It doesn't stop her.
She has a book laying open beside her, a large wooden base she's built and positioned near the edge of Maelstrom, where the light of the moon will shine on whatever it is she is building. In a bucket by her side, a compound of some sort, and surrounding her a multitude of shattered glass. Carefully, piece by piece, she's building a mosaic glass wall intending to use every last sliver.
She's dressed as always - skirts spread about her where she kneels. A tank top - as it is warm, which shows the bulk of bandages around her torso. Her sweater is off to the side with her Godi Bag and shoes, still stained and damp with her blood.
She ignore the pain, ignores the seeping wounds, and works steadily. The mosaic is already 12 inches high. It should be over three feet before she is finished, from the looks of the glass pieces by her feet. She's not the craftiest of folks - but she gives it everything she has, as she does in everything she attempts.
[Evan McCollach] Maybe he had not thought through the judgment on Hatchet quite as well as he figured. Beta of Eagle's chosen was a demanding position. Philodox Elder had him pushing on further issues, needed to attend the Grand Elder's side a bit more often, learning more of the punishment rites and the judgments of the Sept. His cub was becoming more of a terror than one could handle and Randi had another little one on the way. Now with the Master of Challenges his strength was sapped a great deal more.
He needed to be at the Caern grounds a great deal more, talk to the Warder and his pack over the grounds. Learn as Balance Without Fault's left hand meant learning everything about the Sept. And if challenges needed to be mended, that had to be taken care of.
But the link Eagle shared between them, drew him to his packmate, hard at work as she was. He could feel her pain through that link, and it irked him a little. But he was indeed proud that she did not relinquish her duties because of some "minor" wounds.
"Hard at work as always miss?"
He smirked as he approached her workings, watching what she did.
[Joss Lehrer] She looks up as he nears, having felt him come closer. A pierced brow arches at the 'miss' before she just smiles. It's not a smile of her usual radiance, her typical exuberance. Something has her down, something has upset her - or she's just tired, and in pain. He's seen her bouncing still even at almost incap - so there's something clearly... off. But she smiles for him, so there's that.
"Miss? You get yourself the MOC position an suddenly your all formal? I should spike your shampoo again for that..."
Ah, there's a hint of her little mischievous grin. She places another piece of glass carefully. "Chimiage. These guys broke willingly to set the Electric elementals free so they could help us fight that Thresher the other night. I promised them the shine of the moon reflected on Maelstrom for their help."
[Evan McCollach] (Percept+Empathy: Cause I know shiznit)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 5, 8, 8, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1
[Evan McCollach] (Who needs Truth of Gaia with a dice pool like that *score*)
[Joss Lehrer] (....holy hell. *L*)
[Sinclair] The current Alpha of the Storm Chasers, current Alpha of the Glass Walkers, current Galliard of note and Garou About Town is carrying a bag across the caern grounds towards the same area where Joss is currently working at her mosaic. The bag is large enough that it looks comical against her athletic frame. She could not carry it if she were not Garou. If she didn't belong to Twister.
The bag is not, thankfully, seeping blood, despite the grisly contents.
There are many battles noted on the Wyrmpole where her name is left off. The werewolves she's fought with know she's taken trophies, but they have not gone onto the pole. They're in that bag. God only knows where she was keeping them til now. Maybe the back of her car.
Walking over to Maelstrom, she spies the Philodox and Theurge Elders, both members of Eagle's Chosen, and gives them a distance that is on the generous edge of respectful, which is still quite a ways from wary. And she sets the bag down with a heavy thunk.
[Evan McCollach] He watched her a couple of moments as she paused from her work. It was easy to see that she was not in her normal state of mind. She was in pain, wounded and still bleeding. But he could feel that was not even the surface of the matter.
"You think you can answer your cell phone from within your stomach?"
He looked at the chimiage that she was working on, the glass work was coming along slowly, but it is probably because she did not rest before going to it, or healing herself.
"Besides that not the best way to get me to heal you. I am sure your work will go smoother afterwards."
[Joss Lehrer] She laughs. Briefly, before wincing as it sends aftershocks through her torn belly, and she falls still, holding perfectly still while she fights her breath, bringing it back from sharp to even and still. Her grip on the glass slices her palm, a pinprick that doesn't register at all. A slow careful breath, and she looks up at him with the small smile still in place. "Depends, you gonna make me swallow my fingers too?"
She looks at the mosaic, and then up at Sinclare as she sets her bag down. Joss lifts a chin - greeting - and then back to Evan.
"It would. I wasn't gonna ask, ya know..." He should know. She rarely asks. "But if ya would - I'd appreciate it."
[Evan McCollach] Evan looks over at Sinclair as the heavy thud of her bag comes into contact with the ground. He had never fought with Sinclair personally, but he had heard some tales about the fights she gets into. Then again Twister is a powerful totem.
"I know, I know... Fernir don't need no healing, we are all tough.. rawr and what not. But it doesn't hurt to get yourself ready for whatever else is coming next."
He smirked a little as he moved over to her, putting a hand on her shoulder as called up Unicorn's soothing powers. Trying to keep the wounds from seeping.
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 8, 9 (Success x 5 at target 2)
[Evan McCollach] (30 minute warning)
[Sinclair] The blonde down the way gives an upward flick of her head back to the Eagle who greets her. None of her piercings are facial. Nor are any of her tattoos. In fact, with her hair down and her body as covered up as it is right now, the Walker looks like one of her tribe's more office-worthy members. Or would, if she were wearing something like slacks and a sweater, or a pencil skirt and a button-down shirt. Sinclair is not.
