gmlogbox | [Sandra] :: LOG :: A False Sense of Superiority (Reply)

It's a cool day outside. Again.
The Sept Compound is about as quiet as it was yesterday-- or, quieter, at least, without the sound of branches crunching underfoot.
It's an accidental miscalculation that leaves Reagan 'stranded' here for a time, be it on Monica's part or her own, the hour set aside for the upcoming hunt coming and going with only a text coming in from the Fury that she's running behind schedule. Not necessarily something that someone wants to hear, especially when the familiar crunch of twigs can be heard.
It's almost like the shaking water in Jurassic Park. The second you hear it, you just *know* who it is.
And, sure enough, arriving at the edge of the clearing is the same large grey wolf from before, likely doing her own afternoon rounds. She shakes herself off once she's clear of the trees, sending leaves and little branches that clung to her fur every which-way before her head lifts, and she sniffs the air. Her eyes turn abruptly to where Reagan is, her ears pricked. Her expression immediately turns curious, her head tilting. Likely, she expected some witless idiot that couldn't dress herself when the scent came back as recognizable, and present-- enough so that she seems to try and puzzle out if the scent she's caught is incorrect. She actually looks elsewhere for the small, poorly-spoken wolf that had been there the night before.
Seeing, and hearing nothing, she again rears up on her hind legs to shift smoothly into her breed form. Her own clothing is sensible, with a charcoal duster to match a crisp pair of khakis, and complement the white button-down dress shirt. The shoes are more boot-like than loafers, but have the same veering-on-business-professional look as the rest of the attire.
"'Watch the Small?'" she repeats, from the day before, likely taking in whatever nervous response - or, more importantly, whatever signs of recognition - she's getting to be an indication that she's got the right person.

"No. I'm NOT running away." A bundled blonde states with intensity to the phone at her cheek. Currently sitting, huddled up beside a stone slab opposite the chilling wind. Mid conversation with parties unknown as she seems focused on the dialogue as the initial crackle of twigs goes unnoticed. Only the faintest garbled murmurs emanate from the phone as Reagan replies, "Listen. Listen! My hands are tied right now. No, I'm not. Look I'm sorry, I know it's bad but I can't get out of this. I don't know, alright?"
Only in the corner of her eye does she spot a pair of wolf eyes looming from a taller spot than any wolf has a right to. Instantly she concludes, "Sorry gotta go right now." Swiping her thumb to hang up the call and stuffing the phone in her pocket as she rises. By the time she makes it to her feet, she now faces a darkly dressed woman.
Dark eyes briefly roam up and down this stranger with a carefully neutral expression. A far cry from the fearful creature last night.
"Yes. Right. That's me." Taking a moment to dust off her bottom and readjust her white jacket and scarf, "Reagan Holt. Theurge of the Children of Gaia. Cliath." Now finally able to introduce herself more properly. After a moment she adds, "Welcome to the Sept. I'm new here as well." Managing a more cordial tone, but still very matter-of-fact and business-like.

That just gets a more pronounced raise of Sandra's brow as she watches Reagan carefully, the assessment returned with one of her own. Arguably, the Philodox is a bit more detailed and 'blunt' about her method of it, and there's no real attempt to hide it, either-- though one can hardly blame her for being incredulous. "Late-changer?" she asks, once she's returned her gaze to Reagan's own. If she has any comment on the phone call, she's not making it just yet.

The late-changing assertion is met with a wane smile. Reagan pushes her glasses higher on her nose as she finishes primping her outfit to her most impromptu presentable level. If anything, she seems appreciative of the bluntness.
"No. I've been.. Focusing on other things in my life. Lets just say I'm in rehab right now." Her brief amusement dissolves back into that neutrality, visibly cautious around this formidable Shadow Lord.

"Rehab," Sandra repeats. "Were you injured?" This, said as she moves to the cookpit, crouching by the fire (mindful of the slacks) to sift through the logs that are present, a couple branches pulled out from beneath the pile. "Or is the-- let's call it a 'speech impediment' more of an unfortunate quirk, on your part?"

"Heh." Reagan again offers that smirk, tilting her head to look away. Crossing her arms over her chest she rocks back and forth a moment, absorbing the question a moment before continuing in a measured way, "Quirk sounds good."
She takes this moment to turn matters right around, tossing her bangs from her glasses as she comments, "I'm sure Thane is happy to have backup. Not many Shadow Lords in town."

