pomegranates and fangs.

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Finally. Finally. Her practice space was complete. The floor was in! Her treadmill delivered! Blades in their rack. Everything as it should be. In its place. Perfect. Were it not uncouth to do so she would skip with glee. Instead she's treating herself to something terribly sweet and positively sinful. Chrysanthemum juice, straight from a pretentious organic juice shop. So it only came in little juice boxes. So drinking them made one look ridiculous and childish. She'd take them home. - to her own home. Her private residence, and drink them however she so chose. It would be glorious. The recycled paper bag crinkles in her gloved hand as she strides towards home with a faint smile on her lips. This Chicago held promise. *

[Lukas] Well, clearly Lukas has no problem looking ridiculous and childish: he's drinking some lychee-pomegranate concoction out of a juicebox. It looks patently absurd in the Shadow Lord's large, blackgloved hand, set against his swarthy conqueror's face. He's standing in front of

of all things

what might be best termed an erotic boutique, a classy expensive thing flocks of twenty- and thirty-something women with letters after their name visit on girls' night out. The sort of thing with demure window decor and explore-your-sexuality classes on the weekends and racier toys and goodies hidden well away from street view. Maybe he doesn't know what he's looking at, peering in the window at six hundred dollar lingerie on plastic mannequins.

[Fabienne Bartelle] *A tall powerful figure looms apparent ahead of her. Tailored clothing flattered, and Fabienne considered the broad lines of the man's back. Tasteful but subtle style. She did so enjoy it when a gentleman understood how to dress himself. The slender blonde blinks upon realizing she's admiring Katherine's packmate. Lukas. The shadowlord. Graceful strides slow, eyes slipping away quickly to - A SEX SHOP!? - cue Fabienne speeding up. Perhaps she could slip by, this was clearly no time for idle salutations.*

[Lukas] The problem with these little juice boxes is that they really don't contain a lot of juice. When Lukas was a boy, he would blow air in to overinflate them and then squeeze the sides to squirt apple juice into his mouth. It was a way to make them seem fuller, and to make enough of a game and a production of the thing to make it last longer.

Now that Lukas is grown, he doesn't bother. Two or three gulps, really, drains the juicebox. There's a trashcan behind him; he saw it earlier. He doesn't need to look again to toss the empty box in, except, of course, that's exactly when Fabienne brisks by behind him.

Lukas doesn't hear the expected swish-thunk of a juicebox hitting the inside of the Magnificent Mile's attractive refuse bins. He hears the light thump of thin cardboard against someone else, and turns, apologetic, only to discover he's looking at Katherine's latest kinswoman. Or migraine-to-be, depending.

Give him credit for this much; he doesn't stammer, turn his collar up and run. "Oh, I'm sorry," he says, stepping forward to pick the juicebox off the ground and replace it in its intended target. "Didn't know you were behind me." His hand dips into his coat pocket; he offers her a travel-pack of kleenex. There's a distinct flush creeping up his cheeks.

[Katherine] Katherine Bellamonte has not been visiting the lingerie store, let's make that much absolutely clear. She, rather, exits from a shoe store several stores up with two white bags tucked under her arm, black strings connecting them. Both bore the emblems of well-known designers [she had a fondness for Jimmy Choo in particular] and shoe-boxes rattle inside them as she walks, slotting away a credit card into a purse.

There is absolutely no need for Truth's Meridian to purchase any more shoes -- truth be told, her closets were bursting at the seams with them and she'd not so idly speculated to her maid, Lucille, about turning one entire closet into a shoe depository. Still, she's bought another two pairs at least, and, catching sight of Lukas speaking to her Kinswoman, smiles somewhat wryly and begins toward him, noting as she glimpses the store-front they are before:

My, my, what have you been caught admiring?

