How do you solve a problem like Giselle? [Giselle-Ferdinand]

[Linnea Bartlett] The car appeared for Giselle at the appointed time: something black, luxurious without being flash, built for safety and efficiency as much as it is for impressing those impressed by things such as cars. The drive to Red Leaf was unremarkable, through the quiet, wintry streets of Bryn Mawr, and then out county road 27, passed a series of walled estates intact since the deeds were first signed by William Penn. To a Silver Fang raised on the continent, Red Leaf is raw and jarringly new, a rambling Tudor Revival monstrosity set well back from the bucolic two-lane road bordering the lands, protected by a shambling stone wall topped by sharpened stakes of wrought iron. The grounds are extensive – woods, dells, formal gardens sunk in winter’s masking stillness. The drive passes beneath an old stone arch, beside a colonial-era farmhouse, a bare one and a half stories, stone-built, mortar set, and past the ruins of an early 19th century Georgian revival, well overgrown with opportunistic undergrowth, with only the high stacked brick-laid chimney remaining.

Dinner is a family affair, in the more intimate of the two dining rooms: Mrs. Bartlett, fifty-six years old, but lovely, appearing ten years younger, her daughters, Mary, 30, pregnant and pretty and pneumatic, very pregnant, and if not weeping, then constantly on the edge of tears, her three children, a marching progression of adorable blonde-haired, blue-eyed nitwits, pretty as a Hallmark picture; Lauren, 23, sharp and fine as a raptor, and her singular daughter, no more than a toddler, a quiet child with extraordinary depths.

Franklin appears briefly, a young man of an age with Giselle, blonde and broad shouldered, handsome as one could expect – a perfect example of his patrimony, with straight white teeth, an assured confidence, and an unstudied, masculine charm.

The meal is simple, elegant, filling: filets with a mushroom-wine reduction, sea-scallops, fat and sweet, a peppery salad of arugala and tender spinach, slender spears of green asparagus, homemade bread and a rich, white salty cheese that, perhaps, reminds Giselle of home. The wines are French, fine although not too fine for a small family gathering. Dessert is a course of strawberries and crème brulée, followed by strong mugs of rich Kona coffee in the drawing room.

And it is during coffee in the drawing room that the family's errant, true-born daughter appears, after a small commotion at the front door and some minor excitement in the front hall, as the children are called down stairs to greet their auntie, and then sent scurrying away before her presence can unnerve them more than it already has.

Linnea is - Linnea, sixteen, this scrawny teenager, dressed in well-fitting jeans (the dedicated pair are far too blood-stained to be worn outside the Caern, now), hiking boots, and a lumpy sweater apparently hand-knitted from fine alpaca died a pale blue-gray. She hugs her mother, kisses the kinwoman on her fine cheek, then sidles into the room, pale eyes widening as they drift over the (more than) extraordinary young kin, then narrowing in consideration. The mother makes her apologies and departs, leaving Giselle and Linnea in the drawing room, silent except for the roar of the fire.

Linnea breaks the silence with an almost diffident, "uhm, hiya? I - uh," pause, regroup as she stuffs her hands in her hip pockets, for wont of anything better to do with them. "I'm Linnea." She shoots a glance at the fire, sparking and popping in the grate, and circles one of her mother's delicate antique loveseats, closer to Giselle. "This is - kinda weird?"


[Giselle de Laine] The manner in which her cousin Louis had imparted the invitation extended by the Bartletts as both a dinner guest, and as a rooming guest, was precisely subtle. It was no less than a sentence carried out upon an unruly family member. Hard as stone walls, yet draped in silken finery and well-wishes. Threats had been thinly veiled beneath polite smiles of alligator's teeth.

But, Giselle had had time with which to prepare, and the result was her pleasant, polite demeanor. She was neither bubbly nor terse, overly bright nor dour. It was not difficult, really. The Bartletts' were exquisite hosts of the sort she'd not likely find in this colonial nation. So she fell in with it, meshed easily. Each course was complimented, and sampled with polite, yet disaffectted enthusiasm. And my, was the crème brulée divine.

