Ivan Press

[Erika Alexander] New digs that cost slightly more than she can afford, a meticulous manicure she's satisfied with, shoes that could cut her own legs off.... Nothing like wanton consumerism to bring a Silver Fang kin's mood up. Not that this was enough, of course. The typically demure, wilting therapist usually does her best to not draw attention to herself. Not today. Who knows the reason... but Erika takes her Saturday off to take care of herself.

If all that obnoxious self-serving vanity wasn't enough, Erika has taken herself out to one of Chicago's many relaxed uptown clubs. With no need to hide her scars by the horrible light, the kinfolk feels quite comfortable anonymous. She sips on her preferred drink, a straight chilled vodka, and sits herself near enough to lively conversation to feel partially normal for a while.

[Simon Zahradnik] (We got ourselves a Silverfang Party!)

[Erika Alexander] ((OSMsauce))

[Ivan Press] Last night there was a thunderstorm that drenched Ivan and ruined his fourth-favorite dinner jacket. That's all right, though, because an identical replacement is already in progress at his tailor's. Anyway, possessions were made to be used, and toys were made to be broken.

Which is why there's a sudden blast of horns outside Erika's club, on the corner of Superior and Michigan. A screech of tires, and then a car -- a lowslung silver bullet of a car -- whipping around the corner against the light only to lose traction on streets still wet from an earlier rainstorm. It completes half a spin in the middle of the intersection. Clips a rental Camry full of tourists. Smashes into a spotlight post with a terrific crash and comes to a rocking stop.

Hood buckled. Fender caved in. Wheels knocked askew. Airbags deployed. Radiator hissing steam. Utterly fucking wrecked.

When the initial shock passes, nearby motorists start pouring from their vehicles. Good Samaritans crowd in cautiously to help. Others hang back, mouths agape, taking pictures on their camera phone. Later today a crop of new Youtubes will spring up: Audi R8 crashed on Magnificent Mile!!!!!

The driver's door opens before any well-meaning soul manages to get to it. The driver steps out, rolling his neck with a grimace, but otherwise --

well. Laughing.

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Full moon. A perfectly acceptable reason not to be anywhere near home or the possibility of a friendly visit from a well meaning or over amourous and entitled trueborn cousin. She enjoyed this part of town for more or less the same reasons as Erika. It allowed a certain anonimity to its patrons. A way of being close to society without the messiness of being actively involved in glib conversations and petty concerns. Long legs at up the sidewalk as she moves on her way, ivory ballet flats and a delicate lace shawl adding class to a rather simple silk dress, tailored and subtle pink. She's about to step into a cross walk, when there's a crash that doesn't just register in damaged ears, but in her bones. She stops on the corner, grey eyes levelled in a flat glare at the laughing playboy tumbling out of the Audi's crushed metal shell. *

[Erika Alexander] The club patrons start to mill towards the exit. Something in her recognizes the herd's movement. With a sigh, she takes her vodka towards the door and shoves past the peanut-crunching crowd. Her determination and air of pride makes some mill past. Others she has to shove.

Somehow the 110 lb urbanite pushes herself to the door, shoved between several people she didn't want to touch. A hand brushes against her in a questionable place on her hip. The kinfolk sticks her bony elbow out in a random direction she thinks the trespassing hand came from and moves on.

A shiny silver car is in utter ruin, while its driver is laughing about it. Ever the shrink, Erika wonders at his sanity, or the chemical contents of his blood, thinking he is probably high on cocaine.

[Simon Zahradnik] Silver Fang blood was a potent and powerful thing. They were like unto gods... A tribe of Demigods who have deigned to grace this earth with their grace and their majesty. Mattheiu Louvel de Pontheiu was one such man. Charming, to a fault, friendly, and warm. The man oozed with beauty and grace so much that it almost felt like a sin just to speak to him. After all when something feels that good it must be wrong right? His feet rapped against the floor lightly, it was hardly a pleasant sound to the ear after all where is the carpet? Or at the very least the rose petals? Sadly Chicago was a backwards land that understood nothing of their betters. Americans had this nasty tendency to dislike the very idea of monarchy. They hate it so much in fact that they cast it out... Which hardly posed a problem for the Blue Blooded who simply replaced their royal robes with suits and their scepters with iphones. Mattheiu was a member of the new Aristocracy, little more than the nobles, and kings of old but they've simply from being rulers to being employers and pillars of society.

The way people made their way for him. The way they stepped aside to let him through showed that they still knew who was in control. Even if they didn't admit it outwardly they recognized their betters by sight and sound. There are those who don't feel the curse is a curse at all but a simply an acknowledgment of anothers superiority. That is exactly what he was and it showed in his eyes, in his smile, in the way he carried and presented himself. In the way his eyes avoided so much as acknowledging the presence of your average commoner. To him the world around him was in black and white and only those who shared his blood came through in color. Everything else was simply the backdrop for an epic play in which the actors were the garou and their kin. The Silver Fangs were, of course, the protagonists... Oh he's heard others attempt to malign his tribe but no one honestly takes these things seriously. The fact that the Silver Fangs continue to rule the Garou nation unquestioned for millenia is all the proof that anyone needs to back the idea that the Garou were in fact the Rightful rulers of the Garou.

Mattheiu was not happy to be out and about. Though he did wear a forced smile he was certainly not about to celebrate the offensive scents and even sights that passed him on the street. He was more interested in the iphone before him which he was using to shop for new shoes at the moment. After all, a well dressed man is... Well he's not really a man if he isn't well dressed is he?

A sigh of frustration draws his eyes from his screen to the accident. Why must people wrench him away from his personal time with their problems."If people are going to get themselves killed don't you think they could at least have the decency to do it off stage where I don't have to look at them or their problems?"He asks with a roll of his eyes as he turns his attention towards the Laughter.

[Ivan Press] Is he all right? Is he hurt? Is he drunk? These are the questions crowding around him as bystanders reach out to pull him from the wreck. No, no, he assures them -- he's quite all right, really. He doesn't need help. No, he doesn't need a doctor. No, his neck is fine. No, he's not drunk. Really. Just a bad driver. Go see about the family over there -- the shocked out of town family stumbling from their rented Camry, family vacation firmly ruined.

Brushing his way out of the crowd with admirable ease, the supercoupe's young driver -- surely barely old enough to buy alcohol legally -- unsnaps another button on his pristine white shirt and goes to lounge against a nearby street sign. The shirt look tailored, as does that navy-blue coat of his, emblazoned over the left breast with some exclusive north shore yacht club's insignia; as do, for that matter, his fucking jeans. Who gets jeans tailor-made?

Well. Silver Fangs, apparently.

Someone's called the cops by now, doubtlessly, so while good samaritans are seeing to the shaken family of four, and while his brand new -- as in, license plate not yet acquired, dealer sticker still affixed to the windows -- R8 dies a slow messy death, Ivan calls his best answer to the authorities. The caption on his phone reads DEVIL'S ADVOCATE. Funny.

"Lane? Hi. I had a little trouble with my car. Can you come down here and field some questions? Nope. Nope. Definitely nope. Mmhm. Yes. Thank you. See you soon."

The phone is slid away into his pocket. When the police arrive, he'll have one thing to say to them, smiling: my lawyer will answer all your questions. Which leaves him unconcerned and free to lounge against a signpost and flick open his cigarette case and draw out a Sobranie Black Russian and,

noticing his kinswomen nearby, because really, who wouldn't notice their breeding -- extends the case their way in offering.

There are two brands inside. The cigarettes on the right are slim and black. The ones on the left are elegant and white. Ivan's smile goes right to his eyes as he explains helpfully, "Sobranie Black Russians on your right. Dunhill Fine-Cuts on your left."

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Fabienne holds her chin imperious, watching the failed motorist climb giddy out of his car and lean oh so casual and cool against the lightpost he managed NOT to take out with his recklessness. James Dean comes to mind instantly, and the impression doesn't lessen as the young man flicks open his smoke case and offers her and another blonde cigarrettes. A pale eyebrow arcs towards her hairline, and the athletic young kin offers the maniac a bland, polite smile that says "Go fuck yourself" without uttering a word to that effect. Slender fingers brush at her lips as though the reckless driver's attitude might somehow be airborne and contagious, and she might shield herself from such rudeness by not sharing his air. Matthieu is noted approaching in the distance, and though his comments go unheard, he still gets a subtle tilt of her head in recognition.*

Good Evening.

[Erika Alexander] The pseudo-responsible adult that she is, Erika finishes her chilled vodka shot and passes it off to one of the drunken rubberneckers. She steps up towards the wreck, noticing the others on the corners of her awareness. Her proud brow flinches a quizzical expression, but she doesn't turn down the offer for a cigarette. She takes a Sobranie with a smile. "Got a light?"

[Matthieu] He smiles when Fabienne approaches. The lovely kin captivates wherever her feet might tread. To worship at her feet would, doubtless, be a privilege even for a man of his status. His eyes follow her every step, passionate, respectful, and most importantly restrained. He was in complete control of himself not the wild beast that hid within. That was the beauty of his tribe the way they could tame that beast and keep it hidden away so very well without letting it ever leave the minds of their enemies that the beast was still a part of who they were.

"I find it lovely the way tragedy serves so well to bring us all together."He says back to her with a bow of his head."Good evening Fabienne, I have been hoping I would see you again. You are well I trust?"He asks her warmly as his eyes fall upon her own and his smile only manages to grow.

The other man was a Silver Fang, he knew this and he would point that out soon enough. But right now, at this very moment Fabienne was the only thing that existed in his world. Strength, heroism, and beauty all coalesced into the breathtaking creature which stood before him. She might not stand out especially well to those who could not sense her breeding but she had this poor Silver Fang positively enchanted.

[Ivan Press] Well. Batting .500 isn't bad. Ivan shrugs off the lightpost, coming upright with the same fluid languor as he first leaned onto it. Another man who's just crashed his brand-new, $150k coupe in such spectacular fashion would be shaking. Possibly sobbing. Ivan ... looks mildly bored now that the initial rush and excitement as passed. He's rich enough that he shouldn't have to waste time, but the authorities say otherwise, and he is, if nothing else, a law-abiding citizen.

Sort of.

Still. In the meantime, there are other diversions. And as one of the blonde accepts his cigarette, he steps closer for her, palming a lighter out of his pocket. A man of his means should have a silver lighter, but his is brushed steel, delightfully heavy in the palm. The lid flicks open with a crisp clink!. A snap of his fingers, casual flair, lights the flame. He cups it for Erika.

"I'm Ivan," he says. Her smile is returned like a conspiratorial little secret; his own cigarette bobbing gently between his white teeth as he speaks. When hers is lit he lights his own, dexterous and easy, long-practiced. A turn of his head blows smoke away from her. There a twinkle of genuine good humor in his eye, "And I'm a very bad driver."

[Fabienne Bartelle] Hardly tragedy enough, I expect. Note the cretinous driver remains entirely intact. Would be it that the car was intact, and himself less so.

*Were Fabienne able to sense the throb and pulse of blue blood leaning against that lightpost, she would likely be a good deal more closed-lipped with her opinions of the man who could very well have run her over. Alas, had she that particular talent, she wouldn't need to be so concerned with Matt's proximity and intentions. He catches her eye, and she carefully averts her gaze. Voice crisp.*

I've been well, yourself as well I expect? I see no blood, so this evening must be proceeding more pleasantly than our last association.

[Erika Alexander] (NOOO! I lost my post!))

[Fabienne Bartelle] [I hate that! my sympathies! notepad! cut an paste, for jovechat is a fickle beast!]

[Ivan Press] [yeah, happened to me last night when firefox decided to crash >_

[Erika Alexander] The cigarette flares to life brilliantly. Erika stands upright, and even with her stilettos, she stands under at five and a half feet, making her look up at most. She turns her own head to exhale slowly, noticing Matthieu from the laundromat in Chinatown the week before. One of Cordelia's French-speaking friends.... Not really knowing the truth of the matter, Erika remains at ease, heady from drink and the buzz of self-pampering.

