Daniel Broken Hammer

[Elliot] [that should be OTHER tribes]

[Aaron Yates] [just for fun, I wanna see how convincing he's currently being! Manip + Mimicry]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 4, 4, 5, 7, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Ethan Yates] Thursday is the new Friday. The youth of the city are out celebrating the end of the semester, of the beginning of vacation, of the approach of a long weekend; the coffeehouse is playing indie rock versions of Christmas music, at a quiet enough volume that it is lost under the low roar of several dozen conversations all occurring at a respectful volume. Ethan does not linger outside but quickly steps into the coffeehouse after Elliot, pulling his wind-chapped hands from his pockets and reaching up to unbutton his peacoat. He's dressed far too nice to be spending any amount of time with a girl like Elliot. People have to be assuming the worst about the tall blue-eyed man and the tall redhead girl. Maybe he's her social worker or a teacher or someone who just happens to pick up street children and try to take care of them.

Maybe that's his intention, is to take care of his Family tonight.

"I'm having trouble believing that myself," he says, indicating the short line with a tilt of his head.

A moment later, his never-silent cell phone is buzzing in his pocket. He halts in his tracks, then steps away from the line so that he can pull the phone out of his pocket and answer it.

A leprechaun greets him.

Ethan smirks at whoever is on the other end, and he says, "I haven't a bloody clue what you just said. I'm at Java's on West Randolph with Elliot. She's Family. Come meet her, you cad."

Assuming the conversation does not last much longer than this, Ethan claps the phone shut and rejoins Elliot in line.

"

[Edward Bellamonte] This evening is, so far . . . oddly fantastic. Maybe it was because of video games with an old acquaintance. Maybe it was because of Kate's trip to New York and what she'd done to Lucien (of course it has nothing to do with him winning. Edward is gracious. Edward is kind. Edward is pure). After the visit from Nora, he'd even decided to come out - on his own, without prompting, which has happened all of about twice since he came back to Chicago.

That didn't involve high stakes gambling, anyway.

Regardless, there's a finely bred Silver Fang, a Beacon of All That Is Good in the Nation, stepping into a certain coffee shop off of Grant Park. It's a coffee shop that already happens to be being frequented by a couple of Gnawers and a Fury, not that Edward - the dapper nobleman on the town - knows any of them. He doesn't bother with ordering anything espresso based, as he knows he'll be disappointed, but instead goes for a hot chocolate - it's good for a night near freezing, like tonight. Then, once he has a warm, sweet beverage ("Extra whipped cream, please.") in hand, he turns to survey the situation, to see who's worth pestering in some form tonight.

[Elliot] Elliot moves away from Ethan while he answers his phone, but does not yet take up a place in line. She waits for the kinsman to take his phone call, the volume and variety of other conversations keeping her sufficiently distracted from hearing the other end of his phone conversation. All she knows is that whoever has called, is coming here and is also family. It's strange, being inside a coffee shop, waiting for a kinsman to treat her to something hot to drink. It takes her back a ways. When she turns to look over her shoulder at Ethan, she half expects to see someone, several someones, who will never show their faces to the world again. It makes the corners of her wide mouth turn down and a faint shadow pass between her red eyebrows.

A Silver Fang moves past her to the counter. Elliot turns back to watch him. She does not recognize him from the moot, doesn't recognize him from anywhere. Her gaze is quiet and impassive as stone. There is no breeding to alert him to who or what she is, only the press of rage

Ethan snaps his phone closed, and Elliot shuffles over to the counter to order a hot chocolate, no whipped cream, thank you. When Ethan has ordered and payed, she inclines her head to Edward. All she says is, "Fang."

[Ethan Yates] "That was my brother," is all the explanation he gives Elliot when he rejoins her in line. His brother. He had a name last night, though he had no distinguishing features assigned to him, no birth order or occupation or anything other than relation to give Elliot an idea of who this man might be.

The line is not long, and diminishes quickly. A hot chocolate for Elliot, a hazelnut latte for Ethan, and after he pays for the both of them they step off to the side to wait. The both of them watch Edward as he moves through the coffeehouse, although for different reasons. If the acuteness in his gaze is any indication, Ethan can recognize him for what he is: a monster. He just can't detect his lineage, his heritage.

Elliot can, and shares it with him a moment later.

"Oh," is all he says.

[Aaron Yates] Aaron finds Java's on West Randolph without much trouble.

He's an adapt traveler, has been for a number of years and his sense of geography was such that he rarely found himself lost in new places; he simply didn't. It also helped, that being said, to have a cellphone capable of showing you exactly where you were in relation to other locations. However he does it, soon enough another figure passes in the door, holding it open with his free hand (the other contained Mrs Arjina's beef vindaloo) to allow a pair of young girls to flit past him, ducking under his arm.

They were too young for his tastes, but the handsome gentlemen winked at them like the scoundrel he was often called, and they tittered down the street, casting the odd furtive glance over their shoulder at the broad shoulders of the tall man now moving into Java's proper. In many ways, Aaron and Ethan were identical, at least on the surface. But whereas his younger brother tended toward a clean-shaven look, his brother often times let his jaw darken with bristle before he shaved it; casting him a somewhat more rugged, dangerous visage.

Both boys had been gifted with their mother's blue eyes, and perhaps some elements of their father existed in the angular planes of those faces too, though they'd never admit it -- at least, Aaron wouldn't. He crosses toward the counter and the line, his long legs eating up the distance quickly and unbuttons his coat, untucks the scarf but leaves both on.

The gloves are peeled off before he reaches the counter.

[Edward Bellamonte] Ed can feel eyes on him and - though were it not for Breeding, he'd be nothing special to look at, were it not for Rage he'd be just another twenty-something (with prematurely graying hair) - poses for them. His lips twist into an amused grin, and he shakes it in the way that only a playboy-Ragabash can before, after a minute or so, he turns to meet these looks head-on.

As of yet, he hasn't noticed Ethan's double at the counter, behind him now when he faces Ethan and Elliot. "Hi," he says with a lopsided grin that doesn't quite reach dark eyes. "Shows every hour, on the quarter hour. I'll be here all evening."

He's . . . less . . . without members of his pack around him. It drains. But he's here, and he's going to try to make the best of it.

[Joss Lehrer] There's no doubt about it, really. The godi is weird and everyone knows it. Hell, she knows it. She revels in the expectation that yes, she's gonna do something odd from the moment you see her... some things are just expected. Somethings like this:

She's dancing.

Outside the windows of the coffee shop that is her destination because they serve cinnamon buns the size of her head, she doesn't approach at a walk, or even a run. No, she approaches in an almost passable smooth waltz step, complete with arms holding her frame, as if she had a partner... or rather, a partner that can be seen.

[the partner does not exist]

She holds her ipod in her hand, an earbud in her ear, the other around her neck, and she's counting as she moves almost gracefully down the walk, singing softly under her breath...

[Elliot] The Silver Fang male puts on a show for the watchers, makes a crack about being part of a show. Elliot does not appear to be amused. Then again, looking at that cold emotionless visage, it's hard to believe the metis feels much of anything. She doesn't speak up when he smiles at them.

Instead something else has caught her eye. If she didn't know better, she would think the man standing beside her was walking through the door again. Except the newcomer is more rugged in appearance, with longer, wilder hair and a shadow of stubble on his jaw. Pale green-grey eyes follow Aaron's passage from the door to the counter. This, then, was the brother.