Her manner of dress was at once conservative and comfortable, something suited for a family dinner. The shirt was a light blue, long-sleeved scoop-neck, modestly cut, and her skirt was off-white, almost beige, fitting snug over the swell of her hips before tapering out whimsically. Were there not snow on the ground, it would look right at home amid a walk upon the grounds. Her hair was worn partially up, allowing sable-in-shadow spills to whisp along her forehead, gracing the swan-like vulnerability of her neck. Her smile was upon rose petal lips, their pink coloring not overly done. It matched the slight blush upon her cheeks from the brief wafts of cold air in the outdoors.

By the time she was left with Linnea, she was a touch drained, her thick full lashes were half-lidded as they sought a relaxed posture, her arms slipped behind her back, one hand catching at the elbow. She nodded in return, "Hello," the french accent her family had gotten used to so evident in that one word; smooth lilt, and that soft blend of consonants. She shifted her weigh on her feet, allowing one hip to bear the brunt, "I am Giselle," informing her of things she already know. The Kin looked upon this scrawny whip of a teenager. She was older, but for sociability's sake, the younger held the power. Odd. She was a child, and yet in some ways she was older than Giselle would be in 10 years.

It was sensed in the slender young woman's demeanor. A beautiful slim-ankled fawn with doe eyes against the colt of the Ahroun. The latter would grow up strong, tall, and fierce, and she? Would always be prey.

"Yes. It is"

[Linnea Bartlett] "I'm Linnea. Do you want to - sit down?" Linnea begins, her pale eyes darting from the lovely fawn to the wide windows, dark with blind black night, overlooking the grounds. Eruptions of trees are staggered black against the pale reflection of the snow coating the fields, and a delicate spotlight illuminates a hedge of evergreens. The true-born draws in a nervous breath, shoots that look back at Giselle, pale eyes narrowed, her mouth flattening into a fine, firm line.

Linnea does not take her own invitation, but perhaps its better that way - that she expel her nervous energy by pacing the room, by re-memorizing its too-familiar footprint. "Uhm, it's, uh, nice to meet you Giselle." The teenager stops and turns, reluctantly tearing her gaze from her reflection in the wavy glass panels. "You talked - to your, uh, Mr. de Laine? I did too?" Warrior though she is, she still has a girl's mannerisms, not the least of which seems to be the tendency to turn every statement into a question with a lilting rising third on the very last word.

[Giselle de Laine] Her nod was polite, careful. The younger woman's - nay, girl's - agitated energy washing against her as she moved. Bouying waves against her. It makes her heart thrum a little faster, her hands - behind her back - begin to wring themselves. When Linnea makes eye contact offering her a seat, she finds her vision swimming, as if looking into the sun too long, dazzled. Those lashes droop, as her eyes drop in unconsious submission to that Rage that wells within her so boisterious and careless.

"Yes," her voice is strong and surprising even to her, "Thank you," she replies, and slides into the chair, taking comfort when the Ahroun faces the window. She used that, allowed herself time to come to full composure, to find some place to put her eyes that was both attentive, not rude, and not eye contact.

She mentions her cousin, and the brings a flash of memory. His cool, disaffected disdain, looking at her like she was a goldfish, or a puppy that peed on his rug. Shame welled within, and she forced it down. "Yes," she slipped into French at the memory, and then covered herself, "Yes. He spoke to me, and I am aware of his words with you," her lips seemed poised to continue speaking, but she'd learned a trick: it was easier to counter than to pose and to trap oneself, so she let Linnea have her say.

[Linnea Bartlett] "You - " The Adren's words are still livid in Linnea's mind, bright and hot and worming through the delicate folds of her brain, shooting little electric charges between neurotransmitters, spraking, alive. The word is invested (briefly) with all the - all the contempt - no, the betrayal she feels, at the Shadow Lords are their tricks, their lies and their stupid little deceits - "you - " but, wait, what did Cassian say to her? About oceans and waves, and cliffs, about remembrance. Something -

Linnea takes in a quick, sure breath and turns (again) away from Giselle, crossing her arms so that she can't act with them, not without some extra motion, another moment in which to catch herself before she disgraces herself. "I'm sorry, Giselle. Did you - " her shoulders are hunched forward, but the teenager shoots a glance back over her narrow shoulder, pale eyes flashing in the firelight, and forces a steadying breath out through her nostrils. "Did - did you you care - I mean, about him? Did you - " As sympathetic as Linnea might want to be, her outrage twists the very end of that question into something harder to answer. "No, wait. I don't care. I - I said we'd watch you - wait," a pale glance back again, she shifts between stoicism and outrage as easily as she shifts her weight from hip to hip. " - you know, right. You know you aren't going - going to see that - that - you aren't going to see him again."