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Fabienne comes up short. Too intent on fleeing a possibly embarrassing scene she doesn't think to dodge. Juice box hitting her just below the midsection. Yeah. Right about there. Pomegranate. It had to be Pomegranate. A mere half teaspoon of spurted fuschia juice all it takes to ruin a very expensive cream colored knee length coat. Her cheeks pinking, delicate brow furrowing as she takes the kleenex with a frown. Speechless in the face of Katherine's arrival. A deep breath, before the kin straightens her shoulders, gives a polite smile touched rueful, and speaks.*

Of course not, had you been aiming for me I expect you would have managed with a good deal more force. Good Evening Lukas.

*A quirk of her lips. Some small consideration for Lukas, Fabienne is patently ignoring the shopfront he's chosen to linger in front of as she acknowledges Katherine with a tilt of her head.*

Mlle. Bellamonte, a pleasure.

[Lukas] There are some vague mumblings and stammerings over the totemlink, and then a very firm, What does it look like, Katherine?

And, yes. It had to be pomegranate. It had to be a white coat. And now there was an unmistakable and rather indelible splotch just to the right of the third button, and Lukas is grimacing as he looks at it.

"Oh, that's a shame. Here," he's taking out his wallet, and for a moment Fabienne might think he's going to commit the epic faux-pas of paying for her coat -- but no, it's a business card he produces, "that's a very decent dry cleaner's up in Lakeview. They'll pickup and deliver; turnaround time's about two days unless you want it rushed.

"Listen, let me buy you dinner to make up for it. Katherine? Want to join us?"

[Katherine] There's nothing more over the totemlink but a vague sense of smirking amusement from the Philodox. She smiles in greeting at Fabienne, and inclines her head, her golden waves falling over her cheek. "Bonsoir, mon cher," she murmurs and then turns to observe the flush-cheeks of her Alpha.

Did she wish to join them for dinner?

Her pale eyes skirt back to Fabienne, and she allows a corner of her lip to curl. "But of course, I can discover how Ms Bartelle is settling into the city."

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Fabienne is dabbing her splotchy coat idly, taking the card with a slight nod of her head, relieved the Lord was offering dry cleaning information, rather than money. She certainly didn't need money. Kleenex pocketted.*

That would be delightful.

*Her hands fold carefully in front of her to stop them from flailing about unladylike as she spoke. Spot forgotten, as to fuss unduly was neurotic and unbecoming. Such behavior simply wouldn't do. The lean limbed kin falls into step beside Katherine and Lukas.*

I had the pleasure of dining with Msgr. Bellamonte earlier last week. He was a good deal more appropriate than I recall from New York.

*Haughty perhaps, to weigh in on appropriate behavior for a trueborn, but without codes of conduct, even great leaders could become tyrants, afterall. Grey eyes cast to Katherine.*

[Lukas] So they leave the shop behind, and not a single one of them has commented on it. Aloud, anyway. It can't be denied that some tension leaves the set of Lukas's shoulders as the distance grows. Still, there's a directness to Lukas's eyes and a level confidence to his tone, flushed cheeks aside, that suggests if asked he would explain his interest quite readily and shamelessly. But of course, neither Katherine nor Fabienne were so ungracious as to ask.

"Another New Yorker?" Lukas comments, amused. "I'm starting to think the entire kin and Garou population of New York City is relocating here. How are you settling in, Fabienne?" He gestures at her paper bag, an aside, a polite offer, "Would you like me to carry that?"

[Katherine] Katherine's smile widens a little without ever truly baring her teeth, she laughs, but the sound is nothing more than a throaty purr of understanding, of agreement at what the Kinswoman says. After a few more minutes she says, airily enough, as if it meant little to her one way or another. "My brother is the happy man who can turn his charm on and off at a whim, Fabienne. But he is always a gentleman, regardless of what he would sometimes occasion you to believe."

She glances at Lukas, then adjusts her own purchases, dropping them to be gripped by gloved fingers.

"Tell me, how did you enjoy Edward?" There's something a touch risqué about Katherine's words, her eyes gleaming in a way that denotes she's teasing, but also that she's daring the young woman to say something inappropriate about her brother, or that she knows without doubt that there is nothing to be concerned over.

