lá bealtaine.

Nora
The farm sits off-center on nearly 60 acres of lush green farmland. The light early summer air is filled with the smell of roasting meat and the brown wetness of the creek that curls just off the back of the large two story farm house. Tonight it's cool and breezy with the tang of freshly mowed grass, of flowers and damp earth. The celebration is held away from the stables and the other animals that live on the property in pens and the barn. It's close enough to the rushing creek that the sound of the water against the rocks and rough earth is a soft dirge beneath the lull of crescendo and the subsequent diminuendo of conversation.

The Carey family is never still. From Sarah who is moving through the crowd asking how the pig is or the beef, or the special brew of Carey moonshine to Aidan and sons who are mindful of the wood and the fire, keeping it stoked and alive and not giving it a chance to weaken at all.

The newest arrival at the Farm is a minikin young woman with a head full of wild dark hair and pale skin with a spritz of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes are keen and curious and stay but a beat on each person present to judge whether or not she actually knows them. Maybe she's waiting on someone. Maybe she's just a people watcher. Whatever the case, she doesn't stare long enough to be considered rude. Just watchful.

Some may have heard her name mentioned by the Carey's. Cate. Catherine. Nora. Bird. All of those names applies, and if anyone calls her by such she'll answer with a polite smile and no more. Currently, Nora Catherine is manning the keg filled with another kin's special brew. She's sitting in a chair with denim covered legs drawn up and her thumb nail unconsciously in her mouth.

listening to music..

Because there's definitely music. There was no need to tell the guests to bring instruments. Those that were gifted in the musical arts would know without thought that it's a celebration of Beltane, music is a must.

The youngest Carey son is playing his uilleann pipes, weaving a patchwork of songs that create a rousing melody worthy of at least the tapping of toes. All in all, the back half of the property is alive with bodies and conversation, food and drink. Chairs are in abundance and tents are provided for those that wish to stay the night rather than risk a stagger-walk home (because it never seems that far when you're drunk) or a run in with a ditch or tree from driving inebriated.

The hosts of the bonfire will insist on two things: drink and make merriment.

that is all.


Calden
It's a two and a half hour drive from the White ranch to the Carey farm, and half of that distance is covered on endless arrow-straight country roads slicing across northern Colorado. It's a long time for five large men to spend crammed into a single crew cab, and longer still when the three men in the back -- ranch hands and distant cousins all -- are too meek, too bored, too sleepy or too wise to pipe up.

As for Calden, he's just too damn worn down to even bother. Most the way there he drives with one hand on the wheel, the other elbow propped against the edge of his window, fingers kneading his brow. Most the way there his father sitting in the passenger's seat is the only one talking.

First it's the weather.

-- If this winter bullshit don't stop soon, we can kiss the calves goodbye. There's still no grass on half the range, did you see? Didn't I tell you to bale up extra hay last fall? You never listen, boy, and now you get to watch your stock starve. Hah! Well, at least we won't have another drought year. I told you back in '09 to dig that reservoir deeper. Didn't I? Then last summer you're running a garden hose into a pig trough, putting poor Jimmyboy on watch there with a cattleprod to make sure all the cows get their turn. Hah!

Then it's the drive.

-- Six hours round-trip to go to some goddamn neo-celtic shindig. Who still celebrates Beltane nowadays? What is this, the Stone Age? You gonna put up some standing stones when you get home, boy?

Thought it'd do you some damn good, Calden says wearily. Get off the ranch, see some faces old and new.

Should've kept his mouth shut. His father's instantly energized by the opposition. Revs right up. -- What? And who the hell do I know all the way down in Castle Rock or Colorado Springs or wherever the god-damn you're driving us?

It's the Careys, Calden grimaces. Sarah and Aidan? One of their nieces once removed or something married one of Uncle Donovan's sons last year, remember?

-- And that's reason enough for you to drive six hours round-trip to see them, and drag your father and your three cousins with you? Boy, you are some piece of work.

Calden doesn't answer this time. In the back seat, Jimmy's staring uncomfortably out the window. Ian's asleep, head tilted back, mouth wide open. Paul wisely has earbuds in.

-- God damn, this country goes on forever. Good land. Your great-great-grandfather did the best thing anyone's ever done for this family when he bought up that plot of land. You wouldn't be where you are today, driving your fancy truck and living in your fancy house if it weren't for him. 'Course now the country's going to hell and you right along with it. God damn liberal fag-lovers--

Christ, Calden snaps, your son is gay.

-- Bah, he's just making up an excuse to run around Paris. Surrounded himself with all that French pussy and you still think he's gay? Hah! Boy, you are dumb as a brick. Pull over, I need to take a piss.

What?

-- Pull over. I need to take a piss.

Sitting the truck, Calden fumes silently while his father takes a stand at the side of the road. After a moment, Paul pulls his earbuds out and claps a hand on his shoulder.

I don't know what the hell to do with him, Calden says. Can't take him anywhere. It'll be a straight-up miracle if he doesn't get his teeth knocked out tonight.

As if you'd let that happen, Paul says. Not to mention, he's a sly old fox. He never mouths off like that to anyone he knows will take him up on it.

What the hell are you saying? That I let him, so he acts like this?

Paul shrugs.

He's my dad. I don't let him do anything. He just does whatever the hell he wants.

A little later Rory White climbs back in and buckles his seatbelt. No one looking at the two of them would mistake them for anything but father and son. The same large frame, the same strong bones. Rory's a good four decades older than his second-youngest son, though. His hair's gone white. There are liver spots on his temples, and his hands tremor when he isn't paying attention. Calden looks at his father and feels a great squeeze of pity, of revulsion, of love, of disappointment. He looks away.

-- So who was that woman, Rory begins.

Don't even start, Calden snaps.

*

They arrive a little after sundown: a charcoal-grey Silverado truck pulling up wherever everyone else has parked. It's a nice vehicle, just a couple years old, the paintjob still gleaming, the interior still redolent of new leather. The four doors wing open and the passengers get out -- five men with the smell of horseflesh and cattle still on them.

We'll see you inside, says Jimmy, and the three ranch hands amble toward the growing crowd. Calden doesn't blame them for getting away from his father as soon as they can. Or for heading straight for the pretty girls with their best bowlegged swaggers. All three of them are in fancy tooled boots and big belt buckles. Jimmy's wearing a white Stetson. Paul's opted for chocolate, and Ian's got a flat-brimmed buckaroo hat on. Not a single one of those hats or boots have seen a single day of work. They look ridiculous, Calden thinks fondly.

He lets down the tailgate on his truck. There's a haunch of venison back there, spiced and seasoned, tied up in twine, wrapped in foil. He drags it to the edge.

Wanna help me carry it? he asks his father.

-- Nope, says the elder White, walking off. Calden watches him go, too. Watches his father pull himself up straight, go to greet Sarah and Aidan Carey, the owners of the farm; watches his father turn on his old charm and his old manners, turn back into the man he remembers adoring as a boy. He wonders which is the real Rory White. He decides it hardly matters now.

Calden hoists the haunch of venison over his shoulder. He slams the tailgate on the truck shut. Alone now, a tall broad-shouldered man in jeans and a red-checked shirt, he carries his offering into the Bealtaine gathering.


Eva
"You're not going to the bonfire, are you?" Late evening, a few days before the actual event. Éva knows it as nothing more than that. Clarifies a moment later, " - at the Carey farm." when Chris glances at her, framed in the half-open doorway to his corner office. It is well after nine p.m. and the sun has set and the offices are quiet and dark. The janitorial staff spread out through the building, pushing their carts, separately recycling out from the trash in the trash cans, turning off lights and coffee pots.

He looks up, over his reading glasses at her, writing notes longhand on a yellow legal pad in the center of his desk. Quirks a half-smile. "Nature and I don't get along." The gleam of the barristers lamp smears yellow over the lenses. "Anyway, we have trial next Monday. They'd settle for fifteen, but no way it's going to. Stevens told me he'd rather pay us one hundred thousand dollars than give Reggie one red cent."

She makes a noise in the back of her throat; lifts slender shoulders in an eloquent, wordless shrug. They will take Stevens' one hundred thousand dollars, if he insists. A matter of pride or principle.

"Do you think it'll stay PG rated for the first hour or two?" Her voice is quiet, her eyes dark and steady. Precision threaded through it, wrapped in a cage of quiet humor - a private sort she shares with him through habit of long association. His brows rise, and he's ready with a retort when she explains the inquiry, in four words. "Ellie wants to go."

"If you need a sitter, I'm pretty sure Kim's available."

"She's not going?"

"We told her we'd offer matching funds equal to whatever she saved before her trip to Europe this summer."

--

The night of the celebration, a hybrid Lexus sedan - dark, unremarkable - is parked fallow field designated by the Carey family as guest parking for the evening's festivities. Mother and daughter emerge. They have each other's look: both dark-eyed and dark-haired, with a stillness about them that can easily be read as reticence. The little girl's skin is duskier than her mother's. Several shades darker, and there's more black than brown to the swing of her long straight hair.

Impatient, Ellie waits while her mother delves into the trunk for the huge Tupperware serving tray of pastries they bring as offerings to the gods, or at least the hungry crowd gathering. The trunk closes with a distinct click, and a moment later Éva is crouched on the soft, sinking soil of the front field in front of her daughter. Going over the rules.

What time is it. Seven-thirty.
When do you check in. Every half-hour.
When are we leaving. ten thirty.
Stay within sight of the house.

Ellie goes off, then, running up ahead of her mother, searching through the crowd for her friends, ponytail jouncing in her wake. Éva follows behind, carrying the big tray in two hands, looking for the refreshment tables to offload it. Sarah Carey's there, flushed from sampling the home-brew, gleaming with pleasure at all the guests on her family's land, the brightness of the festivities. When Éva hands over the tray, Sarah claps her hands together and unlatches then lifts off the like, exclaiming over the triangles of baklava and slices of apple štrudla.

From Rozsa? Sarah Carey inquires, and Éva confirms. It was rhetorical, of course. Thank her for me.

Oh, no need, assures Éva. She'll be over later. As soon as the sitter arrives.


Emmett
Sie sind besser als dieses!
You are better than this.

Helga came to be on the 4 To The Royal ranch after Emmett's dad's first stroke. Dishes became harder to clean, cooking became dangerous and doing laundry was next to impossible. If Tom Metzger, Emmett's older brother, hadn't demanded that Helga be allowed to stay and help, who knows what might of happened or how things could have turned out. Even after Tomas Metzger Sr. passed away, Helga stayed. She must have saw something in the broken youngest son that she recognized. A need for assistance that Fenrir are always too proud to request.

But now, as she cleaned up his mess and ranted about what a good man his father was, Emmett just shook his head and limped up the stairs of his home to his bedroom. His fingers moved across his cell phone and he eased back to sit on the bed.

"Tom? Yeah, no..what? No...everything's fine. Why do you think something's always wrong? Jesus Tomas. Look, just listen ok? Are you going to this Carey thing over in Castle Rock?" He rubbed at his useless leg, scowling in disapproval at the constant ache that filled up his bones.

"Oh right..yeah. No, I...no that's fine, no you don't have to go. I'll go ok? Go to the meeting. No, it's cool, I got it."

The phone is flipped shut.

There is no real thought put into what he might wear: military spec navy colored BDUs, black Wellco tactical boots and a dark loose sweater. His eyes don't even pass over his appearance in the long mirror hanging on the back of his bedroom door. He isn't too concerned with appearances.

The Metzger property is managed by Ulrich, not a Metzger but a Foerster - his dead mother's nephew. Ulrich is 3 years younger than Emmett but he's the kind of man you'd pay double wages to just to have them working for you. He drives, Emmett holds Helga's famous German Potato Salad. They talked about the ranch or this and that.