When the barista calls out their orders, declaring them to be ready, Elliot finally turns away from the elder brother. She picks up her cup and sweeps the room with a glance, looking for an empty table. She would prefer someplace quiet, but it's too close to the Christmas holiday for that to be a possibility, so she opts for a table against the wall, out of the way.

Sitting so that she can see the Fang, she says to Ethan before she takes a drink, "Thank you for this."

[Taggart] When the door opens again, more than a few heads turn. The man walking in is tall, broad-shouldered, and from the look of his frame underneath his hoodie, he has a physical presence that can be intimidating, alluring, or downright unnerving, but it's difficult to ignore. It isn't that, though, that has the bustle behind the counter slowing down a moment while mortals try to remember what they were doing. Nor is it the fact that his features are striking, his skin a light golden brown even in winter, set against pale hair and paler eyes. Even those who don't find him attractive, per say, find his face compelling.

But that's not why they're looking, or why one of the baristas spills a shot of espresso she just pulled. They don't even notice the scar on his neck yet. It's the feeling that something intrinsically hateful and angry has just entered their sphere of influence and is looking for an outlet. He feels less like a serial killer and more like a homicidal maniac, the sort of tense fury that will snap at any insult with lethal consequences.

And this is under a new moon. This is him at his least judgemental, his least dangerous.

He saw Joss outside but just nodded to her. It wasn't friendly. It was acknowledgement, even respect, and whether she returned it or not did not matter so much as long as she saw it. He's inside now, though, and his eyes are drawn over to Edward Bellamonte almost immediately. His head tips to the side, and then he walks towards the Fang, bypassing the counter completely.

[Ethan Yates] There is no bond greater than blood holding the two brothers together, and yet when the door opens and his twin appears in the coffeehouse, Ethan looks away from the gallivanting Ragabash and raises his hand in a wave that is part greeting and part Get over here. The hot chocolate is finished a few seconds before the latte, and when it comes up he grabs the handled mug and slides it towards him.

He'd have to be insane to give either the Philodox or the Ragabash his back, the two of them being rather suffused with the full anger and fury of their Mother, yet he doesn't appear to be overly concerned about what is going to happen when he turns away from the worse-for-wear young man speaking about being here all night.

Elliot leads them to a table as out of the way as they're going to get, and Ethan walks alongside her rather than acting as either her guide or her shadow. There may be some symbolic significance to his choosing to take up her side, but it may just be instinctual, may just be conditioning. Back home there was no real hierarchy, no pecking order, no sense that the Kinfolk were somehow less than even the sin-born among them by virtue of the fact that they could not, cannot, change.

She thanks him, and that's when the door jingles open, allowing yet another Rage-filled young man into their midst. While people had been uneasy around the Fang and staring at the Gnawer, the Fiann makes people start to come up with other things they have to do besides tap away at their laptop computers or shoot the shit with their friends. Presents need wrapping, dogs need letting out, oh my look at the time. More than a few people leave.

Ethan watches him for a handful of seconds, then looks away to address Elliot again.

"You want a sandwich or something? They sell food here, too."

[Aaron Yates] There are some theories that suggest that monozygotic twins are capable of sensing for lack of a better term when the other is in danger, or more commonly, in some degree of pain. Research into the theories have been on-going for some time and certainly in his time growing up with his younger sibling there had been instances of instinct surrounding his younger brother's whereabouts, or what he was experiencing at that point. But the occasions had been rare, and rarer still the older they both got.

Aaron, for his part, never really spoke of it, or these days, considered why he knew just when to lift his head to catch Ethan's eyes, and cast him a knowing half-cocked grin at the unspoken demand for his presence over on the other side of the cafe. Sometimes, it just happened and he accepted it the same way he did the various degrees of Rage suddenly spiking the air around him.

The Garou were around. Oh well, they usually always were.
He wasn't moving till he had his coffee, they could just fucking wait their turn in line.

When his drink does come [coffee, black, no sugar] he takes it and saunters over to the table where his brother sits with Elliot. "Making friends, Eth? That's so social of you," he quips, and his eyes settle on Elliot; and settle in. "Hello, there."

[Aaron Yates] [Addendum!]

"Here," he sets the Tupperware container on the table by his brother. "Compliments of Mrs Arjina, I think that's gonna be my dinner."

[Edward Bellamonte] Hatchet approaches as Edward is taking his cocoa - in a paper cup, not a ceramic mug; whether he intends to stay for a while or not, he's prepared for the latter. It doesn't do to waste such chocolate-y deliciousness, after all. If he has noticed the Fianna, he pays him no mind until he's taken the first sip of his drink and sighed in pleasure; only then do unreadable (but undeniably darker now than when he left, not in color, but in . . . well, something) brown eyes come to rest on the Philodox.

"Oh, Taggart," he says, deadpan. "This. You. My evening, it's complete. I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't appeared just. this. moment."

There is no physical roll of his eyes; it's all in tone. And he is, of course, indifferent - Edward so often is.

[Joss Lehrer] Hatchet had nodded as he went inside. It wasn't friendly. Respectful, perhaps, but certainly not friendly. Joss simply smiled - she always does - and gathered the edge of her skirts in one hand, spread her arms wide, and dropped him a quick little curtsy as he moved inside. There's mirth in her gaze, overshadowing a multitude of other things. None of which, however, make her move faster toward that door.

No, she has a song to finish, a dance to complete, a beat to let thrum through her skin, her soul, her... ipod. Whatever.

Soon enough, however, she makes it to the door, and pulls it open. One more source of rage for the poor folks of the coffee shop to handle. And dancing - still - she heads toward the counter to make her order.

"Pleeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaase tell me Darrell made fresh rolls today...." When told that yes, indeed, he has, she actually applauds and proceeds to order one, plus a large mocha - because that's just what Joss needs. Caffiene AND Sugar.

[Taggart] Tonight the Fiann's eyes are not the nearly silver color they get when the moon's full, nor are they hard as concrete as they are when the moon is halved and waning. They're almost white, reminiscent of another gray-eyed Garou that Edward once knew... and knew well, perhaps. Well enough to be packed with her. Not well enough to come back to Chicago when she died.

Hatchet used to stand next to her while he and the miniscule Shadow Lord flossed. They were both impeccable about oral hygiene. It was, up til the day Mrena died, the only thing they had in common. And then, in death, they had a Bone Gnawer Ahroun in common.

Ancient history, by now. Months ago. Lifetimes ago.

Hatchet just nods to Edward in greeting, then jerks his head towards a couple of seats near the back, away from the humans, though, truthfully, most of the humans are retreating anyway. There's too much rage in here tonight, too much tension. Little by little, they're trickling out, finding better places to be. Calling friends, suddenly, as though they want to feel less alone.

"Let's talk for a moment. I have an offer for you."

[Elliot] Elliot watches as more true born enter the coffee shop. There's an increase in the pressure in the room when Buried Hatchet arrives. The mortals are increasingly uncomfortable, more afraid, the more their kind intrude on their space. This is a coffee shop, a warm and safe haven from the chill of Chicago's winter, and from the hustle and bustle of the holiday season. And yet here there be monsters.

She glances up at the elder of her auspice. If he happens to glance her way, she nods her head once in greeting. He's headed for the Silver Fang, and Elliot turns her attention to the twins now with her.

Her face remains as impassive as ever when Aaron greets her, stares at her. She's a pretty girl, but there's an edge to her. To say that her skin is like procelain would be implying that there's a softness to her. Her hair is vibrant red, her eyes like chips of jade. Today she is relatively clean, her hair has been brushed and falls in waves to her shoulders. She's looks like she lives in a box in an alley, which, until a week or two ago, was actually true. She looks out of place with the Yates brothers, and yet for the first time in...she can't even remember how long, she feels a sense of peace.

