Ivan Press

For the record: Ivan Press was debuted on July 24th, 2010. [Erika Alexander] Erika takes a moment alone in the park, pacing back and forth underneath the shelter of a bus stop enclosure. She has an umbrella, but the rain is a bit too strong and clearly she would get soaked through and through. As the kin encircles the plexiglass cube like a caged zoo animal, she seems to be working things out in her head, fingers gripping one another, entwined.

Lightning crashes on the lake, lighting up most of downtown for a moment. The dark eyes of the Fang kin turn towards the lake to watch the light. The speed of her pace slows for a moment. The fury of the storm beating down on Chicago drowns out most of her thoughts.

[Ivan] A lot of wealthy people in Chicago, particularly here just a block or two off the Loop. A lot more people wealthy enough to at least make occasional pretenses at a jet-set, high-flying life. It's really not unusual, particularly on a Friday night, to see the well-dressed and well-heeled coming from the symphony or going to some lounge bar. It's not unusual to see a man in a tailored suit or even a tuxedo now and then -- on his way to some expensive venue, or from some expensive valeted car.

To see a man in a dinner jacket strolling down the street, his black bowtie unbowed and dangling from his open collar, his thousand-some-odd-dollar clothing soaking wet from the rain -- now that is a little rarer.

He comes under the overhang of the bus stop with little fanfare, barely glancing at Erika. His hair is cut short, dark with water and plastered to his skull. A cigarette droops from his lips, miraculously still lit, and immediately begins filling the small shelter with smoke. He consults the bus charts for a while, squinting in the dark, then cocks an eyebrow at Erika.

"51 bus come by yet?" He has an accent: not foreign, but rare enough nowadays that it may as well be. Pure East Coast preparatory school, that.

[Katherine Bellamonte] She's been at the Symphony. It's easy enough to judge it, simply by the car.

The sleek BMW was prowling down the street, rain sliding over the smooth lines of the vehicle, the windows tinted so that the driver was afforded the luxury of being able to see the world without the world returning the favor. For Katherine, it was one of her favorite perks about the car -- that, and the seat warmers, of course. Perhaps Erika recognizes the license plates on the car as its headlights cut through the rain, perhaps not. All that matters, honestly is that as it approaches the shelter she's beneath it slows to a crawl before stopping entirely; engine running.

How potentially ominous.

Then a window descends with a low electronic hum; and a familiar blond head, surrounded by carefully arranged curls of golden hair appears, leaning over the seats. It's accompanied by the wash of Rage. "Lovely evening for the Bus."

[Ivan] Ivan is standing with his hand braced above the posted bus schedule, idly unbuttoning his dinner jacket as he scans for departure times. Definitely a tailored suit, that. There's no slackening or wrinkling in the back. Even undone, the dinner jacket hangs perfectly off his shoulders, emphasizing breadth while sleekening the line down to the hip. Other than a brief glance at his fellow passenger, his attention is mostly on timetables and schedules.

Before Erika can answer him -- or perhaps decide whether or not to answer a soaking wet, possibly insane stranger -- Katherine's BMW pulls up behind him, rumbling softly. Fine-tuned German engineering. He doesn't even have to turn around to guess at the make and model. He does turn, though, straightening. That fine tuxedo is ruined, drenched through. The shirt underneath too, translucent, showing the outline of his undershirt beneath it.

None of this seems to put a damper on the grin he flicks Katherine's way. The man is a Silver Fang. She can read this as easily as she can read truth from lie. The rest is a little harder. If he's Garou, his rage is negligible. If he's kin, he's a bold one: meeting her eyes without flinching.

"Quite," he says, and just as easily draws the innocent bystander into his circle, "Care to join us?"

[Danicka Musil] The burst of swearing down the street is in Russian. And it is filthy. The insults hurled at the driver of the car that just zipped through a puddle and sent a wave of rather oily water across the legs and shoes and skirt of the blonde down the way include uncomfortably specific descriptions of what she is going to do that [censored]'s mother if she ever gets the [censored] [censored]'s [censored] removed from her [censored]. But that only matters if someone speaks the language. If not, well.

