Camille is a grumpy Gus
Jun. 3rd, 2011 03:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
shelbyrouIt is currently 17:13 Pacific Time on Fri Jun 3 2011.
Currently the moon is in the waxing New (Ragabash) Moon phase (16% full).
Edgewood House: Meadow
A long, hard-packed dirt road winds almost a mile through the forest off Sunrise Road, eventually opening out into a small front yard, and coming to a stop in front of a large house, which may be the very definition of ramshackle. The house is not visible from the road, nor can one hear anything but perhaps a gunshot. Its foundation and general structure are solid, but its once crisp grey-and-white paint needs updating, and some of the trim is having trouble staying attached. A fixer upper, one might say. Off to the left, there's a former garage, long since converted into something of an in-law apartment. A connecting flyover attaches it to the second floor of the house.
There are no fences surrounding either the front or back yards. In the rear of the property, the yard (larger than in the front) eventually comes up against a well built garden, with the very beginnings of sprouts. Shaded and obscured by surrounding trees, there is a small (but deep) natural pond, with a chuckling brook leading out of it, into the woods. There's a rope swing hanging from one of the trees. The yard to the southeast of the property stretches on for a time, and then is eaten by woods, into which there may or may not be a path; it apparently fades away quickly. There's a certain looming feel to these woods.
Obvious exits:
Narrow Path Sunrise Road Front Door Barn/Garage
Seated on the front step, Camille is working her way through a cigarette. In a nod to the weather, she has taken off her ever-present jacket which lies beside her on the step. The light tank beneath it is stained and has seen better days and exposes her thick arms--which also have seen better days and probably could use a washing. She's staring into space as she smokes, the motions rather ritualistic.
The screen door thumps closed behind Shelby, a can of Diet Coke in the Ragabash's hand. Unlike the Gnawer the Fang does look freshly scrubbed, but her clothing has just enough rumple to it to suggest she hasn't had much of a change for a few days, at least. Drawing up to the edge of the porch she gives Camille a sidelong look and a nod of greeting but doesn't - yet, anyway - interrupt the evening with anything as crass as words.
Camille's smoking continues without her looking toward Shelby--it takes a good two minutes before the whole cigarette is finished though she stabs it out against her foot once she has. "Evening," she rasps out, exhaling the last of the smoke.
"Good evening, Camille-rhya," Shelby answers promptly. "A nice evening, isn't it? Don't see you out here that often. Are you looking for someone?" She takes a pull from the can, then, as if to drown any more words.
Camille just gives the ragabash a long, bemused look. "Whut's it matter?" she asks, shifting toward her coat slightly to better position herself over it.
"Because if you are," Shelby answers in a voice just barely touched with brittleness, "I might be able to help you find them." She turns away to take another, longer pull of soda, and indulge in a deep breath as well.
"See, kid, here's th' thing," Camille says as she manages to slump into a comfortable sitting slouch. "Ya just kinda rattle off a lotta statements an' ya don't give people a chance ta respond to th' first thing an' then ya go into th' next an' see, that puts people on edge, even if ya ain't meanin' ta do slow. Ya gotta slow th' conversation down a bit. Don't be so obvious in tryin' ta find out whut someone's up ta. They's more likely ta slip somethin' then."
Turning just far enough to keep Camille in the corner of one eye - see, she is paying attention! - Shelby waits the older woman out. "--Ah," she says then, nice and light and neutral, "I'll keep that in mind for the next time I'm trying to get someone to 'let something slip'. Thank you, Camille-rhya. I apologize for interrupting your evening." She inclines her head deferentially and turns back to the view across the front lawn.
"Shut up, kid," Camille says, her growling voice annoyed. "Ya hit someone with a tonna questions an' then get annoyed when it annoys them? Conversation don't -work- like that with a lotta people. Ya gotta ease in. An' if you weren't fishin', then don't try so hard. Mebbe I woulda gone 'oh hey, you seen th' Warder by th' by' or somethin'."
Another deep breath and Shelby makes for the stairs, descending to the lawn before turning back to face Camille. The soda can trembles ever so slightly even after she clasps it in both hands, and her voice has gone tight, obviously masking some emotion. "I asked two questions, Camille-rhya. Two. 'A nice evening, isn't it', generally accepted to be rhetorical and not needing to be answered, and 'are you looking for someone', also generally accepted to be an offer of assistance. Again, I apologize for interrupting your evening, and rather than annoy you further, I will leave. Gaia watch your steps." Once more she inclines her head to the Gnawer.