Sinclair is wearing so much black eye makeup it manages to obscure the unusual softness of her eyes, smoky and shadowed now. Her blue irises are so pale that by contrast they look almost clear. She doesn't bother with lipgloss. She isn't dressed in slacks or skirt, cowled collar sweater or lady's oxford. She is dressed in thick black tights and a pair of boots, a wool miniskirt, and a dingy white thermal shirt under an old Nine Inch Nails tee. Once upon a time, she cut thumb-holes in the thermal, keeping it over her hands. She doesn't bother to push those sleeves up before digging around in the bag, which explains some of the bloodstains on the cuffs.
She looks over at the two Eagles again as she pulls out some bits and pieces of Weaver-crafted metal. She's tossing them into Maelstrom to be torn apart and swallowed as Evan is healing the Theurge.
"Weeoo," Sinclair says softly to herself, as the metal goes splash and Maelstrom eats it. It was a good throw. She nearly made the center.
[Joss Lehrer] He touches her shoulder, and she reaches up to touch his hand as the soothing powers pull together her wounds, healing them from the inside out until she can finally breathe deeply again.
Once it is over, she takes her first full breath in over 24 hours, and lets it go slowly. "Thanks."
She nods, and goes picks up another piece of class and covers the edges in the cementing compound. "Much better. Of course - the Fenrir is what did this to me... the current Jarl is.." and she waits a beat - all about the drama... "War-Handed. Until Silence returns."
[Evan McCollach] He nods when she speaks about War-Handed. The way the words roll off her tongue, the way her body, healed together now, seems to relax or tense. No that was not what was bothering her.
"I see you tried to throw your hat into the ring, as the saying goes. So then, what seems to be plaguing your thoughts Joss? If it is not the chimiage, not your new tribal leader and not the wounds that were inflicted on you."
[Joss Lehrer] She laughs softly. "I challenged Kemp." That would explain the viciousness of the wound, and she had expected it. No, she's not upset over the Fenrir challenge. She'd thrown herself at it because she is Fenrir, and it was expected, no matter how weakened she was at the time. She was beat, fair and square. Accepting defeat gracefully is as important as winning the same way.
But he keeps asking. And she can't say it over totemphone - and he reads her like a book. "I'm angry." It's simple as that, but oh so much more. Her voice is soft, pitched so as not to carry to Sinclair as she tosses her trophies into Maelstrom. "It's my opinion that Andrew will bring us down. I was asked for my opinion I was asked to try him as a prospective, as Theurge Elder. He's not ready, in so many ways." She rubs her cheek, her forehead, and then drops her hand. "But mostly, it's discovering that when I'm asked for my opinion? It doesn't matter at all. Why bother even asking? And the very next day he disobeyed a direct order from Silence during combat. And somehow -and the end of it all? I was to blame for something I did not even do - and he was not even adressed."
She shakes her head, and looks up at Evan. "I may just be tired. I'm definitely frustrated. And I'm not quite sure what to do about it."
[Wyrmbreaker] "Those are sacrifices, right?" Wyrmbreaker's footsteps crunch up the sandy soil of Maelstrom's seat in the heart of the caern. "I heard Evens the Odds tossed someone in a few weeks ago for frivilous offerings."
It's not a real warning, though. The Shadow Lord is smiling when he comes up beside the Glass Walker, distant enough to give her room. In contrast to Sinclair's urban chic, if it could be called that, Lukas's clothing is subtly sharp. It's cool enough for jackets now, and his is leather suede, unadorned. Both it and his jeans are so dark they appear black in this light, though one is actually brown; the other actually grey.
He crouches at the totem's edge, balancing easily on the balls of his feet. What looks like water from afar is not; it has a certain slippery viscosity and an electric shimmer, a way of clinging to the shore, a way of occasionally seeming to defy gravity. Wyrmbreaker watches the totem swallow Sinclair's offerings.
[Sinclair] Next is a trio of tiny heads from creatures that were probably somewhat wormlike to begin with. They don't really have necks. They have no hair. They were blind in life and certainly blind now. Sinclair whistles a bit as she tosses them, one by one, like oversized softballs.
[Evan McCollach] "So you think that Andrew will ruin the pack then? You think that he will destroy what so many of the wyrm's minions could not? There have been many Eagle's that have come and gone, some by way of passing through, some by passing on, some by being kicked out. None of the Eagle believed I would make it when I first came to the pack, but proving oneself is part of the trial."
He kneels down by Joss side, the mosaic still at work before her. But a split mind did not make for a good chimiage in his opinion.
"What makes you so sure that he is not ready?"
[Sinclair] [I love sending out posts that shouldn't be finished. I love it as much as I love somehow missing the latest post on the screen. *GENIUS. PURE GENIUS.*]
Sinclair glances at Wyrmbreaker as he approaches, bending to reach into the bag again. There's a trophy from the fight in the park that he might remember. She offered it to him, first. It was a show of submission. It came concurrent to Marrick's attempt at belated leadership.
"Well," she says, hauling out the skull pig's head; it's missing a tusk, but the tusk is rattling around in the bag somewhere, "sort of. You hear about that whole thing where I got tainted by the Wyrm?"
Her voice is flatter than his. She's not smiling as she does this. She heaves the skull pig's massive head into Maelstrom. This does not get tossed like a softball. Or make the center. It sinks with an enormous splash. Sinclair bends to get the tusk out to follow it. "They're sacrifices of my glory and my name in this sept to repair what I took from our entire people due to my foolishness," she says. "If they went to the Wyrmpole they'd share space with my packmates and septmates. They'd serve as signs that I belong here, that I belong with the others. They'd be reminders, for me at least, of what I have to be proud of."
