[Hatchet] Hatchet's grip is strong but does not attempt to dominate Sebastian's. He does not twist their hands so that the other Fianna's is beneath his. He could not be faulted for doing so if he did: he is, as Sebastian says in a moment, the Theurge's elder. He has earned the rank of Fostern in the gap of years between Last Time and Now.
He breathes in as his offered arm is accepted, though, and he does not pull back. He holds on for a number of breaths equal to the years, as his eyes and face are searched. There are so few people on earth still who know as much about Hatchet -- where he came from, the reason he goes so rarely by his 'human' name, all of it -- as this man does. Five years does not change that.
What he told Sebastian, he told him honestly and without necessity. He chose to, and so he lets his face be searched. He still has that strange innocence in his eyes at turns, coming out of a source that Sebastian and Soledad and almost no one else are aware of. There is also the weight of Rage and years on them, wisdom and war...and leadership. But they flicker, and his grip tightens slightly, and when the ice thaws in the other's stare, the corners of Hatchet's mouth turn up a bit.
He always smiled easily.
When Sebastian uses the honorific, he grins, and his face shows the pleasure of that acceptance, a bit of pride. "And you," he says simply, letting go of Sebastian's arm so he can return his hands to his pockets. He jerks his head towards the street. "Do you know where you're going? Where you're staying?"
[errant] The grip is released, and Sebastian returns his arm to his side. Satisfied with whatever he's seen writ across Hatchet's face, he turns his gaze from the Garou's visage and rakes it across the parking lot, taking in the idling buses, the motley crowd of passengers awaiting to board, or perhaps awaiting loved ones to arrive. The glorified kiosk that serves as the ticket booth and snack bar both, and Chicago, the great city, a cyclomere of edifices and artificial constructs, painting the clouds orange and filling the air with a thousand complex scents and smells.
"To the Caern," he finally says, stating the inevitable. "The rest should follow from that first."
[Hatchet] Now, if Sebastian didn't know any better, he might say that Hatchet's Mama taught him that in most things, there is never any time like the present to get things accomplished. He seems to go by that maxim when it suits him as much as he dismisses it when it does not...or comes up with a contradicting proverb in its place. That's the nice thing about proverbs, there's always another, equally ancient one to argue against whatever the last one said.
But he doesn't suggest that they go get something to eat, or that they get Sebastian some coffee or a place to stay or a shower first. He was that way even when Sebastian was a cub still, slow to give orders, rarely making demands even when he arguably had a right to. In the handful of months that they knew each other, there was one proverb that Hatchet seemed to adhere to with little - if any - deviation.
Live and let live.
He nods, simply, and starts to walk. "There's a place near the bawn," he says in that low, mild voice of his, starting to lope along, "called The Brotherhood of Thieves." He rolls his eyes a little as he says it and shakes his head, but gives a one-shoulder shrug to follow. "It's a 'safe' place, owned by Kin. A lot of us have been staying there."
[errant] Sebastian falls in with Hatchet as he begins to stride away, one hand holding the strap of his pack to his shoulder, the other slipping into the pocket of his rainjacket. Both men have traveled extensively over the years, eaten miles upon countless miles with their easy strides, and as such there is a certain similarity to their gait, to their relaxed but inexorable pace.
The cold sweeps around them like the frozen whorls that coil endlessly within the gelid heart of vodka, seeking to steal their illimitable Garou vitality, rob them of their quintessential heat and rage. A harsh cold, abrasive almost, rubbing the tips of their ears and nose raw, making them squint when the wind sloughs past their face with the rough touch of a cat's tongue.
Sebastian meets this discomfort with easy equanimity. Dark hair shaved close, long face, cheek bones made prominent by the hollows of his cheeks, the long, Roman nose that gives his face the air of an El Greco martyr. Angular and boney, he seems more shoulder blades and hips, elbows and scapula then muscle and blood, a scarred and mystic scarecrow.