"Stay put." That's an order, casually given. But there's a tilt to Camille's head as she studies the young woman before her. "Yer pushy. S'ok, better ta have helpful people around than th' people...well." There's a grunt and she says, "People like Solsiva 'r somethin'. Just...ease up a bit. Ya come on strong. An' I was doin' m'Calmin' rite which, admittedly, means I wuz already kinda tense. Th' woods," she nods toward the surroundings, "make me all pissy. But jesus, calm down an' stop bein' so immediately pushy-helpful. That's whut I wuz tryin' ta say. Too much, too fast."
The can collapses in the girl's hands, but enough of what's inside has already been consumed that she doesn't promptly get a hand washing of caramel-flavored non-sugar water. With an obvious effort Shelby yanks her eyes away from the Philodox and off to the porch rail or something, both can and hands swinging behind her back for a brief moment before returning to their original position.
Camille reaches down and pulls out the pack of cigarettes again, waving to the porch. "Let's start over again. Me wit my rite, you wit th' conversation. We'll see how it goes this time."
In a voice so brittle she should put peanuts in it, Shelby says, "As you say, Camille-rhya." The girl all but marches back up the steps, steadfastly ignoring the Bone Gnawer, back into the house (the door bangs behind her again) and disappears within.
The Gnawer seems rather unbothered by the ragabash's behavior--or at least, she's good at ignoring it. She lights the cigarette again, closing her eyes as she inhales deeply, her shoulders relaxing.
Perhaps twenty minutes passes before Shelby reappears with barely-damp hair, her clothes still rumpled and also vaguely damp. Perhaps she took them into the shower with her? This time she isn't carrying anything, diet or otherwise. Otherwise her passage is the same as it was before - door closes behind her, she drifts to the railing and eyes the Gnawer sidelong. This time, however, she merely grunts rather than offer a more formal greeting.
The Gnawer is lounging on the steps of the house again, the linger smell of smoke in the air but her hands merely linked across her midsection. "Feeling better?" she asks in that harsh, raspy voice of hers. Her jacket is off and slung on the stairs beside her, her light tanktop and heavy arms showing signs of needing a wash.
Shelby grasps the porch railing in both hands, much as someone might clutch something to keep from being pulled away. "Not particularly, no, Camille-rhya," says she, though her tone, at least, has backed away from the trembling edge it lately possessed. A step or two, anyway. "The moon's riding me this month."
"I could teach ya th' calmin' rite," Camille says in relaxed sort of voice. "If ya don't smoke, there's other ways ta get th' same effect."
Blue eyes flick sidelong and back to her contemplation of the lawn. A moment later Shelby says, "A generous offer, thank you. I'll think about it. How sh- how shall I contact you with my decision?" Another pause, longer and therefore more deliberate. "Camille-rhya."
"Call my kin," Camille says with a shrug, not moving otherwise from her comfortable slouch. Her eyes linger on Shelby for a moment and, while it isn't the easiest thing to see, it is possible to detect a hint of amusement at the corners of her mouth. "M'sister 'r m'nephew. Theys in th' city an' have a cell phone."
Walking up from the direction of the back yard, Marcos makes his way toward the front. His stride is slow and easy, his hands shoved into his pockets. He kicks his feet casually with every step, watching the dust cloud made by his footfalls.
"I'll have to get their numbers later," the Ragabash tells a ragged patch of crabgrass, her hands remaining locked around the railing. As Marcos slips into view she abruptly straightens, coming to alert like a deer, and only fractionally relaxes on identifying the Ahroun. "Perhaps Marcos might be interested."
The approach of the young Ahroun is noted by the Gnawer, her dark eyes tracking his movement across the yard. "I didn't offer it ta that kid. I offered it ta you." Her voice, luckily enough, is amused now. "If I want ta offer somethin' ta him later, I will--don't need help." Amused, with a gentle hint of warning to it. "New tribemate, eh?" she continues, refocusing on Marcos.
The male Fang lifts his eyes casually at the sound of voices. He offers Shelby a smile and nod and Camille the same, if a bit more respectful and deeper bow of the head. He walks over toward the two women and stops, bouncing lightly on his feet and says, "Good evening ladies. I hope you are each doing well. Camille-rhya, I trust that you have not had any more entanglements with hulking wyrm things and suspicious seeming mages?"
Shelby's return greeting is a wordless jerk of her chin. At Marcos' question she snorts softly and takes a casual step backwards toward the front door, arms folding across her middle. "I see you've met." She looks from Ahroun to Philodox and there her eyes stop, lingering on the older woman's periphery.
