A brief chat
Harbor Park -- Fountain
Situated in the center of a large, open meadow is a clustering of six trees, a flower bed, a few steel-and-wood benches set firmly into concrete, and a flagstone courtyard that is dominated by a large fountain.
The fountain is a wide circular pool of water some fifty feet across and about five feet deep in most places. The sculpture in the center is a mix of old and new, traditional and modern: eight concrete-and-stainless-steel slabs about six feet high are set in a rough Stonehenge-like circle around the center of the fountain. Water flows from their tops, cascading in bright mesmerizing sheets to the pool below. Rising above the steel circle is a large marble statue of the Water Bearer, an androgynous figure draped in robes of flowing water. It bears a large jug carved with various Greek symbols, from which pours a seething torrent of water into the pool at its feet.
Cars on the nearby street have an excellent view of the park as do any residents of the tall buildings which line the waterfront.
The murky waters of the Columbia River flow swiftly along the east side of the park. Bracketing the park to the west is First Street and the city of St. Claire. Recent construction work is creating an earthen berm several feet high all along the borders of the park in all directions.
Currently the moon is in the waxing Full Moon phase (95% full).
Currently in Saint Claire, it is a cloudy day. The temperature is 42 degrees Fahrenheit (5 degrees Celsius). The wind is currently coming in from the northeast at 3 mph. The barometric pressure reading is 30.28 and falling, and the relative humidity is 76 percent. The dewpoint is 35 degrees Fahrenheit (1 degrees Celsius.)
The moon is about as full as it can get, only partially hidden behind the scudding clouds. The night time drop in temperature has done a fair amount to clear the streets of people where Cole is walking, though the aisle of space he carries around himself also has much to do with Luna's ascendance. Hands tucked deep into an old leather jacket, Cole doesn't seem to have much of a destination in mind.
Aside from the casual bar-goers and the shoppers, the one group the cold doesn't discourage is the inveterate homeless who have nowhere else to go. Surely to most Olga must seem like just one more of those, though a particularly cranky and avoidable one, as she sits at the park entrance with a tin pot in front of her, her great orange bag at her side, and a deep scowl for those who cross the car-crossed road rather than pass her sidewalk gauntlet. Those who don't she meets with a vague disinterested "Spare some change?" and "God bless you," when they fail to.
Cole is either too distracted to recognize the gauntlet for what it is, or else doesn't care to move out of the way. It seems the former at first, because the Fianna's gaze is low, and there's the slightest hint of a wobble to his step. He looks up in time to recognize the guardian at the gate, though. A hand goes into his pocket, and he comes out with a very crumpled and sad-looking dollar bill. That gets dropped into the pot. "Hey, Duchess."
It's unclear whether Olga legitimately didn't notice Cole passing her by (though she certainly gave the same "Spare some change, sir?" and "God bless you,"), or if she's just seeing whether he'll cough up; regardless when he greets her her smile is broad. "Hey Brian," she says, quietly. "Sit down, it's chill as death out tonight. Lemme get you a blanket. You pursuin' your heritage by whisky, or women, tonight?" she asks, just as quiet, but sharp enough to pierce through the occasional rumble of an automobile.
Cole takes the offer, settling down a bit gracelessly. His smile seems genuine enough. "Thanks, if it won't scare anyone away. Little bit of whiskey," he admits. "Not so much as I'd like, though. Too big for anything really fun." He gestures vaguely to the sky with his chin. "Pr'lly shouldn't be doin' it, but after the last week, some relaxin's in order. How're you doing?"
"Good," Olga answers, mildly. "Good." It doesn't seem to be terribly considered. She looks around her, up and down the sidewalk, before pulling that great orange bag next to her over. "And you?" she asks. There's a hint of coyness in her voice, of mischief, which she doesn't bother to hide.
Cole seems to catch the tone, or at least suspect that there's something slightly off. He tilts his head as he looks at her. "Oh, pretty good, all things bein' equal. Worried about Jason an' the cubs. But hopefully it'll work out. And your family?"
"Good," Olga answers again, in more or less the same tone; this time there's more deception than prevarication, but she's pretty good at hiding it. "Good." She comes from bag with the fruit of her mischief, namely two cups of dented tin and a small 375mL bottle of cheap rye. Her smile is sharp and twisted, and she doesn't wait for permission before she begins to pour.
Cole seems content to leave it at that, giving no sign if he even notices. "Glad to hear it." He utters a bark of a laugh when she brings out her prize. "Now I know how you've been keepin' warm in this beastly cold." And if there isn't the sound of appreciation and approval in his voice!