"Sounds suitable," he says, "At least for a night. Your pack? Word reached me that you lead in the name of Weasel."
[Hatchet] In the past four years, Hatchet has heard very little of Sebastian. That may be because whatever stories were told about him, whatever rumors he might have heard, went under a name earned after Hatchet had left. Until the spirit showed up prodding his dreams and telling him of the other man's arrival, he had never heard of what they'd decided to call him. It had, in fact, taken a few tries for the spirit to convince him of who the hell it was talking about.
On the other hand, Hatchet has earned his rank, bears the same name he has for nearly a decade, and has been all over the place. It's been three years since he formed his own pack, and they have gotten around as well.
It surprises him that Sebastian matches his stride. They are of nearly equal height, so close that they would have to pull the schoolyard trick of standing back-to-back with their shoulderblades touching for anyone to discern the minute difference. They've both grown, though, at least a bit, and found the other barely recognizable for a few moments. Hatchet's surprise has nothing to do with physical ability and everything to do with experience.
He had not expected to get the feeling, falling alongside Sebastian, that the other man did not stay in the Rockies.
Hatchet nods. "My Beta is there with me. I have not seen the Strider since we came to the city, and Belinda is staying...somewhere else." He shrugs, the attachment in his voice nearly nonexistent but for mention of his second in command. "There are others, too, though...ever heard of the Unbroken Circle, from up in Boston?"
[errant] "No," he says, the word simple, stark, without much inflection. "I've not left the South West much." Which might beg the question as to why he's left at all; he does, however, not explain further.
It's clear from the manner in which he's walking that he's actively listening, lips slightly pursed, one eye focused on the exit from the parking lot, ignoring as a matter of course the startled looks from unprepared humans as they walk past them. The half glances, hidden and then shot a second time, taking in the scar tissue, the blank, milky white eye. It's a matter of course, and thus, ignored.
The road that that the buses take out of the lot curves down and to the left and joins a double laned street; buildings rise three stories along both sides, the local style boasting broad verandas before each, such that the buildings evince a terraced look, layered. Thick snow crunches underfoot, compacted by tires and the tread of innumerable other pedestrians, much of it stained to black and yellow already.
Reaching the street, the rumble of the buses left behind them, Sebastian slacks his pace sufficiently to allow Hatchet to take left or right as he will, turning to follow with easy adjustment.
"What's their totem spirit?" he asks.
[Administrator] snail, welcome to Chinatown (Southside) (Night)
[snail] (just crawled outta bed not too long ago, heh. gonna get my bearings, maybe run a few errands, and then poss. hop IC with you guys if you're still around :D)
to errant, Hatchet
[Hatchet] "They are assho--" Hatchet stops, does a mental rewind, and shakes his head, lifting one index finger to correct himself. "Some of them are assholes."
As far as he is concerned, the scars and the white eye are better by far than the way Sebastian looked four years previous. It doesn't bother him. He saw the way he was looked at moments ago, the searching gaze that he met with a smile. The question of what has happened to each of them in the intervening time has not come up yet.
There are a lot of questions that haven't come up yet, such as why Hatchet didn't wait for him to wake up, why Sebastian is here, why he sent word ahead to Hatchet and not the Elders, why he didn't stay in the Rockies. There is really no need to ask why Hatchet left that sept. Two reasons come immediately to mind, one having to do with who Hatchet is and one having to do with a certain hardassed Fianna Elder.
"Huge fuckin' flock of badass birds," Hatchet says easily, then adds more seriously: "Talons of Horus." He shrugs, something tightening in his bearing when he talks about the circle. "Mostly Fangs and Lords."
His steps take them across a street, corner to corner, and then towards the general East.