Shelby's hands are white-knuckled fists (but hidden at her sides) if Camille happens to look.
"Yeah, we had a little tussle in th' city," Camille says, grunting her own response to Marcos's greetings. "There wuz wyrm things an' a Mage an' shit. Marcos, at least, had half a brain in th' fight." She doesn't seem to be bothering to look at Shelby anymore.
The Ahroun smiles and takes the "half-brain" idea as a form of compliment. He inclines his head again and says, "I thank you, though I believe the fight was won by yourself or our dear Walker friend." He looks toward Shelby questioningly and offers a curious smile, his eyes moving from the other Fang to the Gnawer.
"High praise," is Shelby's comment, mild as milk. She doesn't step forward again, seemingly content to let the conversational focus shift.
You paged Camille with 'And yup, that seemed to be sincere.'.
"That dumbass Walker ain't no friend and ain't got half a damned brain but hey, keep tryin' ta butter me up by sayin' th' wrong thing, kid," Camille says. She leans down and pulls out another cigarette, flicking her lighter until it she gets a curl of smoke from the end
Shelby'd like to know, "Which Walker?" with another glance to Camille. She shifts sideways, as if considering sitting on an invisible Adirondack chair, or getting out of the way of anyone barreling out of the front door.
His eyes flicking back to the Gnawer as she focuses on her cigarette, his kind smile turns to a grin of amusement as he looks back toward Shelby. He chuckles and says, "I see compliments and manners aren't wasted around here." He looks toward Shelby at her question and says, "Solsiva was with us."
Camille's dark eyes flick back up to Marcos as she takes a long drag. Her dark eyes narrow as she studies him. "Shut up, kid. No one likes an asshole."
The Ragabash's face doesn't light up at Solsiva's name, either - it stays resolutely neutral. "I'm glad to see you're all right," she says instead. "It's been a while since I've been into St. Claire."
The Fang looks back toward the Gnawer at the asshole comment, his smile delightfully amused at the pot calling the kettle black statement. He lifts his hands to the side in a peaceable fashion and says, "No offense intended of course." He glances back to Shelby and bows his head at her words and says, "It was just by chance that the three of us ended up there at the same time."
"No, actually, y'had every offense intended." Camille's voice is still mild (or at least, as mild as that harsh voice can be). "Yer sittin' there with this smug grin on yer face like you have any idea whut yer talkin' 'bout an' ain't it funny that th' Gnawer lady is all silly an' doesn't like someone. An' ya know why I'm annoyed? This idiot took out a gun an' shot first an' didn't think 'bout what may 'r may not be a good idea fer her ta be usin' a gun in close quarters like that. Could have just as easily shot one of us in th' head just as easily as she shot th' thing." There seems to be more in how she stops talking then, a deliberate stopping instead of a natural ease of conversation. She then continues, that same even voice, "But please, kid, keep sittin' there grinnin' with th' smug grin 'bout how much ya know 'bout the world. Do."
As Camille starts there's no reaction from Shelby; her face remains in the neutral mask it's been in since Marcos arrived. As the Gnawer continues, however, the Ragabash winces and turns aside, studying the house's siding and granting the pair what privacy she can.
The Ahroun tenses at the words, the smile fading from his face. "I actually did not intend to offend you. I was under the impression it was sarcastic banter. If I did indeed offend you then you do have my humble apologies. I had thought about the gun thing and that maybe it was not the most advisable of strategies. I had thought that she could have shot one of us, but since she didn't I have not worried myself too much about it." He stops, considering his words in an attempt to see if they are conveying the direction he is wanting the conversation to go. "As I said. You have my apologies," He says stiffly, his head bowing respectfully.
"I don't do banter," Camille says in a rather obvious statement. "Not 'bout things like that. I worry 'bout shit like that because when someone has ta do somethin' like Judge a Veil Breech in the city or mediate between Walkers, a lotta times guns is part of th' reason. Life experience." She takes a very long pull on the cigarette. "An' careful 'bout assumin'. We're Garou. We're a touchy bunch at th' best a times."
Shelby fades another step backwards.
The Fang nods again, his head still bowed respectfully. "Noted," he says again. His body is stiff, his relaxed, easy going demeanor from a moment before gone.
"Th' reason," Camille says, gesturing in the air and leaving a smoke ring in the gesture's wake, "ya gotta be careful is ya never can tell whut mood I'm in from m'voice." Here she smiles faintly, jerking her chin up. "Hard ta get emotion in it an' all."