Olga's grin only widens when she doesn't hear him protest. "No, no, first nip of the night, honest," she promsies, her voice dry and quick as the wind. "It's the Canadian in me. Lord knows I seen worse winters than this," she blusters, and continues without leaving space for interruption, "listen though, I gotta stick up for that boy of yours, Jason. He and his friend - Edge, right? Quiet kid - they scared up some stuff for me while I was making magic to go to Spokane. Good kid. Wild, but good. Helped me out a lot." There's at least four fingers in each little tin cup; she hands Cole his with a fair bit of insistence.
Cole takes the cup, wrapping his fingers around it. His nose flares as he takes a sniff. Apparently, cheap or not, strong or not, it's not too objectionable. "Huh? Really?" The bluster about the winters forgotten, he looks on his counterpart curiously. "What did they do, exactly?"
Olga leans forward to peer around him, up and down the street, making sure the passers-by can't hear anything. Sure enough, if they were avoiding one angry werewolf on a full moon, they're avoiding two sitting together drinking hard alcohol. "I's making talens," Olga explains, eventually. "They agreed to search out some stuff for me. I needed the bones of a bullfrog that'd never touched sky, and the tails of nine rats 'at'd died of no violence. I'm sure it was hell on 'em to find, but they managed. I was pretty impressed. I offered 'em to teach 'em a Rite, in return, but y'know, that was just quid pro quo, just sweetener. They's willing to do it anyway." This doesn't sound to earnest, but she covers it up with a sip of whisky. "Anyway what I'm saying is from where I'm sittin', that kid isn' too bad, so go light on him for me, eh?"
Cole tilts his mug towards the Theurge by way of a toast as he listens to the story. His features scrunch up as the first swallow kicks like a mule, but it's an appreciative sigh that escapes. Then he's back to listening to tje story in earnest. "They are pretty good," he allows. "'s funny you should mention him, though. Had a talk with my half moon, Rayanna about him earlier."
Olga sips a little more: she draws it through a thin hole in the lips, like she's sipping tea, just like a duchess. "Yeah?" she asks, interested, still wary of those who might be manning the sidewalks in the service of surveillance, eyes twitching here and there and even occasionally shuffling her whole body around to look behind. "I didn't know you had a Philodox, never heard of her. What'd she say about 'im?"
Cole snorts expansively. "She just came back. Spent her cubhood here. Pretty girl, little bit too cheerful, though." He shakes his head. "Anyhow. She was pissed that she didn't know that he was a-" He cuts himself off, glancing around as if suddenly realizing they're in a public venue. Not as if he really need worry, of course. "Well, knew some things that he'd done. She wanted to know why I'm letting him teach the new cubs."
"A -" Olga begins to question, but then trails off. She mimicks Cole's glance almost exactly, then takes a sip of whisky to steal herself for the question. Instead of anything coherent she merely says, unbelievably as a hair-salon gossip, "No!"
Cole flicks his gaze up from the rim of the cup. "No what? You didn't know that he was a charach as a cub? Or didn't know that 'm letting him teach cubs?" His voice, little-roughened by the spirits, holds a note of caution in it.
"I-" she begins, uncertainly, breaking off just as quickly as before. Despite the fact that she's already checked for humans around, she leans in close to whisper conspiratorially with whisky breath, "Tell me it wasn't Basil."
Cole's features pull up in a mask of perfect disgust. A telling expression if ever there was one. His breath, for the record, is likely worse from his earlier exploits. "Thank Gaia, no. It was with Feilyn, the cub of the Shadow Lords. Gone now. Killed by one of her own in frenzy, I think." From the frost in his tone, he's shedding no tears. "Does everyone really not know this?"
Olga's shoulders rise and fall within a surplus army jacket that shows hardly any movement. "I dunno," she admits, blankly, taking another sip from her whisky. "I been gone to Spokane since two weeks ago or so. How's the kid now?"
Cole matches her sip of the drink, although he doesn't partake near so daintily as his companion. "Not so good, I guess. His pack had this silver shit put in darts to fight the Dancers. Well, it worked well. But Jason ended up getting stuck, along with Ferret of Fidelity." And here a thread of worry laces his tone. "Never seen anything like it. He's turning blue, like a damned smurf. And he has no energy. Jason! No energy!" He hushes himself quickly thereafter, realizing his voice is rising.
Olga's "Shit," is immediate, dirty, and followed a half second later by her downing everything she has left. It burns and striates, her eyes are bleary and blinking as she asks immediately "What can I do?"