[Giselle de Laine] At several points in Linnea's meandering speech - riddled with its peaks and valleys of concern to hardened disaffect - Giselle had opened her mouth to speak, always closing it mutely. She watched from her peripheral glance the young girl come to terms with her own choice, her own resolve.

She waits for it to wind to its inevitable conclusion: dictated terms.

Those doe eyes never look at the teen directly, as her pink tongue slowly wets her lips. Her hands fold in her lap, as she forces herself to remain straight-backed in that chair, taking comfort in her exquisite posture; mannerisms taught by her from an early age.

And when she finally speaks it's with a steady voice, "I understand. I am not to see him again," she makes no effort to answer those other questions, spoken and unspoken. Did she care for him? Did she love him? Was she coerced? None of it. When she'd said it was none of anyone's business to her cousin, he'd turned into a monster, filling her dorm-room, and she half-expected Linnea to do the same.

"I also understand, that I am under your.. safe-keeping," Warden. Management. Jailer. "And that I am grateful for your family's hospitality," The last was not feigned, and it was such an offering she hoped would make this a little less tense. But, her body language was not one who was thrilled, not one who enjoyed this prison sentence.

[Linnea Bartlett] "And my pack." Linnea responds, coherent again, turning round. The teenager is still contained, compacted, her arms crossed firmly, her hands burrowed beneath her elbows. Her elbows edge out wildly from her skinny frame, two stark, bird-wing points of reference. "You're under their protection, too. If - uhm, if there's a Silver Fang? One you like - ?"

Linnea takes a step or two back, until her thighs make contact with the window stretched beneath two of the tall, arched windows looking out onto the front lawn. She unfolds her arms, reaches back, and lifts herself into the wine-colored cushions, presses her spine to the leaded glass, the window casement, feels the cool press of winter seeping into the room from without. The girl's pale head drops, the parts etched into her hair by the severe, precise braiding are white against her ash-blond hair, a perfect symmetry of lines, cross-hatches, angles. Her shoulders swell, and then deflate with an angry sigh.

"Giselle, I'm just, I'm just a Cliath. Do you know what that is? I - I don't, I don't know what - " her voice still has that burred intensity, that singular focus peculiar to true-born, perhaps to true-born warriors, but she isn't looking challengingly up at the Frenchwoman anymore. She's staring at the floor, her eyes wide and blank, her hands braced on her lean thighs. "I'm supposed to find something for you to do. But I don't know what? I - I don't want you to be - to be unhappy. But you can't - do you know - what they - I mean - "

[Giselle de Laine] Like a nervous cat sleeping next to a human prone to rolling over, she kept a wary, vigilant glance upon the agitated Ahroun. When she finally reached the furthest point in the room, it made her breathe a touch easier, allowed tension to flow from her shoulders. Surprised, she realized they were in knots, and consciously smoothed them.

"Your pack, too," it was a question, a glance askance, and her eyes widened at the next. Her cousin.. he'd hinted that she'd be mated with no concern for her interest if she did anything to stain their honor again. Had he jumped the gun, "Someone I like.. I know noone.. am interested in no one," she started to speak faster now, as if to forestall the inevitable-seeming bit of speech that would inform her of a choice made for her, without her concent. Her fingers gripped her skirt, as she was interrupted by Linnea's angry sigh and subsequent speech.

Those elegant arches slid together, her smooth brow knitting in thought, as she gave a small shake of her head in negation, "No, I do not know what a cliath is," The teen warrior stated that her happiness was of some concern for her, and that mollified her growing trepidation, somewhat, "And I likewise do not know what I can do to be of use. I am.. I am just a student," her voice pitched higher in frustration, "I am involved in dance and fine arts. I- I am no.." she raised a hand, gesturing impotently, "Warrior. I know nothing helpful," clubs, fashion trends? That was her. It reminded her that her only use to them was her womb, and that made her think of her mother.. the hollow, wrecked shell of a woman that she was.. No. No, never that.