Her dark eyes go back to Ivan, smiling amiably. "I noticed," she says. After another comforting drag on the cigarette, she continues. "I'm Erika."

[Erika Alexander] (Not as impressive as it was a minute ago... *sad*))

[Ivan Press] Overhearing Fabienne, Ivan's shares a look of exaggerated surprise and shock with Erika. Then, sliding his smoking implements away, he holds out his hand to shake. Even in stilettos, Erika doesn't push five and a half. Ivan, on the other hand, is a lean, lithe six feet, neither too tall nor too short, of a perfect height to really wear the sort of clothing that, quite frankly, are expensive enough and carefully made enough that they'd look good even if he were a troglodyte.

All of which is to say: he would have to bend if he wanted to kiss Erika's hand like a proper Silver Fang. He does not, however. This is a handshake, perhaps a warmer and longer clasp than strictly necessary, but little more.

"Erika," he says, "it's nice to meet you at last. That was you at the bus stop last night, wasn't it?"

[Matthieu] He finds his eyes shifting towards the man, his smile grows and he shrugs his shoulders."Is that any way to speak of family?"He directs the question at Fabienne in a friendly manner as he stands at a distance and, for the moment, observes in the company of the kin.

"Actually now that you mention it, my evening was rather dull up until this point. Something has managed to put a smile on my face though I can't quite put a finger on just what it might be."He says after turning to face her once more."These streets are dirty, and while it is a pain to spend my evenings cleaning them up like some kind of overpriced janitor. From time to time there are those who... Remind us that our responsibilities aren't without their own rewards. The laughter of a child, the chirping of birds, the occasional smile from a lovely young woman. However terrible a job it might be there are moments that make it all worth our effort."He adds back to her.

"So should we go meet this man? Or we could do something else..."He suggests as if trying to feign innocence.

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Matt's insinuation does not go unnoted, cool eyes sliding in Ivan's direction, with even less warmth than when she'd thought the man some ignorant monkey. To behave so foolishly under the mantle of kings no less? It hardly wins any points in his favor. The smile offered Ivan's way sports little in the way of charm, woman seeming every inch as welcoming as an alabastar bust. The galliard waxes poetic, as galliards are wont to do, unaware that Fabienne detests children and views birds as little more than flying vermin. Still, she nods politely. Let the trueborn take what pleasures he can in simple, despicable things.*

It would be only polite . You don't know the Gentleman?

*From Cretin to gentleman in less than a minute. There's a transformation that would make any werewolf proud. Fabienne gesturing towards Ivan and Erika.*

[Erika Alexander] Tilting her head sidelong, Erika looks at the wrecked supercoupe and back at Ivan. Her own handshake is firm and unafraid. She shrugs her bony shoulders and waves the cigarette at the wreckage. The milling crowd take pictures while the cops try to move them on. Some drunkards watch the show with unfocused, dazed eyes while many bored patrons return to their vices.

"Ah, yes. I think that was me. I wasn't aware anyone was watching me."

[Ivan Press] "I was actually trying to ask for directions," Ivan replies cheerfully, "but you got on your bus and left as I was getting there."

Then -- Matthieu drops the penny for Fabienne, and Ivan turns toward his fellow Fang, tsking. "Now you've done it," he says. "You've gone and spoiled the game. I wanted to hear what new insults might come out of her pretty little mouth."

By the end, his eyes -- quite dark, some opaque green-hazel color -- are on Fabienne, resting there for a moment as he slides her the same cocksure smile he wore moments ago, climbing out of his wrecked R8.

... which, at present, is the swarming center of attention as police cruisers, a fire engine, and an ambulance converge on the Mile. It's been a matter of moments. Out in the projects, it could be hours before anyone bothered to send a car. Let's hear it for privilege.

A beat, and then Ivan claps his palms together loudly enough to make gawking bystanders look over. "Well. Now that we're all unmasked, let's go somewhere a little more private, shall we?"

[Fabienne Bartelle] [Don't say things like Pretty Little Mouth. >.< 123456 Switch?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 5, 5, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Erika Alexander] Erika, having bad hearing herself from whatever happy scene that scarred the side of her face, doesn't catch Matthieu's remark. Therefore, the kin remains in the dark and at ease. They don't seem full of rage and eager to snap at a moment's notice.

The bottled blonde happily goes along with a small laugh. Almost dizzily, she moves along the dingy sidewalk one small heeled foot after another. Her lips and fingertips are numb. While not wasted, clearly the two shots on an empty stomach are having some effect.

[Fabienne Bartelle] Do fogive me...

*Hatred. It sparks violent in her posture for the space of mere seconds, narrows Fabienne's sharp grey eyes to pinpoints of light. A delicate hand slides of its own accord towards her purse, before she's caught herself, and is blinking in the flashing blue and red of a nearby squad car, features cast strange in the strobing light. Much as they were the night Mattheiu first drove her out of a night-club. The tailored fabric of a dress that cost more than most middle class salaries is smoothed under her palms, before she glances at her watch.*

I don't beleive so. Thank you however, perhaps another time.

[Matthieu] Perhaps they could do something about that behavior? We couldn't have the young man making a mockery of their tribe now could they? With Fabiennes suggestion he decides to lead the way, approaching the pair slowly and presenting a warm little smile first towards Erika who he has met before, albeit briefly, and then in the direction of Ivan when he addresses Fabienne.

"I assure you sir I have not ruined the game I've only made it that much more exciting. After all it ruins the fun of the game when you already know what the person you are talking to is thinking don't you think?"He asks with a curious smile.

"Somewhere private. Well there are plenty of those around town... Are you new to town?"He asks the man with a curious tilt to his head.

Fabienne might have been pretty open about her opinion but the thing about Mattheiu was that it honestly didn't matter what he thought of you that smile would always be worn upon his face and those eyes would always glimmer and dance. To him this was all a game which he so enjoyed playing day in and... Day out.

When Fabienne mentions needing to go he smiles."Too bad... Do you need a ride anywhere? I could call you a car if you'd like."The honest truth Fabienne probably hated them all with a seething burning passion. Mattheiu knew this but honestly didn't care. This wasn't kissing ass it was just... Being Mattheiu.

[Erika Alexander] 6d10

[Erika Alexander] (Fft Damon you fail))

[Erika Alexander]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 6, 8, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Ivan Press] [i'm gonna roll too! percep/emp!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 4, 7, 7, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Erika Alexander] This kin happens to be a psychiatrist. Day in and day out, Erika has delt with shell-shocked vets, rape and trauma victims, and others with similar backgrounds. Having been a trauma survivor herself, perhaps this is why she takes her job so seriously. Erika steps forward and offers a business card to Fabienne, giving her name, number, and the address of her office with a description of her qualifications and the nature of her job. The scars on the side of her face aren't hidden at all tonight. They're not horrific, just old and pale. It extends from her right ear along her throat and towards her deltoid muscle, also not concealed because of the slip of a dress she's wearing. It could be a battle scar or the result of a bad car accident.

"Honey, I know where you're coming from. I hope you'll give me a call."

[Ivan Press] The truth is Ivan is a cad and, occasionally, a firestarter. One doesn't say things like pretty little mouth to an impeccably bred kinswoman of the Tribe without expecting some sort of reaction. Perhaps he expected to be slapped. Perhaps he expected Matthieu to pull out a rapier and issue a challenge over the girl's honor.

What he does not entirely expect is that flare of utter loathing in the kinswoman's eyes. Not merely the shock and insult of a pampered princess suddenly exposed to crude objectification, but -- something else altogether.

Off she goes. Off goes the other blonde, offering -- what, counseling? Ivan bites back a sudden laugh, then shakes his head at Matthieu.

"I don't think she's looking for a ride tonight, friend." He extends his hand, and this handshake is significantly different from the one he offered the kinswoman: a solid clap of palms together; a rugged, quick clasp. "Ivan."

Then, "I flew in a few nights ago, but my people have me pretty well set up. I have a place just a few blocks from here. Why don't we head over?"

The question is an invitation; the invitation is an assumption. Of course they'll come over. He's already turning away to head over to the wreckage, where a rather nondescript, low-key sedan -- which at closer inspection turns out to be a fucking Bentley -- has pulled up.

Traffic is stopped for blocks around. Police and towers are working to clear the wreckage out of the road. EMTs are offering the shaken family hot drinks in the back of the ambulance while the driver and sole passenger of the Bentley -- a sharply but unremarkably dressed man in his 40s and a woman a few years his junior -- are speaking to another officer in low tones.

Passing this small knot of people, Ivan claps the man on the shoulder and flashes a grin. "Lane. Thanks for coming out on short notice. I'll be at my townhouse if you need to get ahold of me. Phone's on too. Thanks."

[Fabienne Bartelle] Of course. That must be dreadful, dealing with the people you do constantly. So little time for pleasant company.

*Yep. Surely, SURELY its the fact she has to go, that she has no time, that the scarred kin empathizes with. Not the crazies. Never the loathesome crazies. A card is taken, and glanced at, before being carefully and appropriately tucked away. A polite, and unmemorable introduction and goodbye offered before Fabienne strides away. Motion A flowing into Motion B through C to Z, all as they should, in Proper. Perfectly. Controlled. Order. *

[Matthieu] If Mattheiu wasn't pretty certain Fabienne only tolerated him from time to time he might have made it an issue to do just that. Certainly he's not far from tradition though something tells him that leaping out in defense of Fabiennes honor would insult the girl who likely already loathed him slightly less than your average piece of well chewed gum spit out on the sidewalk. He had to kill just to get that much out of her.

He noted the way Ivan responded to the woman, and his smile only brightened. She was a difficult one, and didn't work in the way women were supposed to work. She almost seemed broken, but Mattheiu wouldn't put it that way at all!

"It's not really my place to speak for a woman or assume anything about that one in particular. She is as she wishes to be and I wouldn't ask that she change a single thing about herself. Each one is lovely and unique in her own individual way no?"He asks the man with a warm smile while shaking the other man's hand.

The invitation was met with a smile, but Mattheiu would see Fabienne off first and then the other Kin if that is what she needed. He was a polite and proper gentleman after all.

[Erika Alexander] The kin watches the other leave, nodding. With another puff of the primo cigarette, Erika's nostalgic moment passes. Erika recognizes and knows full well the desire for complete control and order: this is Erika's daily life. By filling her schedule completely with the love of a career that wouldn't hurt her, wouldn't abuse her or knock her around, a career that would always be there when she needed it, would never demand of her more than she could give, and repaid her in kind with money, not complications and mess. So, yeah... just a little jaded.

But, Erika is still in a good mood, and having had a bad week, her saltiness has no place here tonight. Erika doesn't leave, and looks to the others to see if the invitation includes her as well.

[Ivan Press] All that wealth, all that privilege, and it seems no one's managed to buy Ivan manners. He quirks an eyebrow at Matthieu's heartfelt speech, and then laughs. "Did someone cut off your balls already, friend, or are you saying that for Erika's listening pleasure?" He lets go the other's hand and, in the same motion, holds it out toward his lawyer.

Who passes him the keys to his Bentley as though this were expected and normal. Nevermind that the last piece of heavy machinery Ivan had his hands on is now wrapped around a streetlight.

"Because," he continues, "you can't possibly believe in that 'everyone's created equally lovely and unique' bullshit. There are swans and there are ravens, my friend. And present company, of course -- "

he sweeps the passenger side door of the Bentley open with a sudden, sparking smile at Erika, and here's the truth of it: as much of a playboy as he is, as much of an obvious, unrelenting, unapologetic cad as he is, there's genuine and potent charisma in him. He has a way of smiling that focuses all the light and beauty in the world suddenly and disarmingly on his victim.

Er. His companion, we mean,

" -- would be the former. Miss?" He nods her into the Bentley.

[Ivan Press] [starving! food run!]