[errant] Late night, thin crowds. Light streaks and puddles on the pavement, pooling in hollows dug by heels in the snow, breaking over hard ridges. Ice beneath, thinly veiled and treacherous. A chinese restaurant radiates brilliant azures and beguiling purples onto the stretch of pavement beyond their plate glass window, neon sign making of the darkness beyond a grotesquerie. The brilliant, sterile radiance of a laundromat. A closed liquor shop, kanji in radiant cadmium hues vertically arrayed down the length of the window, illuminating the rows upon rows of sake bottles and wine with aureate dignity. Each window front a beacon of light, punctuations of luminescence between steel curtain shuttered store fronts, finished and done for the night.
"The Talons of Horus," says Sebastian quietly, clearly impressed. "Fangs and Lords?" This inflected with dubious query, but a pursing of the lips indicates an immediate acceptance shortly thereafter. "A mighty totem spirit," he says after a few more strides. He's speaking almost beneath his breath, musing out loud. "Rarely seen in this age, more rumor than fact in the Penumbra." A sideways glance at Hatchet. "They must have gone deep, deep indeed to earn the Talon's patronage."
[Hatchet] "I know, right?" Hatchet says, shaking his head. It is not terribly clear which he's agreeing with, the presence of Lords and Fangs working together or the fact that as he said, their totem is most certainly 'badass'. His jaw twitches slightly as they walk, his hands shoved in his pockets. The hoodie he's wearing looks brand new, but it is most certainly not enough to keep him warm on a night like tonight. Hatchet never did dress appropriately for the weather.
He takes a corner, and now they are heading more North, with a vague hint towards the Northeast. Towards the waterfront. "I wouldn't know, Sebastian," he says, using the name he first knew him by rather than the name he earned. And it's true. Spirits, rites, and the Umbra are not his strong suit, not even remotely. He had to get a Theurge in the Rockies, a Glass Walker in fact, to dedicate him a new set of clothes when his previous set was burnt right off of him.
He breathes in deeply through his nostrils and holds it for a moment. "If you decide to stay at the Brotherhood, it...might...help to know a couple things about them. Like their Alpha, this guy Edward Bellamonte? He's one of the assholes I was mentioning. And he...really doesn't like me."
[errant] Turning toward the North, they enter the headwind, that comes ravaging down the Avenue over the humped backs of parked cars and weaving its way between parking meters and arc sodium lamps like the spirit of Wendigo, come to claim the living for the cold fastness of death. The wind chill knives through their protective clothing, would make mortals gasp, clench their bodies tight in an attempt to hold the cold at bay.
Resist the Winter doesn't react much beyond lowering his chin to shield his gullet from the cold, a slight hunching of his shoulders as he tautens the material of his raincoat over his back. Into the wind they stride, every step bringing them closer to the bawn.
"Edward Bellamonte," says Sebastian quietly, as if engraving the name in his memory, carving runes. Unbroken Circle, Edward Bellamonte, The Talons of Horus. With such elements is the whole composed.
A motorcade passes to their left, two rhino sized police motorbikes acting as outrunners to the long limo, followed by a quiescent squad car. The Theurge marks their progress, and only after the vehicles have disappeared into the distant dusk does he return his attention to Hatchet.
"Have they given you cause for grief here in Chicago?"
[Administrator] connect-four, welcome to Chinatown (Southside) (Night)
[Hatchet] "Well, see...no...it..." Hatchet winces as the wind hits his face, breathing in deeply to steel himself, and yanks his hood back up over his head. He is still trying to figure out how he keeps spending the cold months in places like Chicago, places like the mountains, places like the sept where he was fostered. How? What did he ever do to piss off Fate like that?
"See, here's the thing," he goes on, walking without looking where he's going. His feet fall unerringly in a straight path, however, testament to how much he trusts either the ground under his feet or his legs' ability to recover should he hit a stumbling block. He trusts his peripheral vision to warn him of obstacles.
"A few years ago I was up in Boston with Soledad -- this was before we were a bonded pack, but she's my Beta -- and there was this big hoity-toity family up there, the Bellamontes. The worst stereotypes of the Fangs come to life, Sebastian, I'm telling you. Entitled, spoiled, twitchy as fuck, but I tried to stay out of their way."