[Linnea Bartlett] "Well, I still hafta find you a job," the girl offers, with some finality. "Even if you can't do something. I promised - I promised an Adren and I - I can't be forsworn. I'm - I'm - " legs swinging over the edge of the windowseat, narrow body taut with intensity. "I don't - Isn't there, isn't there [/i]something[/i] you can do?" There's a touch of desperation there, but the examples that float to Linnea's mind seem superfluous (can she type? Or - what else does one ask? Can't she just have some kids?) and she shakes her pale head to rid herself of the silly examples drifting to the front of her mind.

"I - uhm, we need to find a house. Maybe you can find us a house, like, an okay one, for us, in a certain area? Maybe you can go around with the - like, the real estate person and find something? And think of, I - " The girl stops, stark and still, her eyes sweep up to Giselle and fix on the lovely kin's face, her doe eyes. "Do you know what happened here?"

[Ferdinand Corozon Jr.] The silver colored Bently could easily be seen coming up towards the Bartlett Estate home, known as Red Leaf. It was a promise made to his sister and Ms. Bartlett that he would come and visit should the occasion ever call for it.

Breeding had its responsibilty, to that of the Tribe and those well renowned houses that proved worthy of its lineage. Decorum et all.

And the young pair of Corozon siblings would soon grace the presence of of Ms. Bartlett shall she be the one to accept them into the ancestral home, however like it would be. Caroline, the elder, was dressed to impress, her light red cocktail dress was a a compliment to her skin tone and exentuated her features all the more. While Ferdinand was, as his custom, dressed in his casual formal attire of a light blue shirt, not cmpletely buttoned up, with the jet black suit jacket and black pants. He would of course let his sister do all the small talking with the Bartlett kin, outside of a charming greeting of his southern gentlemanly style of lightly kissing the offered hands of Linnea's mother and sisters.

And in due time he would try and excuse himself from the gathering of ladies, hopefully sooner than any mention of an arranged get together could be forth coming between himself and one of the (now) eligible kinwomen.

Teach those to lead a dying army into the mouth of hell is one thing, but conversation about mating and duty to the future of the Garou and well......

[Giselle de Laine] Her look was helpless in return, her lips parted ever so slightly, white teeth a flash of light. Her hands opened palm up, not quite completing her shrug, letting it instead fade, ephemeral. Her breeding stood out starkly, called upon her to be able to do something useful, making it all the more frustrating when she did not live up to those expectations. Indeed, it seemed her only talent would be of the bedroom, birthing children, and she a child herself, with no notion of taking care of another human being. Much less one that might be a monster.

She seized upon the suggestion, nodding, a little too fast, "I can do that," it was such a small pitiful thing, really; something anyone could do. But, it was a start, "I could-" Stopped cold.

It was apparent what Linnea referred by the simple implication of her tone; the gravity of her voice. Her lips sealed, and she nodded, mutely at first, and then found her own voice, "I.. I was involved. I saw it all," she swallowed at the memory. Worse than her cousin turning into a monster in front of her. The bodies. The burning. The smell. The fear. The taste of her own bile, and eventually her own lunch.

"I do. I know. I know," she proclaimed the last, "I didn't know before. Not.. how bad it is, and I wish I could help," And before the caern disaster was when she'd had her rebellious tryst, before she'd seen the full face of the War.

[Linnea Bartlett] Ferdinand will find himself accommodated, however he wishes to be accommodated. Light conversation spills and dances between the family members. Lauren is sharp, lovely - almost cutting, and she makes no moves to ensnare Ferdinand. Mary is too pregnant to do so, but she is so pretty, beaming, pink and gold and white and perfect - (so fertile, too, the mother notes as an aside, when she has the young Philodox firmly to the side. She herself had nine living children. Fertility seems to be a blessing of the line.) - and dull and friendly as a brain dead cow.

Soon enough, Ferdinand is directly to the drawing room, hushed instructions regarding Linnea and the girl who will be coming to live with them - Charming, really, the mother describes her, and the daughters, to be certain, agree.