"Hello," she greets Aaron, her expression bland. She watches him intently, but there is no sense of desire there, no interest. She sniffs, and despite the almost overpowering smell of coffee, she catches the faintest hint of spice.

To Ethan she says, "Perhaps later."

[Edward Bellamonte] Let's talk, Taggart says and Edward (who is clinging to his good mood despite how hard it's trying to slip away) raises an eyebrow. It might be surprise, though that's difficult to tell; any true expression, aside from the socially acceptable shapes his face takes out of habbit, is well hidden. It's a moment, and a sip of hot chocolate, and after that, Ed gives a nod.

I'm not runnin'

There's an offer, and it takes quite a bit of concentration for the Ragabash to not leap to the obvious bait. It's there, somewhere, in the twist of his lips, perhaps, or the breath he takes as if he might say something. He doesn't, though. Instead, he moves to the indicated table and takes a seat like the privileged son of entitlement he appears to be. That some think he is. He waits, watching, and studies Hatchet's face as he does; it's a familiar face, though there have been changes since Ed saw him last. Ed's changed, too.

He'll not be the first to speak - Taggart has the offer. He asked for the conversation. Ed can wait.

[Ethan Yates] Ethan idly picks up the Tupperware container, making a brief show of examining its contents with a sloshing rattle of meat within its bath of sauce before handing it back. He'd managed to procure something like dinner with the boy before leaving her in the capable hands of the babysitter, promising him he'd be home in time to read him a story before he went to sleep. It's still evening yet, just past dinnertime; assuming the city is kind, assuming he is able to survive the walk to and from his car during the various legs of his journey, he won't break his promise tonight.

"That's a rather unfortunate surname," Ethan tells his brother, sliding over to make room for him at the table.

Aaron greets Elliot, who coolly returns the phrasing and parries Ethan's offer of dinner. He just nods, and glances between his twin and his coffee companion before saying, "Aaron, this is Elliot. Behave yourself. Elliot, Aaron."

[Joss Lehrer] Soon she has paid, and has in her greedy greedy hands a pastry that's near as big as her head, and a Mocha. She smiles happily at the girl behind the counter, who can't help but smile a little back, despite the press of rage that nags even under the darkened moon.

She turns to survey the [rapidly emptying] shop, and then chooses a table that lets her watch all the little parties. There's the Fang and Hatchet, the Redhead and twins - impressive - and so she chooses a place that allows her to watch it all, while indulging in sticky treat.

[Aaron Yates] Behave, his brother says and Aaron's eyebrows lift as he takes a seat. "Of the pair of us here, which is the boss of me?" Aaron's voice was rather genteel, it was softer in terms of any trace of his birth-country than perhaps his brother's, though the degree by which was debatable. His was the rich, velvety timbre of a man who knew exactly what affect it had on those around him and precisely how to use it for his own gain.

It was, after all, his career tool.

So, he's introduced to Elliot, who apparently is his family, and shrugs off his heavy leather coat, beneath which the man is wearing a black knit sweater of some sort of a very fine thread and no doubt, reasonably pricey. While his clothing boasted that he was a man of substantial means it was still the case that he was staying at his brother's house, and didn't seem overly fussed about finding his own living space.

"Anyone would think he was the older sibling here," he murmurs toward Elliot with a warm smile that crinkles the corners of his mouth; his eyes and gave him a playful air. "Elliot, it's a pleasure to meet you. There, see? Perfectly acceptable, and all without even touching her hand."

Aaron quirked his brows at his brother, and leaned back lazily to sip from his coffee cup.

[Taggart] Hatchet walks towards the table indicated with the long, loose stride of someone accustomed to walking everywhere, and walking far, and walking for a very, very long time. He moves quickly without ever seeming to be in a hurry, eating ground with his steps. His expression is impassive. A little thoughtful. His eyes are opaque.

And flat.

His voice is not, though. He slides into his seat and leans back, one hand resting on the table in front of him, between him and the Garou who has been not so much a rival as a partner in dislike. Neither of them are particularly hungry for power. They aren't vying for the attentions of the same kinswoman. They are not of the same tribe. They are not even of the same auspice. Edward has nothing Hatchet wants, and vice versa.

They just don't like each other.

"I'm offering to train you, Ed."

[Joss Lehrer] She looks at her ipod, and flips forward a couple of songs, before tucking it into the pocket of her skirts, and then happily starts to peel bits of the cinnamon roll and plop them into her mouth one by one, licking her fingers in between. Sometimes it's impossible to believe she is 18, and a Fostern to boot. Other times, it's impossible to forget.

Which one tonight is, depends on who's watching.

She gathers up her skirts, and tucks her feet under her, settling to sit in the chair criss cross applesauce, letting her skirts fall over her knees and to the floor as she bounces a little in her seat to the music only she can hear.

At least she's not singing out loud.
[yet]

[Elliot] Behave yourself.

Ethan is addressing his brother, but the comment earns him a look from the tall redhead. she tilts her head in his direction, eyes narrowing slightly, but there's something to that look. It's not the cold and empty stare with which she usually looks at the world most days. There's a hint, a tiny spark of humor in her light eyes. As if there's a possibility that he's telling her to behave herself. It's like an inside joke and she has no one to share it with.

It passes quickly.

"You are the elder," she says to Aaron. It's not a question, but a statement of fact. Her voice is low. Where Aaron is warm and inviting, Elliot is cold and distant. She shifts in her chair, leaning back and stretching out long, spindley legs. Despite the cold weather, her clothing is worn. Beneath the table her pale knees are exposed. The toe of one of her shoes is blown out. For a moment, she could be a young woman out on parole, grabbing a hot drink with her parole officer and her shrink. Who knows.

She turns her attention back to Ethan. "You have a son." This could be another simple statement of fact, but given that she found this out yesterday, it's more likely Elliot is inviting him to elaborate.

[Daniel] Packmates, particularly ones bound as closely to their totem as these, have an unerring sense of one another. Daniel doesn't even pretend to be surprised to see his Alpha in the Park, nor that he might be here for some other purpose.

No, the Forseti pretty much beelines for Taggart's table. He doesn't sit when he's there. He stands, folding his arms over his chest. Even in layers -- a shirt, two hoodies, the thinner inside the thicker, fleece-lined one -- he's a thin, gaunt figure, narrow-framed, nothing but bone and sinew.

[Edward Bellamonte] Again, Edwards eyebrows (plural, this time) raise.
This time, in a very rare moment of good fortune for someone not a sister, his surprise is clear.
He's not sure what to say for a moment (which doesn't happen as often as one might think), and so he fills this time with another swig from his paper cup of cocoa. It is, no doubt, too hot for his lips and tongue, but he makes no complaint - it slides past.

".....I appreciate the offer," he finally says, with none of the uncertainty he feels; he's been put off balance, and few people can do this easily. Lucien is one, which may well be the largest reason for the hesitation.

Ed doesn't trust much of anyone, these days, outside of his immediate family.

"But why on earth would you want to do that?" They don't like each other. Ed is, as a general rule, indifferent now that Hatchet isn't mucking around in his family affairs. Hatchet . . . well. Ed's never really considered the whys, or how deep the dislike may flow on the other side. So it's understandably confusing, maybe, this offer out of the blue.