[Erika Alexander] Having been through college for a few years, Ivan's comment is certainly flattering, but it doesn't have quite the effect that it would to a girl just out of high school. However, there is a bit of recognition in her dark eyes. Matthieu's comment towards Fabienne makes her a little sick with the overwhelming saccharine emotion, but she appreciates the Garou's lovesick sentiment regardless.

"And what of hawks?" she retorts in perfect timing. Then, eyeing the destroyed supercoupe, she wonders if it would be better if someone else drove... although, having never had a need for a car in NYC, she's not a likely candidate.

[Matthieu] His smile grows as does the sparkle in his eyes. The man's tone was far less than fitting for their tribe, the man spoke as if he were desperately in need of a spanking. No doubt it was the curse of being born in such a tribe."We are the shapers of our own destinies. We build and create... We erect towers where once dirt only stood. We rally men and women to our banners and they stand beside us, behind us and beneath us if we so choose."He adds back to the man before shrugging his shoulders.

"Since when did giants start taking notice of ants and so forth? Have you been spending your days in the ghetto perhaps? Spending a little time getting to know our Urrah cousins? They're a friendly enough bunch, all the happier when you throw a bone or two their way... But even they are hounds begging for the scraps we deign to leave them. I live in a world full of frighteningly breathtaking women who captivate and enchant with every whisper of their voice, and every soft glide of her tongue upon her lips. I live in a world that floats above the clouds where each and every man, woman, and child stands a step above the others because they are, because WE are simply better. Why would I look at the floor when there is so much beauty surrounding me in every direction?"He adds before shrugging his shoulders again.

"I think you'd enjoy my world. It's a pleasant place... Though you might want to work on the mouth a little. I mean if you wish to talk like common every day street trash then go right ahead. But in my world words like that tend to get men's balls removed... I'm not threatening or anything I'm just saying..."He trails off as his smile turns into something friendly and playful. Though there was a hint of seriousness in those words, a tiny hint of Step up or back the fuck down!

[Ivan Press] While Matthieu speaks, Ivan has circled back around to the driver's side. He has the door open now, the keys palmed, ready to get in -- but the Galliard has Things To Say™. And so Ivan listens, smiling, eyes dark and dancing with some private amusement.

"Hawks," Ivan replies to Erika only when Matthieu is finished, and his eyes are on Matthieu now, "certainly don't jabber on like magpies."

A beat.

"In my world."

The grin widens, scythelike. He nods Matthieu toward the back seat. "Are you coming along or not, friend? And are you going to tell me your name, or am I going to have to keep calling you nicknames?"

[Erika Alexander] Her steadily depressing mood isn't as rapid as it would be if one of them showed a hint of rage. Just a few days ago, one of the True dared to even look at her like food, so while much of Matthieu's flowery, well-spoken speech would go on deaf ears, a word or two managing to sink in. The younger ones tend to mistreat kin the most, misdirecting anger from being disciplined into Gaia's warriors to those who were of even less status than they. And just last night, before her excursion at the bus stop, Erika was browbeat by a Cliath for merely being a Fang kin. The simple indiscretion of nodding as a response instead of unnecessary words, then studying her manicure had caused an uproar. And certainly, this was on her mind now. She'd felt just like she did after her brother's First Change.... the rage had poisoned the closeness they'd had throughout childhood.

Erika slides across the leather seats of the car, tucking in her lithe limbs to take as little space as possible. Neither man would receive her gaze, although she would give Ivan a quick, calculated response.
"Of course."

[Danicka Musil] This is her neighborhood. Or, well, close enough to it. Unlike the other night in the park, however, there is no familiar face like Katherine's dragging Danicka out of a rainsoaked torrent of Russian swearing and confusion about how to get where she's going. Tonight, Danicka is leaving the restaurant she spent a couple of hours in, and she's working only the mildest of buzzes. Her hair is in its natural waves, though the ends are slightly curled to accentuate what's already there. Her dress is a green silk one, and she hasn't worn it since she took it off after a very long night over a year and a half ago. No white overcoat tonight atop it, though. Just a shawl, and a thin one, at that, hanging off her elbows.

She steps out, and she takes a pack of cigarettes out of her purse, and lights one up while she stands under the eave of the restaurant doors. There's a bracelet glinting on her wrist, earrings dangling from her lobes, a small clutch hanging off her wrist. And now there's a cigarette sticking out of her mouth, held ungracefully between her closed lips to one side while she puts her lighter away.

Reaches up, takes a drag, and starts walking down the sidewalk.

Now, here's something to note: she's sort-of met two out of three of these people before, and she's walking in their direction. She glances at them, because they drag attention towards themselves in a way no human understands or is quite comfortable with, but recognition doesn't flicker in her murky green eyes. She keeps on walking.

[Ivan Press] The irony is: some of that mirth dancing volatile in the Ragabash's eyes is, in fact, based on how close Matthieu's blind strike came to the truth. If Matthieu knew what bloodlines were mixed into Ivan's blue blood -- if he knew how close to ruin his family was a hundred years ago, and whose wealthy, filthy blood married into the house and saved them; if he knew how perilously close to extermination and exile from Falcon's grace his house is today from sheer dilution -- he'd probably be shocked.

Ivan, though: he doesn't seem to care overmuch about the insults to his bloodlines. His confidence rests on a much more concrete foundation: sheer fucking wealth. The kind of money where you don't worry about crashing hundred-fifty-thousand dollar cars. The kind of money where you go out and buy hundred fifty thousand dollar cars because you intend to crash them, and then buy off the cops and the judges and the witnesses and the injured parties to cover your recklessness.

Rich enough not to care. Rich enough not to have to worry, ever.

There are rumors back in New York. Unpleasant gossip that the Presses -- what sort of Russian last name is that, anwyay? -- were closer to Glass Walkers these days than Silver Fangs. There's truth in that, too.


Regardless: there he is, leaning lazily against hood of his lawyer's Bentley with one elbow on the roof, the other on the opened door. Erika is already inside, passenger's seat. Matthieu is getting into the back. Ivan --

-- is halting at the sight of yet another blonde coming down the street. She keeps walking, but it's too late: Ivan's seen her. And if Matthieu would be shocked at the state of Ivan's bloodlines, he should be prepared to have an apoplexy now:

"Hey!" It's not a challenge, not a bark, but a friendly greeting. From a Fang. To a Shadow Lord. "I have your umbrella. Do you want it back?"

[Matthieu] He grins back at the man."Oh right because you belong to that tribe down the street? The one who doesn't have a history and traditions stretching back to a time before the dawn of human civilization?"He asks the man curiously. After all they were Silver Fangs, their Introductions alone could take several minutes just to get out of their mouths. They had so much history and so many heroes that most tribes would rather just give up and accept their superiority rather than having to sit through the list of ten thousand and one Silver Fang Heroes in any given galliard's style of choice!

"You'd be surprised to learn that Hawks are actually rather social creatures. Very vocal and with voice that carry miles into the distance anouncing their presence to the world. They are beautiful conversationalists and occasional liars..."He adds with a grin on his face.

"I will follow your lead but I wouldn't advise your driving."He adds before gesturing towards the bumper of the vehicle he had crashed mere minutes ago."Besides it's a warm day out... Why don't you have it towed to the shop and we can walk to your place?"

[Erika Alexander] The green-dressed woman holds no interest for the kin as she doesn't know her, but she does admire her clothing choice. Her ears perk at Ivan's address, and she moves out of the car. Actually, she is glad of the suggestion to walk. Erika rarely got to the gym, and even with her heels, the New Yorker loves to walk. Secretly, she enjoyed the casual people watching, the excuse to pass her keen eye over others and never be interrupted from going to her destination except for the occasional rude jackass who decided to bump against her.

"Actually, a walk would be great. I rather like my bits where they are."

Besides, a walk might give her a chance to get rid of the horrific mood clouding her.

[Danicka Musil] Of course she looks at him.

She's no more oblivious than an air traffic controller, this woman. Even with a couple of glasses of wine, she's sharper than most. She knows exactly who that man with the Bentley is shouting at from the Hey!, though she does not seem to register it. Woman like that, maybe she gets called out to by strangers on Saturday nights so often she's created an impenetrable buffer between herself and the world to absorb the catcalling.

Or she's just a New Yorker. Even now, after all this time, there's an otherness to her that doesn't speak of Chicago. The way she walks, or the clothes she's wearing, or the way she's wearing them, or... something. It isn't quite obvious to most, and it isn't exactly fish-out-of-water syndrome, but she stands out the way foreigners used to stand out when the lines between countries and states and cultures were more obvious, and the oceans less crossable. And to someone from Manhattan, it's like a scent.

And to those like Matthieu and Ivan, it is a scent, and it's a definable otherness, but it has nothing to do with where she used to live and everything to do with what the fuck she is. Not yours, says some instinct at the backs of their minds. And not pure enough, not precious enough, to be worth stealing. One could say the difference is like that between rubies and diamonds.

Though in truth, rubies are rarer, and more costly.

Nothing about her in scent or form suggests hardness and cold rock, though. Warm, wet earth, yes. Sun on a field or darkness chased by firelight, certainly. But not the perfection of the most ancient Fang bloodlines. Matthieu and Ivan have both been near enough to her before to catch that scent, and name it for what it is. Though Russian-speaking, though golden blonde, though lovely and -- from the look of her -- wealthy, this is no Silver Fang.

Erika is getting out of the Bentley. Danicka is looking blandly at Ivan, her steps slowing when he mentions her umbrella, which, in fact, was missing from her hall closet. Her well-kempt eyebrows tug slightly together in an expression of vague, maybe even wary bewilderment.

"Excuse me, but have we met?" she asks, mild. Polite.

[Ivan Press] "Coward," he says to Erika and Matthieu, fondly, as they both beg off riding in his newly acquired death-machine. "We'll meet there then. Address is 450 East Waterside Drive. Cross the river and take a left. You won't miss it."

Danicka wants to know if they've met. Ivan's attention comes back to her. When not sopping wet, his hair turns out to be a dusky blond, with a hint of curl. Maybe he was a cherubic little boy. He's certainly not cherubic now. Impish though: possibly.

And not very chivalrous either, "We did. Last night. But you were quite drunk, so, I'm not surprised you've forgotten." There isn't the slightest hitch before Ivan lies right through his teeth, "You left your umbrella at my place when you came up for a,"

there's a very significant pause,

"cup of coffee."

[Ivan Press] [that's what happened. really. manip spec: persuasive.]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 5, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1

[Danicka Musil] [perception + subterfuge: o rly.]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Danicka Musil] [...dice, y ru missing?]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 7, 8, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Matthieu] "The beauty of this country is it's one of the few places in the world where Rational and Intellectual are seen as insults. I suppose we can meet you there if that is what you prefer."

The smell of smoke and shadow lord was thick and choking in the air. Either one on it's own was offensive enough to the senses but this Royalist understood that it took all kinds. Shadow Lords were what the average Silver Fang would call a sore loser. Certainly they had their uses, often skilled manipulators, and warriors. They sometimes like to try their hand at playing king.

The thing to note about Mattheiu is that he is, and always will be, a royalist. He truly and honestly believed in his own sense of superiority. He honestly believed that his tribe was simply better than the other tribes and, of course, the rest of humanity. So when he catches sight of the Silver Fang chatting up the Shadow Lord chew toy his eyes narrow just a bit. This boy was going to need quite a lecture on how a Silver Fang should behave in public and quickly!

His eyes turn to Erika and his smile lifts upwards."I suppose we will meet him there."He says as he catches up to the woman and offers out a hand."Mattheiu... It is a pleasure to see you again. Last time we met we hardly had the chance to speak to one another."

[Danicka Musil] Ivan lies. Smoothly, without flaw, without pause, he lies unabashedly about Danicka getting drunk and coming up to his apartment to have some hot coffee. Coffee so mmmgood it made her forget her umbrella on a dark and stormy night as she left. Many women, especially women who were drunk enough last night to have to think for a moment about why this stranger who just crashed his R8 is talking to her, would immediately turn pale. Or red.