It's still not hard to tell she's more than mildly irritated.

The blonde has a black umbrella with images of a bright blue sky with puffy white clouds on the inside. Her hair is straightened and her skirt was light blue, though now it's indigo in places, and considering how angry she is, one can surmise how expensive those heels were before the downpour soaked them through and through and through.

She was on her way to the bus stop, one can imagine, since she's still heading that direction after the SPLASH and the torrent of cursing.

[Danicka Musil]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1

[Katherine Bellamonte] The man is a Silver Fang.

Of course he's a Silver Fang, they seemed to be just about everywhere she turned these last few weeks. And of heroutfit, one can only assume she's been somewhere that required an evening gown and high heels, that needed the diamond necklace winking around her neck and plunging into the V of that golden dress that was quite deliberately embroidered to contour to every last curve of her figure.

She's young, the Garou in the car but her eyes, those pale, pale eyes read him like she's seen about a dozen of his same cut. Confident, rich, masters of all that they saw and conquers of the female species -- not her, however, it took more than a nice [wet] tuxedo to entice Katherine Bellamonte. Still; she raises her eyebrow at him.

Studies him.
Then Erika.

"Hm." She says, and the window goes up again. Oh, well. Maybe that is that. But no -- a moment later the engine is turned off and the door opens; a black umbrella goes up and the woman emerges from the vehicle. Tall and elegant, her hair pinned up from the nape of her neck so that a few long pieces artfully framed her cheeks. "And the name to go with the stranger inviting me beneath a Bus shelter?"

A burst of swearing down the street turns her gaze; she cants her head, a glimmer of amusement banks in her eyes as she watches Danicka, remains as she turns her eyes back on Ivan.

[Katherine Bellamonte] [hello typos my old friends. Conquerors, blah.]

[Ivan] [AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!]

[Katherine Bellamonte] [http://nooooooo.com]

[Ivan] The way he looks and sounds -- which is to say, like an young, overprivileged, preppy, filthy rich prodigal son of some East Coast old money family -- he shouldn't understand the burst of obscenity from the blonde down the street.

Times change, though. The world grows smaller. Over across the pond, the daughter of Russian aristocrats grew up, got knighted, and plays the Queen of England in movies. Repeatedly. On this side of the Atlantic, the son of Russian aristocrats -- several generations removed now -- goes to private school, picks up a WASPy accent, and strolls down midnight streets in pouring rain.

In black-tie attire at that.

"Язык," he chides Danicka, amused. Then the grin turns on Katherine; widens. And yes. She's seen it before. Right there on the faces of so many of her tribesmen -- invariably young. Overprivileged. Preppy. Filthy fucking rich.

And, truth be told: with no practical experience whatsoever; no idea of the real world.

"Ivan Press," he says, and steps out from under the overhang. Back into the rain. It patters onto his hair, and his suit is so wet by now that raindrops no longer roll off the wool but simply soak into it. "Ivan Laurence Konstantine Kirillevich ... Press."

There's something cocksure about the introduction, as though the name -- culturally confused or not -- is a boast in and of itself. If it's a boast, though, it's an empty one. Katherine will have to think hard to recognize it at all, which means his family has produced no one of note or worth in generations. Which means that name, long and impressive as it is, appended to as many 0's in a bank account as it is, is as good as a mongrel's.

He turns back to Danicka. "What about you, duchess? Got a name, or should I guess?"

[Danicka Musil] "Поцелуй меня в задницу," the blonde who is not climbing out of a BMW shoots back to Ivan's scolding, and it sounds precisely like a demuring apology to everyone but Ivan. She gets to the bus stop enclosure and sets her umbrella down for a moment, still open, so she can wring out her skirt. They can see halfway up her lean thighs when she does that. Her pupils are tightly constricted, and leaning over to get the water out of her clothes seems to unbalance her enough that she leans against the wall of the enclosure as she shakes the fabric out once more.