Cole looks into the dregs of the mug, finishing it off with a long, sustained swallow before he answers. "Don't know. I know that the healing touch you guys do is only helping so much. I think it's kinda holding it still. And he's getting these pills from a Walker kinfolk, I think. Says it'll help remove the silver from his blood in a few weeks." This last one, from his tone, is extremely dubious. "Do you know anything that might help clenase his blood? It's not Wyrm, so the Cleansing rite didn't take. I don't think at least."
"Oh, Jesus, Walkers?" Olga asks, as sharply and with as much faith as if Cole had announced that Jason was being treated by Dr. Kevorkian or Hermann Goering. "Tainted blood? Fuck that chemical shit. Put him in a bath of leeches. Every little while, you just turn him to Glabro. The leeches'll keep doing their thing, sucking out the blood and the poison, he'll put that blood back in him, and when the silver comes too much for 'im he just shifts back. That's the way you deal with tainted blood!" Olga answers, with authority she doesn't feel. It's evident by her ensuing silence, by her gravitas and withdrawal, as she pours more whisky for the both of them, that she's not too sure about this obvious procedure.
Cole seems to agree with the first part, holding out his mug to her for a refilling. The second part, however, garners a noteworth reaction. A visible shiver from the Fianna, along with a paling of the features. "Uh. You sure about that, Duchess? I mean, if the silver's in his blood, shouldn't being in the human skin be his best option?" He sounds uncertain even about his postulation, though. "I mean, I'm guessing. Do you know any spirits that do that sort of thing?"
Olga sips at what remains of the alcohol more broodingly, now, as if she herself is considering Cole's objections like they're new to her. She drinks it like the cup is a straw, her thin upper lip fluttering as she does. "Well," she admits, with a more automatic glance up and down the sidewalk, "I could look, if you want. But if you're already going with Walkers, they're likely to come up with somethin' 'fore I am. I mean, they have all their labs and experiments and shit. I don't think you're likely to get the spirits to do this for you in entire. It'll take leeches - or, sure, pills or whatever shit." She doesn't sound entirely convinced about this last, but also seems willing to sulk over her whisky about it without comment.
Cole appears less than pleased at the mention of leeches again. The whiskey is bolted down in a rush, and it's fairly obvious that the Fianna doesn't really feel the kick. A slight slackening of his features here, a rounded syllable there. The Fianna's feeling the first four fingers of liquor already. "'d be grateful if you could, though. The pills stink of a little too much Aunt Spider, if y'know what I mean? Like I said, 'm worried 'bout him."
Olga shows uncertainty, either of her cure or the man's expression. "Hey if it's workin', it's workin', right?" she asks, her tone light and not entirely sure of itself, her intention obviously more to soothe the Fostern than to make her point. "I'll look into it as I can but no guarantees, spirits're fickle." Olga's not so touched by the liquor - it's her first of the night - and glass in hand, she stands on strong awkward legs. "I know what you mean, I got debts to this kid too, I'll do what I can."
Cole seems soothed. Whether it's because he expects something or the fact that he's done what he can, there's a weight visibly lifted from him as he, too, stands. "Thanks, Duchess, I really do appreciate it. And the drink." The tin cup is offered back to her. He's not wobbling at a stand still, so that speaks to at least some competency to see himself home. "Think 'm going to head home, though."
"Pro'ly a good idea," Olga answers, standing already, her pot of change forgotten as no-one's been by this last ten minutes. "I'd offer you the drink to take with you but I'm sure y'got some tucked away under your pillow." The drink has touched her, apparently, but she's certainly neither had the volume or the time to incorporate it. "The spirits'll tell me whatever they'll tell me," she calls out after him, more loudly than perhaps she should, heedless (or perhaps intending) of the fact that others will hear her.
Cole starts to meander off in the direction of home (and here, the young man's drinking tells, for it's an uncertain gait). "'t somethin' better than that, an' that's Ellie," he responds with, in reference to the drink. He pauses in his steps when she calls out and turns enought offer a smile. "Thanks 'gain. Mother watch over you." That might be intentional of him as well, disguised as it might be in a more Christian vein. Then it's off with him, presumably to the dubious comforts of an apartment with a two month old infant.
It takes Olga just a few seconds to process the mention of Ellie - then she's spouting almost as an autonomic reaction, "Hey, you can get it up, all power to you!" She herself remains by the entrance of the park, sitting down again, her pot in front of her, her gaze on the street around and the park behind, as much on those who avoid her as on those who don't, but a grin wider on her face than the one with which she met him.