She manages to hit the center of Maelstrom with the tusk. Sinclair has a good arm. She wipes her hands on her skirt's hips. "So yeah, they're sacrifices. Fulfillment of promises, because I do try to keep my word. And payback. And penance. You could probably find a lot of words for it."
Finally she looks at him a second time. "I talked to Joey. She's willing to check you guys out, but she doesn't think we'll mesh." A beat. "I don't think she's going to join the Unbroken."
[Joss Lehrer] She holds up a hand "Bring us down - not ruin." She knows her Eagle history. Nothing can ruin the Eagles for long.
She sighs though, and lifts a hand to push back her dreads behind her shoulder. "I understand that he is wolfborn - but I feel to him it is.. a crutch used to not learn more. We learn Garou ways, we learn wolf ways, we stretch and grow. He is immobile, despite years spent with us. He has no respect for any but Silence - because Silence is physically stronger. I am not. I have bested him as Theurge elder and every other Theurge of the Sept, but he disagreed with the Master of Challenge, and thus ignores anything I say. He demands that I prove myself to him - when I have already. He says words are not enough - but my name is on that fucking pole just as much as any - through Godi works and tooth and claw as well. Silence says as Fenrir I should just kick his ass. " She huffs a breath, a long sigh.
"I'm frustrated. It seems my hero is just as fallible as he said he would be. I do not want my days filled with fighting against my pack, but I do not accept this decision willingly. He may have proved himself to Silence, but he has so much more to prove to me."
[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas's smile fades when the proverbial name of the beast is mentioned. He nods once: yes, he's heard. Everyone's heard. Which, for a proud creature like Sinclair, may be hard to stomach. Then again, perhaps it isn't. She's here now, tossing -- quite literally -- her glory and her honor into Maelstrom as penance. Or sacrifice. Or reparations. Or her word kept. Or a reminder, in a way, of her own inglory and failure.
Failure, to a Shadow Lord, is a flaw and a sin. Recognition of failure, however, is something wholly different; closer to a virtue.
"I see," he says. And he looks at the totem as well.
The skull pig's head sinks. The liquid is limitlessly clear; yet for all that, the artifact grows more and more indistinct, as though its very substance were being steadily and uniformly eroded away. Soon it's gone, and the Shadow Lord looks at Sinclair again.
"Where will she go?"
[Evan McCollach] "I am no Fernir, I cannot say that the best course of action would be to just kick his... well overpower him. Andrew is indeed a strong warrior, I have heard some even call him lacking in his duties to the spirits in this manner. But that was a long time ago."
He watched her frustration start to color her mood more and more.
"So then prove that your position is deserved, both in pack and as Theurge Elder. If he does not respect Buried Hatchet's decision, then show him why you are worthy indeed. Prove to him that you are his greater in stature among the pack. Strength does not come from claw and tooth alone. Muscle and swiftness does not answer all things."
He taps her forehead with his two fingers.
"If you feel that he uses his wolf nature as a crutch, as a weakness than use it against him. Even a mountain can be moved, if pushed hard enough. Help him to learn beyond that."
[Sinclair] "Don't know," Sinclair answers simply, her mouth rounding around the identical vowels in each word. It makes it sound thoughtful in a backwater way, as though she's revealing or affecting an accent utterly unlike the west coast one usually tainting her speech. She's either already given other trophies to Maelstrom or has no more to offer; her bag is empty and she stands beside its limp canvas shape on the ground. She watches Maelstrom churn now, tips her head to the side.
"Maybe the Sentinels. Maybe she'll hold onto Twister and recruit some others. She likes Twister a lot." A beat. "So do I."
Sinclair, who has no other name they know but Warcry, which is perhaps closer to the truth of who she us than a full birth certificate, social security card, driver's license sort of name could be, turns and looks down at the crouching Shadow Lord. "Actually, I like breaking shit so much that it was something the Wyrm used as a hook. Good times," she adds, with flat sarcasm, and reaches down for the bag.
[Joss Lehrer] She chuckles softly as he says he's no Fenrir - because sometimes, sometimes she wonders. She has seen him in battle, in challenge, in many ways. WHat is is, though, beyond Tribe - is smart.
She nods, slightly - as she gives what he says the thought deserved. She doesn't even flinch away from the tap on her forehead, though she does wrinkle her nose, slightly. After a few moments, she nods, and takes a slow breath. "Ok. I haven't the faintest idea how to do any of that, but ok. You know me - I give everything I have in everything I do... Sometimes it just doesn't seem like it's enough. Even when it should be."
It's harder than she though -the young girl with such wide eyed hope and dreams. Losing a hero is hard. "So when'd you get so smart, anyway..."
[Katherine Bellamonte] Two of her pack-mates were buried here.
One had seemingly fled the city after his fall from grace and the other had been expelled from the pack. Another had been called from their sides by family obligation and had yet to send word of a possible return. Of all those that had fallen and had now been returned to the earth here, the grave that Truth's Meridian appeared to tend to the most, wordlessly, with a dedication that would surprise many, perhaps even a sort of humility as she tended weeds and cleaned the stone -- was Mrena Armstrong's, known as White Eyes.