The door opens and closes again, and Shelby is gone.
Currently the moon is in the waxing New (Ragabash) Moon phase (16% full).
Edgewood House: Meadow
A long, hard-packed dirt road winds almost a mile through the forest off Sunrise Road, eventually opening out into a small front yard, and coming to a stop in front of a large house, which may be the very definition of ramshackle. The house is not visible from the road, nor can one hear anything but perhaps a gunshot. Its foundation and general structure are solid, but its once crisp grey-and-white paint needs updating, and some of the trim is having trouble staying attached. A fixer upper, one might say. Off to the left, there's a former garage, long since converted into something of an in-law apartment. A connecting flyover attaches it to the second floor of the house.
There are no fences surrounding either the front or back yards. In the rear of the property, the yard (larger than in the front) eventually comes up against a well built garden, with the very beginnings of sprouts. Shaded and obscured by surrounding trees, there is a small (but deep) natural pond, with a chuckling brook leading out of it, into the woods. There's a rope swing hanging from one of the trees. The yard to the southeast of the property stretches on for a time, and then is eaten by woods, into which there may or may not be a path; it apparently fades away quickly. There's a certain looming feel to these woods.
Obvious exits:
Narrow Path Sunrise Road Front Door Barn/Garage
Seated on the front step, Camille is working her way through a cigarette. In a nod to the weather, she has taken off her ever-present jacket which lies beside her on the step. The light tank beneath it is stained and has seen better days and exposes her thick arms--which also have seen better days and probably could use a washing. She's staring into space as she smokes, the motions rather ritualistic.
The screen door thumps closed behind Shelby, a can of Diet Coke in the Ragabash's hand. Unlike the Gnawer the Fang does look freshly scrubbed, but her clothing has just enough rumple to it to suggest she hasn't had much of a change for a few days, at least. Drawing up to the edge of the porch she gives Camille a sidelong look and a nod of greeting but doesn't - yet, anyway - interrupt the evening with anything as crass as words.
Camille's smoking continues without her looking toward Shelby--it takes a good two minutes before the whole cigarette is finished though she stabs it out against her foot once she has. "Evening," she rasps out, exhaling the last of the smoke.
"Good evening, Camille-rhya," Shelby answers promptly. "A nice evening, isn't it? Don't see you out here that often. Are you looking for someone?" She takes a pull from the can, then, as if to drown any more words.
Camille just gives the ragabash a long, bemused look. "Whut's it matter?" she asks, shifting toward her coat slightly to better position herself over it.
"Because if you are," Shelby answers in a voice just barely touched with brittleness, "I might be able to help you find them." She turns away to take another, longer pull of soda, and indulge in a deep breath as well.
"See, kid, here's th' thing," Camille says as she manages to slump into a comfortable sitting slouch. "Ya just kinda rattle off a lotta statements an' ya don't give people a chance ta respond to th' first thing an' then ya go into th' next an' see, that puts people on edge, even if ya ain't meanin' ta do slow. Ya gotta slow th' conversation down a bit. Don't be so obvious in tryin' ta find out whut someone's up ta. They's more likely ta slip somethin' then."
Turning just far enough to keep Camille in the corner of one eye - see, she is paying attention! - Shelby waits the older woman out. "--Ah," she says then, nice and light and neutral, "I'll keep that in mind for the next time I'm trying to get someone to 'let something slip'. Thank you, Camille-rhya. I apologize for interrupting your evening." She inclines her head deferentially and turns back to the view across the front lawn.
"Shut up, kid," Camille says, her growling voice annoyed. "Ya hit someone with a tonna questions an' then get annoyed when it annoys them? Conversation don't -work- like that with a lotta people. Ya gotta ease in. An' if you weren't fishin', then don't try so hard. Mebbe I woulda gone 'oh hey, you seen th' Warder by th' by' or somethin'."
Another deep breath and Shelby makes for the stairs, descending to the lawn before turning back to face Camille. The soda can trembles ever so slightly even after she clasps it in both hands, and her voice has gone tight, obviously masking some emotion. "I asked two questions, Camille-rhya. Two. 'A nice evening, isn't it', generally accepted to be rhetorical and not needing to be answered, and 'are you looking for someone', also generally accepted to be an offer of assistance. Again, I apologize for interrupting your evening, and rather than annoy you further, I will leave. Gaia watch your steps." Once more she inclines her head to the Gnawer.