Pulling a lighter from her pocket, Sandra lights the branch, careful to run the flame over the end to catch as much of it as possible. That done, she angles the branch in a fashion that seems more nitpickingly precise than it ought to be, but-- given that the logs ignite not long after, she apparently had some kind of method to it. One that didn't involve magic tricks.
Raising back up, she dusts her hands off, and says, "You're welcome to ask him how he feels about it if you're feeling up to it," in a rather mild tone. "Assuming that 'quirk' doesn't get in the way." Don't think she's dropping that just yet, young lady. "Otherwise, if you have a question to ask about either me, or my tribesmen, ask. If you don't, I have a few of my own."

The woman watches her fellow blonde with a hardening expression. She is impressed that she got the fire going in such short order considering how cold and wet it is .. Without Garou magic tricks that is. Clearly taking the rejointer as the door shutting on that topic, Reagan offers a noncommittal grunt at the suggestion and looks away. Her gloved hands sliding into her jacket pockets as only briefly considers standing closer to the burgeoning fire.
"I'm sure you're going to be a great addition to the Sept." Regarding the severe woman with a mirthless complement. A statement rather than a question. Her attention roams the edges of the compound, clearly looking for something or someone rather than escaping the awkward conversation. Again.
"Well, Fostern. Knock yourself out."

Sandra keeps her attention squarely on Reagan for a time, as if to wordlessly suggest that the tone hasn't gone unnoticed. There's no flash of innate rage there, nor indignity, though there's little doubting the woman is capable of it. It's just coldly under wraps, it seems.
"I'm sure I will be," she says finally, without the bite - or even the anger - that one might expect. "And I'm beginning to get an idea of what 'Rehab' entails on the basis of what I'm sure, to you, seemed like a shot worth taking. So-- I suppose you've answered that question, at least."

With an exhale, Reagan offers a shrug of apology, "Alright. You got me there. I've had a bad run of it lately. Sorry I've been short." Honestly taking this calm and collected demeanor to be a breath of fresh air, the apology seems sincere.
"I'm waiting on a friend of mine. We're going on a run. Black Fury elder, Monica." Turning her gaze back to the Shadow Lord warily but with a modicum of respect.

There's a slight raise of Sandra's brow at the mention of the Fury elder, as though she's working through whether or not the name is offered up as a shield, of sorts. Once again, there's no attempt to hide it.
"Not to diminish all this good will," she says dryly, "but I've a suggestion-- a couple suggestions, actually, that you might get some mileage out of. First: try not to couch your casual resentment in comments you make to those you barely know. It's neither as clever, nor as well concealed as you might believe, and will only ever end poorly for you. Secondly, afford the rank the courtesy that it deserves, and keep in mind that when I say I have questions of my own, I don't require your permission to ask them. 'I'll do my best to answer' works wonders in lieu of a cheeky 'knock yourself out.'" It's all still very evenly stated, without affecting much of any tone. Not even much of a warning, though-- one can be presumed to be there.

Reagan's gaze returns to Sandra as the ranking Garou begins the lecture. Her expression sharpens but she does not retort, taking the set of pointed suggestions with visible stiffness. Her jaw works silently for a moment before she offers, "Suggestions noted." In a calm, slow tone. No longer offering conversation freely but awaiting the next series of questions with no eagerness what so ever.

With no indication that she cares one way or another if this has suddenly turned uncomfortable again, Sandra says, "What, by you, is a 'bad run of it?'"

Reagan considers her answer for long moments. Clearly seeing her outpouring of information through the lenses of perception that Sandra just stated moments ago. She has no luck with which to push, at least not any more.
Hardly batting an eye, she responds after a few moments, "I'm currently confined to the Bawn. I'm a Doctor, Scientist by trade and I can't do terribly much for the Sept here. I'm.. Practicing being a Wolf." The faintest smile, "Oh. And learning how to properly apologize to my superiors. I'll have to get back to you on that when I learn the Rite."
All of which is the truth. Except that last part, she currently has no intention of using it to apologize to the Shadow Lord when she learns it.

Whether or not Sandra had been expecting one is kind of a trivial point, really. Earns just enough of a brow raise that there's no question she picked up not only on the meat of the message, but the intent of it. "It's cute that you seem to think you can outmanuever me," she says, her tone still largely unchanged. "All that was required was a simple answer. You gave one, as asked. Why add in a parting shot when all I've been is sensible, and straight-forward? And why on earth would you labor under the delusion that I couldn't possibly notice?"

Reagan can't help but take a step back as Sandra looms slightly closer. There is a moment of confusion in her expression, not immediately parsing what was spoken. Hands slowly slipping from her jacket pockets as she reasons through this turn of events.
"Alright, I suppose I owe you two apologies now.." This time she's completely sincere. The snark removed from her tone as she begins to suspect there's something supernatural about this woman's perceptions. This new realization unsettling her, adding a new piece to the puzzle.