The Theurge had been perhaps Katherine's closest ally within the pack second only to her elder brother during his reign as Alpha and it was not a completely uncommon sight to find the Philodox of the Unbroken kneeling before the grave, sometimes with a palm pressed to the cool stone and eyes closed.
Presently, Truth's Meridian was humming a lullaby taught her during her own childhood, and carefully cleaning the stones, her voice carrying across the limits of the Caern, as if she were lulling the entire area to peaceful slumber, and not simply comforting a fallen comrade.
"Tout le monde est sage
Dans le voisinage
Il est l’heure d’aller dormir
Le sommeil va bientôt venir."
[Evan McCollach] "Use some of that wisdom you are renown for, the brain that earned you the title of Theurge Elder. I am sure you will think of something to prove to him that you are his better in the pack. If not, then you better get used to taking orders from him. Or I am sure eye drops in his food would do wonders."
He stood up as he took notice of Height of Mountains someplace off in the distance of the Caern, there was something he needed to speak with him about. But before he left he took a deep breath and slowed his thoughts for a second. A slight pain across his eyes, gone in a flash.
"Silly girl, I am a child of Gaia rejected by Falcon from a mostly Silver Fang Sept. Claws, teeth and muscle would get me no where. Now if you will excuse me. I must speak with someone, something that I need to prepare before the next Moot."
He nods to Joss as he smiles to her once more. Letting her think over his words and get back to her mosaic, if possible.
[Joss Lehrer] He gets to eyedrops in his food and she laughs - the first real full one he's heard from her in a while. "Eye drops? Child's play, Pinky."
He stands, and goes to move off, and she reaches up to grasp his hand briefly. "Thanks, Evan. And tell Randi I said hello, and thanks - the Van runs like a dream."
She watches him go, and then takes a slow breath, holding it, and letting it go slowly. Centering herself, before she begins to work on the mosaic once again, piece by piece, shard by shard. At least now she can breathe...
[Boy] Normal people didn't run half way across town. Not even normal werewolves do. And if they do, its usually because there's something chasing after them. There's nothing chasing Boy. No snarling snot filled wyrm creature that has routed him from his patrol in Lincoln Park and sent him scurrying to the caern in search of aid. But he comes running nonetheless, and from quite a distance away if the lolling tongue of his wolf form is any indication.
The grey and brown wolf hardly looked up or around. Hardly registered the presence of anyone else around here. Unless you counted the occassional lifts of his muzzle to the air, and the hesitation it takes to pick one scent out from a multitude of others.
And then he's off again. Looking for someone, it seems.
[Evan McCollach] (Thanks for the scenage, night everyone)
[Joss Lehrer] (thanks Clark, night!)
[Wyrmbreaker] Wyrmbreaker's packmate is in the Caern as well. His spirit senses this, so surely and unwaveringly that his conscious mind is only barely aware of it. Mostly, the sense of pack, of not alone, manifests only as a certain calm and security, so subtle that it may as well be imperceptible.
It's not quite the same, this, and the sort of soul-drenching, bone-deep sense of belonging when he lies beside or lays with his mate. The pack-bond is subtler, but as natural and ubiquitous to what he is as his rage, or his gnosis. The other is -- different. Not a certainty, not something intrinsic to his nature. A phenomenon, not promised to him but given, a gift that he did not hope to have, or even think of. Precious.
Lukas doesn't turn to look in the direction of the Graves. He doesn't greeting Katherine, and he doesn't need to. He doesn't disrupt her commune with Mrena's memorial.
Instead, he listens to Sinclair, his eyes keen and unwavering on her. Moments have passed, but he's still crouched on the balls of his feet, as balanced and relaxed as if he could remain like this all day, all night, forever. He thinks for a moment, and then he nods again.
"So long as she finds a pack, I'm all right with it."
Sinclair reaches for her bag. Lukas watches with a sort of idle curiosity: what will mary poppins produce next? He waits until she's dropped it in, waits until it's vanished, before he speaks again.
"The Wyrm's got a lot of hooks. It's part of a pack's duty to protect each other, and protection includes watching out for each other to make sure no one's biting." The Ahroun reaches down, drags his fingers through the fine, sandy soil. Lifts a handful. Lets it fall, a veil of particles blowing in the lakeside breeze. The enormous penumbral moon, brilliant even as thin as it is tonight, picks out every mote, every puncta, makes it all glitter like mica, or silver. "That's always been my opinion, anyway.
"So what about you, Warcry? Are you with us or not?"
[Sinclair] An eyebrow quirks when he says he's all right with it so long as Joey finds a pack. "What are you, her babysitter? She's not Ahroun or Shadow Lord, Wyrmbreaker-rhya. Of the people chatting by the totem right now, one of us has way more of a responsibility to make sure Laughs in the Face of Death isn't abandoned to twist in the wind alone. Guess which one of us that is?"
There's a mild poetry to the mention of twisting in the wind. Sinclair is aware of it. She doesn't dwell on it.
She bends for the bag, picks up its limp shapelesness, and begins balling it up, folding it messily. "Though if leaving her a lone wolf means you retract your invitation to me, then it'd be good to know that sooner rather than later."
He goes on to talk about the Wyrm's various hooks, or he doesn't. If he does, something about what he says causes a flash of Rage in the Galliard, a clenching of her jaw. She doesn't try to hide it. Probably couldn't, even if she did.