Which is doubtful. At least four years ago, it had seemed Hatchet had a knack of being respectful and careful in the presence of the Fianna Elder that had been suspicious of him from Day One, but he it rankled him. He could keep his head down if he had to, but he didn't much like being singled out. He hasn't said he was singled out by the Bellamontes, though.
"Anyway, I was getting fed up, and this one night I'm out drinking, and I mean, like...drinking, and going off on this guy Edward's sister, who's a Philodox, right? Nothing that isn't true. I mean, you're gonna end up meeting her, she barely even seems like a Garou. Uppity little..." Hatchet shakes his head, his dislike of 'this guy Edward's sister' written across the disgust in his face. If there is anything he despises, it is a werewolf who seems more human than Garou. "Well. Right about the time I'm boasting that once she's older I'm going to knock up his other sister...who's Kin, by the way...Edward walks in."
Hatchet gives a mighty eye roll but doesn't slow down. When he gets going, the man can talk. At length. Quite animatedly. "He decides to drag Sol into it, makes some cheap slur, and I mean...I can understand why the fucker was pissed, but come on. You get pissed, you jump in, right? He just decided to be snide. But anyway." He shrugs. "I went after him...I tried very hard to dislocate his jaw...annnd then we got yanked apart and I got kicked out."
Clearing his throat -- they have gone two blocks in his retelling -- Hatchet gives a wry, somewhat sheepish look to Sebastian. "Apparently Old Edward is still rather annoyed with me."
[connect-four] thinking of jumping in if things are open-like, where's everyone?
to errant, Hatchet, snail
[errant] Sebastian walks alongside the Fostern, contained and quiet, listening through the stub of his ear, chin lowered, eyes continuously roving as they move. Alighting on the raised orange stars that are the heads of the arc sodium lamps, then drifting to the left to rake the dark windows that face the avenue in the tenement buildings. From there they settle like snow fall on the parked and darkened shells of cars, probing each opaque window, and then snapping back up ahead, gazing into the substance of the air itself, as if it were tangible, capable of hiding elusive spirits in plain sight.
Hatchet's story elicits a snort, his mouth curling once more into a brief smile as his companion paints a picture with the robust skill of an amateur raconteur and bard.
When he speaks, though, it's simply to repeat his question. "Has he made his annoyance apparent with more than just words, though? Any recent cause for grief?"
[errant] ((Heading through China town along a quiet avenue towards the Bawn.))
to connect-four, Hatchet
[Administrator] connect-four has left Chinatown (Southside)
[Administrator] dotdotdash, welcome to Chinatown (Southside) (Night)
[Administrator] Sam Modine, welcome to Chinatown (Southside) (Night)
[Administrator] Sam Modine has left Chinatown (Southside)
[dotdotdash] (bonjourno lovelies. I can't see tags at the moment (stupid work computer), so I wanted to pop in and ask if the scene was open or not. And, if not, do you mind if I lurk?)
to errant, Hatchet, Sam Modine, snail
[Administrator] Sam Modine, welcome to Chinatown (Southside) (Night)
[errant] ((Heya chica. It's open - we're heading through China town along a quiet avenue towards the Bawn.))
to dotdotdash, Hatchet
[Hatchet] Out of the corner of his eye, Hatchet can see the way Sebastian's gaze roams from lights to empty windows, snowbanks to clear patches, and he notes it. The watchfulness, the way he seems to see past what Hatchet might see. It may almost appear that Sebastian is looking for something in particular, but to Hatchet it seems as though he is simply seeing things more immediately, more deeply, than others.
Even caught up in his little tale, Hatchet notices it, and there are perhaps a dozen potential reactions he has to it. All of the half-dozen he actually has, he keeps to himself. They are, after all, in the middle of an entirely separate conversation.
