Moving Day [Giselle]

[Linnea Bartlett] It might've been the fastest real estate closing in the history of Philadelphia, but an expedited title search can be had for a small investment, and who doesn't want to lend pocket change to one of the children of a fine family like this? The mortgage might be Ferdinand's financial responsibility, but the loan was taken out in Mary Madeleine's name. Apparently, she has at least one use beyond her current position as a living breathing Garou-factory-furnace, a walking womb.

It is late evening, the last rays of the sun paint the sky a livid crimson and the lights from the downtown skyscrapers, from the newer condominium developments around Penn Treaty Park, dance like fallen stars on the horizon, wink over the bristling forest of flues and chimneys, air conditioners, roofdecks, pigeon coups, billboards and television antennas that rise from the rank upon rank of rowhouses marching toward the center of the city. There is no such thing as silence in a city such as this one, but the street itself is relatively still, at least. The cold and falling dark drives most people inside their homes, even on a Friday evening, and except for a small crowd of pre-teens and teenagers billowing out around the pizza place (Fox and Songs Pizzaria, Real Italian!) on the corner a block away, the street is empty.

Bundled into her black brocade coat, Linnea is seated on the stoop of the rowhouse, leaning forward, her elbows resting on her knees, her right knee jittering up and down with her nervous excitement, waiting for someone with keys to show up and let her inside. She walked the whole of the way from the Caern, and her face is bright with the exertion and the cold. The exercise does something to dispel the cobwebs, the creeping crawling sensation of being split apart, wedged in, that seizes her when she leaves the (blessedly) familiar confines of the bawn.

The pack house: the building rises three and a half stories above her, dark brick, the windows cold and empty. The two lots next door are entirely empty, the buildings that once inhabited the spaces burned down so many years ago that all the debris has been removed, and a makeshift park has developed in place of it. Two spindly dogwoods, and a larger maple tree in what must have been the backyard, a few plucky little shrugs and some patchy grass have made their home in the thin and sandy soil.

Headlights swim over the street; two sets of headlights, reflecting in the windows of closest houses. The movers, a kin-owned company, small and haphazard, in their non-descript little truck, doubtlessly followed by Linnea's brother, Franklin, who has been dispatched with instructions from on high (in other words: his mother) to oversee the operation to furnish the packhouse with extraneous pieces from the now-closed homes of her daughters so that "..Linnea does not live like an animal." Mrs. Bartlett has certain standards, but she does not wish to spoil her children. Quality hand-me-downs are more than adequate. If someone else requires new furniture - ah, well. She will have done her best. As Giselle may have discovered over the last week or more, life in the Bartlett home, as grand as it seems, has more in common with Sparta than with Rome.

[Giselle de Laine] Franklin was not alone as he drove behind the movers like a wary cattle dog watching a herd - one with a propensity for unpredictable, boltish behavior. When she set foot from the vehicle her breath was a gasp of white mist, followed by muttered French, in subdued tones. Most of her dark hair was obscured by a white, poofy knit hat, which she pulled down low to her elegantly arched brows. After the initial shock of the cold night air on her delicate skin, her scarf was pulled higher, covering her lips - they might chap! Her slender form was completely hidden by her long thick coat, grasped at the edges and pulled tighter.

When Linnea's brother moved to chat with the earth-hewn bunch of movers - amid boisterous, baritone jokes - she picked her way over the slush-strewn sidewalk to where Linnea rested,

"Hello," those accented tones were muffled, as was her bright flash of smile, behind layers of Dr. Who-esque scarf. She gave a glove-covered wave with her greeting, "We are finally here, no?" her eyes - all that could be seen of her clearly; kohl lined, exoticly almond-shaped, with irises as dark bistre pools - slid beneath her langorious lashes to the house, "I hope this is, ok, yes?" this was the third time she'd asked for confirmation, still a bit skittish in her duties for the pack, she was determined that her first not be botched, "The empty lots," she gestured, "They provide a nice natural space, no? Something helpful, I thought," Being Garou. It was likely a mere leaf on the floor of a working factory of metal spiders, but she didn't know any better.

