now it'll be war for sure.

Ingrid

It's late when Erich gets a message he probably isn't expecting. It's simple:

Come to [address] immediately

The last and only time Ingrid made a social call to Erich he texted back in all caps about booty calls at ridiculously early times of the evening. She still has the picture of the desk worker from that hotel. It comes up should the Ahroun call her.

The place is a parking lot, empty but for her small, sleek black car. Just like in December, when he still had that muscle car, she's waiting for him already, out and leaned up against the side of the car.

Except...it's not like that, really. And not just because the car is different or her hair is shorter and less likely to waft in waves with the breeze. Then she was dressed impeccably, her clothes dark for the winter months and color coordinated. Black and grey and red.

Tonight it's sleeveless black athletic shirt unzipped to reveal that tattoo, black yoga capri pants, purple sneakers. All high quality.

Some of it shredded. The red on her is rusty. Dried blood. Hers and someone elses. Her hair is still short but grown longer than he last saw it, and wild and unkempt. Her face is a mask.

Erich

This has changed too: it's not that black-striped white muscle car that pulls up. It's a black-striped yellow truck, big enough to seat four or five (though not very comfortably), strong enough to pull that ridiculous little house of his around.

The house isn't hitched to the truck tonight. It's just the truck, roaring up, rumbling a while, falling silent as the engine is killed. A creak as the parking brake goes up. Then the interior light turns on as the door pops open, briefly illuminating Erich before he climbs out.

"You look like shit, Ingrid!" he yells. The headlights go dark. He comes toward her. One of his sneakers is squelching with every step. Then he's close enough to see the pallor of her skin, the shell-shocked eyes. He says it again, but the tone is different: "You look like shit, Ingrid. What the hell happened?"

Ingrid

Here's the thing. Erich has seen Ingrid after combat. Despite her elegance, her grace, her poise, her rich taste in clothing, toys, things, fighting is when she comes alive. In the aftermath she is more like some wild woodland creature than she is human or wolf, with clothing tattered or downright gone, blood on her skin in a spray from an artery hit or drying from a wound healed. In the aftermath she is flushed with pride and triumph because let's face it, when has Ingrid walked away from a fight as the loser? She has no scars, none visible anyway. Even when she walks away damaged it's with her held held high as she slinks away into the night.

Tonight she is very different. She is pale and hollow and haggard. She is tired, and though she is healed which must mean victory, she seems defeated.

"The Guardians of Cold Crescent are dead," she informs him, pushing herself off the side of her car.

Erich

Blink.

"What?"

Ingrid

"The Guardians," on Guardians her voice wavers almost imperceptibly, and she crosses her arms over her torso, "are dead. I saw them tear themselves to pieces."

Erich

Erich blanches. "What?" he says again. "Slow down. Start over. What the hell -- where? Why? What?"

Ingrid

It's the sort of news that's bound to shake up anyone. The Guardians, staunch defenders of Gaia, they're gone. And there is nothing, or rather not much, to protect the sept from the threat of the Wyrm.

"Cold Crescent. Champion of Honor he, I believe he was the harbinger. It was I and three other Garou. He made us witness the Wyrm's power of corruption. On the top floor. In front of the shrine to Luna."

Each sentence is short and haunted and full of disbelief for what she witnessed with her own eyes. Every step of the way was sacrilege. Every move was defilement. "He turned them on each other. And then he came for us."

Erich

Erich doesn't just blanch, he outright balks. "The Guardian, the one that got dragged off? He desecrated the shrine? What the hell. How did he turn the others on each other? And -- I'm not suggesting anything here, but how did you guys get away uncorrupted?"

It's a machine-gun hail of questions. And then his eyes widen. The most important one of all:

"Is the Sept safe? Or did they take it?"

Ingrid

She shakes her head, she doesn't know, and it pains her not to know these important details. "The Warder isn't taking questions," she says low, almost growling.