"Honestly, I've only seen him once since I got here. I've gotten a pretty damn clear impression --" and though he says 'pretty' and though he says 'impression', he would not be passing it along if 'damn clear' were not the focus, if he were not sure of what he is saying, "-- that the Unbroken Circle has designs on leadership in this caern, maybe even dominance. I have been told in no uncertain terms," he goes on with a growing smile, as though this amuses him to no end, "that it would be in my best interests to stay out of their way."
He grins briefly, but then shakes his head and leads Sebastian more tightly towards the northeast. The scenery is changing. There is less 'China' in this area of town. His voice is not quite as cheery, as cheeky, as it was a moment ago, when he speaks this time: "I see so much good in their pack, Sebastian. The loyalty they have for one another alone is honorable. I have broken bread and shared beer with them, I have fought with one of them and sung with another, and overall I think they ..."
He stops, and gnaws on his lower lip for a moment, steps slowly briefly before they pick up again. "They deserve a better Alpha than fucking Edward."
[Administrator] dotdotdash has left Chinatown (Southside)
[Administrator] Armstrong, welcome to Chinatown (Southside) (Night)
[snail] (okay, gotta run some errands. back in about an hour, and will play then if y'all are still around! :D)
[errant] "Hmm," says Sebastian, noncommital, a registered pause as he walks alongside, following Hatchet's lead as they take corners, make turns. Registering the scenery as they go, noting changes, eyeing street signs. At one point he turns and looks behind them, pace slackening, and then he picks it up, makes no comment as to what he might of seen. With his blind eye, he's forced to move his head more than most.
"Interesting choice of words, Hatchet," he says at last. "Deserve." Again that musing tone. "You speak as if there is some injustice at play. You should know that justice has no place in such matters. They are what they are, and will change only when one of them deems the moment opportune to challenge. Or when Edward falls in battle, or to Harano or whatever fate Gaia decrees for him. The fact that they have not challenged their Alpha says more about them than you seem willing to accept."
A sideways smile then, a baring of teeth that has more feral wildness in it than most humans would be comfortable with. "And should Unbroken Circle seek dominance, Fostern of the Fianna, than let them reach for it. Such is our way. Nature and Garou both abhor a vacuum. Do not fault them for their ambition, but rather ask yourself if it's at odds with your own. Are you saying that they are unwelcome competition?"
[Sam Modine] The moon isn't but a sliver in the sky above them. It hangs a hollow shard of it's full splendor, a winking mystery. Apocalypse's birthmark on lady sky.
Mjollnir's Heart makes his way up an avenue, his path intersecting by coincidence their own. He, it seems is heading into or at least toward the Caern as well, his footsteps a series of bass notes announcing his percussive presence to the spirits of asphalt, concrete, and glass. His blond hair blows wildly around his face, obscuring his face from direct observation. He makes no motion however to sweep it back, move it. It's as though the wasted energy is better spent just walking keeping his path and pace toward a final destination.
His companion though does not spark the same notes in the air as he notes though. She is smaller by almost a foot, and she does not strike them of the same breeding, not by far. An odd pair they make, each digging into white boxes of some local fare with pointed sticks. By the time they hit the corner to meet the path of the member's of weasel's number his face has come into view. The cross wind blowing the locks of hair in a direction more condusive to seeing. The spark of recognition is tinged with a little bit of something else. A sizing up for the new addition, inquisitive as to what has now crawled from Weasel's burrow. And for Buried Hatchet? It's something else indeed. Something much more sinister.
And odd pair to be sure. But the way they stand so close to one another, his form protecting hers from the freezing winds, the eye to eye communications, the subtle body language- it spells only one thing.
Packmates.
Talons.
[Hatchet] To all this, to Sebastian's carefully worded reply, Hatchet gives an audible: "Pfff." He smirks. "They want Edward, they can have him. I didn't say there was a whit of injustice about it. They think he's the shit, don't realize they could do better? That's their problem."