Behind her large pieces of furniture are already moving through the door, and Franklin's likely grinning and loafing.

[Linnea Bartlett] "Hiya," Linnea replied, half her attention on her brother; she wrinkled her nose and stuck out her tongue, then stood and idled over to Giselle's side as the movers jostled past with the first of the boxes. KITCHEN in clear lettering, in marked in black permanent ink on the top and side of the box. She sniffled, from the cold and rubbed her sleeve across her nose, then looked back at Giselle - at her eyes, that is, just peaking through the framework of scarf and cap, and god it made her feel like a dolt.

Linnea shifted her gaze, following the line of Giselle's gesture toward the lot with its trio of trees, the patchy ground, knotted with seeking roots. "I think it's fine, yeah. I mean - " her shoulder hooked upward in a sidelong gesture, as she shifted from foot to foot. " - the trees? I think they're fine. Well -" That one's kinda ugly. I bet Ferdinand - well - " the girl's mouth twists, wry, "- he's been living at Fairfield. Have you been to Fairfield? But - this is where we hafta be."

[Giselle de Laine] Her nod was a swift bob of that white hat, her tight gloves rubbing together to ward off the effects of the rapidly dropping temperature, "Yes, it is very beautiful-" she stopped herself, mouth agape, but hidden by her layers of scarves. It dipped a bit, showing her pert, delicate nose, reddening like rudolph, "But, this, this is fine," she lied a little. It was so middle class, and that was being slightly generous.

She turned slightly, her chin turning over her shoulder, "Oh, they are moving the furniture now," and with that she moved up the sidewalk, her muffled, dulcet tones gaining their attention. Eyes on her as casual predators - she's used to it so doesn't notice - listen as she directs, pointing which couch to which room.

At some point, when inside, she unwraps layer after layer of that scarf to reveal those pink, bee-stung lips - the first bloom of spring roses after the melting of winter's blanket, "Which room is to be whose?" more of her regal lines show now, that bearing of ancestory of which she was ignorant. It was becoming easier to think of the younger girl as the 'alpha', now that she'd gotten used to it, and this was aided by that palpable, almost everpresent tingle of energy, power, that she exuded.

[Linnea Bartlett] Linnea stands back and allows Giselle to direct the movers, the placement of the furniture, which is not, in itself, fine, but is rather good enough for the surroundings, perhaps better than the surroundings. There is an unfortunate wall-paper in the hall, flowered with strange veins of spackled gold, like gingham marble. The living room is fortunately white, a blank canvas. The kitchen has seen better days, its yellow paint has gone dingy from smoke or spattered fats, but Linnea wanders the rooms and watches the procession of furniture with a rapt fascination, as if she might memorize every floorboard.

The move continues. Franklin lounges, somewhere, makes the occasional crack, watches Giselle like a hungry hawk when she is close by, fiddles with his cell phone when she drifts away, and snickers at his baby sister's palpable excitement - although he refrains from calling the less-than-decidedly middle class building a dump, perhaps wisely.

She returns, stomping down the stairs, body turned aslant to avoid the movers who shoulder past her, stoic, and joins Giselle at the foot of the stairs after the tour. "I haven't decided yet," the girl replies, firmly, her brow twisting in narrow query. Then, more tentatively, after she thinks about it. "I mean, I never really thought about that? I guess I'll let everyone pick?" Alpha, maybe. Comfortable in the role outside of the very narrow paths of war: not yet.

Linnea flashes Giselle a covert gaze, studying her porcelain complexion, the dark sweep of her lashes, hesitates, then plunges onward. "What - what do you think?"