"Stay put." That's an order, casually given. But there's a tilt to Camille's head as she studies the young woman before her. "Yer pushy. S'ok, better ta have helpful people around than th' people...well." There's a grunt and she says, "People like Solsiva 'r somethin'. Just...ease up a bit. Ya come on strong. An' I was doin' m'Calmin' rite which, admittedly, means I wuz already kinda tense. Th' woods," she nods toward the surroundings, "make me all pissy. But jesus, calm down an' stop bein' so immediately pushy-helpful. That's whut I wuz tryin' ta say. Too much, too fast."
The can collapses in the girl's hands, but enough of what's inside has already been consumed that she doesn't promptly get a hand washing of caramel-flavored non-sugar water. With an obvious effort Shelby yanks her eyes away from the Philodox and off to the porch rail or something, both can and hands swinging behind her back for a brief moment before returning to their original position.
Camille reaches down and pulls out the pack of cigarettes again, waving to the porch. "Let's start over again. Me wit my rite, you wit th' conversation. We'll see how it goes this time."
In a voice so brittle she should put peanuts in it, Shelby says, "As you say, Camille-rhya." The girl all but marches back up the steps, steadfastly ignoring the Bone Gnawer, back into the house (the door bangs behind her again) and disappears within.
The Gnawer seems rather unbothered by the ragabash's behavior--or at least, she's good at ignoring it. She lights the cigarette again, closing her eyes as she inhales deeply, her shoulders relaxing.
Perhaps twenty minutes passes before Shelby reappears with barely-damp hair, her clothes still rumpled and also vaguely damp. Perhaps she took them into the shower with her? This time she isn't carrying anything, diet or otherwise. Otherwise her passage is the same as it was before - door closes behind her, she drifts to the railing and eyes the Gnawer sidelong. This time, however, she merely grunts rather than offer a more formal greeting.
The Gnawer is lounging on the steps of the house again, the linger smell of smoke in the air but her hands merely linked across her midsection. "Feeling better?" she asks in that harsh, raspy voice of hers. Her jacket is off and slung on the stairs beside her, her light tanktop and heavy arms showing signs of needing a wash.
Shelby grasps the porch railing in both hands, much as someone might clutch something to keep from being pulled away. "Not particularly, no, Camille-rhya," says she, though her tone, at least, has backed away from the trembling edge it lately possessed. A step or two, anyway. "The moon's riding me this month."
"I could teach ya th' calmin' rite," Camille says in relaxed sort of voice. "If ya don't smoke, there's other ways ta get th' same effect."
Blue eyes flick sidelong and back to her contemplation of the lawn. A moment later Shelby says, "A generous offer, thank you. I'll think about it. How sh- how shall I contact you with my decision?" Another pause, longer and therefore more deliberate. "Camille-rhya."
"Call my kin," Camille says with a shrug, not moving otherwise from her comfortable slouch. Her eyes linger on Shelby for a moment and, while it isn't the easiest thing to see, it is possible to detect a hint of amusement at the corners of her mouth. "M'sister 'r m'nephew. Theys in th' city an' have a cell phone."
Walking up from the direction of the back yard, Marcos makes his way toward the front. His stride is slow and easy, his hands shoved into his pockets. He kicks his feet casually with every step, watching the dust cloud made by his footfalls.
"I'll have to get their numbers later," the Ragabash tells a ragged patch of crabgrass, her hands remaining locked around the railing. As Marcos slips into view she abruptly straightens, coming to alert like a deer, and only fractionally relaxes on identifying the Ahroun. "Perhaps Marcos might be interested."
The approach of the young Ahroun is noted by the Gnawer, her dark eyes tracking his movement across the yard. "I didn't offer it ta that kid. I offered it ta you." Her voice, luckily enough, is amused now. "If I want ta offer somethin' ta him later, I will--don't need help." Amused, with a gentle hint of warning to it. "New tribemate, eh?" she continues, refocusing on Marcos.
The male Fang lifts his eyes casually at the sound of voices. He offers Shelby a smile and nod and Camille the same, if a bit more respectful and deeper bow of the head. He walks over toward the two women and stops, bouncing lightly on his feet and says, "Good evening ladies. I hope you are each doing well. Camille-rhya, I trust that you have not had any more entanglements with hulking wyrm things and suspicious seeming mages?"
Shelby's return greeting is a wordless jerk of her chin. At Marcos' question she snorts softly and takes a casual step backwards toward the front door, arms folding across her middle. "I see you've met." She looks from Ahroun to Philodox and there her eyes stop, lingering on the older woman's periphery.