Danicka, her tone of voice so blithe a moment ago and her expression one of almost adorable confusion, lightly lifts one of her eyebrows. She looked at him like this at least once last night, though she doesn't recall a moment of it. Like he's a spoiled, naughty child that she is showing a great deal of patience with, though he doesn't deserve it

and is coming close to the end of it.

She takes another drag from her cigarette, which is not the sort she took from him last night when he offered her a choice between two brands. As she exhales a plume of smoke, she says, "My, we must have had a good time. You got my umbrella, I got Katherine Bellamonte's coat, and ...I wonder what she got of yours."

Matthieu approaches, offering his hand, and she turns bodily to him, taking it. Her handshake is not firm and forceful. It's barely a handshake at all. "A pleasure. And yes, it was a shame you didn't join the rest of us upstairs. Everyone was quite charming."

[Cordelia] The moon is full, and she doesn't... quite... care.

Everyone else could gawk in awe about the damned thing but really, Cordelia didn't care that the moon was full except for one particular reason: she did not need to be around her room mate right now. Right now, specifically, because she rather liked Christian and didn't want to be angry at him for potentially removing one of her limbs for snoring too loudly. So, she had moved to plan B: be not in the room.

So she went to the movies. Alone. And watched some crappy foreign film because... well... it wasn't foreign to her. The title didn't matter, just rest assured that she watched it on a small screen with twenty three aspiring film critics who wanted to analyze the symbolism of the color grey in the movie.

She had ducked out early, unable to take much more, and headed, instead, to check out honking, flashing, brash and bright traffic jam and the... bits... of... metal... places. Yeah. Her eyes lit up from being those atrocious glsses and she pushed them up. The woman, clad in a jean jacket and a skirt that was neither short enough to be sexy nor long enough to be artistic, headed towards the outcropping of people and, most importantly, the place where she thought she might get a good look at a car wreck. True to form, she's carrying a purse that's too large for her.

The color of any of these items is unimportant. Denim's blue, eyes are blue, hair is flaxen blonde. The rest are extraneous details-

Except the laces on her tennis shoes. Those are red. That's important.

[Danicka Musil] [Delete everything from 'Matthieu approaches'! My bad.]

[Erika Alexander] In desperate want of relief of the heaviness on her mind, her dark eyes hover longingly over the nearby bar. Oh, for a bottle of little water could do for her now. Upon Ivan's clarification of the situation, she is quite alarmed... not wanting to be left alone with either of them. It was too much, too much focus for a woman who treasures her privacy more than rare, exotic finery. Erika knows she's not as good looking as she was at 17 without the scars, and is strangely comfortable with it. Some small part of her, though, longs for the sense of belonging she had among her close family.

She tips back and forth a bit on her stilettos, swaying when Matthieu catches up to her. His smile eases some of her concern. The woman takes his hand and quirks a brow. "Chinatown, I remember. Erika Alexander, granddaughter of Yvgeny Michaelovich, son of the Grand Duke Michael Nicholaevich." This introduction is quiet, easily drowned out by the hum of traffic, but Erika thought these details were important considering her introduction to Katherine.

[Ivan Press] Ivan has an easy grin that rarely falters even when he's trading less-than-polite zingers with a tribesman, but when Danicka sees right through his lie and volleys it right back at him, it goes full wattage with sheer and genuine delight.

"Well," he demurs, "a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell. But you, miss; you are good. My mentor wasn't kidding when he said don't play Shadow Lords at their own game.

"Seriously though. Do you want your umbrella back or not? Because I really do have it."

[Danicka Musil] The woman's head tips slightly to one side as she goes on regarding Ivan with something between patience, curiosity, and disdain. It's a careful mix. That flashing grin of his doesn't seem to change her own demeanor. It could, after all, change so quickly to savagery. Demand. Insults she cannot genuinely give answer to, only rise to for the sake of the amusement of the Garou. Better to amuse than enrage.

So Danicka, pretty thing that she is, amuses.

"Since our beautiful night together meant so much to you," she drawls, ashing her cigarette with a flick of her finger to one side, "keep it as a memento."

[Matthieu] A wave of his hand and a bow of his head is offered towards Danicka. They had met once before, he had somehow spaced that until just now. A polite friendly and ever charming smile. Even if those eyes might have feelings and thoughts of their own there was technically nothing wrong with Shadow Lords and Silver Fangs associating. Just because a soldier is associating with the enemies family doesn't mean he's on their side!

His attention soon turned to Ericka."Yes I know your Grandfather and Great Grandfather... Well not personally but it's my place to learn these things. So much history so much beauty and wonder and yet we're only given the briefest of lifetimes to learn it all."He continues never removing that smile from his face."Still it's pleasant you have seen fit to grace us with your presence. I am hoping your stay here has been pleasant so far? Are you settling in alright? Is there anything you need that we can assist you with?"He wanted to make certain the kin was happily settled and satisfied.

His eyes shift and he spies Cordelia up ahead. He doesn't shift that smile in the slightest though he has to force it to remain. Still what she was wearing was a step up from what she had been wearing the last time they had bumped into one another.

[Erika Alexander] Erika doesn't buy his disingenuine hospitality, but she doesn't spur it either. Hey, if a True was going to be nice to her, by no means was she going to spoil it. Ever the soft-spoken kin, she suffices with simplicity.

"Yes, I've met Kate... and I'm settled. Thank you."

Her eyes perk up when she spots Cordelia. Having been absorbed in Don Quixote for a week, she was eager to let her know, and having Matthieu around for that was helpful. Maybe she'd even join them.

[Ivan Press] Ivan doesn't know Danicka; doesn't know her life and her experiences; doesn't know how closely she's lived and worked with Silver Fangs, and how much she's seen of their madness --

And he is a Silver Fang. Unmistakeably so, even if she can't read breeding like he can. Even if she doesn't remember much of last night. It's in the way he carries himself, in the bones of his face, in his careless ease with utter luxury, which is so complete that it borders on disdain.

-- but he's not so imperceptive as to not notice her demeanor hasn't changed a touch. His brilliant grin fades back to a considering smile. Then he nods at the passenger's side of the Bentley -- the door still open from Erika's rapid departure.

"Listen, I know you're not interested in hooking up. I'll respect that. But a few of us are going to hang out at my place. Why don't you come along? My cook makes a mean mango mojito."

[Danicka Musil] He knows she's a Shadow Lord. His association with Matthieu did not instantly mean to her that he was anything, other than a young man setting her on edge. As soon as he named her for what she is, she knew what he was. She knew his blood though she can't scent it. She knew his kind, which is not her own but far more dangerous. She remains on the sidewalk all this while, out of arm's reach though she knows he might very well be the sort ot use his incalculable, inhuman speed to get to her if she were to irritate him

and break her jaw against the back of his hand, which in point of fact, would not take very much effort at all. She looks somewhat frail. Average height, though her heels take her well above that. Slender to the point that would be acceptable to Londoners and Manhattanites both, that would terrify most people in the midwest and spur them to making her a few casseroles just in case. Not a scar or a tattoo on her, and no holes in her flesh but the tiny ones from which her earrings hang. They are white gold. They are draped with a few pearl drops. No necklace. Her dress's lines reveal her well-formed clavicles, tanned skin, shapely legs.

But oh, she's breakable. It hangs around her like an aura, a certain and indefinable fragility that belies even the aspects of her body type. Not unusual, in Kinfolk. But still: there, and noticable.

She takes another puff off the Dunhill, considering Ivan's offer. She doesn't have a clue what his name is. She's done stupider, more reckless things. And nothing in the past year and a half has made her decide to stop.

"May I drive?"

[Cordelia] There wer epeople down the way, one was the owner of that vehicle, and two, whens he squinted, were people that Cordelia recognized. She sees Erika, and she waves. It's a little back and forth wave, like she is a candidate for Miss America. It's a pageant wave- because as we all know, good kinfolk should all want for world peace or something like that. She shouldn't think much further than attaining her im-are-ess certification.

There was Erika, though. And Matthieu, and as that she was.. well.. there, she approached.

"Erika," she says. It's a warm sound, but the accenting is strange. It's not air-ick-uh. The R is flipped instead of held. The E is short.

[Matthieu] "Kate is a lovely enough woman. I'm glad to hear you've been taken care of!"He says this with a nod of his head. He kept his hands behind his back as they approached Cordelia. His head bowed slightly and his eyes closed in greeting. He shifted his words easily from English to French addressing her in a familiar accent."Erika and I were invited to meet with a member of our tribe new to town. If you would like you can join us."They had been invited to someone elses house so it might be a Faux Pas to invite someone else along but it was also a bit of a Faux Pas to invite people over to your home for a casual introduction anyway. Besides getting to know one another was an important thing for the tribe in the city.

[Erika Alexander] She nudges Matthieu with her elbow lightly, gesturing towards Cordelia. She wears a full smile, and runs her fingers through her hair before waving her down. Erika begins walking towards the tall, Spanish girl.

"Priviet, Cordelia!" she calls while darting precariously forward on her stilettos. "How are you?"

She certainly seems less stuffy tonight, and doesn't hide her scars by being so overdressed with long sleeves, scarves, and so on. The slip of a dress provides relief from the heat but no privacy to conceal what she didn't like bringing up in conversation. That sort of precaution keeping Danicka at arm's reach made Erika far more uneasy around her own kind. And by the looks of it, she has good reason.

Erika reaches for Cordelia as if she knows her well. The vodka probably has something to do with that. By now, she just assumed the people Matthieu associated with are in the family. Certainly, she would be more comfortable riding along in the car if Danicka drove them, but the question is beyond Erika's range of hearing and her bad ear faced that direction anyway.

[Ivan Press] Ivan has one foot in the Bentley already. At Danicka's request -- or question, really -- he laughs and steps back back.

The keys are tossed over the Bentley's pristine white roof. Lane the lawyer might have an aneurysm to know how his sedan was being bandied around. Then again, given how familiar he was with the Fang, it's possible he'd come to expect it.

Regardless, Danicka gets the keys. And Ivan circles around the front of the Bentley, trading places with her. He whips his yacht-club jacket off and stuffs it in the back before climbing into the passenger's seat, lithe and quick though, in this form at least, no more durable and only scarcely stronger than Danicka herself.

The doors shut with expensive thumps. The interior of the car is -- well, it's a Bentley. Rich wood and fragrant, creamy leather. The seats are infinitely adjustable. The steering wheel feels light and responsive in her hands. Ivan watches her get used to the car. Up close, his eyes are, in fact, not so very unlike her own -- a murky green. More hazel blended in than hers, though. Darker.

"You know, I had you made for an Upper Eastsider at first," he says, "but now I'm going to guess Soho."

[Cordelia] Poor Erika, a little intoxicated, but decidedly more touchie-feelie than usual. She reaches for Erika like she knows her and, unexpectedly, ends up getting a hug midway through. Erika is intoxicated; Cordelia has no concept of personal space.

Dear god, she is terrible at this decorum thing, isn't she?

"Bien! Estoy bien, y tu?" She asks because she needs to keep the spanish simple. If there's one thing she remembers, it's that Erika and Spanish don't mix. The female is released, for the time being, "how are you?"

There is something about her English pronunciation that may need work. For instance, you does not begin with a J sound. Many speakers hold an R too long and make it sound like they're growling at the word, which is not at all the care with Cordelia. She flips the R like it was something that didn't need to stay on her palate too long.

What she says next, to Matthieu, is somewhat exuberant, but with fairly understandable and pretty damned good French.

[Erika Alexander] Ivan tosses the keys over to Danicka. Matthieu invites Cordelia in French. Erika seems to feel quite better having company other than Garou to shy away if she wishes. Actually, the piss-poor mood seems to vanish. Nothing was wrong for once.... for now. No asshole barking orders at her, Ivan seems content to casually toy with Danicka. Matthieu doesn't seem the type. While Danicka and Cordelia throw her a curve, they don't react with the others like a pack or even like most Garou greet each other. The kind of petty back-and-forth mannerisms Ivan and Matthieu are more what she expects from Garou interactions.