Lifting her chin, she almost looks natural, or natural for her. Still impossibly pale. Still with those dark and haunted features. "We were cleansed. I helped where I could, but it's healers and Theurges they need. As for safe," she says, and there is a hint of her usual dark humor. She lifts her shoulder in a slight shrug. "Is it ever really? It's no secret the Beloved Horror are targeting the city."

Erich

"The Warder's still alive?" There's open relief there: the sky hasn't fallen. Not entirely. "Did anyone else make it out?"

Ingrid

The sky? No. Large chunks of it? Yes, and there are still great cracks besides.

"We got out as many as we could. As far as I am aware, there are no casualties outside of the Guardian pack."

She does not say that they were lucky to make it out themselves.

Erich

"Fuck," Erich exhales. "Well, now it'll be war for sure."

Raises a hand, scrubs the side of his face. Then -- for what might be the first time since first noticing her sorry state -- he seems to see Ingrid as she is.

"You look like shit," he tells her, yet again. "You all right?"

Ingrid

Her gaze has been on him, but it's not until he asks that question that she lifts her face toward his. Her weight shifts, one hip jutting, and she smiles, but her brows constrict.

She just nods her head.

[WHRR WHRR. I'M FINE: subterfuge, +2 diff because not really]

Dice: 6 d10 TN8 (1, 1, 3, 5, 6, 10) ( success x 1 )

Erich

[EVEN I CAN SEE THROUGH THAT.]

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

Erich

Erich frowns back at her. And then he snorts.

"Yeah, sure. You got a place to stay tonight?"

Ingrid

"Of course." It's immediate, and almost offended. Of course Ingrid has a place to stay. There is always someplace for her to go. And it's automatic the way she starts to slide her foot back, weight shifting so that she can pivot and take her leave, but she stops. She studies him thoughtfully.

Then she glides forward, invading his space. Tipping her head forward, she leans her forehead against his chest but she doesn't put her arms around him or otherwise seek comfort.

"Be careful."

Erich

Well. She doesn't put her arms around him. That doesn't mean the opposite is true. Because he does: he wraps those meaty arms around the slight Ragabash and he

practically

squeezes the life out of her.

"I'll rephrase," he says: and no, he hasn't let go yet. "You wanna stay with me and Charlotte and Melantha tonight?" Oh, grammar -- we loved you so and mourn your passing.

Ingrid

At least she doesn't bend or twist like a cat to escape those meaty arms. Her own left at her side she leans a little heavier.

"No," she says, somewhat muffled.

Erich

"Really? I think you're lying again."

Ingrid

Now she pulls away, twists and leans backward, and if he doesn't release her it's enough to for her to look him dead in the eye. "No I do not," she says again, and she means it just as much as she did the first time.

"I'll be fine."

Erich

That, of all things, brings a faint huff of a laugh to Erich's lips. He lets her go -- but not before he manages to give her one last squeeze.

"Okay, Ingrid," he says, dodging a slap or a punch if necessary. A beat; he sobers. "Take care of yourself. Thanks for the heads-up. I'm gonna head back, get Charlotte caught up on the news. We'll probably be back in the morning to see if we can pitch in.

"Hey, Ingrid?" This, after they've come apart; after she's already halfway to her car. "I'm glad you're okay."

Ingrid

He squeezes her one last time, and it's a very good thing she's gotten healing at the sept or he might well have crushed her to death. She is so slight and fragile seeming all up close and in the physical. Then he releases her and she's more herself. More color in her features, more of her usual aloofness. The cat came to brush against a favored one and now is off to her den, wherever that is tonight.

He lets her go and she feigns a punch that he easily dodges. Then she nods. "They'll need her," she says simply.

Hey, Ingrid? She stops, twists to look at him over her shoulder. Her expression shifts so slightly it's almost unnoticeable, but there's a warmth to it. Slight warmth, but warmth. Her lips curve only a little, the closest to genuine he's maybe ever seen.

Then she turns away again. She's said what she needed to say, what she wanted to say. She's done what she wanted to do.

Later he might find flecks of blood on him, but they don't smell like Ingrid. Nothing ever does.