[Taggart] The Philodox's eyes don't flick upward when Daniel enters and moves straight towards them. He remains still, watching Ed from across the small table, just big enough for a couple of small plates and a couple of coffee cups, maybe a laptop. Their legs would cross and tangle underneath if they let them. They don't. Hatchet takes up a great deal of space, partly just because he's tall, partly because he lets himself.

Partly because right now, he's sort of the eight hundred pound gorilla.

"Because," Hatchet says slowly, his packmate standing next to him now, "you're not very good in a fight, Edward." He explains this without malice, without recrimination: it's simply a statement of fact, and one that would be laughable if they were to compare Edward to, say, a human. An animal. He is, by his very nature, a creature of wrath and destruction, whatever his moon. But compared to Hatchet.

Compared to Joey, of Ed's moon but of lower rank. Compared to many Garou, Ragabash or not, it's possible that there is little denying what Hatchet says.

"I'm not offering because I want you to owe me a favor," he explains, somewhat dryly. "I would ask for the respect due any teacher, but other than that, I want you to know right off the bat that I'm not doing this because I want something to hold over your head."

He straightens up a bit. "You're not the most capable, most glorious fighter, and under your moon, you don't really need to be. But you could be better. And you should be."

[Ethan Yates] Aaron asks a question that provokes a knowing sort of half-smirk to come across his brother's lips, vaguely touching his eyes before disappearing back into the shadows. He has nothing to say to that, no argument or witty retort or apology. He just picks up his cup of coffee and takes the first swallow of the evening, cautiously blowing at the floe of foam atop the drink before guiding it to his lips.

The Philodox correctly assumes that Aaron is the elder of the two of them. One might not have guessed from the speech of the cleaner-cut one or the actions of the rougher one, but there it is: a truth set in place by the passage of a few minutes. There are some cultures that believe the second-born of a set of twins to be the elder. This is not one of them.

They're an unlikely trio, twin brothers in their late twenties or early thirties and a recently-washed yet still somewhat disheveled young woman. No one is paying them much attention, what with the conglomeration of Rage currently existing at one of the other tables. The place looks as though it is about to close, with only a few far-flung yet nonetheless brave--stubborn--stupid--souls holding onto their places.

He has a son.

That jerks Ethan's attention back from wherever it has gone. He sets his coffee mug back down on the tabletop, gently clearing his throat before he speaks.

"Yes," he confirms. "A seven-year-old. Born under a crescent moon. His mother was a, ah..."

Like he needs to be subtle when the entire place has cleared out so quickly.

"... an Ahroun."

[Aaron Yates] You are the elder.

"Yep," the twenty-something young man seated alongside her all but pops out the word, swigging back the last of his coffee and setting on the table before him, rocking the legs of his chair forward so that he is no longer precariously perched on the hind two. "By merit of a couple of minutes, I stomped on his head on the way out." He smirks, and his eyes wander; over Elliot, over the others in the cafe, over every female form within his vision's range.

Scoping them out.
His brother's words swivel his attention back, and interestingly, his voice instantly turns harder, like flint: "His mother isn't the one who's raised that kid, you have."

[Joss Lehrer] She tips her head, and then grins. It's an odd thing, but in the general list of oddities, it's not much. She plops the last bit of her sticky treat into her mouth, licks her fingers, and grabs her mocha.

Exit one Godi - stage left.

[Edward Bellamonte] The first, when Hatchet says he's not very good in a fight, gets a way-to-state-the-obvious sort of smirk; Edward's never been good in a fight. He is, in fact, much better now than he had been. Which isn't saying much, obviously. And as Hatchet goes on, Edward's getting more of an idea why of the why.

Because he isn't very good in a fight, sure, but Hatchet's no philanthropist - not that Ed's seen. There's a reason, of course. There's always a reason.

But in this case, maybe the reason doesn't so much matter. Because offering for a favor owed or not, Ed doesn't take things without giving something in return. It could be an interesting give and take, really.

"Alright," he says. And it's not because he particularly cares to be a better fighter. Edward hates fighting. It's for other reasons entirely.

[Elliot] Ethan's son was born under a crescent moon. Elliot studies the older man's face. Something in her own twitches faintly. "Do you know if he is," but whatever she was going to ask is cut off when Aaron interjects. His voice hard and flat as stones falling. Elliot's attention fixes onto the older twin. Her hands are wrapped around the cup of hot chocolate. The weather may not be terribly cold to her, but that doesn't mean she won't pull warmth from where she can find it. The packhouse is small and cold, without heat or electricity. One hand detaches itself from the cup, and Elliot reaches out to the kinsman with the raised ire.

Her hand falls across his forearm, thin and bone white. There is no change in her expression, but when she speaks there is a sense of softening.

"I do not know this woman and therefore cannot speak of her, but the rage of the full moons is not something a child should be exposed to. Even mine, were I able to bear children, would cause irrevocable damage."

[Daniel] Daniel has a stillness about him, watchful and wary. He is silent as a statue while the Fosterns speak. It's only when Edward agrees that the Forseti moves, unfolding one arm briefly to scratch gently at the edge of his chest, close to his shoulder.

"We could start now," he suggests.

[Taggart] Alright, Edward says, and something flickers in Hatchet's eyes. It passes. Daniel says they could start now and Hatchet glances at him, gives a small, single shake of his head. Turning back to Ed, he offers the Silver Fang his right arm, hand open.

"If you accept, all members of my pack will be a part of your training, as we all have something different we can teach you. When and if necessary, we will either deliver you to your own packmates or heal you by gift and talen. You will give each of us the respect of a student to a mentor and your submission during training sessions, knowing we ask no other favor or repayment but your improvement.

"Are we agreed?"

[Ethan Yates] Aaron's tone becomes stony, sharp, when his brother mentions the child's mother as though she was or ever had been a part of his life. One could argue that carrying him for nine months is more than Ethan ever could have done, but the fact remains that from the moment he became a person rather than an anticipation, his mother had nothing more to do with him. Her wanting to or not wanting to had to have little to do with it: even were she a Ragabash, even had she the Rage of a cub, it would have made being a presence in her son's life next to impossible.

That's neither here nor there. Elliot begins to ask a question when she is cut off by the elder of the two twins, and she reaches out a porcelain hand to rest on Aaron's arm when his proverbial hackles are raised. For his part, Ethan simply watches, and takes a swallow of his coffee as if to power his speech.

"And he wasn't," he says, setting his cup back down. "Exposed, I mean. She died when he was a year and a half old, and only came around when her Rage was burnt through before then. So Aaron's right. I'm the one who's raised him."

[Aaron Yates] When Elliot touches Aaron's arm, she can feel the twitch of his muscle beneath her feather-light touch, reacting to her physical contact. Blue eyes, electric, piercing blue eyes flick to her lovely, if stony features and he studies her as she speaks, as she reveals, perhaps unintentionally, that she herself cannot bear children.

Very slowly, he places his hand, warmer and larger than her own over the one she has on his arm. "I'm sorry to hear that," he says in a strangely strained voice, before he removes his hand and abruptly pushes back his chair. "I'm gonna go get another drink or something, be right back. Excuse me."

[Laila Frolich] The door of the coffee shop is tugged open by a burly man who steps through it first, only half holding it open with a hand behind him - almost as an afterthought. A small hand, naturally tan with long fingers, grabs the door and catches it before it swings shut in her face.