[Giselle de Laine] It was after she'd warmed slightly from the newly lit and boiling furnace, that the young silver fang kin gave Franklin something a bit more stare-worthy. The long faux-fur coat had shrugged from her shoulders, folded and laid neatly with her poofy hat, comfortable scarf, and snug gloves. Underneath she'd worn a stylish brown leather jacket, which had also been removed, and added to her small pile of clothes.

It left a snug pink baby T-shirt, which she considered older and suited to moving furniture. The slogan 'Princess' was emblazed across her modest bust, drawing the eye, and a throw-back to when such a thing was popular. These days, they were much more brazen. Her pants were blue jeans; somewhat uncharacteristic for her. To her credit, she was on 'moving duty', and considered it not nearly the faux pas. Also, she was in America now, where such casual clothing was en vogue. But, they were fashionably cut to hug the swells of her hips, molded to the curves of her slim thighs, leaving a scant inch or so of her tiny, taut waist visible. Slim fingers ran through her sable-in-shadow hair, smoothing out the tangles that had threatened to form, and pulling it into a cascade plunging down her back. With a deft twist, the waterfall becomes a spout, a she pulls it into a ponytail.

Her eyebrows narrow at Linnea's question, her hands still working on that tail, light glints off of a belly-button ring as her shirt raises further, "Mmm," she muses audibly, "I must confess, I do not know the habits," finally her hands lower, sliding into the pockets of her jeans, "that I do not know their habits, but.." her glance raises, her thick lashes lifting as butterfly wings, "I would place the women closer to the bathrooms," she intones it low, almost in a whisper, so that the movers do not overhear, "Myself, included," she turns her gaze back, almost pleading, letting her eyes rest on Linnea's nose - that running thing - instead of her eyes. The ahroun's gaze made her vision swim, and want to tremble.

[Andrew Black] Outside, a car pulled up to the building that Linnea had given him the directions too. The automobile was nothing new, and it wasn't in great condition either, but Andrew's slowly growing mechanical knowledge was helping him keep the thing running. After finishing a cup of coffee he had grabbed on the way there, he got out, grabbed his coat, and pulled it on. With a shiver and the release of a minutely visible breath, Andrew moved to the front door and knocked on it.

Dressed simply in a grey Castleton t-shirt with a slightly darker grey hoodie on over it, dark blue jeans baggy enough that they required a belt to hold them up, and instead of his regular sandles, he wore an old pair of boots on account of the cold. His coat was a dark blue, with white and brown fur lining. Scratching his shaggy hair and knocking on the door again as he bulled the jacket closer, noticing the slowly dropping temperature.

[Linnea Bartlett] Linnea steals covert glances as Giselle slowly unwraps herself; Ferdinand, after all, thought that Giselle was the ideal speciman of refined young womanhood, a perfect model against which Linnea could mold herself - but each layer, oh - Linnea doesn't have hips like that; Linnea doesn't even have a bust like that, modest though it is, and the taunt scant inch of skin revealed between the tiny t-shirt and the waistband of her jeans, well, it makes Linnea blush, look away, catch her brother staring at the kinswoman now under her protection, stare fiercely at him, stuff her fists into her pockets... until the movers are more careful to stay away from the strange, moody girl who looks so harmless - but who doesn't feel harmless.

"I don't really know them - " Linnea begins, it's true and it surprises her when she considers it. She doesn't know her packmates at all, not the way she will once they - her mouth twists into a frown. "I don't really need a bathroom either? I mean, I don't know - wait," there is a knock at the door, but Linnea stops and stares at Giselle. "Uh, but you wouldn't wanna live here. What about Red Leaf? - Wait, lemme get the door."