If Soledad were here, she would know exactly what is going on with the Philodox at the moment, and what merited the shift from a moment of seriousness to a lip-vibrating noise of mock dismissal. Sarah would potentially even call him on it, or give him a Look, or something. Sebastian knew him for a few months, a long time ago. Hatchet was always good at masking the truth about himself, if not all that involved in masking the truth in general, and he has only gotten better.
He shrugs and shakes his head. "You're making assumptions, and -- rather annoyingly, I might add," he points out, good-naturedly but with a note of honesty, "-- the same assumptions most of them are making. I don't have any ambitions here. I don't see them as 'competition'. The sept has leaders, elders and younger Garou who have been here and bled for it and earned it. They need help guarding the place, there's so few of us here, but ...you know what, you haven't even met the guy," he finally says, just flapping a hand at Sebastian.
Hatchet glances ahead again, and catches sight of Sam and Armstrong down the way, the wind taking their scents in another direction before they end up in the scope of his vision. He breathes in, brightens his eyes, and adopts a broad and jolly grin. "Oh, gumdrops, it's Sam!"
Opening his arms wide, one less than the other so he does not inadvertently smack Resists the Winter beside him, Hatchet gives the Fenrir an inviting glance. "Come gimme a hug, kiddo."
[Administrator] Imogen, welcome to Chinatown (Southside) (Night)
[Armstrong] One of the beautiful things Mrena Armstrong had learned about Chicago was that it was very easy to get just about anything she really wanted if she was willing to look for it long enough. That was the way it was with just about any city, really, but Chicago had something particularly nice about it.
Like good takeout. She hadn't had decent Chinese food since she'd left Boston.
She had braided her hair that day in a tight frenchbraid; the vast majority of it stayed out of her face. It was out of the way, and more importantly, she wouldn't have hat hair when she took her hat off later. White Eyes was very much in her element, the moon was barely in the sky. This was Mrena's birthright, the moon was sitting in the sky like divine inspiration.
They were an odd pair. If someone had asked her several years ago about who she saw herself in a pack with, she wouldn't have ever said "Gee, a couple Silver Fangs, some fenrir, a Glasswalker, and another Shadow Lord for flavor." She would probably told them to quit talking because she was trying to study and given them some very good reasons to leave. But there she was, years later, standing close to some tall blonde son of Fenris.
Standing across from a Fianna who had an unfortunate one-night-stand and his companion.
"Sounds lovely, but I think you have to wait an hour after eating before you can show outward signs of affection."
[errant] Sebastian listens as the Fostern speaks rapidly, with a touch of asperity, clarifying, perhaps changing his position, a touch defensive. He doesn't speak, until the very last, just before the two strangers turn the corner and interrupt their conversation. Only then, and at the last, does he quietly say, "I was but asking, Hatchet. Not assuming."
And then Hatchet espies the strangers, and becomes effusive, stepping from the wings into center stage, his voice loud, inclusive. Sebastian refrains from joining him in either voice or tone and body language, content for now to simply come to a stop and examine these... friends... of Hatchet's.
Tall and angular, dressed in a faded black raincoat that reaches his knees and with a small pack slung over his shoulder, the Theurge is made striking and memorable by his face, a quarter of which is covered by scars and mottled flesh. His left eye is milky and blind, and his scalp over his ruined left ear and temple grows not at all. His is the long, pensive face of a poet, perhaps, or a Christian saint, given to abstinence and contemplation. Dark eyes, hollow cheeks, a wide and thin lipped mouth. He doesn't introduce himself, or look anxious for an introduction; content, rather, to simply watch and observe.
[errant] (('the hair on his scalp', sorry.))
to Armstrong, Hatchet, Imogen, Sam Modine
[Sam Modine] "Yes," flatly. "Gumdrops." Mrena though is just pithy enough to raise the corner of pursed lips up halfway. It's not it seems that the youngish Get is immune to humor but maybe just too tightly wound to let it very far in. Maybe that's the single mindedness of a tribe of warriors. Perhaps the hard training has taken many of the lighter tones from his personality.