There weren't a lot of people in Chicago she'd come to know, but then again there was a whole other class of people that she didn't. More so than her scent (which is light and clean) her pedigree precedes her inside the shop. Gray eyes immediately assess the lay of the place - what tables are where, who's sitting with who and what areas might be open and available for someone eating alone. It is in that quick scan that her eyes pass over a few of the men inside, talking. Laila's spine pulls straight and a finger lifts to tuck a bit of chestnut brown hair behind one ear.

The table she chooses is in a corner, near a window and not far from the front door. Fingers unfasten the buttons on her black peacoat, then tug free the charcoal colored scarf from round her neck. With a roll of her shoulders she's free of her coat and her hands are claiming a menu that had been stuck between two napkin dispensers.

[Edward Bellamonte] There are reasons Edward probably shouldn't go in for this, and they are many. They are myriad. The are . . . full of synonyms for 'a hell of a lot'. He knows that. He can even list some of the reasons, and never mind the logic that makes them non-reasons (or should).

Edward is far from stupid. Light years from it, in fact. But that doesn't mean he always uses the brains Gaia gave him. Sometimes, wary as he tends to be, he wants to think that the good guys are good guys. That, when it comes down to it, they'll stand together.

Kum-bah-fuckin-yah.

There's hesitation, and it's clear, but there's no fear. Whatever he suspects (and let there be no doubt, there is suspicion, particularly when Daniel is so eager), he's not afraid of it. "Yeah, I know how teaching works. During training sessions, I'll be a model pupil." His eyes flick to Daniel, still looming, and then to Hatchet's hand. It's a bit before Edward clasps it, sealing this deal that he thinks may be a mistake.

But he's been beaten. He's been killed, and bears the scars. This is what they do.

[Taggart] He does not take Edward's hand in the end. He clasps the Fang's wrist, firmly but briefly, and that seems to be that. When he lets go, he pushes back his chair and stands up. "I'll be in touch," is all he says with concerns to when and where and who, exactly, will be training Edward first. He gives a nod to the other Fostern, glances over at the twins with the redhead, and looks at Daniel.

"I'm going back to the Brotherhood. You coming?"

[Elliot] They don't know what she is within the Nation. Of course, how could they? Elliot does not have an extra appendage, there is no third eye in the middle of her forehead, no horns protruding from her brow, nothing to physically announce her parentage to the brothers. Then again, if she had any of those things, she wouldn't be out here. She would be confined to the Caern, out of the sight of humans for fear of breaching the Veil.

She reveals that she cannot bear children because it's not in her nature to hide what she is. Their tribe does not differentiate much between the sin-born, the homid-born, and the lupus-born. There is no hierarchy between the kinfolk and the Garou. They are all equals. But that doesn't mean the rest of the Nation feels the same, nor does Elliot expect them to. So she announces her breed as she announces her name, most of the time. Just because she's open about it doesn't mean she says it aloud every chance she gets.

Aaron's arm twitches beneath her hand, which is not entirely feather-light. The gesture is an echo of comfort, her hand lying across his arm, the weight of it keeping it there with no added pressure of her own. When Aaron's hand covers her own, she shifts, not fast enough for it to be a flinch.

He's sorry to hear that she's not a breeder, even sounds as if he means it. Elliot regards him almost curiously. There is again the faintest softening of her features, the closest she's come to expressing amusement in years.

When Aaron leaves to order another cup of coffee, Elliot turns her attention back to Ethan. "I'm sorry to hear about your son's mother. Do you know if he is true?"

[Daniel] It's startling, really, how well Daniel looms, considering the man is two inches under six feet. Considering he's lean and quick and wary, like a lone wolf in winter. Considering his countenance, the lines and bones and angles of his face, speak less of wrath and more of sorrow.

But -- he does. Loom well, that is. There's a silent, implicit ... if not threat, then at least a readiness to the Forseti. A sort of hard, impersonal eagerness without enthusiasm, like a hound scenting prey, collared, held at bay.

His dark eyes hit the handshake, then flick back to Edward. A beat later, to Hatchet. He shakes his bare head, sandy short hair catching the cafe lights.

"I should speak to my kinswoman," he says. "I'll be back later."

[Ethan Yates] Proclaiming herself to be unable to have children may be as close as Elliot is going to come to announcing her breed to these two strangers, but if it does anything other than provoke sympathy in one of the brothers, if it pegs her as a metis, it appears to be just that: information. Among their tribe, there is no difference between a metis and a homid, between the Kinfolk and the Garou, other than the glaringly obvious physical differences.

Aaron seems profoundly affected by hearing that Elliot cannot have children, whereas Ethan simply absorbs the information as it comes to him and continues the conversation. He watches his brother as he stands up, and then finds his attention briefly drawn to the table with the three Garou when the blond one stands up, but looks back to Elliot when she speaks.

Does he know if his son is true.

"I actually don't," he says. "I wouldn't be surprised if he shares the blood, but when he was born no spirit-talker checked him out to see if he does."

[Edward Bellamonte] I'll be in touch. "I'm sure you will," Edward says, and drains his cocoa before standing as well. "See you, then." And with that, he's off.

[Edward Bellamonte] (For the hell of it. Today I feel . . .)
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9

[Edward Bellamonte] (Hah! Stupid dice. G'night, everyone, and thanks for the scene!)

[Taggart] That gets Hatchet's eyes sliding over to this kinswoman. He looks at Laila from across the room with unabashed focus, staring thoughtfully at her for a moment. It's the sort of gaze that could make her feel like the hairs on the back of her neck are standing on end. Like holes are being burnt into her. Like there's a monster on the other side of the cafe, watching her.

But then he looks back at Daniel, lifting an eyebrow that says quite clearly, Oh really. He half-smiles. He half-smirks. Either. And then he nods an acceptance and a goodbye, turning to leave the cafe a minute or so after Ed.

[Taggart] [Same here! Thank you guys for the RP!]

[Laila Frolich] "Coffee, black please." She tells the waitress, who is at the moment half concerned with the amount of Rage inside the coffee house. The heat from Taggart's gaze does indeed lift the hairs on the back of her neck...as well as the hair on her arms beneath the dark sweater v-neck sweater she's wearing.

One leg crosses over the other at the knee beneath the table and her eyes once again shift toward where Daniel had been with Taggart.

[Elliot] Elliot inclines her head. Ethan doesn't know if his son is true or not. In the end, it likely won't matter to the metis. She's unlikely to meet the boy, young as he must be. The Yates brothers appear older, perhaps into their early thirties. Maybe the boy is close to his first change. The odds of Elliot seeing the child at all are slim, her seeing him old enough to shift even slimmer.

She taps her index finger on the tabletop once, twice, slowly thinking. She reaches into a pocket of one of her shirts, unerringly pulls out a pen and a scrap of paper. There are any number of pockets on Elliot's person, with any number of strange and seemingly useless artifacts contained within them, and Elliot knows where each and every object is.

She writes something down on the paper, an address. Her handwriting is, to put it bluntly, not pretty. Her letters are large and blocky, and she stares at the paper intently as she writes. Elliot is a well spoken young woman, and intelligent, but part of her address is misspelled. Tearing the paper, Elliot hands Ethan to piece with the writing while the blank section returns to her pocket. The pen disappears a moment later.

"Our packhouse. If you need anything we can provide, come to us. Is there anything else you want to know?"

[Elliot] [addendum]

The slip of paper also has the date and location of a meeting of their tribe.

[Ethan Yates] Hardly a dent has been made in his drink. It's got to be getting cold by now, even with the amount of Rage saturating the very air around them. Some of the heat, the danger, the anxiety in the room dissipates as the two Fosterns leave, but that does little to calm the nerves of the poor college students working behind the bar, of the poor bastards who just came in to enjoy a cup of coffee and a quiet atmosphere before calling it a night. They likely won't relax until the coffeehouse closes and they've made it back to their apartments, to their dorm rooms, to something like safety.