[Fabienne Bartelle] Very well thank you Lukas. Construction has finally finished on the penthouse and I'm free to enjoy my own training facilities once more, which is quite a relief. I simply abhor public facilities. I find them somewhat unsanitary.

*No verbal response to the gentlemanly offer to carry her bag, only the shade of a smile and a shake of her head. Thank you, but no. She was no gilded lily incapable of carrying her own things. Katherine speaks, Fabienne listens, and soon she's being baited. This she recognizes, understands. The games begin. They had to eventually of course.*

Dinner with Edward was quite enjoyable. He's very engaging.

*Is her tactful reply. Grey eyes meeting Katherines half an instant before the kin drops her gaze from Katherine's too sharp smile, and looks to Lukas.*

You're from New York as well?

[Lukas] Unsanitary, Fabienne calls public facilities. Lukas is privately amused; he can't count the number of times that exact word was employed by Katherine to describe any number of things.

"Are you in competition again, or just keeping fit?"

They don't go very far. There's a teppanyaki steakhouse a block down, a thin sliver of a restaurant with a single row of tables down one side and a teppan bar down the other. Decor is entirely black and red: red walls, black tables, black floor, personnel dressed smartly in black accented in red. Lukas pulls open the door; a chorus of irasshaimase!s greet them as they enter.

"I grew up in the City, yeah," he replies. "That's how I met the Bellamontes. But I was born just outside Prague, where my family is rooted."

Old world Shadow Lords. Dark of hair and pale of eye; warlords, nobles, tyrants, monsterslayers and monsters.

[Katherine] Lukas is privately amused, but Katherine's nod is entirely somber, and sympathetic. "Oh, oui, they are at that, you are quite right, my dear. I very rarely make use of them." They step into the tiny restaurant, and Katherine brings up the rear of their small expedition, housing Fabienne between two Rage-fueled creatures.

When they settle at a table, the Silver Fang calls for bottled water and carefully sets her bags to one side; her gloves only coming off once she has removed a small container of cleansing wipes from her purse and wiped over her fingers, and her stretch of bench, leaving a lingering antiseptic scent. Lukas is accustomed to this eccentricity of his pack-mates, more than once they have exchanged words about her phobia of unclean things.

"My family is based out of New York, and in part, also in France. My mother lives there still to be closer to her family, but my father is buried at his Sept with his pack-mates."

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Katherine's ritual is observed, stirring a memory of the philodox doing something similarly strange at a banquet some time ago. No comment made however, as Fabienne folds fluidly into a bench seat across from her, coat set carefully aside. It was a full moon, and the rage in the confined space was enough to raise the hair on the back of her neck. Her gloves plucked off and set by her coat and paper bag as she steels herself for polite - if harrowing - conversation.*

My competition schedule is not so grueling as I prefer it, allowances made to allow for time instructing. I will be mainly keeping fit.

*She orders tea, taking a moment to glance at the menu before tucking a renegade curl behind her ear and adding.*

My own family is somewhat split between Vienna and New York. I typically spend winters in Vienna with my dear Uncle Anton.

[Lukas] Lukas doesn't so much as bat an eyelash at Katherine's antics. He doesn't wipe anything down, either. This isn't a hole in the wall, though the size might suggest it. This is the sort of postmodern restaurant where serving sizes are inversely proportional to price.

The Shadow Lord sheds his coat and leaves it folded on the seat beside him. His gloves and scarf go atop it. A waitress comes by, sharply pretty, to offer them menus and drink lists. Fabienne wants tea; Lukas wants unfiltered sake, and while the Fangs discuss their roots, the Shadow Lord skims his eye down the menu. He seems to decide in a matter of seconds what to order, and sets the menu aside.

"Would you mind if I asked what brought you to Chicago, Fabienne? From what I know of your family, women of your breeding are usually kept rather close. Chicago seems somewhat provincial."

[Katherine] Katherine sweeps the Kinswoman a brief look as her Alpha queries her over her reasons for attending the city at large; she knows, of course, Ms Bellamonte, has known since their first meeting precisely why Fabienne had come. She knew enough detail about the young woman's life to answer the question promptly if so she wished.

