[Fabienne] *The weather in Chicago was devilishly deceptive this time of year. What had seemed a mild evening when she'd begun the walk homewards had become a bitingly cold ordeal. Bitter wind snapping easily through the white cardigan Fabienne had chosen to wear over a tasteful pale rose cocktail dress. She'd just returned from a dinner party with the events co-ordinator of the Windy City Fencing Academy. Perhaps one glass of wine too many pressed upon her by the man's exuberant southern wife. Once that telltale tingle had begun to buzz behind the silverfang kin's eyes, she'd begged off altogether. She so loathed being inebriated. White heels clack against cement as she moves down the sidewalk with long graceful strides.*

[Daniel] Utterly out of place in the glitz and the glamour of the Mile, Daniel sits on the stoop of a closed Coach boutique. His multiple layers of thin, worn clothing -- making up quality with quantity -- and the hood up over his head make him look like a bum. His alert posture, lean limbs, make him look like a hunter. Or a wild thing. Both of which, in a way, are not far off from what he is.

He sees the Fang coming from far off. Unashamedly, the Forseti's direct black stare tracks her as she comes.

[Fabienne] *Studies show that when one sense is damaged, the others adjust. Sharpen, go on high alert in order to compensate for the lack. Fabienne hears little out of one ear, but her eyes are sharp. Her intuition sound. Broken hammer fixes her with a predators gaze, and for several moments she's oblivious. A loose curl of honey colored hair tucked with private irriation behind a wind pinked ear. The darting of pale grey eyes to a thuggish frat boy who brushes pasts her a little too closely for her liking, kinfolk on guard instantly, hand travelling to whatever might be contained in her tiny clutch. She does not remain ignorant for terribly long, before the intensity of a non-human stare has her eyes raising to meet Daniel's from a short distance away. Close enough that her regal breeding, the hint of citrus perfume, the faint clean scent of her is blown to the philodox on the icy wind. She offers greeting by way of a raised eyebrow and the barest quirk of her lips.*

[Daniel] As the woman nears, Daniel rises to his feet. We say rises, because there's no climb or struggle about it. He's sitting; then he's not. Very smooth, very silent, all of it; a sort of self-contained animal grace. He nods to the daughter of the mad kings.

"Kinswoman." There is another kinswoman in this city who took such offense to the term that her face eventually ended up meeting a wall multiple times, which is, in Daniel's experience at least, what generally happens when Garou and kin grow offended by one another. The directionality doesn't necessarily matter. Anyway, the point is: Daniel does not seem to have learned not to call kinswomen by their title from the experience. "Why are you out alone so late?"

[Fabienne] Broken Hammer - rhya.

*So replies the kinswoman. The honorific sounds slightly strange falling so crisply from human lips. Not the chuff of a wolf addressing one higher in station, but a word and a whisper. A foreign language approximated the best one could. Rheyhya. Fabienne would be offended by kinswoman were it not far better than the greetings she'd gotten from most of the lesser tribesmen in Chicago so far. Were it not that she simply assumed the man had forgotten her name, and was loathe to be so impolite as to call him on his blunder. Her head dips in quick submission, before grey eyes rise to meet Daniel's gaze once more. Her response freely given.*

I was attending a social function, and chose to walk home for the refreshment of fresh air after a rather stuffy sort of evening. Yourself, if I might?

[Daniel] "Thinking." One word answer. Could be worse; could've been a syllable. A grunt. He falls in beside her without asking; without further conversation, either, at least for some distance.

Then he asks: "What sort of social function?"

[Fabienne] *They walk a good ways in relative silence. He falls into step easily beside her, and she tucks a gloved hand just inside his elbow. Touch light. Fabienne ending him her own polite conduct and a veneer of civility he sorely lacked. He was escorting a young lady, a Fang kin, not tromping along beside some ragamuffin Fenrir mare. His question is abrupt, unexpected. It takes the girl a moment to respond.*

Oh? Yes, an engagement with a prominent member of a local fencing academy. He was good enough to host a dinner party so as I might become acquainted with local instructors and promising talent. Would it be too bold to inquire after what it was you were thinking about sir?

[Daniel] It was a noble attempt, but ultimately futile. The rawboned Forseti starts when Fabienne attempts to take his arm. Soon thereafter, he removes her hand, carefully enough, but rather firmly.

"You are not my mate," he states the obvious. Then he shakes his head, mopping the hood down with a quick, impatient swipe of his hand. "Yes, it would." Be too bold, one supposes. Fabienne is not particularly charming, but she has manners. Daniel is neither charming nor mannerly. This does not bode well for the length and pleasantness of their stroll.

[Fabienne] Politeness, Rhya. I would not presume such familiarity as you suggest.

*Its a tad curt. She clearly wishes to make that point abundantly clear. Especially after the incident with the terrible fianna in chinatown. Grey eyes flash, then settle. Her chin lifts, allowing her to look at Broken Hammer more fully. Her hand claps the other, a picture of poise as they move past her building and beyond.*

[Daniel] For his part, the Forseti stares straight ahead. At this range the woman's purity of blood is unmistakable; the particular strain of her breeding, doubly so. Subarctic tundras; roll Provençal hills. White wolves in gilded courts. The promise of strong, healthy cubs that would be doomed to madness and waste ... but not if their father were of the Wolf-God, and not of Falcon. Daniel scowls ferociously at himself.