Or maybe he and his have the same stick up their collective asses.
Regardless he does speak again after poking about in the box he's holding, taking a few pieces of the spicy meal and chewing them down first. "I heard you helped Lukas out the other night." It's not a tone of gratitude, even of credit. Just a nodded acknowledgment of the other providing assistance in the duties of the Nation. The subject is dropped though in the intermittent second, his eyes turning toward the quiet one and back.
"Who is your friend?"
[Imogen] Sometimes, the world is full of odd, little coincidences. Imogen is well familiar with it - and asked about it, might speak of it with a sort of wry resignation. One might even say that the reason she is here - more part of the Nation than she had ever intended to be, is due to a series of coincidences.
Here is another: the door she is opening is opaque, the glass replaced with wood from a recent disaster, be it someone shutting the door too hard or perhaps a vandal. She doesn't know, doubtlessly doesn't care. It wouldn't have even been an issue, had she been in the process of pushing the door open on the sidewalk, just in time to bring the forefront of this band of Garou up short to avoid smashing into it ignomiously.
If nothing else, Garou have good reflexes.
Some flicker of awareness, perhaps a sound of a footfall or the sound of conversation causes her to bring the door up short as well - keeping it from swinging out completely with one hand on the push-bar. She steps out beyond it with an almost absent glance - "Pardon me," - an absent glance that sharply focusses before she's even finished speaking, a pass of her eyes over the gathered as she lets the door swing shut.
Whether or not the Kinfolk would know they're Garou - it would certainly be easy to pick the redhaired woman out as of the Blood, if nothing else. It's purebreeding - almost more vibrant than her red hair, than her pale skin. Heroes in one's ancestry marks the descendants in their blood, bones and movements. It's in her poise, an elegance that is not entirely explained by her tailored slacks, her fitted coat. It's in her prepossession as she steps out of the way of the shutting door, half out of their way, but hardly hugging the wall.
[Hatchet] "Oh," Hatchet says after Armstrong, seemingly crestfallen as his arms drop back to his sides. "Damn." With a heavy sigh, he shakes his head at the Fenrir. "You'll just have to hug me in your heart, then. Wouldn't want you to get a cramp."
He turns to look at Sebastian. He didn't ignore what the other said, but he does not pick that line of conversation back up again. Not here, not now, and not in front of these two. The look he gives the dark-haired man with the backpack and raincoat is brief, before he turns back to the two members of the Circle. I heard you helped out -- Sam says, without appreciation or credit, and the corner of the Fianna's mouth just quirks outward. He shakes his head a little.
"This is Sebastian," he says somewhat simply of the heavily scarred newcomer, keeping his hands in his pockets where they have a chance of staying warm.
They have stopped on the sidewalk, the four of them, after running into each other. There is a door opening, though, and Hatchet holds his tongue as to the rest of the introduction. For one thing, his attention is being drawn towards that door, and while for a moment he is more wary than anything else, it quickly turns to a completely different sort of interest. Hatchet's eyes don't bulge and his tongue doesn't loll out and he doesn't blubber his lips in a Humina humina humina, but nor does he make a secret of the fact that for a moment or two at least, he's staring at Imogen.
"Sebastian, this is Sam," he says, his eyes following the redheaded Kinfolk though he speaks to his companions, "and Mrena. They're with Edward."
[Armstrong] "It's a pleasure," she said to Sebastian. It was more of a formality than anything. She was learning these things. Mrena learned a great deal from her pack, like when to provide those 'common courtesies' and when not to. When to make an offer and when to keep her mouth shut and express gratitude. She learned a lot about opportunity, and when to take it.
She had expressed this,, but saw Hatchet's eyes go to a certain well-bred, red haired goddess. Mrena had never met Imogen, but something about her was genuinely artistic. The kind of woman that you painted or sculpted, though not with a quiet smile on her face. No gaze of mystery, just one of disinterest. Or pointed displeasure.