Soon enough, the front door swings open, a flustered teenager framed, her hair haloed by the incandescent glow of the hallway lamp. She backs out of the way quickly, making room for Andrew in the front hall, out of the cold night air. "Hey kiddo - " she says, with some strange affection underneath it. He's older than she is, but not by much. "

[Andrew Black] (( Damn, I have to go. Really, really, sorry about this, but I have to go. It's an emergency. ))
PMed to: Giselle de Laine, Linnea Bartlett

[Giselle de Laine] She'd wondered about that. Wondered at her own reaction to being thrust into this duty, that was really a thinly veiled prison sentence. Giselle could remember a time when the notion of serving the Nation, or even a more specific group of Garou, would have been met with petulance; an almost childish rebelliousness. True, it was even such inclinations that led her to this 'duty' in this current instance.

But, that was before she'd experienced January 7th, before she'd seen her kinsmen slain before her eyes, smelled bodies burning, tasted the bile of her own sick, and the bitter despair of her own mindnumbing fear. Garou had saved her then, and it brought shame upon her doubly when her indiscretion had come to light so untimely, after that event. Linnea stares at her after she had glanced at her so hopeful, so pleading, with those doe eyes. The stare is harder than the Ahroun might know, and it makes the girl's eyes drop, studying the younger girl's shoes. Her hands clench, balling into useless, laughable fists, fingers wring and knead, then straighten.

When she finds her voice, it's so soft, so hesitant, "I.. I have been think-" and she's interrupted by the knocks at the door, and Linnea's words cutting her off, making her respond instantly, the words dying on her tongue.

She's left mulling over what she was to say, and deciding to save it for another time, as her glance follows the passing of the dirty blonde haired dervish, moving like a whirlwind to open the door. Her lashes lift, langorious and full to note the young man at the door, watching with curiousity. She's a pretty little thing, this Giselle, a breeder no doubt - a slim-ankled fawn amongst even these young, relatively untested wolves. They have scars, and nerves of steel, and what she carries is palpable nonetheless - it's the purity of breeding of silver fang kings and queens, making her more beautiful than beautiful, a thing to be covetted, possessed, and bred for future generations.

[Linnea Bartlett] The exchange at the door is quiet, difficult to hear over the rattle of the old furnace as it lurges and booms to life in the basement below. Doubtlessly, Andrew is briefly skewered by Giselle's beauty, more so, by the purity of breeding that speaks to that-which-is-him on a primal level, deeper than mere human lust. His line of sight is cut off by the tall young Ahroun, however, as she speaks to him quietly, then summons her brother - tall and blonde and handsome - to travel back to the Church with Andrew, to lend the cub a hand with her few belongings.

The movers are finishing up; two carry another mattress set through the front door, cart a heavy box spring up the narrow stairs, then make a similar trip to a back bedroom on the first floor, carved into what might once have been a utility room, or a back porch. They march past, giving Giselle covert looks that slide onward more quickly than most thanks to Linnea's presence, as the Ahroun joins the kin in the middle of the living room, its haphazard ring of furniture, its ugly burnt umber carpet. "I'm sorry, that was Andrew? I - I thought he could bring some of my things over." Linnea flashes another pale glazing glance at Giselle. "You - you were saying, something?"

[Giselle de Laine] Her nod was a little too fast, in response, thick lashes fluttering lower, her gaze affixed to her hands as her palms slowly clasped in front of her; her arms clean-lined, straight, "Mmm, Andrew? I have not made his acquaintance. True? Or no?" she was guessing; stalling to be frank.

Finally, she visibly steeled herself with a breath, raising her eyes to Linnea's puffy cheeks, and no higher, "Yes," pink tongue licked her full lips, making them glossy, "I have been thinking?" she lilted the ends of her statements almost making them questions, signifying her hesitance, "Red leaf is so.. 'far?' no? Far from the duty I have been assigned? It is close to the university, no? But, ahh, I cannot even do my studies there with no internet?" She was going about this slow, one shoe lifted, making a circle upon the floor boards, her ankle rolling in its socket, doubtlessly mimicking some dancer's movement.

White teeth bite into the pillow of her lower lip, not wanting to offend, "I love the Bartlett home. They are wonderful people, truly wonderful," eyes flickered upward, and back down, "But, I thought that if it pleased.. I might live closer to my assigned duty?" eyebrows raised, her lip quirking.

