tracking down rosanna.

[Rosanna Kardos] Chinatown.

Some hour of the day finds the leggy olive-skinned skin strewn out across the couch in her living, one arm nearly swallowed up in the couch cushions as her back faced the door. A weather report whispers quietly across the expensive HD flat screen hovering atop the mantle that housed the entertainment center.

It was a loft apartment that resides on the second floor just above a row of storefronts and a bar, within walking distance of Chinatown’s vice district; the neighborhood was slowly going to hell around her, but no one ever bothered her. Several bolts and a chain were held in place on the thick reinforced front door.

[Rosanna Kardos] (skin=kin)

[Lukas] Bolts and chains, of course, are little enough comfort against the monsters Rosanna should really worry about. Serial murderers with guns and axes. Garou with superhuman might. Black Spiral Dancers that can undo a lock with a touch, or bypass it altogether.

Lukas doesn't choose any of these many and myriad ways of entry, however. There's a knock on Rosanna's door. If such things can be read from a knock, this one is firm, confident of results.

[Rosanna Kardos] The knock doesn’t registered at first; it will actually take several thuds to rouse her from the depths of sleep. It was abnormal for her to be so deeply in her cups. Her head lifts from underneath her arm, pillowed over her face to shield out the light that burns through the dark curtains drawn closed across the windows.

Rosanna moans, squinting her eyes as she rolls over, balanced on the edge of the couch and scowls at the front door. It takes a second to wake up, sitting upright suddenly as bare feet hit carpet. Her left hand reaches down, finds the cold steel of her gun and curls fingers around it as she stands up.

She checks the clips, flicking off the safety with her as she pads over to the door, arm drawing the weapon behind her back as pauses at the door. Stretching up on her toes to check the peephole, she frowns.

“Who are you?”

[Lukas] In the time it takes Rosanna to come armed to the door, the proverbial wolf at the door has knocked twice more. Welcome to the twenty-first century: when the big bad wolf doesn't huff and puff anymore.

His voice comes muffled through the door -- low, courteous, but with a certain edge that says he's merely playing at politeness:

"Lukáš. Open this door, please."

[Rosanna Kardos] Bolt slide free from their home, the chain is left on the door as Rosanna reaches for the knob and turns it, peeling the heavy door back to peer out at Lukas. Green eyes half-hidden under a mess of wavy brown hair and thick eyelashes sweep and over him. The full line of her lips press into a thinning line.

"Wyrmbreaker?" A moment's hesitation, the door closes in his face. He can hear the chain rattle as its unleashed and Rosanna pulls the door open, stepping back behind it.

[Lukas] In response, only a single nod.

Then the door is shutting, unlatching, reopening. Overnight temperatures have dropped in Chicago. The Shadow Lord stands warmly dressed in a coat and scarf, gloves and hat: a monolith of dark monochromatics, wool, leather. Snow is falling, dusting his shoulders. His rage fills the entryway of her apartment, rolls across the floor like an invisible shockwave.

"So you did receive my note," he says after she shuts the door behind him. "Why didn't you call?"

He leaves his flat cap on the coat-rack, if she has one; on the nearest flat surface, if she doesn't. His gloves go into his pocket. He doffs his coat, unwinds his scarf. Outerwear shed, Lukas is tall and imposing, well over six feet.

[Rosanna Kardos] Rosanna waits for him to cross the threshold before she shuts the door behind her, head turning to check him out more thoroughly. She manages to suppress a shudder that threatens to quiver across the cords of muscle hidden under supple curves. He was dressed for the weather - she still wore her work clothes from the night before. A black ribbed tank top in a men's design worn over a pair of black velvet jeans. He can see the fine black edges of a tattoo decorated naked shoulder blades, the curving arcs and sweeps of tribal design that might hint at a fuller tattoo that lay covered by the shirt, it almost reminded one of wings.

She clips the safety closed on the gun. Turning around to lean her back on the door for a moment, arms folding across her chest. He will find a wooden rack nailed to the wall behind the door with brass hooks to hang his coat. There are a few empty pegs along with two that holds her own coat and a gun shoulder holster.

"Forgive me for not calling..." she replies, "I work long hours at night and sometimes lose track of what I am suppose to do. Keep forgetting to hire a sexetary."