Her head comes up. Too fast, apparently, because it takes her several seconds to focus her eyes on Kate. "Kaaatherine," she says cheerily, which is not an answer to Ivan at all -- she is ignoring his tailored, saturated, uppity self -- but an effusive recognition. "What's the French for 'douchenozzle'?"

She does not wait for an answer, but points in the direction of the car that splashed her. "That," she says, as her arm veers in a different way, "was a douchenozzle. Also I am sorry if you got ditched the other night at the club, it was lovely while it lasted til all those rude boys interrupted."

Rude boys, it seems, like Christian and Matthieu. And above all, Lukas.

[Katherine Bellamonte] She doesn't instantly recognize the name. But, her tribe was vast, with roots that stretched across various continents. Who was to say that the Press name was not one that anyone from Gleaming Eye or Crescent Moon would not leap upon in delight -- or revulsion. Her own surname was known twofold; firstly in Wyrmfoe and secondly, more mortally based as the owners and operators of Bellamonte Textiles Inc. of New York basing.

There could be a million Bellamontes, however. So she rarely made use of the association among others of her kind.

"Katherine Isabella D'Albret Bellamonte," she says with a hint [like a drop of refinement purposely stirred in] of french perfuming her speech. She's holding her Umbrella up with one hand, the fingernails painted tonight with a simple clear varnish that allows them to gleam dully in reflected light from passing cars. "Evening, Danicka," she says in a kinder tone, somewhat less stiffly regulated.

Her glossy lips curve in one of her irresistible smiles; a flash of white teeth and tinkling laughter. "I was not offended, I had some great pleasure in tormenting the men on the second floor. It is fun to watch them dancing about, trying to impress me." Regarding douche nozzles, she is going to keep her peace, apparently.

[Ivan] Ivan looks. He doesn't even try to hide it. Hands in the pockets of his similarly tailored trousers, wearing a relaxed sort of languor the same way he wears that suit -- which is to say, well -- he tips his head a few degrees to the side and surveys the sight of Danicka's golden thighs with a connoisseur's eye.

"Anytime," he replies to whatever demure little thing Danicka just said, and like sleight-of-hand produces a card from some inner pocket, which he holds out to her, "but you're going to have to lift your skirt a little higher than that."

The card is not falling to pieces with moisture. That's because it is, in fact, a thin sheet of translucent plastic. Pale green. Rounded corners. Nothing but a phone number stamped across the center. A pretentious 'business' card if ever there was one: the assumption that its bearer is important and memorable enough not to even need to leave a name is implicit.

And oh look. It's another Manhattan area code.

[Danicka Musil] Whatever Danicka said to Ivan, it apparently was something he would like to do sometime, but would involve lifting her skirt. Kate can only guess. But Danicka, though she's vaguely aware of being stared at and a little more cognizant of Ivan's smirking flirtation, doesn't immediately launch into a defensive posturing, or drop casual mention of her boyfriend to Katherine. She looks over at Ivan as she picks up her umbrella again. Looks at him. Looks at the card he's holding out. Looks at him, lifting an eyebrow.

"How nice for you," she says, of his ultra-hip calling card, turning back to Kate. "I have been barhopping," she announces plainly, "which has a long and storied tradition for rainy nights that never end. I am two and a half sheets to the wind, and on my way to Whiskey Blue. Lukáš," she says lethally, "will not be joining me. I called him and he was giggling and then he was yelling at someone to put the axe down, he was talking to me, and then I forget what happened but he's not coming. Do you have an extra skirt in the trunk?" As though this would be sane, and normal, and something the other woman would be likely to do.

Nevermind that she's got a curvier figure than Danicka -- that is to say, one that isn't borderline underweight -- and has three inches on the drunk woman. She can't go to Whiskey Blue in a soiled outfit.

"The people I started with gave up after the third bar," she adds, somewhat stiffly.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine seems, honestly, rather entertained by all that has come to pass thus far. She's forgotten that she initially stopped her car by the bus shelter to offer her newest -- correction, second to newest -- Kinfolk in the city a lift out of the rain. However Ericka appeared to have snuck off somewhere between Danicka's angry cursing and Ivan's ogling of her legs.