[Wyrmbreaker] (EMPATHEE)
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Sinclair] (THANKS FOR THE REMINDER ABOUT THE DUTIES OF PACKMATES. THAT DIDN'T STING/PISS ME OFF AT ALL. JACKASS.)
to Wyrmbreaker
[Joss Lehrer] Wyrmbreaker and Sinclair continue to speak behind her, and for her part, she keeps working, soon falling into a rhythm that she'd not been able to achieve while still injured. Her thoughts are clearer, and though still upset - she's something to focus, some words of wisdom to ponder.
Sometimes it's easier than others to see the 18 year old girl, who's only know this - who's trained all her life for one purpose. When she is confident, she is unstoppable. When she is unsure, her footing is more prone to stumble. She has gotten this far, however, and will not falter from her primary objective.
The pieces fall together easier now, the mosaic of broken glass coming together into a larger, beautiful whole. There's an economy of movement, and even a soft hum under the Godi's breath as she works.
[Wyrmbreaker] (okay, crossed wires re: posts. delete last two paragraphs of my last post, plus empathy roll (as there won't be anything to empathy from sinclair))
[Sinclair] (OTAY)
[Wyrmbreaker] "I'm her sept-mate," Lukas replies. "I would've been glad to be her Alpha. I'm the one that broke up your pack. And if you join the Unbroken, I'm the one that shares your responsibilities. So I feel like I have a certain duty to make sure Joey doesn't end up a second Muerte Fria."
She stands. He follows a moment later, smoothly, without the soreness and cramped muscles a human would've experienced after so long in the same position.
"Which, I suppose, also answers your question. The offer stands, Warcry, whether Laughs in the Face of Death comes with you or not."
[Katherine Bellamonte] Finished with her communion, Truth's Meridian rises to her feet and pries off a pair of gloves, depositing them into a basket along with a collection of other cleaning paraphernalia. She cleanses her own person now, as a final step to this process and brushes off any dirt from her clothing.
The gravestones for those fallen while under the Unbroken Circle's mantle now all but sparkle and gleam, freed of all traces of grime. Set beside the Theurge's gravestone is an oft-replaced vase of white lilies, and other assorted odds and ends added for a Theurge's own pleasure. Sampson's grave was likewise decorated, though barer for his being the most recent of those to pass.
The Philodox stands a moment longer, before quietly bidding the graves adieu and, tucking the basket over one arm, begins to walk between the countless other Garou who also laid at peace here. For the Silver Fang, there was a sense of renewal, a spiritual reawakening that came with these occasions, and as she walked she carried on her lips a small smile of borne of cherished serenity.
It would not last long past the outskirts of the Caern proper, but the Philodox clung to its effects now, as if she could physically sense the departed energies of those who had once shared her totem.
[Sinclair] Now, Sinclair drops into a crouch. She does it with a measure of agility that suggests she will never fall, will never trip. She drops like a stone or an animal, her shoulders bunching, her head tipping to the side, peering at him. She has grace, but it's thoughtless, loose, like a tap dancer and not a ballerina. She's sure as hell not a Silver Fang or a Shadow Lord, though she's been mistaken a couple of times for a Fenrir. She's also been mistaken for a Gnawer. There is no pomp and circumstance to Sinclair. There is no facade.
And he stands, flowing upward, right as she does so. Sinclair doesn't rise again. She keeps her head cocked, looking upward.
"I think breaking up a pack is like breaking up a marriage. If it's solid to begin with, it's not gonna happen just because someone else comes along with an appealing offer." It's thoughtful, this. Musing. She folds her hands together, elbows on her knees. The fact that she's in tights and a skirt makes her crouch unseemly, unladylike, immodest, but ask her if she cares. "Just the way you put it, you know? That you're 'okay' with it. I don't know if I'd say that came off as arrogant, or if maybe I think you're just trying to worrywart over everybody in the sept. Don't get me wrong, that's noble, just sounds exhausting."
She stops there, glances at the penumbral sky instead of him, the sliver of a moon. She frowns. Looks wistful for a moment, if someone like her is really capable of such a thing.
"Joey's really nothing like what I've seen of Sol, though. She knows she does better in a pack, even one that's flawed. Hell, she's even talked about hitting up La Familia to give them a dose of just how awesome she is. She's willing to see what you guys are about even though she doesn't think she'll fit in with you. She's a good kid."
They're roughly the same age.
Sinclair drops her eyes to Lukas again. "Yeah. The point is: I'm in." A beat. "Whether Laughs in the Face of Death comes with me or not." She rises to her feet again, with the balance of a cobra. "Though I gotta say, those Fangs of yours try to lord over me and I can reasonably call bullshit? I'm beating the shit out of 'em."
[Wyrmbreaker] Wyrmbreaker's brow stitches briefly when la Familia is mentioned. In the past few days, his opinion there has gone from bad to worse; from salvageable to questionable. The conversation moves on, though, before he has time -- or inclination -- to comment, because then Sinclair says
I'm in
and Lukas smiles suddenly: not his polite flashes or his wry flickers, but something altogether rarer than that.
"I'm glad," he says, and while she's rising he's reaching to grasp her forearm. It's not to help her up. If Sinclair needed help, she wouldn't have gotten an offer at all. "And -- why don't you tell her yourself?" He nods at the approaching Philodox. "Kate, Sinclair's just signed on with us."
[Katherine Bellamonte] For once, Katherine resembled the twenty-one year old she was, wearing a pair of long slung hipster jeans and a white shirt splashed with black paint forming a visage of the streets of Paris. J'aime Paris!, bold brush strokes proclaimed, over which the Philodox wore a worn leather jacket in rich burgundy.