What they didn't talk about was how silly Emmett looked holding that large flower print bowl full of potato salad.

Ulrich climbs out of the truck and waits near the rear while Emmett climbs out with his cane and that bowl, refusing to let his cousin help him at all.

Emmett is on the tall side at 6' and a solid 220 pounds. His body has gotten softer than it has in twenty years, and his dark blonde hair is longer on top than his barber (and Helga) prefer. The beard he wears is neatly trimmed and ages him considerably, making him look every bit of his thirty five years. The limp he moves with is faint but noticeable, the cane he uses is even more so.

He approaches Sarah with a genuine smile and nods, handing over the potato salad and accepting a hug from the older woman in return. Yes, he's fine. Of course Tomas is doing well. Helga is ...well Helga. She leaves him soon after to go put the side dish away and Emmett drifts toward the girl at the keg, offers his best smile and nods toward her, "You should have a tip jar here." He says offhandedly to Nora while waiting for his share of whatever is in the keg she's serving from.

His eyes turn toward the festivities going on all around him and he doesn't even consider joining in. He'll stay only so long as not to be rude and then he'll quietly request that Ulrich give him a lift back home. His joy at life and birth had backed up inside of him, kept within by some essential clog and he saw no reason to free them just yet.


Eva
"You're looking well, Emmett." Éva does not speak until she is at least in Emmett Metzger's peripheral vision. The crowd is too boisterous and lively for there to be other tells that might alert him to her presence - the soft footfall on the tender spring grass, the faint creak of her leather jacket. Perhaps even the hint of perfume in the air around her. It is a Tuesday night and unlike so many of the kin who have come here tonight, she does not live by the rhythms of the seasons, but by the artificial downstroke of a professional work week. Tomorrow is Wednesday, and she will be up at five a.m. to go running in the early light.

If her schedule allows, she will take Elise to school. The girl yawning sleep from her eyes, still glowing from the very adult pleasure of staying up so late the night before. The festivities, the strangers, the down-home exoticism of the Beltane rite on a wholly American farm. Andris will not start kindergarten until next year, so Ellie will have her mother to herself for those twenty minutes.

Here is something: she is not insincere in the remark, though perhaps she means, Good to see you out of the house. Or perhaps she does not have the same opinion that Helga and his barber do about the length of his hair. Maybe she thinks it suits him.

Her voice is quiet and crisp and low. She does not ask after his brother. And as she draws abreast of him, she puts a companionable hand on his shoulder. It is not a human gesture. The contact lasts a second or two, no more and is instinctual - animal - awareness, acknowledgment of presence, not reassurance or anything so damn patronizing.

"Have you met Cate. Catherine, correct?" a winging glance between the lovely, wild looking girl with her legs drawn up, chewing her thumb, stubbornly quiet, who answers shouts of her name with no more than a polite smile, and the bearded Fenrir. The Shadow Lord continues, supplying further explanation, "The Careys' niece."

The girl has no particular reason to remember Éva, who is uninterestingly Adult. Merely somewhat apart from the rest. Another face is a constantly shifting crowd of new acquaintances, all of whom seem to remember Nora, Bridie, Catherine, Cate, few of whom are memorable to her, yet. They are not wolves, but they are wolf-blooded: the girl, the man, the woman. "This is Emmett Metzger."

Then Éva excuses herself, quietly, leaving the two to capitalize on the introduction or not as they will. She was not waiting for the home brew - just passing by for the moment. Headed for the coolers full of spring water and juices set out for the children present.

No matter the insistence of the hosts, she is not drinking tonight. It is not just that she prefers a different sort of burn in the back of the throat than home-brewed ales and ciders, whatever sort of corn or rye-liquor the Fianna of Colorado brew up year to year. Her daughter is here. There are wolves about, and music threading around the bonfire with the driving beat of a racing heart.

In circumstances like these, the Shadow Lord will remain perfectly, entirely sober.


Sam
Someone told Sam about the impending celebration the day she made her introductions at Cold Crescent. It was mentioned from politeness, surely. Who would expect a Glass Walker to be this far from the cold concrete and press of humanity of the city?

Never the less, the diminutive young kinswoman is at the farm, her blue and white Mini Cooper parked between the dusty trucks, a dish containing her mother's pecan pie lost among the other foods and treats and delicacies (good, but not great, Shelly Evans has a knack for baking that her daughter simply doesn't share). Where everyone else knows each other, is blood tied in some cases, Sam is an outsider, a stranger. That doesn't stop her from striking up easy conversation whenever it finds her.

And it finds her fairly quickly. A pretty, friendly, young new face with a charming smile, Sam soon enough has a small collection of young admirers. She makes conversation for a few minutes before politely excusing herself to find something to drink. When she sees the group gathering around the keg she detours, altering her trajectory to the tables laden with food. There she grabs herself a paper plate and hesitates, deliberating over the variety.


Calden
Calden is over by the table. Or at least near it. After asking around a bit -- he's brought an uncooked, spiced haunch of elk, after all -- someone's pointed him at a cooking pit with some spare room. Someone's found a usable roasting rack to put over it. Grimacing at the smoke and the heat, Calden crouches down to tear a small vent-hole in the foil wrap, and then heaves the entire haunch of elk over the fire. Almost immediately, the scent of heating herbs and spices begins to waft up, but it'll be a couple hours before it's ready.

Which is fine with him. This isn't his first Beltane shindig. These things go all night and sometimes half the day after, and people will get hungry at the oddest hours. They definitely don't stay PG-rated either, but he imagines the kids will be ushered off to nap in the farmhouse or something when things get a little more ... unhinged.

Dusting his hands off on the seat of his jeans, Calden stands up. There's already an impressive array of food and drink laid out. There's a young woman deliberating over the choices and Calden, making an effort to not let his dad get under his skin and ruin the night for him, calls out to her.

"Stay away from the haggis," he says. "I'm Fianna through and through, and I don't even touch that stuff."


Nora
Sarah is a woman full of genuine smiles and embraces. She greets everyone that arrives and approaches her with both and makes no apologies for either. Aiden is off with his eldest son, filling his older (but still strong and quite capable) arms with wood to carry back to the fire. He keeps an eye on Rory, that sly fox, and only half grumbles when his wife of thirty years has cheeks that redden modestly as Rory White turns on the charm. The woman who cares very little for the random stray hair of her (still) auburn hair or the fact that she wears no make-up touches a hand to her head to tame that stray lock and considers briefly that maybe (just maybe) she should have put on a little rouge. Perhaps that is the man that Calden admired once. Or maybe that's the one that he can't stand.

Catherine smiles that same stoic smile at Emmett, not committing to conversation with the older man but not shunning it either. One shoulder lifts in a shrug as she drags herself from the chair, feet beneath her, and sees to his drink. Éva introduces them - Emmett to Cate (Catherine?) and Cate to Emmett. She gives Éva a smile that might be considered slightly more thoughtful before casting her attention to the bearded kinfolk. "Hello Ms. Illésházy, Emmett."

"I gave you the good stuff. The other is..." And she shrugs once more, her tone of voice falling to something more private. "made for them..." And she flicks a finger toward one of the known Garou with a lift and fall of her dark brows. Cate drifts back to reclaim her plastic throne and draws her legs up once more, arms wrapping around them and her eyes refocusing on the gaiety at hand.

Calden is assisted with his haunch of spiced elk. He's got plenty of room to cook and a roasting rack that Sarah herself has set him up with. She pats one of the kin's broad shoulders and smiles, shakes her head at some private thought and hurries off to see to another guest considering food.

"Oh, don't you listen to Calden dear." Says Sarah to Sam, a hand patting her arm considerately. "'tis no different than what you get in the grocer with your hot dogs. At least with our Haggis...you know what you're getting." The older woman winks at the younger and pats her arm lightly once more before wandering off to do something somewhere else.

A kinfolk is talking to Éva. Talking her ear off about one legal matter or another. It's Sarah who interrupts and shoo's the talkative male off. "I'm real happy you came Éva, you know that your girl has a safe place in our home whenever she's tired." Nodding, she moves away again this time with a hand holding the small of her back.


Sam
Sam is studying the tables, trying to figure out where to start, when a male voice calls out a warning to her. Brows lifting in surprise, she turns her head toward Calden.

"Why, what's wrong with the haggis?" she calls back. Sarah comes over, but her tone, that wink, and the comparison to hot dogs do little to satisfy Sam's curiosity before she's off to make her rounds. Using her plate to wave Calden over, the corner of her mouth lifted in a crooked grin, Sam says, "C'mon, you can't say that and then at not at least tell me what I should be looking out for. I'm guessing something vaguely hot dog-like, but I don't really see anything hot dog-like over here." There are sausage shapes, of course, but that doesn't exactly narrow it down for her.


Keisha
Beltaine is a holiday among those in the calendar that would, of course, be considered rather Bacchanalian in nature and content. Eating, drinking, being marry and throwing one's carnal inhibitions to the wind are practically part of the itinerary for most Beltaine events. Thus, one would imagine that it's a no-brainer to see Children of Gaia present. And indeed, to be sure at least one a child of Unicorn makes her appearance known, showing up a bit too early to be considered "fashionably late" and yet too late to be on-time.

She had found out about it through her uncle, who mentioned it as a place where she could get introduced to some of the local Sept members...since, he noted with a slightly pointed tone, she had failed to get herself out there. Keisha countered that she had been a bit busy getting herself settled in and registering for her sociology classes at UC-Denver to start socializing. Still, she agreed with him as she stocked the frankincense in said uncle's little occult shop off the beaten path in Denver. Beltaine would be a perfect opportunity for her to start meeting people.

The Gaian does not cut a particularly intimidating figure as she walks up to the farm, having parked a ways down the road. Enough people were going to be there and taking up parking space; she doesn't mind walking. The first thing anyone would distinguish about her profile as she walks up the road is the staff. Six feet long (which is six inches taller than Keisha herself) and made of white oak, the ends of the staff are capped with metal and a wrapping of leather is just a little bit down from each cap. It is held in her right hand as she walks along. It doesn't appear as if she needs it for mobility purposes; she's walking fine on her own.

It takes Keisha a bit longer than she expected to get up to the gathering, and the light mocha skin has the faintest beginnings of a sheen of sweat. The Gaian normally dresses in a contemporary manner; she's a teenager of the modern era, after all. For Beltaine however she goes more traditional...because if you can't be traditional on one of the Sabbats, when can you? Granted, when we're talking about May Day, "traditional" isn't synonymous with "conservative" and while she doesn't dress to impress, she's not wrapped head to toe in a ceremonial robe either. It's a simple, long, double scoop tank dress with a large, full ruffle that curls a bit at the edge, made of hemp and organic cotton that is dyed the color of green apples. Knee-length soft leather boots, laced up through eyelets on the side of them, complete the outfit.

Her dark auburn dreadlocks are hanging loosely and she sweeps them back with a single motion of her hand as she comes up, sliding the military surplus-style backpack off her shoulder. With a few words of greetings to the hosts, a quick introduction and thanks for having her, she opens up the backpack and withdraws her contributions to the gathering:

* A single red wildflower to add to whatever flower collection is present to celebrate the birth of summer
* A couple of bottles of cinnamon wine--because, as her uncle had wryly noted, "You can never have too much to drink for Beltaine."

With those placed in their appropriate spots, Keisha sets the mostly-empty backpack out of the way behind the food tables. She smiles a little when she hears Sam and Calden's exchange, including Sam's question about what it looks like.

"Let me know when you find out. Never seen it before, but I know what's in it so I'd rather just avoid it." She gives a slightly rueful look at the tables, realizing that she probably should have brought something vegan if she'd wanted such as a food option. One cannot subsist on alcohol alone, no matter how hard some people try.