The Silver Fang lowers her Umbrella and hangs it over a wrist, both of which are decorated with sparkling bracelets -- we won't ask about how much they cost or if they were real -- considering who they were draped over however, the answer is most likely to be of the affirmative.

"Oui, I may have something you can borrow. Let me check." Katherine depresses a button on her keys and her boot pops open, lights flashing. She steps carefully onto the road and begins to search around for something for the Shadow Lord Kinswoman to borrow. While she looks, she speaks to Ivan without raising her eyes from her task. "You are new to the city, I have not seen your face before, should you mean to remain, you should be aware that I am the Elder for our tribe in Chicago."

[Danicka Musil] "Oh, shitballs," Danicka says instantly, when Katherine addresses Ivan and informs him that she's his Elder. She glares at him like he should have mentioned this.

[Ivan] His card rejected, Ivan lifts his eyebrows at Katherine in a rueful what-can-you-do expression and tucks it away again. Then he clips the cigarette between thumb and forefinger, pulls on it, ashes it, reinserts it between his incisors. Reaches for his phone instead.

"I've got a better idea," he says. "Katherine's got a car. You need a dress. I know people. You name the designer, I'll have the shop open and ready for business in ten minutes."

At 3 in the morning.

He laughs, then, as Katherine informs him of her position. "I know that," he says. "I recognized the name. I did my research, you know."

Phone in hand now, he raises his eyebrows at Danicka, expectant.

[Danicka Musil] [*reposts that bit here*]

"Oh, shitballs," Danicka says instantly, when Katherine addresses Ivan and informs him that she's his Elder. She glares at him like he should have mentioned this, when he starts bragging about what he can do with a phone call or two.

Danicka throws up her hands in mock excitement

and loses her umbrella. She's on the verge of saying something, but then she's looking over her shoulder as a gust of wind takes her umbrella away. Her hair is promptly soaked. Her shirt, which is formfitting as it is and, unfortunately, white and lace-covered, is promptly saturated. She stares over her shoulder as the umbrella goes flopping down the sidewalk like an expensive tumbleweed, and then lowers her hands again with a sigh. Whatever she was about to say is forgotten.

"Well, fuck," she says, to the tune of oh, well. Turns and looks at Ivan. "Didn't your mother ever teach you to share?" she says, water dripping off her nose, and nods her head at his cigarette.

[Katherine Bellamonte] What Katherine does find in her car is one of her overcoats. It's black and closes with the aid of a buckled belt. She throws this over her arm and closes her boot. Moving around as Danicka's umbrella is stolen by the wild weather. Her own is raised once more, though her golden hair has been touched by the rain, droplets bead in it; and cling to the curve of her neck.

Her golden gown is speckled, too. The silk adhering to the shape of her. Some men might count themselves lucky, stuck between two beautiful women in wet clothing in the middle of the night. The monster among them doesn't seem overly concerned; she moves with the assuredly of one who knows she can take care of herself in any scenario.

"Here, this will keep you covered at least," she tosses open the coat, and secures it around Danicka; it swims a little around her smaller figure but is, at least, somewhat dryer than the rest of her ensemble. Then; Ivan gets the pleasure of blue eyes, clear-cut as the diamonds she wears.

He did his research, you know.

"Then you are smarter than some," she returns archly.

[Ivan] Idly interested, Ivan's head turns to watch Danicka's umbrella skitter away. Then she mentions his mother. His face falls.

"My mother," he says, "died when I was six. A pack of fomori invaded a charity ball." A long beat. Then he grins. "No, I'm just playing you. Mother's fine. She just never taught me to share because, well. Why would I have to?"

That inner pocket is beginning to seem bottomless. However, the slim cigarette case and lighter he removes are, in fact, the last of the items there. No car keys. Their lack explains why he's taking a goddamn bus -- but then, he hasn't volunteered that information. When he clicks the case open, there are two kinds within, which he offers to both women.