The intensely lean man stays behind to talk to the woman who just walked in and sat in the corner, his brother orders a drink to go, and Ethan is handed a piece of paper with a misspelled address on it. He inspects it, then folds and tucks the slip into the interior pocket of his peacoat.

"Not at the moment, no," he says. A beat, and then, "Can I drive you anywhere?"

[Izzy Montoya] She's tired. Some days the job takes more out of her than she'd ever admit. Some days she wonders why she even bothers. Those days she survives on coffee so hot it burns the taste buds so that the fact it has the consistency of sludge is forgotten. The important thing is the caffeine - of which she drinks copious amounts.

So it cannot possibly be a surprise to see one Detective Izzy Montoya step into another coffee shop in Grant park. Her look screams cop. There's no doubt what she does for a living, even if she wasn't removing her badge from around her neck where it was hanging on a chain, wrapping it up and shoving it into the pocket of her trench coat. The bulge of a gun holstered at the small of her back confirms it, and her no nonsense attitude, walk, even the way she orders all serves to cement the picture.

[...and then there's the song of warriors and heroes in her blood...]

She walks to the counter and orders the oddest thing: Coffee. Straight up. 2 creams, 4 sugars. It's likely the most complicated thing the girl has had to put together, given her confused look. Izzy just occupies the time peeling the leather gloves off her hands, one finger at a time.

[Daniel] Having never sat at all, it is easy enough for Daniel to take a step back, giving both the Silver Fang and his Alpha room to pass him by on their way out.

With the pair gone, the rage in this coffeehouse diminishes considerably, and more because of Taggart than because of Edward. The Philodox had the rage of an Ahroun. Then again, much the same could be said of Daniel.

As before, he doesn't pretend to just now notice Laila, or that he's wandering over to her out of accident. There isn't much wandering about it, period. The Forseti walks directly to her, balanced and agile. His hand falls on the back of the chair opposite her and he sits. Lacking a proper winter coat, he appears to have responded by wearing several layers: at least one shirt and two hoodies, the outer fleece-lined, sit on his lean frame. Despite that, there's hardly a sound when he sits. He's quiet and fleetfooted as a ghost, or a wolf.

Seated, he regards Laila for a moment. Then, a greeting: "Kinswoman. I'm glad to see you safe."

[Elliot] Elliot's own drink is almost completely untouched, except that it's where her hands rest, soaking up warmth. It makes her realize that she was cold when she was outside, she's just learned how to ignore it. Survival instincts can teach one to do that, to blot out freezing temperatures. It helps when one heals at remarkable speeds regardless of the form they're in.

She pulls the once-hot chocolate up to her mouth and gulps it down. Ethan wants to know if there's someplace he can drive her. For a moment, she considers declining.

"I must return to my sisters," she says, rising.

[Elliot] [and that's it for Elliot. good night, folks, and thanks for the play!]

[Ethan Yates] [I'm out here too. I have a date with my bed. AAAOO!!]

[Elliot] [AAOOO!]

[Laila Frolich] Her eyes track him almost suspiciously as he moves with an almost overwhelming sense of grace. Her shoulders pull back slightly and as the Forseti sits without sound in the seat across from her, Laila watches him warily. And, it isn't as if she can hide her wariness: it's expressed in the way the muscles in her jaw clench and her body is held just far enough away from the table to feel (falsely) safe.

Kinswoman.

It takes a moment for the term to sink in and before she can process it along with a reply, the waitress has returned with her black coffee. Once the woman has left the space around their table that's within ear shot she speaks to Daniel, a hand reaching for the pink packets of Sweet 'n Low stacked neatly in a container.

"You know.." She begins, shaking the packets so that the granules fall down to one side. "...I had no idea what you were talking about the first night I saw you. The first time you called me that and told me to go home to my mate...." The packets are tore open and dumped into her coffee. Spoon in hand, she stirs the black cup o' joe slowly.

"I had no idea what you were." The coffee is drawn to her lips and sipped before she sits it back down, all the while bearing a sense of something close to calm indifference.

[Daniel] Well; Laila starts to reach for Sweet 'n Low. The Forseti's dark eyes flick to the porcelain holder. A second later his hand beats Laila's there, the fingers clapped over the pink packets. He draws them away from her without explanation; his eyes return to her.

"Ah." It's a sound of dawning realization. He inclines his chin a few degrees; considers her from this new vantage point. "And you understand now?"

[Laila Frolich] It is reflexive, her movements...to draw her hand away from his while her eyes widen and then narrow at the weakness of her own fear. Her hand lays palm flat on the top of the table, her fingers bereft of any jewelry whatsoever. The kinwoman's hands are fine boned, small and delicate with long fingers that would have served her well had she any interest in the piano. She didn't.

Her breath had gotten caught somewhere in her throat and she didn't realize it until her mind began to scream at her to breathe.Which she does, in slow breaths meant to relax her achingly tense muscles.

"I know what you meant." She says, because she didn't really understand.

[Izzy Montoya] She takes her coffee, and lifts it to her lips, taking a drink immediately, before she nods. She digs out her cash, and then sets it on the counter. "Keep it."

She turns then, and checks the room. A drag of her fingers through her hair, and then she picks up her gloves, her cup, and makes her way toward an empty table. The leather hits the table top a moment before she settles into the empty seat. She digs into her pockets, as someone looking for a smoke. Instead she comes up with a pack of gum, pulls a piece free and unwraps it, before folding the stick into her mouth. The wrapper is balled up and dropped to the table in front of her, and she reaches for her cup of coffee, and takes a huge swallow.

"Jesus, Mary mother of FUCK that's hot..."

Though it doesn't stop the second drink that immediately follows.

[Daniel] The Forseti's eyes see her fear; see her anger at her own fear; see everything. They're unexpectedly dark. With hair like that and bones like those, one expects blue, grey, maybe green. One gets a brown that's a shade or two from black, intense, intent.

Laila doesn't know anything about Daniel's past. It's arguable whether or not she knows anything about the Get of Fenris, or about Garou at all. She doesn't know that once he counted himself amongst the Hand of Tyr, and she likely wouldn't know what that meant if she did. No matter; anyone with eyes could see that those are the eyes of a born judge and executioner, slicingly perceptive, cold as justice.

The container of sugar and artificial sweeteners rasps lightly along the table as he turns it around, offers it to her again: sugar packets facing her this time.

"So; who told you?"

[Laila Frolich] As Izzy curses her hot coffee, Laila turns her eyes in that direction before they once more find a place on Daniel's face that isn't so intimidating. If he were as perceptive as he seems to be he'd note the way she tries, in vain, to meet his gaze. To fix his own intense dark eyed stare with her own that is tumultuous and gray. There's a strong desire in her soul not to be intimated, yet, around him ... she is. Wholly.

"Mr. Pyeon." She says quietly, eyes drawn slowly to the sugar container and then back up to his face. "I don't take real sugar." She says, the cup of coffee drawn black as oil to her lips.

Laila is a beautiful young woman, but more than that she is charismatic. Charming. Interesting. Her features are strong, yet delicate. She bears a resemblance to her ancestors - kin and Garou alike - who were all heroes (or martyrs) in their own right. Even without being aware, Laila carries herself the way a well bred Fenrir ought too: Proud and confident. Yet, as much as Daniel's gaze is piercing in its judgement, Laila's is cold. Supercilious to a point.