Calden
"Haggis," Calden says, "is -- "

(and this is when some devil clearly alights on his shoulder)

" -- pretty delicious, actually. But I'm morally opposed to eating it. There are so few haggii left in Scotland, after all." He's straightfaced. Regretful, even, as he picks up a sturdy paper plate and begins filling it with selections from the potluck. "Either of you ever see one in a zoo? Really lovely little critters. Very unique."


Emmett
Éva is at his side before it registers. A drawn up corner of his mouth echoes with familiarity and he casts her a sidelong glance as if to say, you think so? "No, I haven't met Cate yet." Emmett gives Nora a smile of gratitude and lifts the glass she just gave him in an extra added thanks. "You should go have a little fun Catherine, I'm sure the Carey's won't mind." His smile slides wide at her before he turns and makes his way toward where Sarah is rescuing Éva from the talkative man and his glass of booze. He's got his own less potent glass of spirits in one hand while the other curves around the eagles head handle of his cane. Emmett left Colorado not exactly whole, but not near as broken as he was returned to it. But there doesn't seem to be shame or pride in the lack of ability in his leg. It just is what it is and that seems to be about as much attention as he's willing to pay it at that moment.

"How have you been Éva?" He asks once she's got a bottle of water (or juice) in her hand. "How's life?" The question is broad and sweeping and could encompass anything and everything that she could possible be involved in. And, truth be told, he seems genuinely interested in her response. Even if it is simply as dull as work's killing me or the kids are great, even I can't complain would keep his attention. Not the sort to stare, Emmett keeps his eyes off Éva. He doesn't look at her a whole lot, not even when she speaks to him. His eyes are roaming constantly over the people dancing and the singing and playing music. The couples already making their way for the tents on the back half of the property. The trees that loom all around this festive gathering.

But most of all they seem to always find the fire. The way it balls up and leaps and illuminates as if imbued with a fierce yellow sun. Amber tongues eat away at the wood, only to be fed more by the elder Carey. Wide ribbons of flame and twinkles of embers lap at the starry sky as if in time to the beat of the music. It momentarily brings a sickness to his belly the way the sight of fire always does.

After a moment his eyes tear away from the fire and scan the lay of the Carey land until they find Ellie playing with a monster of a dog who wants nothing more than to have its belly rubbed and its ears scratched. "Looks like Ellie's made a new friend."


Reese/Etain
Someone told Sam, which means someone probably told Reese (he hadn't been kidding when he said he never learned to answer to anything else, or not to answer to that, but most people don't know if it's a first name or a last name they're calling) and the siblings (who actually don't look that much alike - a passing resemblance, perhaps, but that's about it) arrive together despite any confusion or uncertainty that may (or may not) still exist between them. He gives polite greeting and introduction, of course, and adds some (homemade) guacamole and chips to the expanding buffet.

Like his sister, he exudes a certain charm though in his case, it's an infectious air of confidence (that does occasionally turn to cockiness, it's true, but [probably] not here and now) that buoys him through the crowd, sometimes at Sam's side, sometimes not. He's friendly and easy going, a good listener, and takes a plate of miscellaneous munchies to a likely spot for amused people watching.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Goodness only knows who told Étaín about this gathering, or how she knew when and where to show up - for someone who has had very little contact with Garou or kin (that she knows of), the veterinarian has a way of hearing things. She sparkles and shines with an easy smile and cheerful laughter and her offering to the gathering (bottles of rich, dark, strong beer - a literal offering, perhaps) and a basket full of flower-and-green circlets for those who want them - she is, of course, already wearing one and cheerfully places one on the head of anyone who looks the least bit interested in such. They smell [are] fresh and green, comprised of rowan and hawthorn as well as whatever early wildflowers the Fianna kin could find. And they are, in fact, wild - as is this young woman, a bit, who shows more signs of her ancestry and namesake(s) than she knows.


Sam
Calden seems like a nice enough guy. There's something about him, some subtle air that makes people want to trust and confide in him, even though they probably shouldn't. It's enough to throw off Sam's knowledge of haggis. Not that she knows any more about it than Keisha, in fact she probably knows a little less.

She looks up at him, confused. Even in her hiking boots with their little bit of lift, she's more than half a foot shorter than even the Child of Gaia on her other side, which makes her who knows how much shorter than the rancher. If it weren't for an air of maturity - and not to mention the numerous piercings that adorn her ears and the make-up that draws greater attention to her eyes - she'd be mistaken for one of the children running around the site. Perhaps she already has been.

"I thought it was weird sheep parts pudding. Sarah made it sound like hot dogs," the words come out in a tone most use to describe their feelings on taxes or holidays spent with in-laws, "but, I don't see anything that looks like hot dogs." Leaning forward a little, she peers around Calden to see what he puts onto his plate, perhaps hoping for clues.


Calden
"No, haggis is just haggis." Calden gets a scoop of a nice potato salad, then sets his plate down to carve himself some roast beef. "Well, they're related to sheep and goats, but they're not. They're a little bit smaller, and they're only found in Scotland. I think they might have found some fossilized ancestors of haggii in France?" -- he glances at Keisha, as if to confirm. "But these days they're pretty much confined to the Scottish highlands."

He sets down the carving knife, sucks a dollop of sauce off his thumb, picks up his plate. When he looks at Sam, there's a distinct twinkle in his eye.

"The distinguishing feature," he deadpans, "is that the legs on one side of their body is always shorter than the legs on the other. Because they're evolutionarily adapted to running about on mountainsides, see. But that's also why they're dying out. Because the right-legged ones can only run with their left sides to the mountain, and vice versa. It makes it very hard for them to escape from predators, and it cuts down a haggis's chances of finding a mate by half."


Eva
That sidelong glance (you think so?) from Emmett has Éva lifting her chin in a quiet sort of challenge. Her mouth is still curved from it when her dark eyes return to the young Fian who addresses her, politely, as Miz. "Call me Éva," she invites or instructs, tipping her dark head to the girl and Emmett as she drifts away.

A grateful gleam for Sarah Carey as she shoos away the old man chewing her ear off about right-of-ways and deeds and surveyors and misdeeds of this century and the last and the one before that. Sarah offers a safe place in her home for Ellie whenever the girl gets tired, and Éva thanks her, graciously. Does not say that tomorrow is a school day, and they will slip out before the night gets raucous. That would be rude, and Éva will not be rude to her hostess.

By the time Emmett finds her again, Éva is holding her bottle of spring water in her right hand, uncapping it with her left. The bottle is dripping wet from the slurry of melting ice in the coolers. She wipes her damp palms on the thighs of her jeans, leaving dark marks on the denim, and cuts Emmett a half-glance, taking in his profile as he takes in the spectacle of the bonfire. They are far enough away from it that the heat is no more than a suggestion, but close enough to hear the roar.

"Well," she returns, her voice low-pitched but distinct. Distinctive. Her dark eyes slide away from his profile, here and lace through the crowd, the familiar faces distorted by the dusk, the movement of the flames, the individual decisions to let fucking go and - " - and well enough."

The edge of her half-smile hooks wry. Emmett will not see it, but he may hear the slightly irreverent edge of it in her quiet voice. "Last week I had the questionable pleasure of squeezing in a business trip to Williston, North Dakota. I can't say that I recommend it, unless you're an oil company executive or a stripper." She tips back the bottle and swallows a mouthful of water.

There is a conversational equilibrium here. Both Emmett and Éva watch the crowd more than they glance at each other. She stands flanking him rather than facing him, but her eyes cut here and there to his profile - the full beard, the too-long hair curling over his collar, and so they do now. Her head is canted toward him, tipped upward, dark hair still coiled into a crisply professional chignon. No more than a lock or two out of place, even at this hour, with a cool wind rising over the fields to taunt the flames.

There's Ellie, playing with a short-haired, black-furred dog the size of a young bear, which is rolling around on its spine, delighting the children. Emmett comments that the girl has made a new friend. Éva makes a soft sound at the back of her throat, a quiet hmmph, full of an affection so dark and depthless that - for a sure and breathless moment - it changes everything about her. The careful distance of her stance, the easy solemnity of her half-smile, the air of reserve that infuses the air around her all dissolve into something else, entire - deep and savage and primal.

"So she is. Poor Ellie. She didn't know whether to be thrilled or scandalized that she's being allowed to stay up two hours later than her bedtime on a school night. I think she compromised and settled for a combination of the two."

While they watch, a rumor ripples through the small knot of children about flower-crowns and three girls (two red-headed Carey-relatives, and dark-haired Ellie) jump up and peel off with a few others through the crowd. The dog lopes in their wake, big shaggy paws and a big shaggy head, delighted to distraction by this new game of running! places!

"What about you?" As the children move through the crowd. That edge again, mildly sardonic, layered over something deeper and richer and private. Interest, or concern perhaps, though a quiet sort that does not feel intrusive or hectoring. "I am glad to see you. How are you?"


Sam
Sam makes a face, clearly still unsure if she should be believing what this guy's saying. She looks down, one hand slipping into a pocket of her jeans - seeking her phone, no doubt, with its Wikipedia app, or maybe hoping to use her phone-a-friend. Then he mentions fossilized haggii in France. Her head comes up a beat later, and her confusion snaps instantly to amusement.

"Okay, now I'm pretty sure you're pulling my leg. And you still haven't told me which it is. Endangered species or not, it's already dead." Placing her plate over her heart, she tilts her head, blinking up at him. "Are you really going to let its death go to waste? And," she turns to the Garou if she's remained nearby through all of this, "you're really going to dismiss it without even trying it first? Unless you're a vegetarian, of course, in which case I completely understand."


Emmett
Éva knows the Metzger boys. She knows Tom through her deceased mate. She knows Emmett as an afterthought (This is my packmate Hated-By-the-Wyrm, oh and that's his brother...what's your name again?). Emmett is smaller than his older sibling by 30%, though they share the same color of hair and the shape of their eyes. The same color of skin. Tom's nose is too far out of shape from being broken repeatedly to tell if there's any similarity there, but not many have studied either Metzger close enough to notice that small nuance. That Emmett is present can only mean that Tom is not. They don't run together, these two, and Eva would know that better than anyone besides Sarah and Aiden Carey.

His eyes that had been lowered lift to track the dark streaks on her jeans before turning away again and watching the children scatter to find out about these flower crowns they've heard tell of. He smiles, dips his chin toward his chest and listens intently to what it is she's saying. He shouldn't go to Williston North Dakota unless he's one of two things - of which he's neither. Duly noted, says the nod that he gives her.

"I'll bet good money she's feeling pretty grown up ." A corner of his mouth tugs upward. Eventually, when she says that she really is glad to see him, his gray eyes sweep over her face noting the delicacy of her features and the way they seem crafted expertly down to the shape of her brow and edge of her jaw before looking away again.

"Are you?" Emmett is smiling, not full or wide or ear to ear, but smiling genuinely so that it ends up in a one sided grin. "I'm glad to see you too, Éva. You really do look great. And so does Ellie." He says with a nod toward the pack of girls who are following an auburn haired teen female toward the picnic table with the flower crowns. Of all the children, Ellie is the most striking. Maybe it's her dark hair against the pale crown of a floral arrangement.

How are you, she asks, "I'm doing ok." Is his response. "The ranch is doing pretty good, the help seems stable....just hoping the weather holds." His replies are generic, the sort you give the cashier at the grocer when they ask how you are. But one more glance back at Eva's face and Emmett is laughing and looking away at the girls and the flowers and then the fire.

"That sounded ...ridiculous." Shaking his head he takes a drink of whatever it is that Nora gave him. "I'm doing pretty good." then, "Really." His gaze darts back to her face and he's wearing a wry grin to match her own.