"Dunhill Fine-Cut on your right," he says, "Sobranie Black Russians on your left. Pick your poison."

When one or both have made their choice, he clips the case closed again. His hands are lean and longfingered, and flicks his lighter open, snapping his fingers to light it. Showing off. And then stepping closer than he needs to to light their cigarettes -- Kate's first, if she took one, then Danicka's.

Briefly, firelight is on his face: deepset eyes; lean, high cheekbones; the same long, straight nose of any Fang. He smiles into the kinswoman's eyes far longer than he does the Garou's. Perhaps he is trueblooded himself, after all.

Then he snaps the lighter shut with a smart clink! Winks at Danicka, slides case and light away and -- without further ado -- takes off sprinting down the street after her runaway umbrella.

[Danicka Musil] An overcoat is not a dress she can go to Whiskey Blue in and be comfortable in completely sodden clothes, but Danicka accepts it graciously, murmuring thanks to Katherine as she takes it from her, moving a step away when it seems the Philodox intends to physically drape it over her.

It is one thing to go out dancing. It is one thing to drunkenly ask a favor. Danicka does not want Kate that close. The move is subtle enough, and could simply be an aversion to being touched more than necessary, but Danicka takes the overcoat and wraps it around herself, but does not buckle it closed. This is warmer. It will take longer for the thick fabric of the overcoat to soak through, unlike her clothes underneath it. At this point the umbrella would do no good anyway, other than to keep Kate's coat dry a little longer.

No sympathy lights on the Lord kin's face as Ivan tries to tell her his mother died when he was young. Even trashed, Danicka can spot a lie -- especially a brief one from a cad like this -- from a mile away. She raises her eyebrow at him, as though to say Now really, and then he's grinning, telling her he's teasing. Bragging again. Danicka does not insult him. She looks between the two kinds of offered cigarettes and, after some deliberation, chooses the Black Russian.

The way she behaves, she is used to this sort of thing. Men with too much money and not enough manners giving her things. Lighting her cigarettes for her -- which she allows Ivan to do -- and invading her personal space. She seems to ignore it. She doesn't meet his eyes, keeping her own on the flame though not a wisp of her hair is dry enough to catch alight if it were to be blown forward.

She does glance up, to impart a thanks in the language they apparently share, and he winks. She waits til he's run off after her umbrella to roll her eyes, looking at Katherine. "Oh, he's charming. Quick, while he's trying to be gallant, let's get in the car and zoom away!"

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine and Ivan share that; the aristocratic features. The long, proud nose and the beautifully crafted cheekbones of their ancestors. It doesn't matter that her own lineage is full of strong blood, of recent warriors like herself and that perhaps his own is watered down, tapering out. Eventually, give it a century or so and the Bellamonte line will be just as barren of Cubs, just as close to extermination.

It is a simple matter of mathematics.
Too few Silver Fangs left.
Too much insanity bred within.

According to many in Danicka and Lukas' own tribe, the time of the Silver Fang is long since past; they were just the memory, the echo of a once great tribe, now simply the last, lonely survivors. The thought has not passed by Katherine that she is getting older, year by year and that she could easily be the next to fall; to die without an heir, with no legacy left but that which Edward might breed.

She politely turns down the cigarette, and watches him scamper off with tempered exasperation. She no longer has the playfulness of a Cliath, but the watchful eye of a Fostern. This too, has come with time. Danicka earns a smile, and Katherine raises an eyebrow as beside her, the doors unlock with a tiny click. Wordless agreement, then.

"I have little doubt I'll see him again." She murmurs, observing him a moment longer. "I usually do."

[Danicka Musil] The click of the locks and the words from Kate's mouth sound like enough of an agreement to the two-and-a-half-sheeted Shadow Lord, who has taken precisely zero drags off of the Black Russian she took from Ivan. Ivan Press. Ivan blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah Press. "Excellent," she says, and tosses the cigarette into the gutter. "So," she says, walking -- dripping -- to the passenger side of the car, "Whiskey Blue?"