In the drawing room, Linnea looks up, studies Giselle as she seizes the suggestion, too fast or otherwise, and is then riveted as the kinswoman continues. The teenager crosses her arms in the middle of the kin's speech, hard against her stomach (at least she, herself, could fight, could rend and tear at the darkness) and tenses, buoyed forward. "My brother died. And - and his wife. Their children. My sisters' - their - " some attempt to establish rapport, perhaps doomed as it begins, but rife with a similar intensity, undergirded by the young Ahrouns sweeping silver rage. "Giselle, you - you can? Find us a place. I'll, uhm - I'll like, I'll get you a map? And you can start, and then, I'll, uh, think of something else you can do? Like, uh, my mother - ?" The pale brows dance upwards. "She's on all these, like, historical commitees, and I'm, like sure it's really boring, but maybe it - " a jerking, one-shouldered shrug. " - maybe it helps? Somehow?" Even if the full-moon cannot begin to see, truly, how it might.

[Ferdinand Corozon Jr.] He smiles through the conversation, letting the ladies speak of the matters they deemed wirthwhile. A bit worried of what his sister might say on his behalf, while in his absence.

Oh yes it seems that our family is now third in line to assume head of House Unbreakbale Hearth, should anything dreadful happen to the other families. And that would mean Ferdinand would be Head of the household, if Gaia forbid soemthign happens to our dear sweet father. So much responsibility to care for, and alone I might add.

And while they talk away, Ferdinand seems to follow the directions of the drawing room, his gloves found its way into his suit jacket. Old habits indeed. And for a few moments he watches the two females speak within the room before a slight cough to introduce himself politely. Watching the actions of his soon to be alpha, but teh sight of the exotic kinwoman does hold his attention for some time.

[Giselle de Laine] To the litany of loss, Giselle's lips purse from their perfect pout, becoming hardened as empathy threatens to make the moment a bit too emotional. Finally, her expression deepens into one of sympathy, of shared horror, and even that is dashed by the Ahroun's wildfire energy, always pressing onward. The older woman felt as if she were in the presence of a tautly controlled tornado.

She nodded at the map, "Certainly, just point out your preferred location, price range, and what amenities you require, and I can do the rest," Then Linnea moves on to her next suggestion, and she simply remains silent, even as the Ahroun admitted her not understanding its use.

That made two of them, for she truly didn't know why it would help, either. In that, they were similar, teenagers looking to the present, to the future, not overly burdened by the past. One more than the other. For while Linnea was buoyed and bolstered by the ghosts of her ancestors, Giselle would never know such a thing, could never even fathom.

Her lips open, poised to speak, they're soft, lush pillows - a mouth made for love - and she pauses, noting the presence of another. Feeling the spike in tension as two monsters fill the room, instead of one. Deep bistre irises slide beneath those langorious full lashes, marking his entrance, a fawn catching the movement of another predator approaching. She doesn't speak, allowing Linnea to make introductions, or Ferdinand to announce himself.

[Linnea Bartlett] Linnea looks up, her pale eyes sharpening as Ferdinand enters. She rises, suddenly, wholly - stands to her full (and not inconsiderably) height, although her narrow frame cannot begin to fill the larger frame of the reflective, leaded glass windows behind her. Perhaps the rage, the aura of her breeding does something of that, fills the empty space around her with potential kinetic energy.

"Ferdinand - " the girl's mouth curves into the first suggestion of a welcoming smile, she lifts her chin to to meet hte Philodox's first greeting, " - Ferdinand, this is Giselle de Laine. We're - " she inhales, sharply, her nostrils flaring delicately around the breath, and stuffs her hands into her hip pockets. " - responsible for her now? I told you about her cousin who came? - "

The creature's pale eyes linger on the young man's dark face for another half-second, then flicker back to Giselle. "Giselle, this is Ferdinand Corozon, Junior. He is true-born, and the other Silver Fang in my pack. I'll - you - you can meet the rest, uh, later? Except they aren't Silver Fangs, okay?"

[Ferdinand Corozon Jr.] It was no wonder that her Uncle had come to ensure that she be watched over very carefully. She was stunning, leave be the mystical aura that surrouds the woman, but not withstanding still that they were given an order for a ranked garou, not to mention a blood relative of hers. And as soon as he speaks the fluent southern accent, touched with a presence of raw ability to naturally command respect of those about him, and compounded with his purity of line, his voice was beyond empowering, it was royalty.