Keisha
Keisha looks back and forth between Calden and Sam, keeping quiet for the moment. She can't keep a smile off of her face; the girl doesn't have the greatest poker face on the planet, it would seem. When Calden looks to her to play along, she just gives a shrug that could conceivably be interpreted as "I don't know, you must be right"...or, possibly, "Keep me out of your teasing of the poor woman."

The smile turns into a wide grin when Sam reaches for a phone and then expresses her skepticism. She takes a lean on her staff and throws Calden a pseudo-apologetic shrug. "Good effort there, but I think this one's too smart for that. That was just mean, for the record." Her amused expression downplays any potential bite in the words.

When Sam asks her about the food, she nods. "You got me...I'm a vegan. And even if I felt like breaking that particular vow, I'd look for something a bit more appetizing than haggis." She extends her hand, first to Sam and then Calden. "I'm Keisha. Nice to meet you guys."


Calden
Sam is pretty sure her leg is getting pulled. There's a tiny smile hiding in the corner of Calden's mouth now. "I neither confirm nor deny that suspicion," he says gravely, and then puts his hand out as well.

"Calden White." His hand is big, his palm work-roughed, his grip solid. "Nice to meet you two. I live up north, but my family and the Careys have some sort of esoteric fifth cousin twice-removed-type connection. That's my father there," he nods at the white-haired man who bears an unmistakable resemblance to him, "and those are my cousins Jim, Ian and Paul."

Jim and Ian have wasted no time at all. They're crowding around a very pretty young woman, barely stopping short of shoving and jostling each other to talk to her. Paul, on the other hand, has produced a harmonica from somewhere and is doing his best to harmonize with a pair of guitarists.

"Actually, I think Ian's actually my nephew. Or maybe my uncle." Calden shrugs and picks up his plate again. He snags a large plastic mug from the end of the table and holds it under the spigot of one of the kegs, glancing at his new friends for help. "Give me a hand here?"


Sam
Keisha thinks that was just mean. Sam shrugs a shoulder, grinning to show there's no bad feelings. "I have a bunch of brothers and a baby sister, believe me, I've been subjected to and witnessed much, much worse. Sam," she says when its her turn to shake hands with first one, then the other. "My brother, Reese, is..." she pauses, looking around and then pointing out the man standing away from the crowd, watching the revelers, "there." From a distance it's difficult to see any family resemblance between the two. Reese's face is more angular, Sam's softer. And of course there is a height disparity, Sam is the shortest member of the family. Not that anyone besides Reese would know that, but they could likely guess.

"I just moved to Denver a couple of weeks ago." She fills up her plate with one or two spoonfuls or pieces of everything she doesn't immediately recognize. She still doesn't know which is the haggis, but it's probably made it onto her plate. Judging by Keisha's reaction she'll know it when she tastes sludge? But why would anyone serve something unpalatable to all these guests? Or is that sort of hazing common among the Fianna?

All questions Sam hopes to have answered one way or another before she leaves tonight.


Reese
Reese is, indeed, over there; catching his sister pointing him out, he waves and saunters over easy as you please. The smile is equal parts smirk and grin, and only grows in its amusement when he sees his sister's plate. "Feeling adventurous today, are we?" comes first, then nods for the two strangers talking to his sister. "Hi - I guess she told you who I am already, but I'm Reese. It's a pleasure."


Calden
It's true; from a distance they don't resemble each other at all, Sam and Reese. But as the young man comes closer Calden can pick out an unmistakable familial resemblance. It's something about the shape of their eyebrows, the large eyes, the distinct jawlines. Certainly, they resemble each other a lot more than either of them resemble Calden. Or Keisha.

"Pleasure," Calden replies, setting his mug of ale down to extend his hand. "Calden. You new to Colorado too?"


Reese
"Relatively, I guess. I've been here more than a year, less than two," replies Reese as he shifts his plate to answer Calden's offered hand; he isn't so young up close as he appears from further away. The corners of his eyes and mouth are lightly lined by both smiles and difficulty in ways that imply he's nearer to thirty than he is to twenty-five. There are hints of being careworn. (It should be said, perhaps, that there's nothing of Breeding about Reese. Any resemblance to family heroes is topical only, though that particular distinct jaw, shape of eyebrows, can be found in far more than just these two Evanses.) At any rate, the shake is firm and warm, comfortable and confident. Reese has an artist's hands with long, thin fingers deceptive in their delicacy.

"You? A transplant, or a lifer?"


Keisha
Keisha complies with the request from Calden to help fill his mug, then looks over her shoulder when Sam points out her brother. Reese makes his way over and earns a smile of greeting to Keisha; he strikes up a conversation with Calden, which she listens to quietly as she gets herself something to drink.    She promised her uncle that she'd tell him how the cinnamon wine was, so that's what she pours herself before turning to stand next to Sam.

"Keisha," she says in greeting to Reese when the opportunity arises, her hand extending. "Nice to meet you."


Sam
Sam has a smile for her brother when she sees him making his way over. It's not as warm and bright as it could be, but it's not tight or cold, either. The dark cloud that hovers over the siblings is still only just starting to disperse.

"Always," is her response when Reese asks if she's feeling adventurous. He strikes up conversation with Calden and Sam takes the opportunity to step back, giving them space. She doesn't get a drink for herself, she's not planning on sitting just yet and she needs both hands to start working at her food, which she starts poking at experimentally with a plastic fork.

"How is it?" she asks Keisha, nodding toward the cup in the other woman's hand.


Eva
Emmett will bet good money that Ellie's feeling pretty grown up. The comment draws a flashing expression from Éva, a sketched suggestion of a laugh she subsumes beneath her skin. "She is," the Shadow Lord confirms, dark eyes lingering on the group of children now, streaking through the dusk after the flower crowns. They practically ambush Étaín and crowd around her in an anxious group, asking her a million questions, chattering in an engaging flow as they claim the best crowns for themselves. "Though, to be fair, I think Ellie's been feeling pretty grown up since the day she was born.

"She has always been a solemn child." Takes after her father that way.

The affection lingers soft in the seams of her eyes, well after the brief sketch of a smile has settled back into her usual wry expression. Emmett tells her that she looks well, and so does Ellie, and Éva flashes him a glance, sidelong and quicksilver, her face cheated into a three-quarter profile. She is dressed casually. Dark jeans, fitted to her frame, a crisp white oxford shirt, menswear-style, over a tank top and under a leather blazer. Hiking boots instead of cowboy boots or thoroughly inappropriate professional heels, all fine and quiet and unremarkable. The blazer is likely thick enough to hide the bulk of her shoulder holster, if she's wearing one.

Even here, she probably is.

"Flatterer," she chides, mock-serious. "I expect it from the Celts, but not you salt-of-the-earth types. Is there something in that ale," a lift of her chin toward the mug of homebrew drawn for him by Nora, "that makes you Irish-for-the-night?"

He's just hoping the weather holds. That line might have done it anyway, but listen: Emmett's laughter draws out her own, brief but bright, and momentarily uninhibited. Éva flashes teeth, her mouth open, eyes shining with humor as he recovers. Her head is tipped upward, face toward the sky. Somewhere above the curling pall of smoke from the fire, early stars are beginning to gleam in the firmament.

"Don't worry, Emmett," the irreverent note lingers in her voice. "Since moving out here, I've become an expert on the weather. I don't mind discussing it at all," then, sobering, "I'm glad to hear it, though. You should come over for dinner, sometime. Or if you ever get in to the city, give me a call. I'll take you to lunch. Technically, you're a client of the firm," another flash of her teeth, " - so I can expense it."

There's a beat, a brief silence before she moves again, her humor dissipating into the quiet energy of her presence. then, a lift of her chin over the gathering, encompassing it all with one neatly sketched gesture. "You staying long, tonight?"


Calden
"I'm about as lifer as it gets." Reese wouldn't be mistaken to detect a hint of quiet pride there. "We live up north near the Wyoming border."

He hardly has to explain what he does up there. There are only so many options. Cattle rancher's one. Park ranger's another. Bizarre natureboy hippie secluding himself from civilization is a third ... but Calden just doesn't have that look to him, does he? Plus there's the fact that those cousins of his are all decked out in amusingly stereotypical cowboy gear, announcing their status as a rare and diminishing race so clearly that Calden doesn't have to.

So: cattleman, then. Which explains the rough hands; the sunbeaten, windburnt skin; the sturdy long-boned frame of a man who works primarily with his body and his hands. Rare in this day and age, really, though perhaps a little more common amongst the kin of werewolves. Still, compared to Reese and his sister, who are city folk from a city tribe, Calden is practically a different breed altogether. He picks his ale up again, takes a swig.


Keisha
Sam asks her how the wine is, and she smiles a bit. "It's good. I have to admit than I was a bit skeptical; cinnamon is great in certain uses, but I tend to think it's best in really small doses. The cinnamon challenge is the perfect example of that. But I'll give my uncle credit, he did a great job with this."

She looks around a moment, fingers tapping on her leg. Keisha is a woman that does better with people she knows than people she doesn't. Maybe its a side effect from working with spirits; capricious as they may be, you know what you're dealing with based on who what kind of spirit it is. When she's presented with people she doesn't know she starts to talk to make up for potentially-awkward silences, even if they haven't happened yet. Case in point: Three...two...one...

"Have you been here a year or two like your brother said?" She looks back at Sam with a smile. "I'm new myself...just a couple of weeks. I've been busy settling in...I've registered for a couple university classes. I'm from Portland out west before that. Decided to head out away from the nest...find my own path, you know?"


Reese
"That's where we are now, yeah. My trip to get here was kind of the long way around, though, with lots of stops." This is with a shrug, and though Sam's probably found out some more about what happened in between Vermont and Colorado, Reese doesn't expound upon it now. "Family's back east. There are a lot of cattle and horse ranches around here, aren't there? I've done a couple livestock-centered projects for various clients."

This isn't to say he's ignoring Keisha, mind, just that for the moment Reese is more focused on Calden.


Calden
"Well," Calden looks wry, "depends on how you define a ranch. Plenty of estates up and down the interstate corridors where folks pay a few million just to sit pretty on sixteen acres of land. If you're talking about real ranching, though -- not so much now as there was in my grandpa's time. Between modern irrigation and modern urbanization most the ranchland's turning into suburbs in one direction and farmland in the other."

Coming from someone else, it could be a bitter tirade. It's not, from Calden. It's matter of fact, objective, erudite: charting the rise and fall of an old way of life. The -- let's just say it -- cowboy, albeit an evidently well-read and rather well-to-do cowboy, pauses to take another swig of beer. Then he sets the mug back on the table so he can start in on his dinner.

"Still plenty of ranches up near the Wyoming border, though. More across the border, of course, but the water rights aren't as generous there." That skewed smile makes it way back. "Bet that was more about Colorado ranching than you ever needed to hear. What about you? What's this about projects and clients?"


Sam
Sam doesn't mind Keisha's talkativeness. It gives her a chance to taste her food rather than wolf it down to keep conversation going from her end. That doesn't mean that she's not listening to what the woman has to say while she chews. Her attention is more on her than on the men talking nearby, though her eyes occasionally slide in that direction.

She chuckles a little at mention of the cinnamon test, something she's seen but never tried herself. Her smile widens, warms, when Keisha asks if she's been here as long as Reese.

"No, just a couple weeks, myself," she says again. "A friend of mine from college started up his own business in Denver and asked me to come out. We build robots." She smiles when she says it, proud of the work and excited in an entirely geeky way. Tilting her head in a bit of a nod, she says, "Which is the cool way to say it and how I got roped in. My part's pretty mundane. Just coding and programming stuff."