Apparently, she does not.

She instead plucks up the menu and deigns to order a salad as if she were some young thing worrying about her diet. Her bottled water comes, and Katherine twists off the cap, pouring it into a glass silently, waiting, it would appear, to see how well Fabienne fielded the question.

[Fabienne Bartelle] *The subtle tightening of a fine boned jaw. The blink of pale eyelashes thats half an instant too long in consideration of her answer. Fabienne a creature accustomed to deception, but unskilled in outright lies. Half truths and omission were the name of the game here. A polite smile to Lukas.*

Hardly provincial. Independence makes anywhere seem entirely metropolitan. Also, My father has contacts in the city who can see me set up. I am no gilded lily, I assure you.

[Katherine] Katherine smiles behind her glass at Fabienne's response and then sips from it, turning slightly, she gifts the young woman with her full focus, her coil of pearls in pride of place twisted around her throat and neck. "I would not wish you so," she says first, to the gilded lily part of her response and then with a polite little pause: "Tell me, have you encountered any other of our tribe so far in the city beyond myself and my brother?"

[Fabienne Bartelle] I have had the good fortune to encounter Mr. Sommers and Mr. Delacourt-Alden both. Both exceedingly pleasant gentlemen. Mr. Delacourt fancies a fencing match sometime in the future, and Mr. Sommers instructed me on the finer points of constructing grilled cheese sandwiches, as I'm without servants at present.

*Fabienne doesn't fidget. Its difficult not to of course, surrounded by the anger of a furious mother goddess. However, her athleticism serves her well, the discipline to remain poised, the grace to make it seem effortless.*

[Katherine] [ack, so sorry, phonecall!]

[Lukas] As Fabienne assures Lukas that she's no gilded lily, the Shadow Lord smiles faintly, one corner of his mouth tilting up. "I never thought you were."

His eyes are direct and cool, though, pale as ice as they flick between Fabienne's. And there's absolutely no doubt that he knows as well as she does that his question was never answered.

Still; Lukas is nothing if not a superficially polite creature. He lets it go; the topic moves on. He turns his head to thank the waitress as she serves his sake to the table, then orders for the table while the females converse: a wide assortment of meats and seafoods, vegetables on the side, as well as whatever the Fangs might request. This is essentially a steakhouse. Were they at the bar, the chef would grill for them, a dinner that's as much entertainment as sustenance. Where they are, however, they'll be cooking their own food on the iron griddle at the center of table.

When the waitress departs, Lukas sips his sake. He's quiet for a moment to pick up the thread of conversation again. "Fencing match. Are you going to let him win?" He sets his cup down. "Caleb, I mean."

[Fabienne Bartelle] Of course not.

*Fabienne responds promptly, chin lifting as she levels grey eyes just below Lukas's. Eye contact with an ahroun ill advised for long on a full moon. Rage prickles around her, sets her skin tingling and alert. Flight and fight responses warring privately in the back of her mind.*

I don't doubt that Mr. Delacourt is quite capable with a blade.

[Lukas] Just as promptly -- "You're not worried that he'll grow angry if you defeat him?"

[Katherine] [Sorry guys, I'ma have to bow outta this scene, I'm actually not feeling too hot, but as Kate would stick around, just say she's excused herself to the ladies room or something, and/or is letting Fabienne and Lukas interact. Thanks, and sorry!]
to Fabienne Bartelle, Lukas

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Kate excuses herself to the ladies room, taking a stock of antiseptic wipes with her (bathrooms were especially filthy of course) and Fabienne and Lukas are left alone to converse.*

I don't expect so. It would be insincere to promise an earnest match, then do less than my best in order to spare a person's feelings. Were I to do so Mr. Delacourt would have just cause to be irritated, as in doing so I would be making the assumption that he were not up to defeating me through skill. I would not insult a fellow swordsman in such a manner.