Erika is a bit surprised at the hug, but having a horrific week and a need to feel a sense of belonging, she welcomes the gesture. Most Russians didn't even have a sense of personal space, especially living among them. And yes, in fact, the only linguistic diversity this kinfolk has is the Mother's Tongue.... which, if she was raised in Europe or on the East Coast, she would've had to learn French. Hell, her cousin Nikitivich wanted her to learn.

[Danicka Musil] Apparently not one of those Shadow Lords given to bouts of rampant insecurity and a need to prove herself worthy or perfect or stronger than your average anything, Danicka doesn't even try to catch the keys that Ivan tosses over the top of the car. They land with a jangle on the sidewalk, and she finishes this last drag of her cigarette before dropping it to the sidewalk, giving it a brief twisting crush under her shoe, and then bending at the waist to pick it up and toss it into a nearby receptacle.

There's a slight impression of a pale lip gloss on the cigarette's end as it vanishes. Ivan is already getting around to the passenger side as Danicka is retrieving the keys, observing them thoughtfully. She looks over at Erika, who has now been joined by Cordelia, and at Matthieu. "Beautiful people," she calls to the three of them, as though this is in any way the proper form to use when addressing Fangs of any breeding, though there's a trace of wryness to its usage, "we are leaving. Don't dawdle, now."

The keys clink against one another again as she adjusts her shawl and walks in front of the Bentley to the driver's side door, opening it with manicured but uncolored nails and sliding herself inside in, shutting it once more. She lets her shawl fall from her elbows and puts her clutch somewhere in the center console. It takes a second, maybe three, for her to flick her eyes about and then figure out which buttons control the adjustment of the mirrors, the seat, et cetera. It is almost like she's driven one of these before, or something quite like it.

"My family is from Mělník, Central Bohemia," she says, which does and does not answer his question. She is buckling herself in, she is turning over the engine, she is checking her blind spot. "Do your best to avoid making a fool of yourself tonight," she goes on, idly, as the Bentley pulls out into the slowly dissipating traffic jam. She doesn't glance at him as she drives. "Or I'll tattle on you and then you'll be in big, big trouble."

Dry, that.

[Ivan Press] As Danicka pulls from the curb, Ivan settles back, lacing his hands atop his head and stretching his long body out. And no, he doesn't buckle up. Why should he? He just wrapped an Audi around a streetlight without suffering much worse than a temporary crick in the neck.

A dry, amused glance her way, though. And then, with utter fucking confidence: "No, I won't."

They pass the beautiful people on the street. And look, there's a third one now: a tall gawky girl in the ugliest glasses Ivan has ever seen. He thumbs down the window on his side, calling out as they pass, "Last chance for a ride, suckers! It's a long walk to 450 Waterside!"

[Matthieu] Mattheiu wasn't out on the hunt. After all he's only just met these girls and most importantly they weren't just any kind of woman, even nerdy little Cordelia was a Silver Fang. Soe even if Mattheiu was out on the prowl these were not the kinds of women that were "Used" as a casual fling. They were rare and precious, something to be treasured, protected, and worshiped. No Mattheiu would not dare dishonor either of these ladies by behaving as anything less than a gentleman in their company. This is who he was, what he was raised to be. Everything about him directly reflected upon his tribe and his tribe was strong proud and honorable.

He looked between the two women and their fond greeting. His smile brightened and he nodded back to Cordelia again addressing her in french."His name is Ivan I do not know much else... He seems pleasant enough."He nods reassuringly before glancing towards Erika. The fact that the two of them knew one another only made the matter all the more pleasant.

"Shall we be off?"He asks both women again in french he wasn't certain if Erika spoke french or not but a part of him hoped she did otherwise he would be repeating himself the entire evening.

[Erika Alexander] Despite wanting a bit of a walk, Erika knows this endeavor is outright stupid in heels like hers. She'd end up with blisters for sure. She flags them down. "Alright, hold up." She doesn't recognize Matthieu's French, and explains so. "Feodor Nikitich was going to teach me, but he... left us a few years ago." Tasteful way of putting it... the exiled Romanov, Columbia grad, and Erika's distant cousin slit his wrists in the opulent bathtub of his condo in Pampano Beach in 2007.

Ever the New Yorker and Fang kin, Erika shoves past a passerby and goes for the car. She seems waifish enough to be blown over by a stiff breeze herself.

[Cordelia] That tone says git yo ass in a car. And, when you don't know where you are going and can't drive? You git yo ass in a car. She does, in fact, catch the important words. She looks at the male, watches... well, almost watches his mouth and gets the important words. Erika's headed to the car, though, and in turn Cordelia comes along with. It seems like a good idea at the time, so why not?

[Matthieu] He sighs when everyone seems to be taking the car. A roll of his eyes and a nod of his head. The girls were apparently going to take a ride so there was no point in walking alone. Once the other two were in the car he slips in behind the two of them.

[Ivan Press] Ivan obligingly twists around to snake his arm into the backseat and opens the door for his tribesmen. As they pile into the Bentley's rear seat, he withdraws his arm and waves backward at the newcomer.

"I'm Ivan," he says. "And that's Erika. I don't know her name, and he's determined not to tell me. So I'm calling him Magpie."

Facing forward, he can't possibly know Cordelia doesn't understand most of what he's saying.

[Matthieu] He rolls his eyes."My name is Mattheiu, proper introductions can wait until we are in a somewhat more comfortable situation."

[Erika Alexander] "Cordelia doesn't speak English," she explains, sliding over the cool leather seat.

[Erika Alexander] ((FF away!))

[Cordelia] She blinks, and looks to those that she's sharing a back seat with. By virtue of being the person who got in second, the nearly six foot tall amazon of a geek is riding in the middle. She scoots down... and down a little further until she's not taking up so much space up top.

Cordelia doesn't speak English.

She raises her hand a little and waves. Side to side. And doesn't say anything.

[Danicka Musil] Ivan's glazed confidence doesn't seem to bother Danicka any more than his woefully wasted and highly inappropriate flirtation. She looks like she'd be more comfortable driving with the cigarette she just put out, as casual as she leans in the driver's seat. There's a pause while she and Ivan are having their exchange, as she pulls alongside the curb and he yells at people to git their asses in da car, or some such. Cordelia, Matthieu, and Erika pile in, and Danicka lifts an eyebrow at the man whose auspice she hasn't bothered to guess at as he gives a round of introductions.

Erika helps. So does Matthieu. "Oh, I don't know," she says mildly, "a Bentley is rather comfortable, wouldn't you say? Everyone safely strapped in who can't regrow their own arms? Lovely," she finishes, without waiting for confirmation.

And away they go.


Danicka is not a reckless driver. She is not an uptight one, either. She brings a calm attentiveness to their transit from one place to another, though she flicks the volume down on whatever might be playing on the stereo, anticipating conversation. She doesn't ask for directions. For one reason or another, she knows the place Ivan was talking about. Maybe she really did end up there last night.

She parks wherever young Master Press indicates, and when she takes the keys from the ignition, holds them over to him in her palm. "Tell your cook not to be gentle," she says, and exits the car, grabbing her shawl on her way out.

[Erika Alexander] Erika delights at Danicka's sarcasm. But, having received the wrath of a pissed-off Garou before, wouldn't utilize it until she's less new. She straps herself in and encourages Cordelia to do the same. The kin takes a moment to check her makeup in a compact. Fine, as she left it, but she makes a minor adjustment and reapplies some gloss. She seems satisfied.

Once they step out of the Bentley, she seconds Danicka's remark with a laugh and nod. Surely, she didn't want to remember much. Perhaps this is for the best.

[Ivan Press] The building Danicka guides that snow-white Bentley to is tall, glass, and situated right on the waterfront. Parking is underground, and Ivan directs Danicka through two sets of security gates, the second one with a keycode different from the first. Through the second gates, there are four parking spots. One is empty.

The other three are occupied. One by a Lamborghini Murcielago. The other by a Bugatti Veyron. And the third, by a Ducati. Bold colors, all three. Black, yellow, fire engine red. That would explain why the catastrophic loss of an Audi R8 hardly traumatized.

"Miss," he replies to Danicka's comment regarding the drinks, "we're Russian."

Sort of, anyway.

The gate rattles lightly as it comes back down. He leads the small crew straight to the elevators, not bothering to show off the undoubtedly elegant lobby of his building. Straight up they go, a swipe of a keycard sending the elevator rocketing to the thirty-third floor, where it opens directly into the foyer of what might very well be the finest penthouse suite in the city.

Nothing but warm cherrywood and glass and brushed steel, here. Furniture is sparse, the same creamy white as the Bentley's interior, and as tasteful as works of art. True art -- abstract, impressionistic -- adorn the walls. Passing down the entry hall, panes of frosted glass set a few inches apart give tantalizing views of expansive living spaces; the finest in fixtures and furnishings. When they come to the end of that passageway, the architecture abruptly opens up to reveal,

of course,

an utterly stunning view of the city. There is only one true wall in this entire suite, and it's the western one. Toward the south, north and east, the penthouse is entirely encased in glass. If this weren't the single tallest building in sight, it would be like living in an aquarium.

"Mi casa su casa," he says, offhand, which is quite possibly the only Spanish he knows. Sorry, Cordie. "Dmitri here," he claps his hand on the shoulder of a tall, thin, hook-nosed man dressed entirely in black, "my faithful butler, would be glad to take your orders for food or drink. I'm going to call my lawyer and make sure I don't have to spend the night in jail."

He pans his open palm toward the living room and its soaring ceilings, crystalline walls, and artfully arranged couches.

"Please. Make yourselves at home."

[Matthieu] Their arrival puts his smile back on his face and he escapes from the vehicle to set his feet on dry land once more. He checks out the cars and smiles to himself, then looks towards Ivan to lead the way. For the most part the Galliard is quiet. Following to a place where he can stop and look around the place in approval."You live nicely enough."He says with a smile and a nod of his head.

When his order comes he orders a Cognac, trusting that his host would see to it that he wasn't served the swill they had tried to pawn off on him as Cognac the other evening.

Before long he finds himself looking out a window. Eyes glancing up at the full moon and a smile lifts on his face."She's smiling..."He mutters softly at the sight of it. It filled him with a sense of pride and adoration. The Moon was a beautiful thing, especially to the Garou who worshiped her as a god in her own right. Gaia's sister and the source of the Garou's rage."Happy, it's a... Good thing."He says softly to himself.

[Cordelia] It's a nice building. It really, really is. She seems the type, on first glance, to be the type who would gawk at this all in total awe. And, in her own way, she does watch in quiet appreciation. Cars. And a motor cycle. And a view The view does have her attention, and she walks, with her hands behind her back, and finally-

Mi casa su casa.

She is a little excited, until she realizes that, well, it's a phrase that has so engrained itself into American culture that... she sighs, and for a second furrows her brows and purses her lips for a second. There's a butler there, though. She has food, drink, and butler figured out.

Oh, and drink orders.

"I trust you," she tells the butler, "not scotch."

She knows the important things.

[Danicka Musil] We're Russian.

It actually makes her laugh. Her head tips back with it and it rolls out of her, light and amused. If she's faking it, it's hard to tell. There's a warmth to it that would be difficult, at best, to falsify in expression. Not to mention the light in her eyes when she lets that laugh out. "Прости меня, прости меня," she says, as they pass the cars, and go to the elevators.

Which take them to Ivan's place. Danicka's eyes are appraising as they walk through it, her gaze thoughtful. Maybe she's an art dealer; her eyes graze over the paintings and the occasional sculpture with that same considering air. There's that curiosity to her again, interest, as her heels tap quietly on the floors. Her shawl is once again draped over her. She is the lone Lord in a penthouse full of Silver Fangs. She seems utterly, impeccably comfortable with this.