Neither Sam nor Reese has mentioned their tribe, though it wouldn't have been hard to guess just looking at Sam. She has more of the urban street child look than does her brother. But, city kin though they may be, she is entirely comfortable out here away from Denver's urban landscape, boots crusted with mud, eating from a sturdy paper plate while talking to new people beneath an explosion of stars.

"I get wanting to find your own path." She's earnest when she says it. She's been there...oh how she's been there. "I've been trying to figure that out for years. Have you decided on what you'll study?"


Reese
"I like learning new things, especially about an industry I might work with. It helps, you know?" Reese looks as urban as Sam does, but not in a street child way; he would likely be best described as a well calculated hipster rather than an urban street child, with the exception being his boots. Those are good for hiking and roaming around bonfires - he comes prepared to these things, does Reese. "I started a consulting-advertising-and-design firm not long after I moved here, when I realized the ones already in existence were either way too big to be personal or way too small to survive against the big guys. We're pretty small yet, just a handful of people, but our work is quality and I was lucky to meet a few of the right people fairly early on to make sure we'd get through the first couple years that are so hit or miss with small businesses."

Sam knows some of this, but some is new - mostly, she knows that for someone who admits to having been in some fairly serious trouble in another place that drove him here, her big brother's done pretty well for himself. He's certainly not hurting the way so many small business owners are.

"Art and design have always been a thing for me. It's nice to get to do work I'm passionate about."


Calden
"Yeah," Calden agrees, "I hear you there. You know, give me your card. I've got exclusive partnerships with a few high-end steakhouses in Denver. They always seem to be running some ad campaign or other, and they like to look for local talent. Part of their whole local, sustainable, organic, undiscovered thing. I'll mention you."


Reese
The card Reese offers is a nice, heavy stock (turning it over reveals that it's made of recycled materials and contains seeds for a mix of indigenous-to-Colorado wildflowers, so that instead of throwing it away or even recycling it it can be planted) printed with simple, clean text (no Comic Sans here) reading Reese Consulting centered on the top, below which is printed Advertising - Graphic Design. Bottom left corner has a PO box number, phone number and email, rounding out the information most people would need to contact him.

"Thanks, that would be great. Word of mouth has been huge for us and every bit helps."


Calden
That card has a curious feel -- heavy, but irregularly textured. So of course Calden turns it over and sees the little note, which makes him quirk a smile.

"Nifty," he says. "Thanks, I'll pass the word on. It was nice meeting you, Reese. And you two as well," to the Sam and Keisha. "I'm going to go rescue that girl from my cousins. I'll catch up with you guys later, all right?"


Keisha
Keisha relaxes a little bit when Sam responds well to the conversation. She blinks when the other mentions that she codes and programs robots, looking rather impressed. "Whoa. Seriously, like actual robots? Are we talking, like, Robot Combat League robots or the kind they're building toward more practical stuff? Or have you code-named your project SkyNet?" She says the latter with a bit of a joking smile..she doesn't seem to have the automatic vehement aversion that some Garou have to advanced technology, though her expression indicates more curiosity than any real knowledge. Weaver spirits are spirits too, right?

When Sam asks about what she's studying, the woman shrugs a little bit. "I've set for a couple sociology courses...nothing heavy. Right now it's more for expanding my own knowledge and understanding than any kind of career. Plus I'm a Theurge, so I feel like the more I can spend time in human society, the less I fall away from reality and get lost in spiritual ways, you know?"

She looks over when Calden announces his departure and smiles to him. "Nice to meet you. I'm sure we'll bump into each other again soon enough."


Sam
...like actual robots? asks Keisha, and Sam nods, then her smile grows a little wider. "Oh, no, but wouldn't that be something? I doubt I'd have time for the rest of my life if I went into battle 'bots. So far it's a lot of medical machinery, but, word around the water cooler is we might get government funding for something in the future." Burying her fork into the food still left on her plate, she lifts her hand to her mouth as though she's about to whisper secrets to the Theurge, though in reality her voice doesn't drop overmuch. "It's all very hush-hush," she says with a wink.

Keisha talks a little about her school plans, and Sam takes the opportunity to clear off a little more of her plate. Then Calden is leaving. Sam gives him an upward nod. "Have fun.

"I do know, a little. My-- our younger brother's a Theurge. He's always been a little more interested in what the rest of us couldn't easily see than what we could."


Eva
By the time Calden reaches his cousins, though, there is no longer any need to rescue the girl from their attentions. Instead, he finds them a big beleagured, under a certain degree of siege from a small knot of group of kids varying in age from seven to eleven or so. A handful of boys and girls wearing the rowan-and-hawthrone flower-crowns Étain contributed to the celebration.

Their attack was stealthy. They studied the pair of cowboys, in their crisp new boots and fine, well-brushed Stetsons and giant belt-buckles from a half-dozen yards away, whispering then invaded, aswarm, swamping and then drowning them with cowboy-related questions.

Which included questions about horses, cattle rustling, and the size of their belt buckles. But most particularly included one very pointed question from one rather serious little girl.

"Are you sure you're real cowboys?" This is the third time Ellie's asked Calden's cousins the rather pointed question. She needs a real cowboy, one who is preferably not already allies somehow with her mother, but she doubts the authenticity of these two, nevermind their protestations to the contrary, because their boots are so very new and so very clean, "because," the girl continues, quite seriously, her nose wrinkled with a rather skeptical consideration, her dark brows drawn close over dark eyes. "what I need is a real cowboy. With authority."


Calden
"I'm a real cowboy."

This new voice comes from behind and a fairly long ways above Ellie's head. It is male, because of course it is -- otherwise it would be a real cowgirl, silly -- and it is low and warm and threaded through with good humor. Turn around, and she'll get to look up up up at the Real Cowboy™ standing there. He is, perhaps disappointingly, not spinning a lariat over his head. Nor wearing a Stetston. Or a bandanna. Or a rawhide vest, or a shearling jacket, or chaps, or even spurs.

He is, however, wearing blue jeans. And boots. And those boots, unlike those fancy tooled-leather party boots that Ian and Jimmy have on, look creased and smudged and dull-tipped from kicking around in the dirt. Well-worn. Used. Worked in. Real.

"These guys are real cowboys too," he adds, crouching down on one knee to get on the kids' eye level. "They're just fancied up because it's a party and they want to impress the pretty cowgirls. Now," the grin quirks a little wider as he affects a Texas drawl, "what c'n I do ya fer, pardner?"


Eva
Kids are such strange creatures. Ellie's cohorts are two Carey relatives, one tow-headed, the other ginger as a Weasley. Though they had no particular qualms about talking to strangers when they initiated such a conversation by invading Calden's cousins' attempts at impressing girls, they turn as one with a startled and guilty look when Calden walks up behind them and answers Ellie's persistent question.

(We're not supposed to talk to strangers. Whispers the blond girl into the ginger boy's ear. That's not a stranger, returns the boy, with a nevertheless doubtful look up at Calden, I think it's a relative. I heard Auntie Sarah say - )

The dark-haired girl has no such qualms. Her features are so severe and so solemn, her mouth set, her round cheeks uncreased by anything like a smile. Listen, Calden announces that he is a Real Cowboy™ and Ellie does not take him at his word. Oh, no. The girl examines the evidence: dark gaze dropping to his feet and ticking up a his frame, eventually meeting and gauging and looking him right in the eyes, holding the look as he sinks down to her level. Then the look flicks back down to his feet, weighing the worn-in (worked-in) boots against the utter ordinariness of his attire.

She cuts a glance back up at the cousins as Calden assures her that they are also real cowboys, just the dressed-up sort, and twists her mouth consideringly, still thoughtful, still processing the evidence, taking nothing on his say-so. Briefly, she glances back at her friends (who are still whispering about whether or not a strange relative constitutes a genuine stranger, and then speculating philosophically about whether there could be any real strangers at the Carey house on Beltane).

"Okay. Well, that girl's not a cowgirl," Ellie corrects, conscientiously, in case his cousins were somehow mistakenly waylaid in their quest for pretty cowgirls by something flashier and less authentic, like - " - she's a park ranger at Roxborough." Then she looks back at Calden, flashing him the first smile he's earned tonight, which all at once illuminates her knowing little face. It shears a bit back into the rather doubtful twist as Calden affects his Texas drawl. All that accent earns him is a scrunched nose and another nanosecond of close scrutiny before she unbends again.

"I want cowboy boots but my mom says I don't need them. So you can tell her why I need them. Come on."

With that, she holds out a small hand. If Calden takes it, she begins to tug him along. "Oh, I don't want pink ones like Colleen. I want real ones."


Calden
"Sounds like a good cause," Calden remarks, thankfully dropping that awful Texas drawl. He gets to his feet. It's not like he wasn't dwarfing the girl before, his shoulders roughly four times as broad as hers, but now he really dwarfs her. Her hand almost disappears into his palm. "Jimmy, lemme borrow your hat. For the Cause."

It gets handed over. And the not-a-cowgirl, who has had a few mugs of homebrew and is rather willing to be charmed at the moment, giggles and runs her hair lightly over Jimmy's newly-revealed fair hair. Calden smirks at Jimmy as he sets the brand-new white Stetson down on his head, very much a you can thank me later sort of look. With the brim set low over his eyes, Calden suddenly looks quite a bit more Cowboy™: all rugged jaw and strong nose under that clean white hat. A tug on the brim toward the parkrangergirl, perhaps just a touch of irony in the gesture, and a "Miss," -- and he allows himself to be pulled along behind Ellie.

"So let me get this straight," he says, ambling along with the little girl. "Real cowboy boots, and not pink ones. You want nice tooling on the sides too? Or just plain like mine?"

A tough choice to be sure. Calden's plain boots don't even really have the sharply tapered toes of stereotypical cowboy boots, though they do have the solid stirrup-catching heel as well as the well-worn spot on that heel where those boots have, in fact, caught the stirrup on countless occasions. And though he wears them under his jeans today, if he were to pull his cuffs up she'd see that they do also have the convex upper edge and the proverbial bootstraps by which they could be tugged on. These are obviously the real deal, authentic. But tooling was just so fancy.


Eva
"Hmmm." That considering look once more, the corner of her mouth pulled toward the center, her left cheek distended from the odd little expression. She has the edge of her lower lip pulled between her teeth and glances down at Calden's boots as he asks her whether she wants them just plain like mine. It is a Very Difficult decision, so says everything about the girl. Particularly when she admits, in quite the same tone of voice she used to point out that thee not-a-cowgirl object of Jimmy's evening's affections was actually a park ranger. "I don't know what tooling is.

"Plain is ok, but maybe I want a little decoration. Just not too fancy." A small, barely perceptible eyeroll for things like too fancy boots. From a girl wearing a crown of flowers and dragging a cowboy to tell her mother she should have boots. "I bet they're good for keeping rattlesnakes from biting you, too." Oh, she's been plotting this campaign for a while. She's been Looking Things Up (quite possibly on Wikipedia). "Did that ever happen to you?"

Ellie leads Calden through the crowd, threading her way to the spot where her mother and Emmett are chatting. Emmett has a mug of the homebrew Nora's been tending all evening in one hand, his cane in the other. Éva has no more than a bottle of water, held loosely in her left hand. They're chatting quietly, comfortably, watching the crowd more than they watch each other. As soon as Calden and Ellie come into view, Éva's eyes are fixed on the pair, her expression alert but still except for the hint of inquiry sketched into the arch of her elegant brows.

"That's my mom," Ellie confides to Calden as the pair draw close. "And that's uhm - " a deep breath that pulls up her small shoulders, "Mister Metzger. Mom, this is - " there's a pause, then. A considered glance up at Calden's face. She doesn't know his name. But she does know what he is. " - a cowboy. He has something to tell you that I oughtta have cowboy boots and why."