Rosanna pushes off the door, padding by him to head back to the couch. She turns, sitting down on the cushions and sets the gun down on the coffee table in front of her. There was a half-filled bottle of imported vodka and an empty glass on one side of the table next to the remote.

"How can I assist you?"

[Lukas] Lukas's eyes noted the gun, but he said nothing of it. He says nothing of the vodka, either, nor of the empty glass beside it. Nor of the fact that she was clearly sleeping, and on the couch: the tousled hair, flushed skin, reddened eyes.

Her question, though, brings a faint, wry smile to his mouth. He shakes his head. It was a fair question, though, and they both know it. She's Shadow Lord kin. The tribe isn't known for its kindness toward its kin. By and large, the kin of Thunder are considered commodities and possessions. Tools. Broodmares. Whores. Rosanna can't be blamed if she expected Lukas to demand time and favors. If she expected him to demand money from her bank accounts. If she expected him to demand that she bend over the arm of the sofa.

He doesn't, though. Instead he says, "I didn't come because I needed something from you. I came to talk."

If there's an armchair, he takes it. Otherwise, he clears a spot on the coffee table and sits there instead. Either way, he faces her. The curtains are drawn and it's relatively dim in her living room, but his eyes are so pale that even in this light they have the clarity and hardness of ice. Or diamond.

"I'm the Alpha of the tribe of Thunder in this city, Rosanna. Until you hear otherwise from me, I am your guardian.

"I don't intend to meddle in your life any more than I need to. I will not hound you to find out what you are doing every moment of the day. As long as you stay out of trouble, you can do what you want -- with a few exceptions.

"First, if a Garou of another tribe courts you, however, you will inform me whether or not he wants to. If any Garou wants to claim you as mate or ward, they have to come to me first.

"Second, if you require protection or help, come to me. I will do everything I can to aid you, so long as it does not interfere with my duty to the War. If you get in trouble, come to me. It'll go better for all involved if I hear it from you before I hear it from whomever you may have offended.

"Finally, I expect you to offer me aid and services if I request it. I promise you: I will not make frivolous demands. But if I ask something of you, I will expect to receive it.

"Am I understood on all counts?"

[Rosanna Kardos] There were rules that had been spoken to her once, many many years ago, by a man - one of her own blood. She can practically hear his voice now, Grigoriy, her grandfather, yammering away all the proper protocols and warnings of etiquette within the tribe they were born to. The black wolves of the European courts her family fled several generations ago.

Rosanna has never met a man like Lukas, she has acquainted herself personally with his kind. She is vaguely aware through the caution instilled in her of what could be demanded of her. Her lips do not twitch or curl into a smile, remaining in a line as her expression is flat. She is listening to him, the slight wrinkling of tiny lines as her eyes narrow a bit can tell this. She thinking on his words.

He could demand money from her banks accounts, but he may not see a penny. If she expected him to command her to lay over the arm of the sofa. She would not bend and sway so easily, hard as oak such as this one is.

Rosanna is distinctly aware of the predator in her apartment, how he sits across from her, facing her to make sure he can read every discernible reaction that might write itself into her expression. Pretty exotic features are schooled to show little emotion, except for the soft rise and fall of the heavy swells of her breasts beneath the ribbed cotton fabric of her shirt.

Her hands remain in her lap, never once straying for the gun or bottle that sits on the table in front of her. She sits back into the cushions, sinking further into it and simply nods her head once - in agreement.

Fuck.

"If I may ask, why do you think I would need a guardian now if I have been living without one in Chicago for the past several years. Why now do you come to my door and not when I was younger?"

She shakes her head, looking away from him, tongue sweeping out to lick across the pouty line of her bottom lip, "I know very little about you. You're kind. We, my family, does not associate with werewolves much. We did in the past when Grigoriy was alive. He helped them."

Green eyes flick over to Lukas, "I can assure you, Mr. Wyrmbreaker, trouble is not something I go out and seek. I have a certain way of living that I enjoy, hidden in the shadows, quiet and peaceful, without interference. I won't be a bother to you and yours. If there is a task that is within my abilities, it shall be done."

[Lukas] At the nod, Lukas sits back as well. Some indistinct tension leaves the air between them.

The Shadow Lord doesn't quite slouch, but he does sprawl. There's a balance to him: feet apart, hands on the arms of the chair -- a fine tuning to his body and posture that hints at an immense, animal confidence; an ability to snap from stillness to motion on the drop of a dime.