[Linnea Bartlett] "He's new - " Linnea offers by way of explanation, as Giselle steals herself to say what she wants to say. " - he's not," a narrow frown. "official or anything yet. He's - I mean, he's still learning how to be one of us. Like - like an apprentice?"

It felt weird. It feels weird, to have Giselle - so lovely, so composed a refined young lady Ferdinand says in the back of her mind, stirring up sharp feelings of diffidence that peel away at the corners of her mind, that peel away at the surfaces or herself, or would, she she let them - staring at her cheeks rather than her eyes. Her mother treats her no differently (or does she - ? no, she does. When Louis de Laine came, her mother - ), but Lauren no longer teases her, and Mary cannot seem to share the same space with her for more than a half-dozen minutes before she begins flitting about like a nervous butterfly, looking for someplace else to land.

Linnea scuffs the toe of her boot on the worn nap of the textured old carpet; the hardwoods beneath creak as her weight shifts. Below them, the furnace sighs and shudders off. Linnea puts her right hand to her forehead, rubs back the few stray hairs that have come straggling out of her severe french braid, and considers Giselle's words. If Franklin were in the room, he would have given off a bark of laughter in response to one of the Frenchwoman's later statements I love the Bartlett home - - but Franklin is off carting one of Linnea's lonely boxes across the slushy street to his car, and Linnea is alone.

'"It's hard for people to live with - with us," some moments later, some minutes later, perhaps, minutes difficult to read and reinterpret. "Mary doesn't like to be close to me. And it won't be just me, it'll be - it'll be the rest of us, too. You'd have to - live with that, all the time. And you'd have to live here. It - it's not nice. It's - there's no cook. There's no maid and there won't be. And - and you'd have to," a delicate grimace, a momentary tightening of her mouth, her brow, " - to be careful." There's a hunt of something in her voice, some fullness of feeling, not-quite-worry, not-quite-fear.

"You know?" she finished, searching the kin's face for her eyes, never quite finding them and settling, instead, for staring at the sleek darkness of her glossy hair. "Do you - do you understand that?"

[Giselle de Laine] She's nodding by the end, her glance flickering upward, steeling herself, "I do, I do understand what you mean. Precisely," she's seen those burning stares, and their twitchy manners all her life; it allowed her to spot them with uncanny accuracy, "It is true, I was used to a certain amount of 'privilege' in my family life. But, here in the United States, I have lived in a dormitory room. I do not know if you have had this experience," the corners of her mouth lifted, rose petals blooming into a tentative smile, "But, it is as you describe. There is no kitchen. A.. a tiny little refrigerator, and a microwave. I am lucky to possess my own bathroom, and no longer have a roommate," her eyes roll at the memory, "So I am now used to that," her laughter is a release of tension.

There's a slow shake of her head, "I understand the need for caution," gaze lifts to dare that glance, "The kind of caution that you are hinting at," Don't piss off the Garou. If one needs to vent? Leave. If you need to vent? Leave.

"If you allow this, and you find it unsatisfactory, I will leave without question," it was a vow, and she wondered at her own solemnity. How much of this was guilt? Ephemeral sympathy that would fade with the next fashion trend? Was she really this responsible? Was this just another faze. Self-doubt plagued her.

[Linnea Bartlett] "Well." Linnea's watching her, when Giselle dares look; her pale eyes fringed with blonde lashes, framed by blonde brows, heavy, too thick and straight for fashion, the iris' alight with the Garou's disturbing inner flame. There is an intensity to that glance, to that stare, deeply at odds with the rest of the awkward girl's appearance. "Well then." She stops, Linnea, every muscle in her body tense, the lean musculature of her arms visible against the sleeves of her long-sleeved tee, the rest of her skinny frame lost beneath the clothing. "I - I guess you should pick your room first." A faint grin. "So - you're closest to the bathroom."