Abruptly, "You cannot possibly be enjoying our conversation. I will leave you in peace. Your own tribe is responsible for your safety, at any rate, not I." It's a barrage of passive-aggressiveness. Or perhaps simply aggression.

[Fabienne] *A blonde wywbrow crawls up atthe abruptness of his statement. Every inch a noble as she regards Daniel carefully. Wary, but frank. Lips quirk upwards in muted amusement despite herself. He though HE was being impolite? Unpleasant?*

You are not disturbing me sir. Your company is, to date, the most pleasant I've experienced in Chicago, that was not that of a Shadowlord or Silverfang origin. I had a Fianna gentleman make rather apallingly scandalous suggestions upon my inquiring after directions, not days ago. Rest assured, you are quite pleasant by comparison. Still..

*She gestures idly with a hand despite herself. It was impolite to flail with her hands like a fish wife, but her amusement and the sudden edginess of the situation and the treuborn's flare of aggression had her forgetting herself. *

I am capable of defending myself, should you have pressing business elsewhere.

[Daniel] Most pleasant I've encountered, she says, and Daniel huffs a humorless laugh. "You are kind to say so," he says, "but I cannot believe that."

[Fabienne] Perhaps regrettably, I speak entirely the truth on that score.

*A slight shake of her head as she pushes at a curl in idle irritation.*

It would appear politeness has the same effect as silver to most garou in chicago. I would repeat some of the welcome I have received from those I've met to date, but a respectable lady simply doesn't say such things.

[Daniel] Daniel scowls again. "Politeness," he says, rather acerbically, "is anathema to kin and Garou of Chicago.

"Nevertheless, if you have been offended, you must report it to your elder. She must defend your honor."

[Fabienne] Respectfully sir, If I were to report to Mlle. Bellamonte every slur and comment that gave offense in recent weeks, we would have grave issue with the Fenrir and Fianna both already.

*Fabienne laughs, hand coming to her mouth as though she might stop the sudden bubbly sound. She carefully trains her eyes down, so as not to directly include Daniel with her reference to his tribesman. A sigh as she rolls her shoulders and adjusts a cuff.*

One must remain above such pettiness, or become nothing more than a particpant in ugliness and ill manners.

[Daniel] Like a hound hearing the call of its master, Daniel stiffens, grows sharply alert. "What have the Fenrir said?"

[Fabienne] *Grey eyes narrow and look to the Fenrir beside her. The stiff posture, the sudden readiness, all setting off shrill alarms in her mind. Every instinct to run now prickling chemicals through her veins. Raising goosebumps where before there were none. The kin takes a single step back. Her voice rings crisp, but quiet.*

I would prefer not to repeat such things, Broken Hammer-ryha. As I have said, they were rather impolite, but easily dimissed.

[Daniel] "I am not asking as a conversational topic, Kinswoman." Fabienne is right to tense. Daniel has homed in on the topic, his eyes black and flashing. "As a Forseti of my tribe, it is my Fenris-given duty to maintain a standard of honor amongst my Tribe."

[Fabienne] *Regrettable, this turn of events. Fabienne slows and considers. Which comments had come from whom? A quirk of her lips as she turns fully and addresses the Forseti fully. Fine, let him know of his tribes shortcomings. She supposed sparing him the embarrassment did little to improve upon the problem. Her chin raises, haughty and fine boned as she speaks*

A gentleman thought to proclaim that i went about kissing the feet of others, when I asked he please mind his manners, i was rather taken off guard by the language of one of your Kinfolk, who foolishly threatened to "take me out back" and teach me manners herself, before proclaiming I was a...

*The pretty blonde takes a moment to think, delicate hand pausing against her lips a moment.*

Mm. yes. Nothing but an uppity breeding mare with... ahem, something in regards to a feminine hygeine product being inserted sideways. When met a second time she made a rather rude gesture before another gentleman, whom I learned later was also Fenrir, asked if i was going to respond to such. When I said no, he did the same, quite pleased with himself.

All in all I regret my interaction with your tribe has been markedly and unexpectedly unpleasant to date, barring your own company of course. However, as you can see, nothing of great importance.

[Daniel] Daniel -- frowns. And the frown grows deeper and darker with every passing second; but only partly out of anger. It's as much consternation.

He has no idea what she might mean by feminine hygiene product being inserted sideways. All the gentlemen and ladies being mentioned are making his head spin. Euphemisms and glossovers have entirely taken the bite out of all the insults, leaving him with...

quite frankly: a great deal of confusion.

"I don't think I understand what you've said," he finally says.

[Fabienne] I see.

*She purses her lips, somewhat uncomfortable with the topic of discussion. Her hands brush chill arms as the cold bites at fair skin.*

[Daniel] He thinks a little longer. Then: "Who were they?"

[Fabienne] The most impertinent of remarks were made by a kinswoman. Her name is Leyna. I know very little of the others with the exception of their tribe. A fight broke out that rather diverted my attention away from the memorization of names. Does this satisfy?

*Fabienne looks to Daniel with muted curiosity.*

In truth, it is the Fianna who have been most inappropriate, and I have made mention of such unpleasant conduct to Mlle Bellamonte already.

[Daniel] The sound Daniel makes is very akin to a growl. "The kinswoman of this city are out of control." A fleeting sideglance, and a quick, jerky nod. "I will speak to my Jarl. Your pardon, Kinswoman."

With that, the lean Forseti peels abruptly off, crossing the thoroughfare, vanishing soon thereafter down a cross-street.