Her waves of blonde hair had been tied back from her face, revealing the high slope of cheekbones, and a long, shapely neck. Her trademark pearls were absent tonight, and she carried with her a small wicker basket full of various supplies that reeked potently of disinfectant. Why don't you tell her yourself, she hears her Alpha say, followed by the announcement of the Glasswalker joining their ranks.
An answering smile from the Silver Fang to greet that which crossed the ShadowLord's, though Katherine's was somewhat more subdued, tinged with that many took to be disdain but which was, tonight, merely the distraction of her thoughts. "Oh, so?," She says with evident pleasure. "Than I greet you as a pack-sister with true happiness, Warcry."
She inclines her head.
"Welcome to the Unbroken."
[Sinclair] Another Garou might have looked at Wyrmbreaker's outstretched hand and immediately clasped his forearm: the greeting and acceptance of warriors.
Another Glass Walker would have shook his hand.
Sinclair does neither. She looks at his hand almost quizzically, her skirt rucked up and her general appearance making her the antithesis of the approaching Philodox. She is not a traditional Garou in any sense: she does not quite fit in with her own tribe. She rambles, which plenty of other Galliards look down upon. She doesn't, for a second, think that Kate is special because of how she was born. They have hair and eye color in common, though Kate's is more natural and more intense, respectively. She doesn't dress like Lukas, either, and fights dirtier than he does. She's the one more likely to pick up a handful of sand and throw it in an opponent's eyes.
She doesn't take his hand. She gets closer and bumps against him, a low growl in her throat of acceptance. If she were in another form she might sniff him, or her tail might wag, but she's in homid acting like a wolf, stepping away after the greeting. She looks at Katherine as she approaches, coveting her coat, simultaneously imagining slicing it up with claws or knife.
"I'm not in your pack yet," she says bluntly, but without rancor or resistance. She does not greet Kate, or offer her her hand. "And what I'm s'posed to tell you is that if you try to lord over me without damn good reason or can't back up your bullshit, I'll beat the fuck out of you."
She says it quite matter-of-factly, as though she's discussing rules with a potential roommate: if you drink my milk, I'm taking your beer. If you act like you're better than me, I'll show you a way you're not.
"Also, I think you're kind of weak and crazy and you're the one hang-up I have about joining this pack." Beat. "Still happy, sis?"
[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine's pale eyes take the measure of the woman as she speaks, and before Sinclair has even completed her synopsis of all of the Philodox's supposed failings she is instead turning her eye upon her Alpha, some unspoken beat of communication passing between them before she returns her gaze to Warcry in time to hear herself labeled as weak, crazy and the one hang up the woman has about joining the pack.
"Since we are evidently speaking in the basest, poorest terms we can manage toward the other I might say that I believe you are quite repugnant at times, and that you act without thought, or merit for the consequences for your actions." She pauses, and weighs the other woman's worth in her mind.
"However you are correct in one aspect, Warcry-yuf. I am quite crazy, but I am not weak and if you suggest otherwise ever again I shall beat the fuck out of you, as you so quaintly put it." Her stare is focused, and she does not smile.
"Do we understand one another, then? Or shall we roll about in the dirt and posture some more? If so, I will remove my jacket."
[Sinclair] "Yeah, you may have a point there," says the Galliard. "I've been accused of impulse-control issues. Though at least mine don't have to do with running away and crying."
She crosses her arms over her chest. "See, I do have a problem with that, though. I don't want you acting like you're better than me because of your blood and I'll prove you wrong if I have to. You're threatening to beat me up because I hold an opinion of you that you don't like but have yet to disprove. He says you're not weak," she says, cocking a thumb at Wyrmbreaker, "and I'm not going to treat you like you're weak, I'm just telling you what I think of you because I can't stomach pretentious bullshit. I'm not going to smile and snuggle with you in a big furry pile while jawing about you behind your back."
Sinclair uncrosses her arms, in constant motion. "So that was me not keeping it behind your back." A beat. "Fuck, woman, this is why no one cares if Galliards are honorable til they're way older than I am," she says, waving a hand. "But yeah, also?
"I'm not posturing. You want to brawl 'cuz what I said pissed you off, I'm down."
[Katherine Bellamonte] The other woman's slim shoulders rise and fall beneath her jacket, the leather softly stretching with the motion. "I cannot argue a point about my tribe that was set in stone eons ago, Warcry. That my tribe is said to be the betters of everyone else was not a fact that I myself wrote into our history."
She sets her basket down and rises, crossing her arms over her chest facing the other woman. "I have ... problems with unclean things. I am aware of its impact during a battle, but it has not killed myself, nor any other member of my pack thus far, and you can be assured as much as I can give assurances that should I feel the overwhelming need to 'run and cry', as you put it, you have my blessings to brawl out that moment of weakness."
She shifts her weight.
"And I do not snuggle."
[Wyrmbreaker] Earlier, Sinclair had bumped up against Wyrmbreaker the way a wolf does its alpha. There is much about Lukas, superficially, that's so flawlessly human that one might easily suspect him of becoming Urrah. Of losing touch with his primitive side.
The way he'd responded then -- a quick lift of his chin, as though to make room for her to nip and nuzzle at his jaw, and a deliberate leaning of his weight against her in a silent, subtle exercise of dominance -- proves all that a lie.
Lukas is not human. He's nothing close to human. He just pretends rather well.
Sometimes.
--
Then, as the two blonde Garou get into it, the dark-haired one simply steps back and folds his arms across his chest, his pale eyes bouncing from one to the other, and back. Sinclair pointed out that she's not their packmate yet. But Wyrmbreaker clearly thinks differently, though this may only be apparent to Katherine.