While the Forseti is buried beneath layers of clothing. Laila is not. Her sweater is dark, the v-neck dropping down enough to expose the hollow of her throat and her clavicle bone. It fits against her lean frame neatly, accentuating rather than hiding the shape of her torso and curve of her waist and hips.

"He was in the park the first day I saw you. He's redesigning my living room."

[Daniel] Daniel frowns, a faint furrowing of the brow. His eyes drop from hers for a second. Quick, deft, his fore and middle fingers scissor a packet of artificial sweetener from the holder.

"These are engineered poison," he says -- such absolute certainty and conviction that Laila might find herself convinced for a second. "They'll kill you."

Daniel sets the packet back in amongst the rest, pushing it down with the pad of his finger. He sets well back in his chair so that his posture is relatively straight, contained. He has not bought a drink and does not seem about to. What Laila is wearing, what passes for clothing and fashion in the human world, is designed to draw the eye down to the neck and guide it to the breasts. Daniel's, however, remain direct and level on Laila's face, studying her expression and reactions with a constant, roving, hunting alertness.

"I remember him. And I'm glad he told you enough that you know what you are. But he is not of your blood. I am. She is." His eyes cut from Laila briefly, touch on izzy. Come back. "Mr. Pyeon cannot possibly know who you really are."

Pause.

"Who are you, really?"

[Izzy Montoya] She is.

Izzy turns her head, and studies the two talking. It takes a moment - it's been a long day, a longer week, and there's still miles to go before she sleeps - but recognition filters through her gaze. She'd seen them both before... the day at the park the raciest prick proved himself to be Jarl.

She doesn't interrupt. She simply watches, and makes no attempt to hide it.

[Laila Frolich] For a moment, a beat of her heart, she finds herself believing that Daniel has her best interest at heart. It passes though, and she continues to drink her coffee black, no sugar. Her body grows increasingly restless beneath his gaze - a handful of fingers rack back through her shoulder length hair, her weight shifts in her chair. It isn't until he mentions Izzy being kin like her that she cuts her gaze toward the woman again.

"Laila Frolich." She says firmly. That was who she was still, wasn't it? Did knowing what genetics and history coursed through her veins now make her anyone - anything - different? The coffee is drawn to her lips once more before her fingers dig in the pocket of her coat for a twenty dollar bill. It's laid on the table.

"Mr. Pyeon was kind enough to...assist me that day." she pauses, neatly arched brown eyebrows bunched together. "He told me about the type of family I'm from..." The coffee is once again brought back to her lips then left to sit on the table.

[Daniel] "Who is Laila Frolich?" This is the first time he's heard her name, but it flicks right off his tongue, as though he's used to the steeper vowels and sharper consonants of the germanic tongues. "Who is your blood, your history? Whose blood sired you; who gave you your strength and resilience, your courage to look a beast in the eye?

"Do you know?"

Another pause. Then, strangely without smugness or arrogance: "Because I do. I know who your father is. I can see him in your face. And I know who our Father is." The capital is audible, a stress on the word. "I can see him in our blood."

The twenty-dollar bill Laila lays on the table, which is not a lot of money in the grand scheme of things, is still more money than Daniel has in all the world right now. He doesn't look at that either, though, as impervious to the temptations of wealth, apparently, as he is to flesh.

[Izzy Montoya] Her lips curve into a smirk as she takes another long drink of her coffee. This one was old school, hard core old school. Much as the other who decided to recite her lineage in the middle of the park. Fathers, mothers, forefathers, who fucked who, begat who, and what they'd done... it was written within them, easily read by their Trueborn 'cousins'.

Laila doesn't know much, it seems.
Izzy often feels she knows too much.
Ignorance is bliss - or so they say.

For now though, she simply listens and watches - openly.

[Laila Frolich] There is a moment when he speaks that Laila's heart threatens to leap from her chest. When she wants to beg Daniel to tell her who she is. Who she really is. Who was her father? Her hands are shaking with anxiety and anticipation and she draws them under the table to hide them.

"I don't know." She pauses and slides her arms into her coat. "I found out a few weeks ago my mother and father aren't my biological parents. I don't know who I am or where I get my courage from or my confidence. I'd like to think it was because of me...but that's not exactly accurate, is it?" The scarf is once more wrapped around her neck.

"I have to go." She knows his name, but doesn't use it. "I'm sorry." She doesn't offer him her phone number or address. Gray eyes cut toward Izzy, the police officer, and then away.

"I don't know who you think I am." She says quietly, pulling her hair from inside her coat. "Maybe one day you can tell me." And with that Laila turns to go, quickly yet as casually as she can manage.

(I gotta go pass out, it's 3am here. Thanks Damon, Lessa!)

[Daniel] Daniel doesn't leap to his feet to stop the kinswoman from

(fleeing.)

leaving. He doesn't pounce after her, either, tearing her to pieces before she ever reaches the door. There's a feeling he might, though. There's always a feeling that Daniel might do something terrible, bloody, savage, even though the logical mind sees only a rather solemn, doleful young man, too lean and quiet to be much of a threat.

Rage isn't logical, though. Rage is sheer emotion, multiplied a hundredfold.

After she's gone, the Forseti plucks three or four sugar packets from the holder, rips them all open, dumps them in Laila's abandoned coffee. Then he gives it a good stir, picks up the cup, and drains it.

When he sets it down he beckons Izzy over with a tilt of his head.

[Izzy Montoya] Laila exits, and exits quickly. Izzy just arches a brow and watches her go, before returning her gaze to Daniel, almost lazily. When he beckons her over, only then does she push back in her chair and stand. She picks up her coffee from the top, her gloves in the other hand and kicks the chair back into place before closing the distance.

She doesn't wait to be invited to sit, she simply does so. Her gloves hit the table, the coffee cup as well, as she snaps her gum, once.

"Got quite a fuckin' way with the women, don't ya."

[Daniel] Laila and Izzy couldn't be more different. Where the first was elegant and -- let's face it -- somewhat timid, Izzy is bold as brass, rough and tumble, physical. Her gloves slap down, drawing the Forseti's dark glance for a second before his eyes are back on her.

"She's not a woman," Daniel points out; if this is a joke, it's an exceedingly poor one. The corners of his mouth don't even move. "She's a kinswoman. I don't concern myself with women; kinswomen are a different story.

"Now, who are you?"

[Izzy Montoya] "Which means it's my fuckin' turn then, don't it..."

A brow quirks, as if she found something in his statement amusing. She does, if that smirk, lopsided and knowing, is any indication. She adjusts her position slightly, tugging at the side of her coat to loosen it from under her hip. It's an automatic gesture, much as one could check to see that their sword is clear, she makes sure she has access to the weapon worn low at her back.

She then reaches into the pocket of her coat, and pulls free a small case, plucking a card from it - a card that she then slides across the table. "Detective Izzy Montoya. CPD Homicide."

[Daniel] With some minor amusement himself, Daniel takes the card she slides to him -- as if they were human colleagues-to-be; as if he had a rolodex, or even a wallet.

The card, then. He picks it up off the table and reads it, though perhaps for a moment Izzy is uncertain the Forseti -- hardcore, hardboiled, hard, all the way through -- could even read modern English, or anything other than runes and glyphs. He can, though, and his eyes scan the card quickly. Just as she said: Det. Izzy Montoya. Chicago Police Department. Homicide.

"'Izzy' is an unusual name," he says. "Is it short for Isabella?"