Sandra mn's, looking Reagan's face over as if studying the minor details, though her gaze eventually goes back to straight-up eye contact. "Only that," she says. "You'll have to try far harder than throwing out a few snot-nosed remarks to bruise my ego. Or to satisfy your--" She pauses. "What is that, anyway? A false sense of superiority?" She cants her head. "This, from a woman whose grasp of the Mother Tongue is so imbecilic that I'd honestly consider adapting a Punishment Rite that can mimic its use."

Before, Reagan could say she was approaching a genuine apology. Now it seems Sandra plays into the prejudice that the so-called Doctor was levying against her in the first place. Again her jaw works as she slowly readjusts her jacket meaninglessly, meeting the eye contact with narrowed eyes beneath her glasses.
"Congratulations on being hurtful. Is there anything else I can answer for you?" Reagan manages in as diplomatic tone as she is capable.

Though there's a definite flash of rage-- a powerful flash of rage, enough to knock the wind out of most this close to a full moon-- Sandra's expression simply... doesn't change. For all the weight of that raw energy, there is only a slight shift in her posture. Otherwise, no one would be able to tell that-- anything had happened, really.
"My questions," she says simply, with only the slightest pause between them. "You've dodged several of them, or elected not to answer on the basis that you assumed they weren't actual questions."

While Reagan cannot put a finger on why precisely, she flinches. There is a menace from this taller woman that prompts a more direct answer as she exhales sharply, "The latter. I honestly thought some of those were rhetorical." A pause, "Now I told you why I think I've had a 'bad run of it'. The parting shot? The 'pull one over on you?' The false sense of superiority? You really want those answered? Alright." Taking another step back as she takes a breath, trying to calm her tone down for a moment before continuing.
"I don't have the greatest opinion of Garou authority. I figured you'd come out of the gate trying to bully me with your rank. For a second there I think I was being the asshole judging you without knowing you. Now I'm glad I'm getting to know you better."
All of which is, of course, completely true.

"You came straight out of the gate and spoke my rank as though it were warmed over shit," Sandra says, still maintaining that careful tone, though it's raising subtly in volume. Just enough to put some weight into it. "Pretending as though I was in any way to blame for how this conversation bore out, or that I'm simply playing to expectation when you acted as instigator to the bulk of it, requires some interesting mental gymnastics on your part. You trade in insults, and you're bound to get one or two of them dropped right back in your lap. Like it or not, it's how discourse works. Either you understand that, and accept the blowback you get for, yes, 'being the asshole' for no particular reason, to a near-perfect stranger, or you learn to conduct yourself like a functioning adult."

Reagan watches and listens. She remains bolt still as she accepts this explanation from the authoritative Shadow Lord. There is a burning temptation on the tip of her tongue, an ember of hatred glowing there but she swallows it. Instead she just absorbs the description of everything she did wrong with silence. Only after an awkward moment where she stares back up to the taller woman, she answers in a slow, deliberate tone.
"Any further questions?"

"I'd think carefully about how I stated that," Sandra says. "Take a moment, turn it over in your head, and respond in a fashion that you'd find to be respectful if it were stated to you. If you do well, without the double-talk, or the presumption that you can talk down to me solely because you hold some unfortunate opinions, I'll do you the favor of shrugging off this little altercation as 'having a particularly bad day.'"

There is a moment where Reagan looks back up at Sandra with an incredulous expression. Then looking away, she exhales with her arms shrugging up at her sides as she indeed takes a moment to go through her vocabulary. She knows full well there's no tone she can give that this woman will like, if she wants complete honesty. She seems to be able to detect lies with absolute clarity.
There's no lie here, Reagan doesn't like this woman very much. Even if she does have a few excellent points.
"Alright. Painful suggestions but I'll work with it. What else would you like to know?" Unable to fathom a response more respectful that doesn't involve prostrating herself. She catches her further rebellion in her teeth and holds it there.

Sandra straightens somewhat-- looks at Reagan carefully. Then, after a moment, she says, "I'll leave it for some other time." And without so much as a single indication of whether or not that was a 'pass' or a 'fail' - how's that for being an asshole? - she turns, shifting down into that massive wolf form a little too close to the Gaian for comfort. Here, that height is even more notable. ~Enjoy your run, Watches-the-Small,~ she says. ~And tell the Fury Elder I'd like to meet with her soon.~ And with that, she begins to trot off, that tail at a dominant half mast, head high, her speed gaining until she's at a loose canter heading into the woods.