"Does he." Returns Éva, with a rather bland expression meant to smother her quirk of bemusement at Ellie's declaration. The leading edge of her alertness, her awareness that Ellie was bringing leading over a stranger has eased itself out of her shoulders and spine. There's room at the corners of her mouth for the quirk of an incipient smile that she does not allow to be fully born.

"Éva Illésházy." She holds out her right hand hand, fingers and palm still damp from her water bottle A glance toward Emmett, " - this is Emmett Metzger."


Calden
"I've never been bit," Calden replies, "but I've had to scare a rattler out of my way once in a blue moon."

They close in on Ellie's mother. Who is lovely. And also: truthfully, quite a bit fairer than her daughter. A lot more ... north european, where Calden would have pegged the little girl as Latina. The surprise is there in his eyes, there and then gone, a quick flicker that Eva has surely had to deal with for the past decade, give or take. Sometimes that look comes loaded with significantly more judgment. Sometimes with disgust. Sometimes with pity.

For what it's worth, there's neither judgment nor disgust nor pity in Calden's eyes. Just a quick beat of surprise; a fact observed and acknowledged. It fades; replaced by a thread of amusement hiding under a Very Serious face. As he comes up to Ellie's mother and her friend, he gives that small tug of his hatbrim again, playing it to the hilt.

"Ma'am," he says, Very Serious Indeed, "I'm a real cowboy and I'm here to advise you that your daughter needs proper cowboy boots. And not pink ones either. Good sturdy ones, with just a bit of tooling on the side. Just a little bit of decoration, see, but nothing too fancy. Because otherwise, her toes might get bit by a rattlesnake."

He takes her hand, then. And the grin makes its way to the surface, curling up the edge of his mouth. Her palm is damp. His is dry and warm, calloused. "Calden White," he says. And then extending that same hand to Emmett, "Éva, Emmett. A pleasure."


Eva
Éva absorbs that moment of surprise, that tick of shifting expectations with a perfectly level equanimity. Some strangers have assumed that Ellie was adopted, except - they look so very much alike, except for their coloring. Perhaps she has seen it so often that it no longer registers, precisely.

Then she listens to his testimony regarding cowboy boots with equal seriousness. Or rather, equal Seriousness, her dark head tipped forward, some keen thread of living amusement gleaming in her eyes, just detectable in the curve of her mouth. "Thank you, I will take all that under advisement, Mr. White." Her gaze slants downward to Ellie, watching all this, judging the Real Cowboy's ™ performance, assessing its impact on her mother's expression, all quite seriously beneath her flower-crown.

A pleasure, says Calden.

"Likewise," returns Éva, when the handshakes are finished. "and you've already met my daughter Ellie."

A beat. "Though perhaps not formally, I think." The faintest widening of her wry half-smile. "Ellie, say hello to Mr. White."

And so Ellie formally introduces herself to Mr. White, the Real Cowboy ™, once again offering a small hand, this time for him to shake. After some prompting from her mother, the girl also thanks Mr. White for his able assistance and is then questioned by her mother about the origins of her flower crown.

Where did you find those? Some girl brought them.
That was very nice of her. Yes.
Did you thank her? Uh - no?
Do you think you should? Uh - yes?

Ellie then sets off on an unexpected quest, to find and thank Étain for the gift of flower-crowns. Éva traces her daughter's snaking path through the crowd of revelers with little more than the shift of her dark eyes, then returns her attention to the adults.

"Was that your first time acting as expert witness for the prosecution, Calden?"


Calden
Ellie's hand is shaken with the same warmth and dignity afforded to her elders. Then, as the girl scampers off, Calden returns his attention to her mother. He laughs -- "Yeah. I thought I did pretty well for my first time. Though I will admit the prosecution coached me beforehand.

"She's a great kid," he adds. "Are you a lawyer, then?"


Eva
"I'm not surprised. We always prepare our witnesses beforehand," Éva returns, briefly giving full expression to her heretofore incipient smile. The faintest tip of her head - concession to his laugh, or acknowledgment of witnessing-skills. " - you don't want to be surprised by what they are going to say, after all.

"Thanks, she's - " and her smile changes, goes, by turn, reflective, gentle, and fierce. Éva just nods then, wordless agreement with his assessment of Ellie. It may be the only time all night that Éva finds words failing her. Nothing ever seems entirely adequate. " - she's - yeah."

"And yes, I'm a lawyer. With Baranski & Greer?" Brows lifted in faint query to see if he recognizes the name. People sometimes do, but usually only if they are somehow involved with the firm or otherwise in the practice, " - our Denver offices are in the 1999 Broadway building.

"What about you? I haven't seen you around Roxborough before. Are you a recent transplant? Or one of the Careys' far-flung relatives?"


Calden
He has no idea what Baranski & Greer is. The name flicks off him like water off a duck. He still has his mug with him, though, which he refills at the keg.

"I guess I'm one of the relatives. Very far flung through several layers of cousins and marriages. I live up north, near the state line." Where he is apparently a real cowboy. His mug full, he lets go the tab and straightens to face Eva and her friend again.

"So what's a lawyer doing at a potentially debauched Fianna boozefest?"


Eva
"Handing out my card," she deadpans, with a certain blithe deliberation. Only the corner of her mouth is quirked upward, and even that is difficult to read. "I do mostly criminal defense work, so the DUIs and public indecency charges that might stem from a potentially debauched Fianna boozefest could keep me busy for weeks."

As Calden straightens, re-filled ale in hand, she lifts her own bottle of water in an ironic little toast.

Then makes a quiet noise in the back of her throat, and concedes the story before she is even challenge on it.

"No, the truth is we live not far from here. My - " strange, how in that moment she finds it hard to say the word to a stranger. So she just elides it, allows the absence to stand in for a missing presence, " - well, he was part of the Sept. I figure it's good to make an appearance now and then, maintain those ties. And Ellie wanted to come. Her friends are here.

"We are leaving at 10:30, though. Hopefully before the actual outright debauchery begins."


Calden
Mate. That's the word she sidesteps. At least, that's what Calden assumes goes in that curious little space. He's polite enough to let it go, to not hound after it, pry.

Another sip. And a smile which is nearly a smirk. "Well, I suppose there's a chance of things remaining proper until ten-thirty. Though," a glance over his shoulder, where across the way and behind the bonfire there's a shriek of girlish delight and a whole chorus of rowdy male laughter, "I wouldn't put money on it. You should just cut your losses, stash her in the house now, and partake freely in the debauchery. So long as no one takes a compromising picture, I'm sure you'll still get plenty of business in the morning."


Eva
"Oh," an engaging, upward lilt of her brows, a lift of her chin toward the ripple of sound on the other side of the bonfire. Her own half-smile remains just so: wry, aware, sardonic perhaps, without slipping into the territory of a proper smirk. "I appreciate the advice." A brief glance at Emmett, his profile, her own gaze calm and withheld and searching.

"In fact, I was just about to tell Emmett that I thought he should stay. Let loose a bit. Unfortunately, I have two more at home, and a sitter to relieve. And a hearing before Judge Wall in the morning.

"He hates it when counsel are late. And he hates it more when counsel look like they had a better time than he did the night before.

"Since I'm unable to stay - perhaps you'll commit to a few extra acts of debauch on my behalf?"


Calden
Calden laughs. It levels off; turns into a smile. A real one, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "I'll consider it," he says gravely, "if you consider getting your little girl some cowboy boots. And not pink ones either."


Eva
"She did put on a very good case," concedes Éva, in an equally grave, considered voice. With a matched gleam in her dark eyes: humor, or pride, or matchless fucking love, all three braided together. " - so you have yourself a deal, Mr. White."

a gentleman, an enchanting creature.

Calden White

Eventually

he lifts her off that wall. He turns -- puts his back to the wall instead. And unceremoniously, rather ingloriously, Calden just sort of ... slides down to sit at the base of the wall, like his knees have given way, like he just doesn't have the strength to stay upright anymore.

And they stay there for a while. Her head on his shoulder. His head tipped back against the wall. His arms still around her, but loose now; his hands still covering her ass, her lower back, but nearly motionless now.

After quite some time he stirs, lifting his head, looking down at her. "Let me drive you to Fort Collins at least," he whispers. "Right now, if you don't want to stay the night."

Avery Chase

Avery gives a soft little yelp when he turns and slides. Even the smallest movement of his cock in her reminds her how... well, raw she is. She is sinking down with him and thinking

god, I'm going to be sore in the morning

before she remembers what she is. Before she remembers: no. no, I won't be.

So she exhales, and she curls up against him, knees and shins to the ground, her skin wet with a mix of water and sweat. He makes her an offer. From Fort Collins to Denver it's a good hour, faster if you know how to drive fast without getting killed. It's late enough at night that she could. A cab would cost her a pretty penny but she doesn't worry much about it. You forget what things cost when there really is next to no limit on the card you carry. Or the card you have back in the city, actually. She was going to run, she hunted and she filled her belly but now she thinks she can barely move.

Avery stirs, but it's several seconds later. He might think she didn't hear him. She lifts her head, her wet hair slicked back and her bone structure revealed to be all the more feral as a result. The shift in her weight as she straightens, settling herself more firmly on his cock by default, makes stars die in her eyes for a moment, explosive and consuming, before she settles again.

"You're a gentleman," she murmurs, which is one of the few compliments she's given him tonight that were not smirking and backhanded and flirtatious. She doesn't call him filthy this time, or a bastard. It's quite possible to be a bastard and a gentleman, after all, depending on which definitions you use.

She leans in, kissing him softly on his weary mouth, then

rises from him, huffing a laugh at how she's taken two showers now and is still dirty. Easy enough now to step in the shower, the water still blasting and still hot, and wash herself off one last time, or at least rinse. It takes a minute, maybe less.

Calden White

He's a gentleman. Yes he is. And he laughs, softly, against that soft kiss of hers. He is weary. He's so wearing that when she rises his head arches back, he closes his eyes, he gasps quietly as she slides away. His hand follows her rising with her hips, slipping down her legs, curling gently around her ankle as she steps away.

Leaves him a heap on the floor. He would laugh at himself if he could see himself now. He does laugh at himself after a moment, while she's in the shower cleaning herself up again: he looks down at himself, the expanse of that body that he maintains with balanced nutrition and physical work and -- let's be honest now -- [i]excellent genetics.[/i] The very best.

Well. Maybe not the very best. There are, in this world, specimens like Avery Chase.

He's still on the floor when she comes out. He has at least managed not to slide down and sprawl entirely ignoble and prone, like a fur rug stripped from her latest conquest. He is still propped against the wall, and he's drawn one knee up. The other foot stretches halfway across the distance between them. When he sees her stepping out,

naked and drenched with her hair slicked back and her eyes so wild,

his heart gives this funny little flop in his chest. He murmurs, "You're an enchanting creature, Avery Chase."

And he smiles at her, lopsidedly, his eyes traveling down, down and up again. It's a nice detour. Very scenic. Eventually he has to get up, though: otherwise he's blocking the door. And he does get up, grabbing onto the edge of the counter to haul himself to his feet. There are several large, soft towels in here. He wraps one of them around his waist.

The air outside the bathroom feels cool and dry. His nipples tighten, the hairs rise on his arms. He spreads his hand over Avery's upper back as they exit the bathroom, as though to keep her warm.

Avery Chase

Avery steps out, and looks down at him. She's turned the water off now, since he seems content to go on the rest of the night with his body still smelling faintly of her own. She lifts an eyebrow at him, one hand on the wall, when he looks at her. And he tells her she's an enchanting creature.