He rubs his thumb thoughtlessly over the texture of the fabric or leather sheathing the armrest. Then he unzips the collar of the fitted, ribbed sweater he wore under his coat. It's a pullover shirt under that -- thick, thermal, a deep red.

"It's not that I think you need a guardian, Rosanna," he explains. "Nor do I expect you to cause trouble, or to refuse to help me if I needed it. I believe in frankness and honesty, so that you'll never be surprised by how I act or react. And I believe in precaution. If you ever do need a guardian, you'll know how to contact me."

A pause.

"Tell me a little about yourself, Rosanna. Who is Grigoriy? What is it you do?"

[Rosanna Kardos] There is a small release of tension in the air between them, but it does little to ease the tightness of her muscles in her body. He starts to ask her questions - personal ones - and Lukas can easily see how uncomfortable Rosanna becomes. How incredibly guarded. Green eyes flick away, not casting up to meet his - never to formulate a challenge.

Her nose crinkles a little, sniffs once, and then she shrugs at his question and starts to lean forward on the couch, sliding to the edge of it. She has to remind herself of what and who he is. That he isn't the bad guy necessarily.

Does she lie about her profession? He expects honesty and frankness. " Grigoriy Kardos is my grandfather. He died a few years ago, he ran the family business. We own a funeral home that has been in the family for a few generations now, since my great-father immigrated here from Hungary."

A pause, hands run up along bare arms from elbows to shoulders, head tilting to the side as brown hair falls across her face to shadow her eyes. "The funeral home is located in Ukrainian Village. Grigoriy left it me. I have expanded on it somewhat."

The faintest curl teases at the corner of her mouth, thick lashes sweeping low over her eyes. "I also run a company that cleans up crime scenes, it is a lucrative business - on both sides of the fence. Legal and illegally. The Kardos family has relations in and out of the Glass Walker tribe. My grandfather's brother, Misha, saw to that. We've serve the Wise Guys for many years now, but that was before I was born. They don't exist any longer."

[Lukas] For the first time, Rosanna gets a hint of humor -- some sense that Lukas is not all granite and ice, thunder and snow. The corner of the Shadow Lord's mouth tilts up; genuine amusement.

"A funeral home? Probably not what you dreamt of doing when you grew up, hm? That's useful, though, when you're acquainted with bloody-minded wolves."

And, "No. The Wise Guys don't. But Thunder does, and it's always helpful to have a good cleaner on hand. I'll keep that in mind, Rosanna."

He tilts his head to the side, rubs behind his neck for a moment. His hand falls. Tit for tat, he tells her, "I am an Ahroun and a Fostern. I stand Alpha to the pack called the Unbroken." He goes on to list their members: a Galliard, a Philodox, two Theurges, two Ragabashes. "We've a packhouse in the heart of the city, which is our Philodox's primary residence, but most of us live in the Brotherhood to be closer to the Caern.

"If you need me and cannot find me, one of my packmates will be able to contact me for you."

[Rosanna Kardos] It was Rosanna's turn to smile. And she does so broadly, lips curling back - a flash of teeth - a shark's grin. The light reflects in those green eyes of hers with amusement. She rests her hands on the tops of her legs, brushing invisible threads for lint from the velvet-like fabric of her jeans. Head canting to the side as she regards him.

"I quite enjoy it actually. The death is a beautiful thing. It is very serene and calming. To watch one in their final hour as you set them on display for their living relations stricken with grief presents a sense of ... " a pause, grasping for words. " - fulfillment. I am much like Charon the ferryman. I help the dead pass on and reconcile the living with the last memory of their loved ones."

For the first time, she looks up into his face. Dares to meet his eyes and he can see Rosanna is not as fearful as she might have appeared, just very cautious. Again, she nods at his words, absorbing the names and auspices of his pack mates and their locales. She only needs to be told once, everything absorbed and committed to memory like a sponge.

"Now, my job does have me dealing with mafia. You sweeping into my life will not change any work I do for them will it? I have invested a lot of time and work into buildings my contacts in the city over the years into a nice tight foundation. I would hate to see it crumple." She inquires, "Though, if I do happen to hear of anything strange going on, I could feed you intel."

[Lukas] He listens. Rosanna is discovering that quite quickly about this Shadow Lord: he listens. And that's not a minor, trivial thing. How many Shadow Lords listen to their kin? How many Ahrouns listen at all?