"He must not be a very good lawyer, if you have to call him and ask," Danicka says mildly, as Ivan begins to excuse himself. She turns to Dmitri. "Родник?"

[Erika Alexander] Indeed, the pampered Silver Fang kin makes herself quite comfortable. Erika seems grateful for the hospitality, and orders in the Mother's Tongue. She speaks with flawless accent, although it would seem more impressive in conversation than merely by ordering drinks. Maybe she'd have to speak with Danicka when she seems more involved.

"Dmitri. Melange и zakuzki, быстро угождают?" Erika smiles at Cordelia and watches Ivan scurry off to call his lawyer. She hasn't decided whether or not she'll join Matthieu or wander around.

[Cordelia] Of all the languages she speaks, and they are numerous, Russian does not seem to be one of them.

[Cordelia] She just looks her usual default lost.

[Ivan Press] "Well," Ivan spins neatly on his heel, "if you must know the truth, Lane is an excellent lawyer. However, I wanted to get away from you all because I wanted to brush my teeth. Just in case I end up kissing one of you after a few drinks."

Totally straightfaced, all that. The smile comes at the end, right before he turns and jogs lightly up the spiraling staircase to the second floor.

Which leaves his guests with the hawknosed butler who, as it turns out, is cut of a different cloth than his young playboy of a master. Dmitri's eyes are pale and attentive. He speaks little. Well; not at all. He nods sharply to each order, then disappears through the vast warm-lit spaces to convey them to the unseen chef.

[Danicka Musil] The most obvious and therefore most dull quip to answer that with would involve something along the lines of who, Matthieu? but that is not what Danicka says. Ivan hops up the stairs to brush his teeth or take a piss or jerk off or whatever it is he's actually up to, and Danicka turns to Erika and Cordelia, blinking her eyes once, and slowly.

"Rock paper scissors?"

[Erika Alexander] Dmitri leaves the throng to mill about, and Ivan... well... acts like a cad. Which Erika doesn't smirk at. Yes, yes... that's nice. But poor Cordy seems lost, confused, and a bit out of her element while Matthieu, the only one who apparently speaks a language she can speak, is gaping at the moon.

Erika moves towards Cordy and gestures as if reading. "Don Quixote..." then points at herself. "And... a Garou named Lukas." She hoped Cordelia could pick up on it.

"Matthieu..." she calls to the Silver Fang. "I think our friend feels a bit put off. Come join us?"

Something Danicka says catches her attention, and she laughs. "He's young... Once he joins a pack, he'll find something else to focus on other than skirt-chasing."

[Ivan Press] The penthouse is vast enough that they don't hear what Ivan's up to upstairs. They can hear low murmurs in the kitchen, though, and then the clink of glasses; the tap-tap-tap of knives on a block.

A few moments later Ivan is coming back down the north stairs -- tucked away at the far end of the loft, in a goddamn library -- and passing through the kitchen on his way back to his guests. He, unsurprisingly, has not mastered the servants' subtle murmuring. They can hear him clearly:

"Что вы делаете? Не позорить меня. Налейте другие бутылка."

A few minutes after that, Ivan reappears, trailing his butler and a woman nearly as tall, thin and dourfaced as Dmitri. She gets the same clap of a hand to her shoulder, nearly upsetting the drinks tray she carries, as Ivan introduces her cheerfully. "This is Yuliya, my housekeeper."

Drinks are set on a convenient endtable; a platter of fruits and fine cheeses and Russian appetizers -- the zakuskis requested by Erika -- on an equally convenient coffee table. It seems Ivan's beleaguered household staff has grown quite used to entertaining at odd, unexpected hours. The young Fang thanks them, then leans down to start passing the drinks out.

Erika gets what she ordered, which is the only warm drink in the batch. The rest: a Rémy extra-old for Matthieu; and for Danicka, Ivan, and Cordelia, whose only request had been not scotch,, the immaculate clarity of Rodnik Gold.

"Cheers," he says, lifting his glass in an informal toast. Then, nodding to the awkward girl, "So what does she speak?"

[Cordelia] She watches Ivan leave, but doesn't really catch much. She's familiar with rock paper scissors, but... not quite familiar enough. She points to Erika with two fingers, then off in the direction that Ivan went. The female nods once.. twice... and a third time. She gives a thumbs up to this.

The next few words, or rather the next few sentences, come up when she hears that Erika was reading the same book she was. The female perks up decidedly and lets lose a torrent of words. With glasses like those, it was only destiny that she liked to read. Or, rather, maybe Cordelia liked to read and, as a result, chose those particular monstrosities as some kind of ironic fashion statement that she enjoyed just a little too much. An inside joke of one. Or, maybe, she just liked them.

Back to Don Quixote.

"Ese es uno de mis libros favoritos. Lo siento que tienes que leer en Inglés," she has a subtle jab at the language, though it is decidedly lost on her company. Their host returns, and she can't catch what he's saying, in that of all the languages she does speak, Russian isn't one of them.

He asks what she does speak, and through process of reasoning she picks out the words she does know. Cordelia is nothing if not a bright girl.

"Español, francés, portugués, checo y alemán. Ya sabes, los idiomas importantes."

[Erika Alexander] Having remembered her manners, Erika brings out the book from her bag and leaves it cocked to one side on a small table. It is customary to bring something to the house one is invited to, even a small thing. The thing itself didn't matter, it was the gesture.

Besides, if he didn't like it... he could regift it. She was done reading anyway. Erika's ears perk at the Russian, but doesn't make any of it out. Matthieu is apparently moonstruck for the moment, so the kin does her best to try to include Cordelia... so needless to say, she is relieved when Ivan returns and tries to do just that. "French and Spanish, I think."

Erika takes her reddish Melange from the waitress and sips at it. There are a variety of traditional zakuzkis are hard for some to handle... they are salty, briney, meant to bring out the flavor of vodka and encourage more drinking, finger food really. She takes one and nibbles at it like a bird.

Cordelia's string of speech is lost entirely on Erika, but she tries to follow anyway. The book is one of her favorites.... something about being sorry and English.... and then the languages she speaks.

"No, honey, it's alright."

[Erika Alexander] ((Waitress... HA! housekeeper*))

[Danicka Musil] Let's be honest.

Of the three women present, Danicka seems the most... different. Cordelia is a tall, beautiful young woman with unfortunate glasses and an awkwardness brought on mostly by the fact that she can really only converse easily with one person in the room, and that one person has drifted off to commune with Luna and isn't paying much attention. Erika has had it rough, and it shows, in ways both subtle and obvious. Danicka looks like she could be in her early thirties, however well-kept she is.

She is the one just giving an agreeable shrug to what Erika has to say in explanation for Ivan's behavior. It's impossible to tell if that's agreement, or dismissal, or simple indifference to what Ivan is like or what will become of him.

She's the one in the nicest clothes. She's the one taking the Rodnik Gold casually from Yuliya's tray with a quiet Спасибо, Юлия as her eyes go back to Ivan. He toasts. She lifts her glass amicably before she takes a sip. She seems at home in a place like this, familiar with it though she doesn't quite belong here.

Which is what it comes down to, at the end. That expensive, expensive vodka is gone in moments, and the glass returned empty to the tray. "Thank you for your hospitality," she says to their host, who still has her umbrella, though it never seemed like she cared much about getting it back, "but I should be going."

so soon?

"I assume I don't need codes and keypasses to get out, do I?" she inquires dryly, drawing her shawl up around her shoulders.

[Matthieu] He glances towards Cordelia and smiles."Cordelia is a member of my own House. Lovely young girl and rather pleasant though... She doesn't speak a lick of English which makes speaking in a collective tongue difficult to say the least. I could translate to her in French if anyone has anything they need to say to her."He offers before smiling with his glass in hand. He had allowed the cognac at least fifteen minutes to warm the liquid. So when the cheer is called for her lifts his glass to join the cheer. His eyes dance playfully about the room before taking a sip. His eyes close to savor the liquid. Warmed to perfection gently in his hand. When he is satisfied with the taste his eyes open."

"What is the occasion?"He asks Ivan with a curious smile before inviting Cordelia over to stand beside him with a gesture of his hand. He wasn't attempting to lord anything over the girl he just wanted her to be near so he could convey anything that was said specifically to her and she could return anything she wanted to say to him.

[Matthieu] [Okay... I wanna make this easy... So long as Cordie is near Matt and doesn't wander off or specifically say anything in a language other than french. Matt will translate anything she has to say to people and translate anything people say back to her? Does that work to make things easy we can just assume Matt is now doing this for her?]

[Matthieu] [Just read it but assume it's coming to you in a mans voice in your head for realism!]

[Ivan Press] "I don't know about that," Ivan says. "She's surviving well enough without a translator. She must know some English."

Then, he speaks directly -- and slowly -- to Cordelia. "If I speak slower," and it bears noting: he's not speaking in that loud, overenunciated, imbecilic way people so often speak to foreigners, "is it easier for you to understand me?"

-- and then Danicka is readying to leave. Ivan, who had only settled onto one of the white couches in this immaculate room, rises again. "Wait!" he says, and without another word, bounds back upstairs.

He's back perhaps 30 seconds later, holding out an umbrella. It's Danicka's umbrella, and furled, it seems wholly ordinary: a black folding umbrella, the sort you might buy for ten or twenty dollars at any convenience store. Ivan, however, presents it to Danicka with a flourish, as though proud of his gallantry.

"I'll see you to the door," he says. "Come again anytime."

[Erika Alexander] Seems at peace with this. She didn't live for the approval of others. Everything Erika earned came from her own effort, although her family lineage would easily allow for digs such as this. She's mentioned the Holstein-Gottorp-Romanovs twice so far. However, having left home after the incident she's careful not to mention, she's pushed herself through University on the sweat of her own brow, without aid or encouragement or distraction from her family. She's also managed in small years to specialize enough to have the VA specifically request her expertise with difficult cases. Snub it as one may, but this pampered brat has earned the luxuries she was raised to be accustomed to and currently enjoys.

Erika narrows her eyes at Danicka's dismissal. That, she didn't like, but it doesn't bother her. If she was bored of the other women, then it was not important to Erika to change her mind. Still, she moves forward with a warm smile and bids her cousin farewell.

"I don't know your name, but I'm Erika. And it was nice to meet you."

[Danicka Musil] "No n--" she's trying to say, when Ivan yells at her to wait. She sighs, looking at the ceiling as he runs upstairs again, like a teacher praying for patience. She waits. She is that obedient, at least, though that's what her waiting seems to be: obedience. Submission, and nothing more. Because he is Garou. Of her tribe or not, she is in his territory, and she knows

exactly

what he really is.

He returns with her umbrella, and she takes it from him with one of those inscrutable looks of hers, something curious and detached and thoughtful and perhaps even disdainful. "My most profound thanks," she intones, and as he says he'll see her to the door. "No need," she gets out, this time in full. "I know my way."

She turns to the others. "Good evening, Matthieu and Erika. Have a pleasant one." And: "Bonsoir, mademoiselle," for Cordelia, though this is not nearly as smooth as her Russian. It's just a casual phrase. Anyone could master it if they wanted to know how to say hello, goodbye, bathroom, love, train station.

A nod for Ivan. He might go ahead and see her to the door, gentleman when it pleases him to be, or he might have let her be. It changes nothing. She leaves them to their drinking, their conversation, their mad Fang orgy in the den, whatever it is they do with each other when the other tribes walk out of the picture.

She calls a cab in the elevator. It takes her to the Brotherhood.

[Danicka Musil] [Thanks for the RP, all! Lots of fun. :D]

[Erika Alexander] Bye hon))

[Matthieu] He lifts a glass to Danicka and offers a smile. He wasn't the keenest on having the Shadow Lord present but he was, at the very least, pleasant around most especially those he disliked. After all it was his place and role in life to showcase the tolerance, honor, and grace of the greatest of the tribes. With dancing eyes he followed the woman as she left."Take care Danicka."He adds before turning his attention to the other two, and finally to Ivan.

