs, as if she doesn't know, or can't tell him. She is a Child of Crow, after all. They do so love their secrets.

"No. It was not her."

Storm's Teeth

Something about her demeanor rakes him the wrong way. The first true roil of genuine anger stirs through Erich. Quakes through the air between. Shudders to silence. He sucks a slow breath through his teeth, lets it out.

"Okay. I get it. You know all about it. Either start talking or name your price."

Dances With the Hurricane

"A price," she says, eyes widening, considering the implication as if the thought had never crossed her mind.

"Tell me, Erich," she continues conversationally, as though they were discussing the price of a vehicle one or the other was interested in purchasing. "What price would you pay for such information?"

Storm's Teeth

This time it's not anger. It's exasperation thinning his mouth, setting his jaw. Exasperation, and something rather like decision: a split-second of well you fuckin asked for it.

He grabs her by the collar. The earth drops away. He hauls her eye to eye with him: glacial blue to impenetrable black. "How about this," he says. Conversationally. "You cut it out with the coy act. I don't pick my teeth with your ribs."

He bares those teeth. It's a grin. Maybe.

"Sound like a good deal to you?"

Dances With the Hurricane

Surprisingly, it turns out it doesn't take much to sweep Ingrid off her feet. Erich does it. An act of brutish strength indicative of his moon, which is lost behind the clouds and the rain and the hurricane. Perhaps he means to intimidate her as he tried the night they first ran into each other. It appears it works just as well on her now as it did then.

She has many reactions. First, widened eyes. No gasp, though. No outward signs of surprise. The next, lifted brows. Her expression is...unimpressed.

He bears his teeth in a maybe-grin. Sound like a good deal to you?

Mirth blooms slowly over her features, softening them like the sun softens and burns away the clouds after the storm. It doesn't end with the smile, cat finally releasing the mouse. She laughs, at his threat, at his deal. Laughs right in his face.

"That's not a very good price," she says, if she can. "You may find it useful to have an informant like me to keep the mortals from looking for you."

Storm's Teeth

"Get over yourself," Erich says, and stuffs his hand into her pocket.

Tries, anyway.

[+8!]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (7) ( success x 1 )

Dances With the Hurricane

[Sir, I say NAY!]

[+8]

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (4) ( fail )

Dances With the Hurricane

[kick him in the nads! [crotch kick]]

Storm's Teeth

[1. GROPE FOR KEYS

R1. WTF. BLOCK.

R2. GROPE SOME MORE. CUZ I'M AN AHROUN AND I HAVE RAGE TO SPARE.]

Storm's Teeth

[WHERE ARE THE KEYS. +2 for onehanded and moving target]

Dice: 6 d10 TN8 (3, 5, 6, 8, 8, 9) ( success x 3 )

Dances With the Hurricane

[kick! +1 aimed +WP!: MY WORD WHAT IS HAPPENING

Dice: 6 d10 TN8 (2, 3, 3, 6, 8, 9) ( success x 3 ) [WP]

Storm's Teeth

[LAWDY AINTCHER MOMMA EVER TAWCHA NO MANNARS? block! +1]

Dice: 7 d10 TN7 (1, 3, 4, 5, 7, 7, 7) ( success x 2 )

Dances With the Hurricane

[dam +1]

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 6) ( success x 1 )

Storm's Teeth

[OW?]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 7, 9) ( success x 2 )

Storm's Teeth

[R2: SRSLY, NO KEYS ANYWHERE?]

Dice: 6 d10 TN8 (3, 6, 9, 9, 10, 10) ( success x 4 )

Storm's Teeth

Really now. It's a compromising position to be in. If anyone were to happen upon them -- say, one of those sticks in the mud from the moot they both just departed -- this wouldn't look good.

They're both soaking wet. He's picked her up. Hands: hands are everywhere. An understandably affronted knee is levering for a vulnerable spot, a forearm roughly the consistency of a baseball bat is snapping down to avert the blow, but there's a connection anyway; he grunts at impact. Takes it like he's actually got balls of brass down there.

Which he probably does, considering he goes right back to (let's just say it) groping her. What the fuck is going on here? What the hell is he looking for? She might have some guesses -- wallet? keys? her virtue? -- but whatever it is is nowhere to be found. Thwarted, Erich snarls a curse, pivots to put her over a convenient mud puddle,

and drops her on her ass.

"Fuck you," he says. "What'd you do, tape the keys under the car?"

Dances With the Hurricane

[gracious, not on my ass!]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 5, 7, 8, 8) ( success x 3 )

Dances With the Hurricane

He tries to drop her on her ass, but those legs that were ineffectual in delivering a blow to his sensitive groin, kick away from the Ahroun. He drops her, and she lands with a dancer's finesse and grace. As she straightens, she slides a foot back, shifting her weight so that she's out of reach.

In his mad groping, Erich found...nothing. There are no pockets in this skirt, and there's no bra with which to tuck anything. At best he's gotten a little more acquainted with the Ragabash's body than most anyone will ever hope to get.

Her head is tilted down, the look she gives him is chiding. Resting her hand on a jutted him, she tsks.

"You'll have to ask more nicely than that if you still want a ride."

Storm's Teeth

Maybe it's the way she caught her balance. Maybe it's the way she's standing there. Maybe it's the fact that she hasn't flipped into warform and torn him a new one for his audacity

(or attempting to)

or maybe -- hey, maybe it's just because he just got a little more acquainted with her than he really should have. His head tilts; the first thing that pops into his doubtlessly neanderthalic mind is:

"That was an interesting choice of words."

And right there, his gears grind to a hard stop. A half-turn of his head; a furrow of his brow. One finger up, as if to ask for a moment, just a second. Which he takes, his lips compressing to a line, then quirking to a rueful half-smile as he drops his hand.

"Nope. Not okay. That was out of line." As if what had come before wasn't. "I apologize. Think I'm just going to walk." Which is what he does: starts walking, right away, the opposite direction they had been headed before. Over his shoulder he calls, "If you figure out who gave testimony, it'd be nice of you to make it disappear somehow."

Dances With the Hurricane

There is a challenge in those endless dark eyes. It's in a subtle yet animalistic shift of her body. She's small, delicate, obviously not made for heavy fighting. He is an Ahroun, and the rage of his moon hangs undiminished behind the heavy cloud cover. And still she's ready to meet whatever he tries to throw at her. Perhaps this time she will shift. Maybe not.

She doesn't get a chance to find out what would happen next. He relents, at a limit. Ingrid takes notes as he walks away. Calculates.

He's just going to walk. She watches him go, rain sluicing down over his bare head, his workboots squishing in the mud. She doesn't call him back, doesn't offer her own apology. One does not apologize for their auspice.

He wants her to make the informant disappear somehow. Maybe as he walks away he can hear her laughter on the wind. Turning on her heel, she goes to find her heel and do just that. Digging in the rainwashed mud several yards from her sleek black car, she recovers a small bundle. Unwrapping first one, then a second plastic bag, she retrieves her car keys.

Because who takes their car keys into the Umbra? What if she lost them, then where would she be?

Paying no mind to the mud and water she brings into the vehicle, Ingrid starts the car, pulls from her space in the nearly empty lot, and she drives away. Turning a corner, she

disappears.