He listens when she speaks of the dead; when she speaks of her role in their passing. A human would find the conversation macabre. A human might find Rosanna rather grotesque. Lukas, however, is silent -- and, when she's finished, thoughtful.

"I hadn't thought of it that way before," he says. "But now that you mention it, it's an interesting notion. We don't find our ritecasters morbid or macabre when they prepare our dead for the Gathering. I suppose your role is no different, and as worthy of respect in its own way.

"As for your underworld connections, my allegiance is to the law of the Nation, not the law of mankind. Your work with them is no different for me than a dayjob at the bookstore. I would appreciate any information you pass on; I may ask favors related to whatever work you're doing, if necessary. If your work causes harmful disruptions to the War, my pack, the Tribe or the Sept -- " that order of precedence is not accidental, " -- we'll talk then.

"Until and unless that happens, you're free to live your life as you have."

A pause. Then, quieter, "Rosanna, I realize my sudden intrusion into your life must be unexpected and unpleasant. But believe that I have no intention of turning your life upside down. I'm happy to meet a kin and, I hope, an ally. I'm proud to do my duty to you and to our tribe. But I intend to interfere as little as possible, and only when necessary."

[Rosanna Kardos] Humans naturally found such things disturbing, listening to the way she speaks of such things. She is briefly reminded of the way the Sicilian found her creepy. It brightens her smile a touch more. She breathes in slowly, allowing air to pass out of her lungs quietly. A slight flare of nostrils.

Rosanna does not try to argue his point, about the order of precedence of her work and how it may affect Garou ways. Muscles twitch and coil under her slow movements as she rises up to her feet, pushing off the edge of the couch. She has forgotten her manners.

"You must forgive me for not being a proper hostess and not offering you refreshment. If you want anything at all. I was don't entertain company often."

But when she does...

She begins to step away from the couch, pausing to await his response to her offer. She runs a hand up through the disheveled mess of brown hair that spills off her shoulders to frame her face. "Going back to what you said earlier... about claiming and mating. Are you saying my private life is to now be monitored on who I take into my bed?"

[Lukas] Lukas waves off her apology, his right hand rising a small distance from the arm of the couch. "I'm fine, thanks."

And a huff of a laugh, "No. Please, don't call and inform me of every notch on your bedpost. I really don't need to know." Humor winds down; fades. "But if it's a Garou not of our tribe, and if it's getting serious -- and I'll leave it up to you to be the judge of that -- I'd like it if you let me know. There have been issues in the past where Garou have tried to use and abuse kin not of their tribes. I won't see my kin dishonored like that.

"And if anyone, anyone at all, even a Garou of Thunder, wants to claim you as their mate, I do need to know about it. Such things can only occur with proper challenge."

[Rosanna Kardos] Her hands fall to round hips as she stares at him, one eyebrow slowly lifting up curiously at Lukas. She gives him a curt nod of her head - in agreement.

"I'll be sure to hide the Rolodex I keep for a little black book out of your eyesight." This was partially spoken in jest.

The offer of refreshment declined. Rosanna looks away from him to narrow her eyes on the digital time flickering back at her on the entertainment center. She brings her hands up to scrub them over her face and through her hair, pushing it all back behind her ears.

"I will heed the warning, Mr. Wyrmbreaker." She says finally, " - but now, you must excuse me. I am in need of a shower and a fresh change of clothing - unless you are going to hang around and play the voyeur..."

A wry grin flashes his way, "We will stay in touch?" It's spoken as politely as she can manage without telling him to just get the hell out.

[Lukas] "Lukáš will do," he says, amused.

He's rising to his feet when she says excuse me; by the time she offers to stay in touch, he's already at the door, zipping his sweater back up, looping his scarf around his neck and shrugging his coat on over it. In a matter of seconds he's dressed for the winter again, tugging his flat cap on. When the brim comes down low over his eyes, his face is defined and hard, all wide, sharp cheekbones and icy eyes.

Shadow Lord, through and through. A polite one; perhaps even a good one, but a Shadow Lord nonetheless.

"I can show myself out," he assures her. "I'm pleased to have met you. And, Rosanna?" A beat. "Next time, call me when I ask. Make time."

[Lukas] [annnd it's a wrap!]