

Small village. Small town ideas. Small town ideals. Small town antics. She was born in Cornwall, a small fishing village called Mousehole, confusingly pronounced 'Mouzel' by it's inhabitants. Life to the outside world seemed slow and sluggish, reluctant to keep up with the times. Men still spent their entire lives working by the fishing line, and women still spent their entire lives, basing it around their men, with only a few odd exceptions of single mother and fatherhood, somehow out of place in a self-enclosed world that should, in all likelyhood be ultra-traditional.
To more knowledgeable eyes, the fishing community was a town just outside of the Sept of Men-An-Tol. Kinfolk and humans (more the former than the latter) under the watchful eye of both Fianna and Silver Fang. An odd conglomeration, it was not one free of strife. Politics were not the Fianna strong point, but passion was, and passion rode high more than once at Men-An-Tol, particularly when fresh Silver Fang blood entered the Sept. Many a kin learned that the hard way.
Imogen was born a fine lineage. A strong family. Kinfolk for the last three generations, they still held proud to a victorious Ahroun four generations past, as well as other heroes in their lineage. The fine lineage was sullied only by those within it. Her parents did not live up to expectations. They did not do as they should. They drank excessively, fought excessively, and the crowning sorrow was when her mother abandoned it all together, gone from the village when Imogen was five. Her father worked on fishing boats, more or less sober. Sometimes more, but mostly less. Imogen herself was left in the care of a variety of neighbours and older children, othertimes, dragged along for the ride as her father did his best to make a living. She cannot say she felt loved through her childhood years, but at least she can say she did not feel hated. Neglect was an easy route for a man who drank too much, and perhaps in some ways, his purebred daughter should be thankful.
Her father drowned when she was thirteen. He was not the first man to be lost at sea on a cloudless day, when the weather was fine, and it is unlikely he will be the last.
From there, she was sent away. To a paternal great aunt in the nearby town of Penzance. Still associated with the Sept of Men-An-Tol, but not so much under the Garou's protection. Her great aunt was her intiator in the world of the Garou. Her initiator into her requirements as a kinfolk. Her aunt had great plans for a niece who's blood was as pure as her great grandfather before her. Her niece would not be the mate of some low born Fianna.
Her niece would be for the Fangs.
Her aunt was a bit of a prude, a bit of a snob, with the feeling that such a fine lineage should not be wasted as Imogen's parents had wasted it. With drink. With passion. With fire and blood. When her niece came to live with her, she began to take steps that she felt would groom her young charge into life as a mate to a good and well-born Garou.
Singing.
Fencing.
Violin.
Lessons from a personal tutor to ween out the cornish accent, replace it with that of the Queen's English.
Her niece would be a doctor. A good respectable profession that paid well and permitted maternity leave for all the little grand nieces and nephews she was to have.
Imogen found the variety of lessons interesting, attacking them with alacrity, but the bent of her aunt's plans were a little much. Particularly when she was sixteen; when the Fianna became particularly paranoid over their tribal kin being taken by the latest Silver Fang pack of the area. Particularly their pure bred tribal kin.
Good ol' Auntie's plans were quite upset when her niece was forcibly branded like cattle, a tattoo forced beneath her skin by a thousand tiny needles, a fresh bruise swelling her face from when she fought back. Good ol' Auntie's plans were further broken when Imogen refused to have the tattoo removed, and replaced with another one. The teenager could still feel the mark of an openhanded palm on her cheek. And she had been through enough to not wish to go through it all again.
Beyond that one act of rebellion, much of her life was made up of obedience. When it became obvious that if her niece was to be mated at all, it would be to a Fianna, then the aunt's plans changed only slightly. A high ranked Fianna would do just as well as a high born Silver Fang.
Her aunt paid for her schooling. Fine british schools. Fine medical degree.
Imogen quietly took the steps to veer her career into forensics. It was not until she graduated that her aunt learned of it. Quiet rebellion, silent opposition. It worked. Imogen was a Forensics Pathologist instead of the General Practitioner her aunt had dreamed.
It's no wonder that within a few months she moved, out of the country, off the continent and across the ocean. She was escaping a multitude of things then.
Boston was mildly pleasant. Cold, and home to a myriad of Garou and a centre for her tribe, she kept herself distanced, but still on the fringes of the Nation. She found that in some ways, her position was useful. Hide evidence here. Skew a measurement there. Suddenly a Garou attack has been brushed under the rug. At one point, she simply left, without word or warning, receiving recommendation and becoming employed by the State of New Jersey.
She had started out with the intention of having nothing to do with the Garou. Her feet never touched the Pine Barrens. Her job may bring her close to them, as all Garou are close to death, but she did nothing to search them out, simply obscuring evidence as she went. It rather crumbled because Garou came to live next door to her, and all the complications that followed. But she tried, nonetheless.