With a huff of exhaled laughter, she rolls her eyes and steps neatly over his lap, unbothered by his eyes tracking all over her as he does so. She grabs another towel, a fresh and dry one, as she does, walking out into the bedroom. God: she's used three of his nice fluffy yellow guest towels now. And a set of his sheets. And plates and knives and scotch glasses and so on. She's left him a mess.

Enchanting, he says.

Eventually he gets up. Drags himself to his feet. Wraps a towel around himself and finds her out there, a few steps ahead, laying his arm over her back. She glances at him, the towel in her hands drying as much water from her hair as she can, and gives him a small smile. "Mr. White," she murmurs, as though chastising, but she never finishes the thought. She lays her hand on his hand. She draws away, gently, smiling still, and starts to get dressed.

Calden White

Well; to complete the cataloguing of what exactly Avery has availed herself off while under Calden's roof: she has also helped herself to Calden, himself. Four times. Not that he's complaining. Not that he wasn't offering. Not that it wasn't mutual, every moment.

But when he puts his hand over her back, she says his name. She puts her hand on his. And she steps away from him, and though she's smiling, though she's gentle, he understands without needing to be told

that she's drawing a line.

He picks his book up as she's getting dressed. It's a collection of short stories by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. He returns it to the shelf, and returning, picks the trailing edge of the comforter off the ground and flicks it back onto the bed. She has her yoga pants on by then. She has her tank top on. He is still wearing a towel. Doesn't seem to plan to dress, either. He sits on the edge of the bed while she finishes dressing, watching her.

Calden White

[FIVE. FIVE TIMES. good god.]

Calden White

[ahem. DLP.]

Avery Chase

All night he's been telling her to make herself at home, accept his hospitality, stay the night, come back, let me drive you. She drifts toward and away from that line, accepting some things, denying others, compromising. Like now: she compromises to let him drive her, at least to Fort Collins, because she thinks he understands it does not mean what a lesser man might think it means.

Avery follows him with her eyes when he puts away the book. She pulls her tank top on, adjusting the interior shelf with its elastic under her breasts. It isn't much, but it's good enough when she needs something uncomplicated and dedicated. She does not put her panties back on. She slides into her yoga pants, looking at him walking around in a towel, her cunt still achining a little.

Returning to herself, she reflects on just...everything they did. The mindlessness of it. The drunken, lucious rush to completion every time. The way they couldn't keep their hands or mouths off of each other. So she's staring at him, in tank top and yoga pants when he turns, and he walks over, sitting on the bed. She doesn't put on her jacket.

The tank top hides the scar in front. Not the one in back. He saw it every time his mouth descended to her breasts, every time he rubbed his bristled face against her there. It didn't bother him, or make him frown or worry or fret. It didn't bother her. Sometimes,

when she isn't in front of a mirror,

she can't even remember it's there. She doesn't remember surviving it, after all. It was just there one day, when she woke up, when everything was different and nothing she'd planned up to that point mattered anymore. None of it. No one even talked about that scar.

Avery half-smiles at him, drawing her black jacket on, leaving it unzipped. "Are you going to drive me wearing that?" she asks, eyebrow lifted. "My chaffeurs usually dress more conservatively."

Calden White

"Oh."

She can see from his face that he hadn't understood you're a gentleman was a form of polite acceptance so rarefied it wasn't even spoken aloud anymore. And now he's a little embarrassed, almost jumping to his feet -- worried that she might think he didn't really want to drive her. That he was just being polite, himself.

He does want to drive her. It's the courteous thing to do, the hospitable thing to do. He has his own reasons too, and they are more compelling than even the ancient tradition of hospitality his entire bloodline believes so fiercely in. He's quick to pull that towel off his hips, tossing it to the middle of the bed where he'd rumpled his clothes in preparation for the wash.

Those jeans get recycled out. Now that they're both clean, he can smell the faint odor of cattle and horseflesh and pastureland and dirt and motor oil and smoke and scotch and

all the rest of that on his pants as he shakes them out. He doesn't put his boxers back on either; goes commando, stepping into his jeans, buttoning them. Without underwear, without a belt, his denims ride several inches below his navel, and just below his obliques.

He forgoes his undershirt, too, buttoning that red-checked flannel over bare skin. "I'm sorry," he says, "I thought you were saying no." And then the buttons are buttoned and he's ... a little rumpled, but reasonably presentable for a late-late-night drive to Fort Collins. He'll grab his jacket out of the game room as they head out.

"Do you want ... coffee, some water, something before you go?"

Avery Chase

If there is one concern Avery never had, and certainly does not have now, it is that Calden might not want to spend more time with her. He might not want to follow through on his offers, might have just been trying to be polite. Men who fuck like that don't do so out of politeness, and men who offer rides out of politeness generally do not call her enchanting while actually looking enchanted.

She smiles at the way he -- well -- hops to, and that smile fades a little when he whips off the towel, because her eyes are drawn inextricably all over his body, which is attractive enough when half-covered by a towel. Utterly naked she thinks she might drop to her knees and suck him off again, but

Avery is more restrained than Calden is. At least right now. She huffs out a laugh at herself and looks away as he pulls on his jeans. It isn't out of politeness. It isn't because she's pretending to be demure. It's because she thinks she might rip them off and try to rub herself off on him even if she can't bear to let him inside again. Fresh arousal makes her ache again, and her cheeks are flushed -- though not with embarrassment -- when he speaks again and she looks at him once more.

"The error in clarity is mine," she says softly, walking out into the game room ahead of him to go find her shoes and slip them on again. "As for refreshment, a little water would be lovely on the way."

Calden White

There's a flush under the golden tone of her skin. Don't think he doesn't see. He does see, and he knows why, and the truth is it'd be so easy for him to drop those jeans again and drag her back to bed but

she has better self control than he does. Thank god one of them does, or they might literally fuck themselves into a coma. He might, anyway. She walks out -- he laughs under his breath, following. There's that heavy jacket, dark suede and a shearling lining, very cowboy. It smells like the cold, and the wind, and like him. He pulls it on, his frame flat-out imposing now, bulked out like that. As they head for the stairs he asks her, half-smiling, "Sure you don't want to take home a bottle of wine?"

Whether she does or not, they eventually make it up to the great room. He stops by the kitchen -- that gorgeous kitchen with its stainless steel and its black glass and its semicircle of a breakfast bar -- and gets two bottles of water from the fridge. Well then; he apparently is the sort of drink bottled water after all. At least occasionally. When it's convenient. He passes her one, cold against her palm, and then grabs his keys and his cell phone off the all-in-one whiteboard/keyhanger on the wall.

She didn't enter through the front door, and she doesn't leave that way either. His cars are parked in the back, which only makes sense because the back, really, is where all the action is. It's where his land spreads out under the pitch-black sky, silvered by a waxing moon. Somewhere out there his herd is sleeping. His cousins, too, out in the ranch hands' cabin or -- in Jimmy's unfortunate case -- in a tent, near the afflicted cow. Over in the barn are his horses, some of his cattle dogs; the barn cats. She could smell them all, coming in on four paws. She can't smell them now in this form.

There are stairs on the side of the deck, taking them back down to the ground. He doesn't take her to the newish Silverado, though. They walk a little farther this time, all the way out to a garage built as a lean-to against the barn. The door is manual, and he heaves it up with a grunt, revealing two other Silverados, each about a decade older than the last. Can't say he's not faithful to his chosen brands.

He unlocks the door of the newer one -- it's about a 2000 model, if she keeps track of these things -- and gives her a hand up. Then he circles around and climbs into the driver's seat. Ten years ago, this ranch wasn't doing as well as it is now. The truck is bare-bones: no leather seats, no multidisc MP3/CD player, and only a cramped bench in the back. The engine turns over noisily, catching after quite some time. He clearly hasn't driven this one for a while.

As they roll up the dirt path to the real road, they pass Calden's house, silent and mostly dark. Avery sees, for the first time, the front of it -- the stone and wood facade, the strong alpine lines. Then he turns onto the road. It's a long drive to Fort Collins, rather boring, and all of it on lonely, arrow-straight two-lane country roads. As they get underway, Calden shifts, pulling his phone out, unlocking it and handing it to her.

"I believe you promised me your number," he says, smirking.

Avery Chase

Avery waits outside while he gets water, gets keys. She said no to the bottle of wine on the way up, or rather: laughed lightly and told him she believed he'd been quite hospitable enough for several bottles of wine, which is perhaps another way of saying that she is more entertained as a guest by fucking rather than drinking. Outside the kitchen she closes her arms in front of herself and lets the night air cool her off. She looks out over his land, and at the sky, and at the silhouettes of mountains to her left.

Some parts of this land still feel like they were only recently tamed. Five generations isn't so long, really, in the length of human history. She may not smell the cattle from here, not in any way but a distant hint of it, but she can almost see the shadows of elder peoples crossing through the grass, can almost feel the thudding of bison's steps across the plains. The weight of eons rests on her here, and it makes her feel blessed. It makes her feel burdened. It makes her feel --

and this feeling has only been nurtured and intensified by the last few hours of sex with Calden

-- protective.

She turns when he comes out and smiles at him, taking the water he brings. She thanks him quietly, twisting the cap off and drinking as they descend the steps and walk out towards the garage. There's an element of absurdity to all this: the reality of the world outside of his game room and guest room where she could. Not. Stop. Fucking him. The grunt a she opens the door, which is a very cowboy thing of him to do. The gentlemanly air as he gives her his hand so she can lever herself up into the truck.

Truth is she could get it fine without that. Every human-born Garou or Kin was, at least in part, shares ancestry with primates. They can all damn well climb. He does it because she is a lady and he treats her like a lady. It's absurdism. It's surreal. She is smiling about it as she settles into the seat.

They are quiet on the way. She turns and twists to look at his house, and then she turns and watches the headlights on the dark road ahead. When Calden hands his phone over she doesn't notice it at first, and is mid-sip of the water, then she laughs.

"Oh, you," she says, taking his phone and tapping in her number. It's a 303 number, already changed from whatever it used to be, wherever she used to be. She enters her name as simply as she gave it: Avery Chase. She doesn't take a picture; it's dark, and the flash would look very strange, and her hair is wet. She briefly considers taking a picture of her cleavage and thinks better of it.

She hands the phone back over.

"There you are, Mr. White," she says, smiling.

Calden White

Calden would not have protested a picture of her cleavage. However, she doesn't do it, and he doesn't know it crossed her mind, and -- soon enough the phone is back in his hand. He hits call immediately, though god only knows where her phone is at the moment. Wherever it is, it gets the call. It records his number.

"And now you have mine," he says, even though they've already agreed: she won't use it. At least for now.

The headlights are yellowing a bit with age. They sweep over the ever-changing, never-changing surface of the road. The broken yellow line that indicates passing is allowed -- just in case someone got stuck behind a tractor or something. The wisps of fog now and then as they cross a ditch or a creek or a stream. Very distantly, and very occasionally: the shape of other manmade structures in the distance, houses and barns and tractors and water towers.

The length of the drive somehow serves the underline Calden's isolation. How far he and his small, odd family really live from the rest of the world, even if he makes those biweekly trips to civilization. How far removed he is, really, from even the tempo and the pace of modern life. The computers, the office jobs, the deadlines, the phone calls, the traffic jams, the emails.

"Some of the Fianna downstate are throwing a party for Beltane," he says quietly, a while later. "Kin and Garou only. I'll probably show my face. Bring my dad and my cousins. I can send you the address and the date if you're interested. No expectations or obligations, of course."

Avery Chase

Her phone is, like her ID and her credit cards and her keys and everything else,

lying on a desk in a hotel somewhere. There it vibrates, stirring on the tabletop, the screen coming alive and flashing with an unknown number in the 970 code -- which, to be fair, covers more land in the state than any other area code.