He pauses and extends his free hand deciding to finally give a proper introduction."I am Mattheiu Louvel de Pontheiu, "Mirror's whisper" Gibbous Moon and Cliath of house Unbreakable hearth son of Jean-Yves Louvel, Gibbous Moon and Athro "Endless-Truths" to the nation "Endless-Truths" son of Josephine Louvel "Silver's-Sting" to the Nation whose promise was cut short by the treacherous sting of one of our own daughter of Vincent Bernard "Awakens the Sun" whose courage brought him into the heart of WWII fighting to put an end to the Nazi regime son of Timothee Bernard "Bright-Mind"who dedicated his life to winning peace and through it acceptance with Uktena, and Wendigo alike son of Catherin Bernard "Opens the Path" who traveled to the new world in order to establish a foothold for our kind after the burtal murder of her father daughter of Nicholas Bertrand "Seas-Bounty" who believed that our future lay across the seas, but his love of travel and penchant for gambling cost him his life in dealing with the local Wendigo son of Astrid Bertrand "Silver-Strike" who dedicated her life to leading countless battles across france and who herself nearly slew three entire packs of Black Spiral Dancers before being ripped to shreds daughter of Joseph Louis III "Wisdom's-Light" who singlehandedly traveled Europe re-establishing ancient bonds and bringing harmony between our tribe and the spirits we call our friends son of Joseph Louis II "Judgement's-Hand" who dedicated his life to peace among our kind and served his life in servide to tribe and nation to bring justce far and wide without question to one and all tribes son of Joseph Louis "Falcon's Bloody Talon" wielder of Wyrm's Blood who singlehandedly dedicated himself towards the eradication of the Black Spiral Dancer tribe. He and his pack led the battle against the Hive of the Burning Star slaying more than one hundred themselves and ending the life of the legendary dancer warlord "Rot-Mouth" only to continue the rest of his days as a member of the Silver Pack hunting the black spiral dancers across europe and earning the title of Legend for his mind boggling list of deeds..."It was there he finally stopped it was more than apparent the gibbous Moon would be happy to continue this was one of the single most important roles of the Galliard. To remember the past, to share the memories that have been forged by the tribe and the nation. They literally were the identity of the nation and what set them apart."

[Ivan Press] [ack, belated empathy on danicka's LOOK!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 4, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Erika Alexander] Well, so much for effort. Erika shirks and retirs to more interesting things as well. Maybe Danicka just didn't like other Garou, or came only for one polite drink. Drink and cousins who didn't actually seem interested in browbeating her like some domestic animal. It is refreshing to Erika. The drink is quickly gone, and she asks for a chilled vodka from the staff.

She finds an appropriate place along the swank balcony to perch along the edge of the rail. She watches the scene below, calm for perhaps the first time in a long time. "Спасибо за ваше гостеприимство, Ivan."

Of course, this is lost entirely on Mattheiu's rant of lineage. Holy shit, Magpie indeed. Yet, Erika seems accustomed to it. By the time he is finished, her drink is brought to her. She takes a sip of it.

"Такие уважаемые компании." Without a hint of sarcasm. "Я бы подождала."

[Ivan Press] "Ivan Press," Ivan returns, and you can bet your ass he's being deliberately simplistic about it all, "Cliath Ragabash."

A beat.

"And the greatest feat of my ancestors and I to date is the epic feat of will I just exercised in not shutting you up mid-introduction." And he grins.

[Matthieu] His eyes narrow in response to this."Tens of thousands of years. Men, women, and children have died to preserve our traditions and ways. Mayhaps scoffing at what so many have given so much to achieve amuses you? It is the place of the ragabash to question our ways but he should also remember his people and his ancestors."He says this back in a dry tone. After all he took this responsibility rather seriously it would appear. One of the greatest achievements a Galliard could ever do is memorize them all and recite their deeds and actions before the nation.

[Erika Alexander] The kinfolk retreats into the hazy comfort of alcohol. It's really starting to affect her now. The moon the only constant in the sky, the woman continues leaning against the rail. Her eyes close, and she mulls over her her own council. Without a word, she agrees with Matthieu.

But, perhaps she should interrupt them before they decide to get into a dick measuring contest or something.... Erika is NOT in the mood for fighting. She approaches the two and holds up her palms to either.

"Gentlemen, can we enjoy the night without quarrel? Lets do something... play a game."

[Ivan Press] The grin changes; one side drifting down. Crooked now, edged. It's a moment before Ivan replies, and in that moment he downs the last of his Rodnik; sets the emptied glass on the coffee table.

Erika interjects; tries to get between them. Ivan catches the hand closest to him and -- gently, but quite firmly -- presses it back to her side. Then his dark eyes come back to Matthieu. Dancing still, but hard now: like sunlight across chips of flint.

"Oh, I respect my ancestors, Matthieu," the young Fang replies lightly. "All of them, even the ones without a silver heritage and ten thousand deeds to their name. I just draw a distinction between a respect I hold in my heart and the sort of 'respect' you keep broadcasting to anyone unfortunate enough to stand near you when you go off, as if saying it loudly enough will make it true. You've tried to prove your respect for women like that, and now you're trying to prove your respect for your ancestry. Who are you trying to convince? Me, or yourself?

"And while we're on the topic of respect, friend, I've invited you into my home. Made you my guest. Served you the finest food and drink. In return all you've given me is disdain and lectures. Now I'm an easygoing guy, but there are limits. We're of a rank, yuf, and you're in my home. Let's think a little more carefully about who gets to lecture whom, hm?"

Another beat. Another second or three of that hard stare. Truth is it's been building to this all night between the men. It has little to do with the needling little remarks bandied back and forth; everything to do with how fundamentally different these two Fangs are. A hardline royalist and -- filthy rich and spoiled though he may be -- a renewalist.

[Erika Alexander] Erika takes a breath and steps back... quite far. In fact, she flinched on being touched. Definitely too late to smooth things over. The kin moves from the balcony to a place she felt much more safe.... which was towards the spiral stair. Flicking a glance in their direction, she downs the remainder of her glass and waits until whatever it is they decide to do is done.

Instead of setting the glass down, she clutches it, staring at a fixed spot on the wall. Nope... good mood gone, the strength of her breeding is evident most in her dark, intense eyes... and her mercurial mood swings. Back and forth quicker than moonlight in a river. There is something in her that is damaged, and try as she might to forget it, she couldn't. Yes, now that small part of her regretted not leaving with Danicka.

[Matthieu] He watches the man back, his eyes remain narrowed and his grin never quite leaves. Whatever this was that was going on between them was apparently going to escalate."When any Garou... Any soldier in this nation dedicates or gives his life in service to this nation. It is my responsibility to remember his name, what he did, how he lived, and how he died. Just as I will do when you or any other in this tribe passes. Maybe the other tribes forget their dead but we are Silver Fangs. We remember ALL who have served Gaia not a single one is forgotten not now and not ever."That tone was not terribly delighted or happy, after all reciting the names and deeds of the dead was one of the single most important roles a Galliard performed.

"I announce what makes me proud not to prove anything but to honor those who have come before me. Because that is what a Galliard does first and foremost in his life. He remembers... He does not allow anyone to forget. He keeps our traditions, our past, and our ways alive. I will not be mocked for showing my ancestors the respect they are due. I will also not be mocked for treating the kin of my tribe as something precious rather than toys to be used at my leisure."

"And if you don't mind my saying sir, you invited me into my home under the assumption that I would be treated with hospitality and respect. Mocking what I am, who I am, and where I am from all at once is an offense to my every sensibility and principle. Out of respect for your house your family and your territory... I believe that the only thing I can honorably do at this point is dismiss myself from your company."He says back to him with fury in his eyes. He gently offers out the glass he held in his hand for the man to take, when he does just this the Galliard reaches into his pockets to draw out a pair of gloves and put them on one by one."Good evening it was a pleasure and an honor to meet you Ivan-yuf."Polite to a fault, his head is bowed respectfully to the New Moon before turning his attention towards Erika."And you as well my lady. I should hope the two of you take care of yourselves and have a pleasant evening."He says before taking three steps backward."I can show myself out."He says back to the man, one more bow of his head before spinning gracefully and heading for the door.

It was a surprisingly civil affair. This was another man's territory after all and he would respect it, honor it, because that is what Silver Fangs do it is the single most important aspect of their tribe. So rather than say things he would rather not he takes the "Moral High Road".

[Ivan Press] It was, in truth, a very gracious exit on the part of the Galliard. What could have easily gone to a facedown -- or worse -- diminished to merely a stiffly polite farewell.

On Matthieu's part, anyway. On Ivan's: the Ragabash remains as he is, languid and at ease. And laughing. Low and ironic, but laughing.

"While I agree wholeheartedly on basic philosophies," he says, "it seems we're fated to disagree on application and practice. And since you are a guest in my home, I'm not going to stand here railing at you while you try to leave.

"But I'll say this much, Matthieu. If you're offended by my mockery, then you better stay away from Ragabashes in the future. We don't sing our points of view. We don't dance. We can't sling spirits and we don't lay down the law. We sure as hell don't beat our opinions into people. If I see something I think needs changing, I'll probably mock it.

"Don't take it personally," he finishes, and it turns out he's walked Matthieu to the door after all -- or at least to the elevator that will take him down to the lobby. He finishes with a wry grin and something he's probably said to untold numbers of weeping women, "It's not you. It's me."

[Erika Alexander] The kinfolk senses something dark and unpredictable on the air. Like most would... and of course, it had to wait until after she felt sober enough to find a cab home. Her hands shake a bit, terrified of their rage. Yes, the thirty year old is cowering on the staircase. But, seeing as she hasn't been near other Fangs or Garou in years except perhaps in passing, she has reason to feel that way. She has no close family here, only strangers with rage and kin with plenty of issues to spare.

Please... she says a prayer... but to what? Erika is no believer. Don't let them fight.

And then.... they pass through the quarters calmly and rationally, not shouting, AND being polite. Prayers answered. Erika is floored and thoroughly impressed by both of them.

[Matthieu] He smirks at the final comment. That was something at the very least."While I would say I look forward to seeing you again I fear that would likely be a bit disingenuous. So I will say, simply, that I will see you again."He says with a nod of his head before turning to head off into the night. It was all a very civilized affair, that was another of Mattheiu's interesting traits. He always tried to be as agreeable and non-threatening as possible. It wasn't a matter of trying to hide the beast so much as being able to show your complete control over it. That is what civility did for the tribe most of all, their weapons were reserved for fighting and their words for talking.

It wasn't long before his phone was at his ear and he was dialing his favorite car service.

[Erika Alexander] Another deep breath as Matthieu leaves without incident. She closes her eyes and appreciates the situation, not thinking of herself for once. And then her attention moves to Cordelia, who has quietly passed out on one of the reclining chairs. She is OUT. Ms. Alexander raises from the staircase, sets the class down on a nearby table, and goes to take Cordelia's glass from her hand before she spills it on herself. Another glass abandoned on the table.

There is something quite rare about this almost maternal moment. She views the amazon as a girl, after all. Erika also removes the girl's glasses and tells one of the staff to accommodate the slumbering kin. Surely, Ivan wouldn't care if Erika presumed to take care of the matter.

[Insert: something Russian here that I forgot to C&P, and ergo became unintelligible. She basically asked the butler to take care of sleeping!Cordelia.]

[Ivan Press] After the elevator doors have closed, bringing Matthieu down 33 floors to the lobby, Ivan turns back to his remaining guests.

One might expect a playboy, a cad, a player like him to make the most of the fact that he was now alone with two kinswomen. Even if one was somewhat plain of face, her breeding was remarkable; and the other, dorky glasses or no, was plainly beautiful.

He's quiet now, however. He comes back, takes a slice of brined fish from the platter, lays it on a cracker and adds a layer of caviar. Down the hatch it goes, and then he studies Cordelia for a moment. The girl appears to have passed out from the vodka. Perhaps he should have warned her: we're Russian. Erika is taking care of that, asking dour-faced Dmitri to take her upstairs. Ivan speaks directly to his butler, crunching on the last of his snack. There's a familiarity in his address that can't be easily defined. It's nonetheless apparent that Ivan and Dmitri have known each other for years and years.