But a hesitant pause catches him for a moment, a stutter in thought, before that strong voice can come forth.

"Good evening Ms. Laine. It seems that your family has asked us to undertake to your care and well being, if that suits your liking."

Polite to the very last, however he was still the same Ferdinand from the academy in some ways. A young man that knew of what would be asked of him, however still a slight struggle in dealing with such attributes of duty. SOmething innate within him just made it a bit harder to deal with.

[Giselle de Laine] As he entered, and announced himself, she rose, right on the heels of Linnea's gesture. She did not stand taut and straight, and her height was not bolstered by neither Rage, nor commanding presence. Hers flowed from the chair, a flower in bloom, with a grace that was unaffected, unintended, simply ingrained.

Her slender hands folded in front of her skirt, and she made polite eye contact, her bistre pools somehow finding his own a touch easier than Linnea's. Where she was flashfire, and off-putting, almost overwhelming in her intensitiy, his primal nature was subsumed by his human side, carried with charismatic ease. Too bad for him that Kin couldn't detect the breeding that would buoy his voice to Garou ears. She'd never feel that instinctual drive that they felt. The need to give Ferdinand their respect, to give Linnea reverence, and her? With her own palpable lines of kings and concubines? It spoke of the bedroom, bedecked in silks and sweet glistening perspiration. This was her one, slim advantage; ignorance of that overpowering urge that they felt.

She nodded her smooth brow, her eyes meeting his own politely, before sliding slightly down, to his lips, watching his mouth move. It was easier. He echoes words Linnea's already spoken, and the doubly compounded pronouncement is eerie, raising the hairs on the back of her neck at the reminder of her prison sentence, her servitude, yet her small smile, is polite, unfaltered.

If this suits your liking, he amends, and it's a horrible, cruel lie. One she doesn't address, and instead takes it as it was likely intended: to put her at ease. But, it does not.

"Thank you, Senor Corozon," she finally speaks clearly in that telltale French accent, "Please.. you may as well call me Giselle," As Linnea had already begun, "If we are to.. that is, if I am to be.. part of this," At a loss to label her part, she simply does not.

She nodded at Linnea's words, and responded simply, "That will be lovely,"

[Linnea Bartlett] Linnea remains much as she is. Giselle responds to Ferdinand differently, and as much as the Philodox might expect from the Ahroun, she cedes this ground - this treacherous, kin-dealing, kin-tending, kin - kin - kin cultivating ground wholly to him. Tightly wound, with her moon still white and hot in the back of her mind, and only a few bare words of wisdom to ward it off, she imagines herself in the middle of an ocean, the waves crashing over her, standing against both the forward thrust and the treacherous undertow.

Nevertheless, there are some small pieces of necessary business to which she must attend. Her shoulders curl foward, pale eyes sweeping across Ferdinand, then Giselle, and back again. "Giselle - " that feels like a violation, briefly, of some universal law. The glance brings back everything that is lovely about Giselle, everything that is not lovely about the Ahroun. Linnea has a different charge, wholly different gifts, but there is a moment of resentment, isn't there, that she was not so gifted with delicacy, with that frangible grace, with that - with that beauty so bestowed upon Giselle.

"She's, uhm, going to help us? Find a place to live, in the new territory. Uh, Ferdinand probably is going to buy it? So tell him? And, then - maybe you can, uh - "

[Ferdinand Corozon Jr.] It was hard really to gather up one's thoughst and maintain a reigns upon that primal nature that is so infused within their kind. That wolf instinct of the here and now ever present in the mind, seemingly drawing upon him. Calling upon him, and short of pure will alone does he maintain a civil composure of a being. Balancing proper duty and honor.

"I see that you have a task that will be very beneficial, if not wholly important to the pack. Yes the funds for the real estate will be worked through my hands, but I doubt that any one willing to sell such property will wish to deal with me directly."

And like a rolling stone downhill he was slowly but surely gaining momentum in his thoughts. It was something that he ahd to figth through, but luckily he would preveil given time.

"Is there anything you wish to do specifically, ro something you excel at that may prove worthwhile?"

[Bases covered, scene finished here.]