Avery shakes her head at him. "You think you're clever," she tells him, smirkingly.

They drive on. Well: Calden drives. Avery is a quiet passenger, unbothered by the proximity to someone who so recently had his clothes off and his body pressed to hers, now doing her a completely different service. She watches the landscape pass by in darkness, mostly unseen but for vague shapes in the distance. She doesn't think about Calden's separation from the world. Self-involved it may be, but she thinks about the house that's being redecorated and made hers, and she thinks about finding a smaller place for those nights when it's safer or just saner to stay away from her kinfolk, maybe something downtown. She thinks about property out closer to the caern, and how that might be a good idea. It isn't that the caern is so far from the city (it's closer than Calden's place by a long shot), it's just that it would be nice to tromp home from the revel and there be a home close by.

He speaks, and her head swivels toward him to listen. Like an animal. Truthfully: like any creature who can hear. Not looking toward the source of a sound is something that has to be learned, something to train in over time.

"Beltane," she says, and laughs. "How Fianna." It isn't an insult; at least, it isn't meant as one. She just seems amused, and turns her head again. "Of course," she says, and gives it some thought. "A lovely invitation, and thank you for it. I shall have to check my calendar."

Calden White

"It really is, isn't it." Fianna, that is. Calden doesn't seem even remotely insulted. He laughs too, and for a moment their laughter mingles in the slowly warming truck cab. "My tribe does love an excuse to party and debauch."

They drive on. After a while he makes a right and now they're heading west on a small state highway as straight and featureless and narrow as the smaller road they've just left. Their eyes have adjusted to the dark. The Rockies are dark, jagged shadows against a deep blue bowl of a sky. A quiet settles between them; Calden is comfortable in it, though he does yawn occasionally. After a while he cracks his bottle of water open and drinks thirstily. And a little after that, he turns down the heat a little, leans the seat back a bit. Settles in for the hour-long drive.

Somewhere in the middle he tells her a story. He tells her about growing up on his father's ranch, which was his grandfather's ranch, and his great-grandfather's, and his great-great-grandfather's. He tells her about playing outside on those long summer nights, him and his three big brothers, his one little brother. And their cousins, the ones that their aunts and uncles and even more distant relatives sent to them for a week or a month in the summer; the baseball diamond they scuffed into the dirt, the trees they climbed, the nights they spent out on the range, camping under the stars, listening to the lowing and the breathing of the cattle nearby.

He is a Fianna, after all. He paints a picture in a few simple words. Tells a story evocatively, if unembellishedly. He speaks of his home with undisguised love.

They're still miles and miles away when the lights of Fort Collins become visible in the night. The clock on the dashboard reads 3:43am when they cross the interstate 25, and now that endless country highway has become Mulberry Street. This town's dominated by Colorado State and its various satellite campuses.

Calden isn't quite sure where to drop her off. He has little experience with this sort of thing: the torrential sex, the drive to a drop-off spot where she can call herself a cab or sidestep and run or ... call her chauffeur, maybe. A gas station seems so sordid. A mall seems a little unsafe, even if he knows she's a goddamn werewolf, and a police station, while safe, just seems bizarre.

He ends up pulling into an all-night McDonald's parking lot. And he hands her his phone, in case she wants to call some sort of ride.

"I could just drive you the rest of the way," he says.

Avery Chase

"Oh?" she feints. "I hadn't noticed."

About partying. About debauchery. She looks at him as she teases him, and smiles. She has finished her water in small but frequent sips, holding the bottle against one leg though it's empty.

As he drives and tells her about his life, it's hard to tell how Avery reacts, or if she does at all. The interior of the car is dark. She is looking at him, and listening to him, hearing the love he talks about his life with, hearing the simplicity of it all. Nothing he tells her is life-altering. He has a big family -- well, he's a Fianna. He climbed trees and they played baseball and slept outdoors and did things that have passed into nostalgic memory for most of the country.

Her head leans against the back of the passenger seat. She,

perhaps a bit embarassingly,

dozes off while he's talking about those long summer nights, when the heat of day instantly chills to a tolerable temperature as soon as the sun goes down. She drifts to sleep in his car as it moves through the darkness, her breathing becoming steady and quiet. He doesn't wake her. They reach Fort Collins, or the outskirts of it at least, and the dinky McDonald's out there. It's the stopping of the car that makes Avery stir.

She opens her eyes, breathing in, and looks away, and looks at him, and blinks. It's an hour still to Denver. He gives her his phone and tells her he could drive her the rest of the way.

"No," she says, almost immediately but not in a rush, one of the few times all night she has outright, directly denied him anything. Warm air pushes out of her mouth, and she smiles. "It's bad enough that you'll be getting as little sleep as you are already," she informs him, dialing a number she's already had cause to use. She gets the cross streets they're on from Calden before she hits 'Call'. "It's ridiculous that there's no transit between these two cities," Avery mutters as she puts his phone to her ear, shaking her head.

She tells them: yes, she knows what time it is. Yes, just one passenger. Yes, she is aware of the fare. She expects them very soon.

Hanging up, Avery hands it back. There's an awkward moment. Avery thinks it over a moment, then says: "If it's quite all right with you, I would prefer to wait here with you then go inside."

There's a beat.

"I have a slight weakness for their french fries, and then I'm disgusted with myself afterward. It's tawdry, I know."

Calden White

Truthfully, the awkwardness exists on Avery's end only. Calden has already killed the engine; he's taking another sip of his water, which is not empty yet, as he settles in to wait with her for the cab. There wasn't ever, for a moment, the notion that he would kick her out on the curb and drive away. Not in his actions, not in his mind.

So he glances at her, a little surprised, when she asks to stay. "Yeah," he says, as immediately as she'd turned down his offer to drive her the rest of the way. "Of course. Miss Chase, if you'd tried to go wait outside, I'd have protested. Vigorously."

And then he laughs -- "And here I was about to suggest we go through the drive-thru and get some junk food to snack on while your cab gets here. But it's good to know even the royalty has a slight weakness for McDonald's fries."

Avery Chase

She laughs. Openly laughs. Her hair is drying, looking a little disheveled, but she runs her fingers through it and smiles at him as her laughter dwindles. Her eyes, even in the darkness, sparkle. There's just something in them, bright and reflective, taking what little light they can get and amplifying it.

The empty bottle in her own hands clatters softly, plastic-thumpingly, to the floor of the cab when she lets it slip and crawls across the front seats to curl upon his lap, legs to one side, back against the inside of the driver's door,

and hands on his chest and under his coat and mouth on his own.

Calden White

That earns her another "Miss Avery," all mock-shocked and mock-prim and mock-everything, because

the moment she loosens her seatbelt and crawls over the center divide he's all but scooping her up, helping her move and turn and settle there, sideways across his lap. Her hands slide under his coat. He raises his chin and kisses her, meets that kiss of hers, his arm behind her back and his other hand on her waist,

under her tank top,

on those magnificent fucking tits. Again. Under her shirt, his knuckles pressing against the soft fabric, his wrist caught under that supportive band of elastic that serves as a bra. He muffles a moan against her mouth as he gets his hands on her again, tears his mouth away -- presses it to her neck, mutters something that sounds vaguely like

don't know how I'm gonna survive til next weekend without these tits

and then laughing, laughing as he kisses her again. They're not going to go for round six, he's promising himself. Not here, not in a McDonald's parking lot for god's sake -- how tawdry! -- and certainly not with her taxicab on the way.

Avery Chase

He's amenable as ever. No hesitation, no withholding, nothing but a quick tease before her mouth cuts off anything more. It takes some work for him to get his hand under the tank top and under the built-in bra because the elastic is very tight -- it has to be -- and when he works it up over his wrist to touch her breast, those breasts are still held quite close to her chest and the elastic is tugging on her skin and she's laughing and breaking her mouth from his for a moment to mutter-whisper:

stop that

as she pushes his hand down like a virgin, still laughing, which is when he says he's not sure how he's going to get by without these tits, which only makes her laugh more. "Oh, god," she exhales, terribly amused. Still pushes his hand down. Re-adjusts her tank while getting his mouth on her own again, then takes his hand and welcomes it back, above the fabric.

She did hear him, though: next weekend. Every other week must mean next week in this rotation. She grinds softly on his lap, sideways as she is, both of them commando under their pants. And she simply... makes out with him. She doesn't go for round six. She doesn't urge his clothes off or whisper in his ear to just give it to her one more time. She kisses him. For minutes on end, getting a little wet and more than likely feeling him grow a little hard underneath her, stroking her fingers through his hair and over his body and purring when his hands grope her ass, fondle her tits even through her clothes.

The parking lot lights up with a new car and she pulls up for air, looks around. It's not a cab; someone actually wants to eat there. Avery ignores it and goes back to Calden's mouth, and kisses him until they're all but panting for it, which is the second time lights stream over the lot. This time when she lifts her head, it's the cab. Her cheeks are flushed and his hair is mussed and their lips are red. Her nipples are hard as rocks, pressing through multiple layers of fabric.

She exhales. It isn't quite a sigh. It isn't too far off from one either.

Avery gives him another kiss, soft and full and brief. She says the most cliche thing either of them could, right now:

"Call me,"

and then she's leaving. She's slipping out of the cab of the truck before she can change her mind, and she isn't going to look back, not until she's in the back seat of the taxi cab, and she certainly isn't going to wave.

Calden White

Wise of her, really, to nip that one in the bud. Because if he'd gotten his hand on her then he'd have wanted his mouth on her, and if he'd gotten his mouth on her then, then he'd have wanted to pull her into that cramped backseat for round six.

That doesn't happen. She pushes his hand down. He laughs, hushed in the darkness, amused; happy. And then he kisses her again, and this time

he goes a little slower. They kiss each other lingeringly, on and on and on, their mouths rediscovering one another's anew. It's nice, in a way. It's nice to just kiss like this, to not escalate, to focus on this one thing and experience it through and through, the same way they'd experienced trading oral. And sex. And oral. And sex. And sex.

The first time those headlights rake across them, Calden twists his head around. Avery looks too. They see that it's not her cab, it's just some hungry person at 4am. So they go back to each other, their hands on each other, their bodies rubbing and sliding and grinding together until she's a little wet and he's more than a little hard and they're starting to pant, they're starting to touch each other inexactly, heavily, wantingly.

Lights again. This time Calden doesn't even notice. She pulls away and he just kisses her neck, kisses her jawline, looks for her mouth, and this

is when she exhales that not-quite-sigh. He pauses, turns to look. "Shit," he says, genuinely disappointed, and so she kisses him. And he kisses her. And she tells him to call her.

She gets out his side of the truck. He's resisting the urge to adjust himself in his pants because he doesn't want the cabbie to think she was doing him in here or something. He doesn't want the cabbie to think she's some sort of whore. Not that the cabbie matters in the long run, or even the short run, but --

he is a gentleman.

"I will," he promises, as she's stepping back. His eyes flick past her at the taxi, then back to her. "See you," he adds as she shuts the door on him, and that's the image she takes away with her: Calden White disheveled and heated in the driver's seat of the second-oldest of his three trucks; slouched down a little in the seat, his weight centered at the hip, his jeans doing a pretty good job, though not a perfect one, of hiding what those fifteen surreal minutes of making out have done to him.

And the image he takes away with him: Avery Chase, walking away, not looking back, not waving. Her hair golden, her skin golden, her very presence seeming to pull motes of light in from every source -- the wan sodium lighting of the lot, the pale fluorescence from the McDonald's -- pulling it in and transforming it, making it as luminous as she is.

The taxicab's door closes. A little later, it pulls away. And Calden tips his head back against the headrest, blows out a breath.

A moment later, he turns around and drives home.