Pack is sacrosanct to the Shadow Lord. He's defended packmates against far lesser offenses with far more viciousness and cunning. He does not, however, interfere in this disagreement. He doesn't explain his position, but it's written all over his face, if either of them look.
It's a matter of dominance, as far as he's concerned. Of establishing pecking order. It's a necessity.
[Sinclair] "I don't care what's said about your goddamn tribe, Kate," Sinclair snaps. "I'm talking about how you choose to deal with me. I will break. Your fucking. Face if you pull that Fang shit with me until the day you challenge and win back leadership of the pack or get placed as its Beta. And we have zero problem if you keep it in check."
There's a beat. She hears the rest. Her brow wrinkles. "So next time you freak out because something's gross, you're cool if I throat-punch you for it?"
[Katherine Bellamonte] She's clearly amused with Sinclair, for reasons she does not apparently want to share with the class. The Galliard snaps at her, and it seems only to serve to heighten the Philodox's intention to be as frustratingly serene as possible.
"Within reason, yes. Though expect me to fight back." A beat. "I may play the role of the untouchable princess, but I am not incapable of playing just as rough as you when the time calls for it."
[Sinclair] "Prove it."
[Katherine Bellamonte] So she does.
The Silver Fang shrugs off her jacket, folds it and tosses it offhand to Lukas, rotating her shoulders as she faces Sinclair once again, and beckons her over.
[Sinclair] "Hot," says Sinclair, almost delightedly, and tosses the canvas bag she was carrying body parts in off to the side.
[Sinclair] [+8]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4
[Katherine Bellamonte] [+6]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2
[Katherine Bellamonte] [Punch Sinclair in the face/Punch Sinclair in the face
Rage 1: Kick Sinclair
Rage 2: Punch her again, yo]
[Sinclair] [Reflexive: Snap-shift to glabro
1a: Throw sand in Kate's eyes
1b: Punch
Rage: Tackle]
[Sinclair] [Dex + Athletics -2 (Split), +1 diff (targeted)]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 6, 6, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 7) Re-rolls: 1
[Sinclair] [Dex + Brawl -3 (split)]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 4, 4, 4, 8, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6) Re-rolls: 2
[Sinclair] [Damage][B]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Katherine Bellamonte] (Stamina + form mods)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 4, 6, 8, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Katherine Bellamonte] (Er, let's try this in the form she's actually in. Soak, take two.)
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 3, 4 (Failure at target 6)
[Katherine Bellamonte] (Spending 1 Rage to ignore Stun, 1 Rage to Snapshift to Hispo
Punch Sinclair: Dex + Brawl (-2 Split) ( + 2 Diff Blinded) + Totem + Form mods)
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 6, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 8)
[Katherine Bellamonte] (+ 2 more dice)
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 6, 9 (Success x 1 at target 8)
[Katherine Bellamonte] (Damage)
Dice Rolled:[ 10 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 2, 4, 5, 5, 5, 6, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Sinclair] [Soak]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 6, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Sinclair] [-1R: snap-shift to hispo]
[Katherine Bellamonte] (Same again. Biting,
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 8)
[Katherine Bellamonte] (Damage!)
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 5, 5, 7, 7, 7, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6)
[Sinclair] [Soak]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 4, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Sinclair] [-1WP: Resist Pain! Hooo]
[Sinclair] [Rage: Changing to Bite. Dex + Brawl, +1 for changing actions]
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 2, 2, 2, 2, 2, 5, 6, 8, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[Sinclair] [Damage: Pulling at Incap if necessary][A]
Dice Rolled:[ 13 d10 ] 4, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 7, 8, 8, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 10 at target 6)
[Katherine Bellamonte] (Soak, ye gods)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 8, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Sinclair] Prove it, Sinclair says, and Kate takes off her coat, tossing it to her Alpha, who catches it, gives it a look, then folds it and sets it on the ground by the Fang's basket of disinfectants.
Hot, Sinclair says, and drops her canvas bag in favor of fighting with her future pack sister. Not with baseball bats. Not with laughter. With a rather keen eye for how this will affect their interactions from here on out, in fact, the werewolf who was once a child of Bull and is now a child of Twister and will soon be a child of Perun steps forward --
-- and drops all pretense that this is going to be a slapfest, a chickfight, full of hair pulling or human attitudes. Her clothes change to fit her, her piercings stretch, but she moves instantly into a larger, bulkier, uglier form, hair growing over her otherwise lovely face, hard nails replacing the ones covered by cheap chipped enamel. Even as she's sweeping forward, Sinclair drops her hand to the ground, picks up a handful of sand and tosses it right into Kate's face, filling her cerulean eyes with blinding grains, leaving her that much more vulnerable to the nose-bleed inducing punch to the face that Sinclair's hardened fist gives her.
Whatever he thought before, Lukas knows for certain now: his newly acquired Galliard fights dirty. With impunity, without apology, even against one of her own.
Kate doesn't start whimpering, though, or shriek about the filth that must be in her eyes. She is instantly in what is perhaps her favored form for war, glistening white and enormous, the thin moon and the waters of Maelstrom both seeming to gleam more because of their nearness to her. She lunges, biting at the one she greeted not five minutes ago with gladness, yet she can't see well enough to land a solid hit. She misses Sinclair's arm by just enough to barely nick the other female's sleeve.
Which apparently annoys the other female.