Shelby's hands are white-knuckled fists (but hidden at her sides) if Camille happens to look.
"Yeah, we had a little tussle in th' city," Camille says, grunting her own response to Marcos's greetings. "There wuz wyrm things an' a Mage an' shit. Marcos, at least, had half a brain in th' fight." She doesn't seem to be bothering to look at Shelby anymore.
The Ahroun smiles and takes the "half-brain" idea as a form of compliment. He inclines his head again and says, "I thank you, though I believe the fight was won by yourself or our dear Walker friend." He looks toward Shelby questioningly and offers a curious smile, his eyes moving from the other Fang to the Gnawer.
"High praise," is Shelby's comment, mild as milk. She doesn't step forward again, seemingly content to let the conversational focus shift.
You paged Camille with 'And yup, that seemed to be sincere.'.
"That dumbass Walker ain't no friend and ain't got half a damned brain but hey, keep tryin' ta butter me up by sayin' th' wrong thing, kid," Camille says. She leans down and pulls out another cigarette, flicking her lighter until it she gets a curl of smoke from the end
Shelby'd like to know, "Which Walker?" with another glance to Camille. She shifts sideways, as if considering sitting on an invisible Adirondack chair, or getting out of the way of anyone barreling out of the front door.
His eyes flicking back to the Gnawer as she focuses on her cigarette, his kind smile turns to a grin of amusement as he looks back toward Shelby. He chuckles and says, "I see compliments and manners aren't wasted around here." He looks toward Shelby at her question and says, "Solsiva was with us."
Camille's dark eyes flick back up to Marcos as she takes a long drag. Her dark eyes narrow as she studies him. "Shut up, kid. No one likes an asshole."
The Ragabash's face doesn't light up at Solsiva's name, either - it stays resolutely neutral. "I'm glad to see you're all right," she says instead. "It's been a while since I've been into St. Claire."
The Fang looks back toward the Gnawer at the asshole comment, his smile delightfully amused at the pot calling the kettle black statement. He lifts his hands to the side in a peaceable fashion and says, "No offense intended of course." He glances back to Shelby and bows his head at her words and says, "It was just by chance that the three of us ended up there at the same time."
"No, actually, y'had every offense intended." Camille's voice is still mild (or at least, as mild as that harsh voice can be). "Yer sittin' there with this smug grin on yer face like you have any idea whut yer talkin' 'bout an' ain't it funny that th' Gnawer lady is all silly an' doesn't like someone. An' ya know why I'm annoyed? This idiot took out a gun an' shot first an' didn't think 'bout what may 'r may not be a good idea fer her ta be usin' a gun in close quarters like that. Could have just as easily shot one of us in th' head just as easily as she shot th' thing." There seems to be more in how she stops talking then, a deliberate stopping instead of a natural ease of conversation. She then continues, that same even voice, "But please, kid, keep sittin' there grinnin' with th' smug grin 'bout how much ya know 'bout the world. Do."
As Camille starts there's no reaction from Shelby; her face remains in the neutral mask it's been in since Marcos arrived. As the Gnawer continues, however, the Ragabash winces and turns aside, studying the house's siding and granting the pair what privacy she can.
The Ahroun tenses at the words, the smile fading from his face. "I actually did not intend to offend you. I was under the impression it was sarcastic banter. If I did indeed offend you then you do have my humble apologies. I had thought about the gun thing and that maybe it was not the most advisable of strategies. I had thought that she could have shot one of us, but since she didn't I have not worried myself too much about it." He stops, considering his words in an attempt to see if they are conveying the direction he is wanting the conversation to go. "As I said. You have my apologies," He says stiffly, his head bowing respectfully.
"I don't do banter," Camille says in a rather obvious statement. "Not 'bout things like that. I worry 'bout shit like that because when someone has ta do somethin' like Judge a Veil Breech in the city or mediate between Walkers, a lotta times guns is part of th' reason. Life experience." She takes a very long pull on the cigarette. "An' careful 'bout assumin'. We're Garou. We're a touchy bunch at th' best a times."
Shelby fades another step backwards.
The Fang nods again, his head still bowed respectfully. "Noted," he says again. His body is stiff, his relaxed, easy going demeanor from a moment before gone.
"Th' reason," Camille says, gesturing in the air and leaving a smoke ring in the gesture's wake, "ya gotta be careful is ya never can tell whut mood I'm in from m'voice." Here she smiles faintly, jerking her chin up. "Hard ta get emotion in it an' all."
The door opens and closes again, and Shelby is gone.