[Izzy Montoya] "No." The snap is automatic. She's been asked, likely, most of her career, and someone's like as not to get a knee to the groin rather than an actual answer.

She simply lifts her cup to her lips, however, and takes a long swallow of lukewarm coffee, and then sets it down again. She gives him a little... "Close." but not all. "I prefer Izzy, however, and that it be the only first name used."

She nods slightly to the card. "The number there is my cell phone. Private line - should you or yours have need of my..." and here that smirk widens, and she actually chuckles. "...talents."

[Daniel] Izzy receives a long, measuring regard. Unlike Laila, she can probably stand to meet it for more than a few seconds at a time. At the end of it, Daniel simply nods.

"Okay," he says. That's the end of the name business. He looks at the card again as Izzy mentions private lines, talents, as though he expected to see a list of her talents appear on the stiff little piece of paper. Then the Forseti shifts in his seat, sliding the card away into his pocket.

"Who is your mate?" Coming from another man, this would be a hamfisted attempt at subtle inquiry. Coming from Daniel, it's assumption so total he can barely fathom any other possibility. "If I need your help, I'll speak to him first."

[Izzy Montoya] She meets that gaze, the long look, and likely for longer than he would expect her too. Longer than Laila, and then some. This is not something she's unused too - and like many a Trueborn, she is as unbending, unrelenting as any Fenrir should be. She doesn't back down easy - if at all. "And what am I to call you? The big fella with a fuckin' way with women? Scuse me.. kinswomen...?" He's yet to give his name.

Then she shakes her head, slightly. "Sorry bub, welcome to the 21st fuckin' century. You want my help, you'll fuckin' talk to me." There's a long moment where it seems like that might be the only thing she says, then she shakes her head. "Don't have a damn mate, and ain't lookin' for one neither. And, quite frankly, who I fuck? Ain't no one's business but my own."

[Daniel] "You can call me Daniel."

'Big' is probably a misnomer for Daniel. Underneath his three or four layers -- for that matter, even with three or four layers on -- he's unmistakeably thin, wiry, with a sinewy, bony strength that's all gristle and grit.

When Izzy says he'll talk to her if he wants her help, Daniel frowns faintly but says nothing. When Izzy goes on to say she has no mate, the Forseti's eyebrow hop up on his forehead. There's a second's worth of stunned silence.

"Is this ... commonplace in the Scab? Purebred kin left to fend for themselves?"

[Izzy Montoya] "Daniel it is."

He's surprised, but he doesn't do what so many of them do - which is to argue, and try to force their opinion, try to demand she mate yesterday and have fat squalling fenrir babies tomorrow. A brow arches, slightly, as she considers him for an equally long moment. There's something there, in her eyes - something like a grudging respect, for the fact that he didn't push.

"I'm hardly incapable of handlin myself, Daniel. But yes, there are fare more of us than of you - an' ya have fuckin bigger things to fight, than a Kinfolk who'd rather play the field, than be mated an poppin out fuckin' kids. It happens, in th'scab. It happens everywhere."

A beat, and then curious. "Where are ya from, anyway? You seem genuinely... shocked."

[Daniel] "I was born in the Sept of the Seventh Isle." There's a shadow in the Forseti's eyes when he speaks of this; a distinct sense of distance in his tone. Nevertheless, he goes on, "It's located on the eastern coast of what humans call Quebec. It's a very old Sept. Some of us can trace our lineage back to the forefathers who crossed the oceans in their longboats, and beyond.

"The oldest kinswomen and kinsmen ensure that all have mates there. The best and strongest and purest of kin are mated to the trueborn; the rest to one another. In the Seventh Isle it is rare that anyone is unmated past eighteen or twenty. It's ... completely unheard of for a kin of breeding as rarefied as yours to be unmated still at your advance age."

[Izzy Montoya] She listens - and as she does, it's with the stance of someone who actively hears, and will remember what is being said. She asked the question, and is genuinely interested in the answer once it comes.

Even when he calls her old.

It makes her laugh, softly, as she reaches up to tuck her hair behind her ear. "Ain't like I'm 50, or wheelchair bound - I'm not that advanced." She glances around the coffee shop, a quick survey to see who remains, where the workers are, that they still have a relatively open path surrounding them, courtesy of Daniel's rage. Then she meets his gaze again.

"I am really fuckin' good at my job. Really good. I've worked on the force since I was 18, and I've even taken a huge fall that send me out of the city for the better part of a decade, just to cover up a mess some sloppy fuckin' Trueborn left for me to deal with. There are better uses of my talents than spreadin' my legs for whatever purebred fucker wants me." There's a beat, and a chuckle. "Well, to have kids, anyway. I'm not the fuckin maternal type."

She lifts a hand though. "However, I ain't lettin it go to waste, either. Some modern day conveniences keep my eggs viable. Someone Jarl approved that wants to use their squirmy lil fuckers to take advantage my ancestry can have them."

[Daniel] This latest bit of information simply makes Daniel stare, frowning and blinking. It is quite clear he has utterly no idea what Izzy is going on about.

[Izzy Montoya] She arches a brow, and then shakes her head with a chuckle, and then leans forward. "I fuck." beat. "A lot. But I don't get pregnant - and I ain't plannin on it either. However, the Fenrir can still have babies from my genepool - without my gettin all fat and bitchy. Welcome to the world of modern medicine."

She leans back, and takes a final swallow of her coffee, before setting the empty cup on the table, and crossing her arms over her chest. "If ya want a lecture sometime on how it all works, I'd be happy to oblige."

[Daniel] "I'll take your word for it," Daniel replies; he really doesn't want to know the details. Besides, she's finishing her coffee; that was a signal that she was getting ready to go. He's been around enough humans to know that. Then again, given the rapid departure of the last kinswoman to sit in her seat, it wasn't an infallible one. Sometimes they took off with or without finishing their drinks.

"Where do you live, Izzy?"

[Izzy Montoya] And sometimes, they simply finished their coffee because it was already cold. She hasn't touched her gloves, she hasn't pulled her coat around. She's still as comfortably settled as she has been through the whole discussion.

"420 West Fullerton. It's an apartment building not too far from the Brotherhood." A lopsided smirk follows. "Why, ya wanna come over?"

[Daniel] Daniel shakes his head. "I have a mate," he says. Of course he does; he just told her in his traditional (read: backwater) Sept, they don't see age 18 without getting hitched, and Daniel, though young, is decidedly over 18. A pause, though, and he adds, "I had a mate.

"I was going to escort you home. Since you don't live far from the Brotherhood, it will be an easy trip for me."

[Izzy Montoya] She chuckles and nods. "I expected as..." and then he clarifies. Had. Something darkens her gaze, momentarily, as she reaches for her gloves, and starts to pull them on. Then she nods. She might say something more, but then she decides against it.

"Well, offer's open if you ever want to have a nightcap - best bring your own snacks though, I can't cook worth shit." Gloves situated, she tips her head toward the door. "We'll compromise. I got a car. I'll save you the walk and drop ya off on my way by."

[Daniel] The Forseti considers a moment as though this were truly a deal to be made, a bargain to strike. Then he nods, once, and gets to his feet. "Fair enough. Let's go, kinswoman."

[Izzy Montoya] "Izzy."

She corrects him automatically, and then stands, adjusting her coat around her, checking her holster at the small of her back. She grabs her cup, tucks it into Laila's empty cup, then tosses them both in the garbage as she walks past on the way to the door, to the car beyond, the Brotherhood, and home.