[Lukas] Lukas looks up as Katherine leaves the table, a brief acknowledgment between packmates before his attention returns to Fabienne. The Shadow Lord does a remarkably good job of pretending to be human, considering his rage is enough to silence the guests at the neighboring table. They're eating as fast as possible. They'll leave a shoddy tip, and then tell themselves they didn't like the edamame, or that the kobe beef was overaged, or any number of excuses for why they will never, ever eat here again.

"Interesting," Lukas says, relaxed himself, leaning back in his seat. "Well, you're clearly no coward, Fabienne, so I suspect your avoidance of the question earlier has more to do with privacy than fear. I'll respect that."

Meat arrives, thin slices of beef arranged on wide plates, savagery made beautiful. Shaved radishes and ginger make floral arrangements. Tofu, peppers, several species of mushrooms accompany sea scallops and prawns, calamari, octopi.

"Let's eat," Lukas says.

Conversation over dinner is largely smalltalk, though after a time Katherine returns. If the weather doesn't warm up soon, Lukas jokingly threatens at one point, I'm going back to New York. That leads to a discussion of New York's virtues and vices, which descends into a debate over the nightlife here vs. the City. Alive, Lukas calls Manhattan. Superficial, argues Katherine. Lukas scoffs that the pot is speaking to the kettle. They agree to disagree.

There's a distinct ease and warmth between the packmates, even when they're disagreeing, and even when both are, to some degree, upholding a certain formality for Fabienne's sake. When they're done, Lukas's small flask of nigori-sake is empty, and the Shadow Lord is lounging, chopsticks balanced atop his plate.

Their check comes. Lukas pays with an American Express card, signs for it. There are Garou who are assiduously careful not to leave a paper trail, as though this might somehow keep them safer. Lukas is not one of them.

Then they're getting ready to leave, standing, shrugging into coats. Katherine receives a phone call and begs off. Lukas buttons his coat and looks at Fabienne.

"Let me walk you home," he offers.

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Lukas makes an observation, and its received with a decorous smile. Everything. just. so. Dinner goes off without a hitch. Fabienne is by no means a charming, radiant creature. She's pleasant enough, knowledgeable, very polite and an active participant in dinner conversation. But she's hardly the life of the party. Her stained coat slipped into and buttoned. She moves with Lukas towards the door after goodbyes are exchanged with Katherine, but once outside she raises a hand in protest.*

While I appreciate the offer, I would prefer not. I prefer to keep my residence private, even if such is only an illusion.

[Lukas] It's a curious thing when a Silver Fang kin of astonishing breeding possesses less surface charisma and charm than a Shadow Lord Ahroun. While polite, there's a certain unafraid bluntness about Fabienne: it surfaced during dinner, and it surfaces again now.

The tilt of Lukas's head is quick and not quite human. His eyes are clear and curious; he studies the Fang for a moment on the sidewalk.

Then he laughs under his breath. "Privacy, not fear," he says, as though this meant something. "Fair enough."

He doesn't seem to have taken offense. Lukas's courtesy is as much a construct and a means to certain ends as any; it's not a law he lives by, that he would be insulted to be forced to flout. "Sorry about your coat," he adds, "but for what it's worth I enjoyed dinner. I'll see you around, Fabienne."

[Fabienne Bartelle] *The Shadowlord's head jerks sideways. Twitches in a single instant from one position to another. A movement that gets a subtle flinch despite herself. He mutters under his breath, and Fabienne fails to hear it, though she sees lips move. The tilt of her own head is not curiosity, but necessity. *

Forgiven entirely. Dinner was lovely, thank you Lukas. Please give Katherine my regards.

*Its with the slightest dip of a curl topped head that Fabienne turns to leave, a final comment tossed over the slender line of her shoulder, accompanied by a quirk of lips that borders on playful.*

Should you ever care for that match, I assure you I'll have no mercy.

[Lukas] Behind her, Lukas is surprised for a second; then he laughs aloud. Even her ears would catch that.

The Fang goes one way. The Shadow Lord goes the other, turning his collar up against the wind as he goes.