Sinclair is in her own direwolf form an instant later, preparing for something far more savage than a flurry of punches and kicks. She is almost as dark as Lukas is, yet there are hints of white and steel and iron in her fur, which is not quite glossy black but thick charcoal. Her eyes remain blue; it's unusual, for one without any pure breeding. Maybe if Glass Walkers had more of a connection to their blood and heritage, they would look like Sinclair does. Or maybe Sinclair's just pretty and that's good enough.
She is ready when Katherine bites at her again, this time more ferociously. Kate tears through Sin's hide enough to leave ribs exposed. Warcry howls suddenly, less in pain than in Rage, and snaps her jaws at the Fang as she calls on a Gift she learned from Bear to withstand it and --
-- end it.
Suddenly, definitively, and bloodily.
The bite that Sinclair lands on Kate's throat then is not one intended to force submission. She does not bear Kate to the ground and demand her to show her belly. She tears her throat open with one ruthless attack on the blinded Philodox, soaking her white fur with blood, covering her own coat in Katherine's fluid. And yet: there's control. Dirty as she fights, merciless as she is in the attack, it's evident that Sinclair is holding back.
If she'd wanted to, she could have killed Kate just now. She could have hit the jugular, gone deeper, hurt her more, forced the Half Moon to try and come back from the dead from the force of her fury. That is not what happens.
Kate drops, but a few stunned seconds later it's clear that she's still breathing, if raggedly, if wetly.
Sinclair steps back. Kate's blood drips from her maw. Sinclair's blood drips from Sin's side.
And then she turns and looks over at Lukas, pale eyes all but glowing in this light.
[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas -- who caught the coat when Katherine tossed it, and thereafter folded it and set it down at his feet -- takes a step back when the women turn into monsters, and the Fang tears into the Glass Walker. He watches silently, rather avidly, his sharp eyes taking in every feint, every attack, every snap, every bite.
When Sinclair rips Kate open, he closes his eyes at the instant of impact. It's not to avoid the sight of violence. It's to avoid being blinded by the sudden hot spray of blood across his face. A second later Lukas opens his eyes and wipes his face with his hand, smearing droplets of red into streaks. He's in time to see the white Hispo crumple down, unconscious.
And he looks at Truth's Meridian for a moment, lying there shrinking from her dreadful hispo form into the one he first met --
how many years ago, now?
A beat later his clear eyes rise to Sinclair. He doesn't bother to reiterate what the Galliard and the Philodox have learned about each other tonight; what was or was not worked out; what was or was not proven, or settled, or fought for, or won.
He says, very simply, "You'll probably want to say a proper goodbye to Twister tonight. We'll do the Rite of the Totem tomorrow. Bring something appropriate: an axe, a hammer, an oak branch, or matches for a fire." A pause. "Do you need healing?"
[Sinclair] He has his packmate's blood on his face. Sinclair quirks her head to the side, her tail flicking the air once. She shifts down into lupus, still large, still thickly furred. There is nothing adolescent or puppy-like about her, even when her tail wags. The shift is slower than the ones in battle, gradual, careful. She's conserving her rage as much as she can now, holding onto it, regaining and retaining control.
Not that she ever, really, lost it.
The Galliard is, perhaps surprisingly, perhaps expectedly, as eloquent with a speech of whuffs and barks and body language as she is in homid. Perhaps moreso, actually. She is the one, after all, who behaved in a most wolflike manner even wearing a two-legged form, and found it natural. Comfortable.
Not tonight. Laughs in the Face of Death is still my sister. Her pack is uncertain.
But they are not open-ended creatures, or necessarily patient ones.
Three days. To tend to sister. To say goodbye to storm. To prepare for storm god.
And belatedly, shaking her fur and sending blood here and there.
I can heal myself. I asked for this. With a swing of her muzzle, she indicates her wound. And she means it: not in the sense that she is admitting fault, or failure, or foolishness. She quite literally asked Katherine for some kind of proof that she was not weak. There it is: a hole in her flesh, the glistening white of her ribbones peeking through ripped skin.
[Wyrmbreaker] "All right."
There are stereotypes about Shadow Lords: conniving, domineering, quick to crush all dissent. Lukas doesn't seem to mind, however, when Sinclair asks for three times as much time as he would've given her. If anything, he seems vaguely pleased by it. Then again, this is the Ahroun that wanted twenty hours to prepare for vengeance. If anyone can appreciate a methodical tying of loose ends, he can.
"Tell Laughs in the Face of Death that if she needs a pack down the line," he adds, bending now to tend to Truth's Meridian, "our offer stands."
[Katherine Bellamonte] (whee. okay, I'm out guys! Homework calls! TY for RP! :) )
[Sinclair] Yes.
Which is: I will, though that's not what she says. It's also I know, but she doesn't say that either. Her affirmative is vague, and yet simple, and ultimately all that's needed. She doesn't ask for three days, though she states she's taking it with the knowledge that he might rescind his offer out of... spite? Pride? Offense on behalf of his totem and pack? Any number of things. Sinclair doesn't think he will.
But he's not her Alpha yet. She needs three days to do this right, to do right by her packmate and her totem and their totem, the way she didn't with Bull. Sinclair flicks her tail again, her body language showing her pleasure and satisfaction just as much -- better -- than it would if she were in her birth form.
She watches Lukas go over to Kate for a moment, then goes to pick up her canvas bag. She picks it up in her jaws and heads towards the Brotherhood of Thieves. She'll be bloody and disgusting when Joey sees her appear in the bedroom, but no matter. That's happened plenty of times.