"Yuliya just changed the linens on the south bedroom, didn't she? Put her there. And ask Yuliya up to help her into a nightgown later, will you?"

Dmitri mounts the stairs slowly, unconscious girl safely cradled. Ivan stabs a melon, a pineapple and a grape with a toothpick, eats them too. Turns to Erika.

"Well," he says, a touch rueful, "tonight certainly didn't end with the five-way fuckfest I'd hoped for." Matthieu had complained earlier about his language. Ivan, unsurprisingly, seems undeterred. Truth be told, there's style and class in his cursing: the words roll so smoothly off his tongue. "I must apologize for my poor hospitality."

[Erika Alexander] Erika sits once Dmitri sees to Cordelia, trusting they'll remember the girl's glasses. Hunger and the haze of alcohol is starting to tear at her awareness. The kin reaches forward and takes advantage of the food set before her, but nearly drops it when his language turns vulgar. Then, unexpectedly, she laughs.

"Why, because it didn't turn out that way? Your hospitality is fine, Ivan. But you can see why I'm a bit uneasy around you when you're angry," in fact, this is the first time she's mentioned her scars at all to Garou or kin since she's gotten here. Her voice is calm, still... and her mood is equaling out a bit now.

"I'm sure you have no problem finding your thrills," she says. It isn't dismissive or meant to be rude, just a statement.

[Ivan Press] In the bright, warm lights of his condo, Ivan's hair is visibly blond -- albeit a dark, textured blond like ripe wheat at dusk. His eyebrows are a shade darker, though, and flick up as she speaks of his anger.

"Erika," he says, "I can count the times I've been truly, genuinely, uncontrollably angry in my life on one hand. And believe me, there was always plenty of warning. I don't think you need to fear that from me."

She speaks of thrills, then. Conquests, one imagines. Ivan's history is full of them, some more scandalous than others. His mouth quirks. He stabs another melon, and then sits on the couch opposite Erika.

"You talk like a seduction isn't a two-way street," he says, and snaps the fruit from the end of his toothpick. Setting the small spear of wood down, he sits back, reaching into his pocket instead for his cigarette case and lighter. "Believe me, my thrills find me as often as I find them."

He thumbs a cigarette up from his case -- a Dunhill this time -- and draws it fully out with his teeth. Then he tosses the case to Erika, cupping his lighter to the end of the smoke while she takes her pick or doesn't. Ivan's hands are lean and well-formed, knuckles prominent without being boorish, tendons taut. They're as agile as the man himself, and a quick flick of the wrist clicks the lighter neatly closed when he's done.

If she's taken a cigarette, he flicks it open again a second later, leaning across the coffee table to light hers up.

"And by the way," he adds, "the scars aren't as noticeable as you think. You shouldn't be so self-conscious."

[Erika Alexander] Erika definitely takes a cigarette and takes advantage of the light offered to her. After letting the stick flare to life, she hands him the case and shakes her head. The smoke rolls out over her upper lip slowly before she exhales.

"No, I was just too young when I got them. And no one wanted a broken doll I guess. Honestly, I haven't been around much of the Garou or my own kinsmen in years. This is all a bit much at once. Getting used to old customs again, constantly analyzing every word, every look" a pause before taking a piece of fruit, "...gesture."

This perhaps explains a lot.

Yes, his alarmingly attractive features are noticed, but she doesn't seem to act on them. Or perhaps she's just a little too drunk not to come off as weird for noticing. She leans back into the reclining chair and tries not to notice how much the room is spinning.

"I don't mean to be this way, I'm just... pissed. You're very charming when you want to be."

[Ivan Press] Her slice of history is accepted without comment. Her initial estimation of him is right on the money. He's charismatic when he wants to be. He can lie like the devil himself. He plays the game and he plays it so well he doesn't even bother to hide it. He finds his thrills in women, in fast cars, in wrecking the latter and, quite possibly, the former as well.

And sometimes, his thrills find him.

Ivan takes a sip off his cigarette, then lets his hand hang off the edge of his armchair. There's a faint touch of smirk to his smile now. "And that makes you angry?"

[Erika Alexander] Erika laughs again, covering her face with the hand that held her cigarette. The rare smile suits her face, and somehow always seems completely unexpected. After a breath, she sits up, but rises too quickly. Room spins. Glass and light and leather. Her eyes widen for a moment, but then she closes them tightly.

"No," she continues laughing. "That's not what I meant at all... I'm pissed that my brother..." She stops and smirks. "No, you know what? I don't need to talk about it. Now you sound like the therapist."

Erika jests, even bothering to give him the rare grin. But a moment goes by without a word, and then...

"Alright, so what's your deal?" wisely deflecting the attention from her.

[Ivan Press] While she laughs, and smiles, and reels, and grins, Ivan stays where he is -- lazily sprawled out, lazily watching. During that brief silent he takes another drag, his eyes briefly drifting toward the panes of plate glass that formed the walls of his home; the wood-decked terrace outside; the glittering lights of the city beyond that.

Then she speaks again, and his head turns; his eyes come back to her, rest for a moment.

"My deal," Ivan replies then, his smile unfurling wider, "is that I don't talk about myself if the lady won't talk about herself."

He sits up, ashes his cigarette, and then stubs it out. There's still a good three-quarters left. He rises to his feet, holding out his hand.

"My deal is also," he adds, "that I do not hold a conversation with a drunk woman. They always lead to 'thrills'," his wink is as lazy as his sprawl was a moment ago, and as easy, "followed by the whole 'it was the alcohol that made me fall in your bed' song and dance the morning after.

"And since you, miss, are so very obviously intoxicated right now, I'm going to do the wise thing and offer you the hospitality of one of my very fine guest bedrooms."

[Erika Alexander] Erika seems surprised, given her alcoholic state slightly disappointed, but overall relieved. "Alright, then. I'll tell you the tale another time if you care to hear it." She's also vaguely aware that she is not terribly exciting and he could just be bored of her. This would have hurt her years ago, but ...as stated before, this kin does not live and breathe for the approval of others.

"Care to show me the way?"

[Ivan Press] [percep+emp!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 5, 7, 8, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Erika Alexander] Erika is surprised that Ivan acts like a gentleman and seems to take the higher road. Disappointed because she is drunk and not in flawless control, really she would have been all over a guy like him when she was younger and more attractive and ...well, let's face it... different than she is now personality wise. Relieved because he isn't trying to be all machismo, and she doesn't want complications to ruin her career. This she expects most of all, and considering her reactions to everything else tonight and her brief storytime.... things might be making sense to him. Yes, she's afraid of the June Cleaver life.

[Ivan Press] The totem of their tribe is a raptor. A bird of prey renowned for its ability to see. And the cold truth is that Ivan doesn't particularly care about life stories; about where she's been or what her brother did to her or -- any of that, really. Their acquaintance has been short. He is who and what he is. And he can still see into her so clearly.

A second or two tick by. Upstairs, his housekeeper is carefully putting Cordelia to bed. Downstairs -- three, four hundred feet below -- the world and all its ordinary people turn on. Ivan's hand is still held out for hers, waiting to draw her to her feet.

"Two way streets, Erika," he says softly, and there's that smile again -- at once warm and impish, playful and devilish and so, so fucking charismatic. "I think I've been pretty clear on my position from the start. I'll be happy to take a hot little thing like you to bed, and I won't brag about you to my buddies if you don't expect loyalty from me. But if you want this to play like that, you can't wait on me to make all the moves."

[Erika Alexander] The truth... is a fickle thing. And so is her mood. His eyes are almost an intrusion, too intense. She extinguishes her cigarette, then takes his hand.

"I don't know what I want from you," she says honestly. Something in her is not her... and the kinfolk leans forward until her face presses against his chest.... because she's just that short. She takes a breath, then looks up at him, something very very cautious and calculated. He is charming, but also knows he is greatly, drastically overstating her appearance. Whatever it was she wanted, she had to be in control of herself in order to feel satisfied... with any situation.

"Would you be hurt if I asked for a rain check?"

Doubtful, but surely he had a smartass reply.

[Ivan Press] It's true; if Ivan were judging Erika solely by appearance, she'd pale next to the likes of Danicka, of Katherine, of even the mousy little girl upstairs if only she'd take those horrid glasses off. Only, Ivan wasn't talking about appearance. He called her a hot little thing, which could encompass any manner of things. Cleopatra had an enormous nose. She rocked the charisma. Erika; well, she's not terribly charismatic either, but she has bloodlines that shine like a beacon.

He'd tell her things like that, too, if he were hellbent on getting her in bed. Or -- if he were a kinder man, a more generous one, someone who might offer her the morale support she's paid to offer so many others. He's not, though. Ivan is not a bad man, but ultimately he is a very, very selfish one. It's not altogether his fault. He was simply born to far too many luxuries; the whole world at his fingertips, and none of it too expensive to have.

Still, there's this. He's kind enough when she leans unexpectedly into him. He doesn't draw away, or laugh in the face of her sudden vulnerability. The Ragabash is as lean and svelte as he looks, his musculature a slender, toned layer over an elegant bone structure. He laughs, and it vibrates in his chest. His hand comes up and rests briefly, gently, on her mid-back.

When she looks up at him, he drops a kiss on her forehead. And it's all so easy. No embarrassment; no awkwardness. He finds her hand again and kisses that, too, lips to her knuckles like a proper gentleman.

"Of course not." And he steps back, leading her up the spiraling staircase to the second floor.


The bedroom he shows Erika to is the one next door to the one Cordelia is sound asleep in. Like the first floor, the second floor of the penthouse suite is glass-walled. With the lights off, the glow of the city will burn into the room. Ivan shows her where the switch is to lower the shades, though, and where the clean towels and linens are kept. Where the bathroom is in all its marbled glory. How to ring for the butler if she needed anything in the night.

"I sleep in on Sundays," he says, yawning, as he's about to head down the hall toward the master suite. "So I might not be up before you leave. Make sure you try Cook's scrambled eggs'n'scallops, though. It's out of this world."

Then he's bidding her goodnight and padding down the hall. The lights in the penthouse turn out one by one. Softly, the door to the master suite closes.

[Erika Alexander] There is comfort in this moment, odd, rare, and vulnerable as it is. Truely, she was expertly skilled in the areas she's cared to hone herself.... which could prove tremendously crucial among Silver Fangs and their kin, much less the sept. And she's already offered her services to some. Silver Fangs priding themselves on status, if she was going to be a therapist... well, she wanted to be the best at it. And right now, at thirty, having done it on her own, she is as pretty damn close as she can be. And bullheaded to boot? Well, it wasn't all bad being Erika Alexander. She just felt out of her own skin around most Garou, full of their homicidal pride and mercurial rage.

For her shyness around Garou? Well, that might change with time. Should she develop some confidence that the Sept would be pissed at her absence should some Garou decide to lose it and cut her down.

Mostly though, when she leaned forward, she was doing something very, very inherent in her blood. She was taking in his scent, his warmth. Not possessively.... but it was comforting nonetheless. And so was his treatment of her. Honestly, she didn't care to give him her life story, either. Not unless he asked. Those things were better left forgotten.

Actually, she is completely surprised by his gentleness. She expected the younger Garou to be an ass, but he wasn't. The gesture warmed a bit of ice around her spirit... Or something similarly fluffy that the proud Kin didn't buy into. That doesn't make it less true.

But, as he is still a stranger, and she doesn't know his rage or want to be complicated (sex tends to change ALL of that, regardless of how they handled it afterwards), Erika retires to the bedroom he leaves her to, taking off her shoes and earrings while he explains his sleeping habits.

"Alright, I'll do that." Scrawny as she is, it's doubtful she'll eat much of it, but she'd try it anyway. "Goodnight."