Mrena didn't have her sketchbook. And she was socially aware enough that knew whipping it out would have been a huge mistake.
Her attention was back on the other Theurge. The man with one milky eye and a memorable face. He had lived, it seemed. And lived a great deal. Were she a Galliard she would ask his story in hopes of retelling it. Since she was not, she might ask his story in hopes of retaining it instead.
"Been in town long?"
[errant] Sebastian gazes at Sam and then Mrena as Hatchet introduces them, looking directly at their faces with frank appraisal, a searcing gaze that is made disconcerting by how his blank eye seems to probe deeper and see more than his live one. He makes no attempt to hide the scars, the warped nub of an ear, the taut, layered whorls of healed flesh that warp the skin about his ocular cavity, brow and temple.
A few steps back from the triangle that are Hatchet, Sam, and Mrena, he is in a position to observe without needing to step aside when the door suddenly opens, and reveals a flame in the frozen white fastness that is the avenue. Imogen cannot help but draw the attention of Garou, her blood singing like a resonating crystal glass in the thin air, but it is a measured, appraising look at the Theurge directs at her, in stark contrast to Hatchet's devouring eyes.
"Sam, Mrena," he says, acknowledging each in turn, and then in response to Armstrong's question, "No, not long."
He clearly seems to be content to watch in silence, not seeking to extend the conversation with the expected question in return. Rather, he allows Hatchet to continue the conversation, his eyes moving from the Garou to kin as he examines each with greater scrutiny.
[Sam Modine] "Mmmm," the conversation takes a wayside for a second as Sam outright stares at the woman coming from inside and almost into the semi-circular group of werewolves. His eyes traces over legs, upward, stopping for separate instants at different features, bringing to mind Gaia knows what lewd images.
Though one could likely guess.
The hum isn't muffled, it's a distinct almost verbal appraisal of something desirable, but something not his to take. The Modi's eyes are pried away long enough to readdress the Fostern with them. The woman's breeding speaks to the songs of verdant islands, emerald hills filled with somber heroes. Sam's eyes ask if the woman is one of his.
[Sam Modine] ((Sorry I had a phone call))
to Armstrong, errant, Hatchet, Imogen, snail
[Imogen] (Now I have a phone call. *LOL*)
[Administrator] snail has left Chinatown (Southside)
[Administrator] Lukas Wyrmbreaker, welcome to Chinatown (Southside) (Night)
[Administrator] all eyes, welcome to Chinatown (Southside) (Night)
[Imogen] The Garou stare, though the order of intensity varies between each of them. The kinwoman's gaze holds Hatchet's first and foremost, perhaps because his gaze is the most undeniable.
None of them speak to her, though certainly a significant gaze is passed from Sam to the Fostern Fianna.
A faint smirk flickers across her mouth - something wry, before saying simply, a little ironically, "A pleasure," as she starts to move around the group.
[Administrator] Kemp Oates, welcome to Chinatown (Southside) (Night)
[Hatchet] Hatchet supplies no clarification to the end of Sebastian's answer, telling either of them that 'not long' equals about the time it takes to walk from the Greyhound station to where they stand at the moment. None of their business unless the other makes it so. His eyes, his 'devouring' eyes, are off of Imogen by now. They meet Sam's mildly, and he lifts one of his light-colored eyebrows.
Another Garou of his Tribe might, with some sort of reasoning and maybe even good intentions, excuse himself to go over and speak to Imogen, inquiring as to her lineage, her name, whether she has any nice big Garou 'protecting' her or 'claiming' her or some-such. Hatchet just looks back at Sam curiously, as though he can't fathom what on earth the Fenrir is silently asking.
He can play stupid pretty well, when he bats his long sooty eyelashes and lets the strange naivete in his eyes blossom to its natural fruition. He's not trying to be convincing this time, though. Still: he doesn't step out of the half-circle and approach Imogen. He glances at her again, and then he huffs out a breath. "It is colder than a witch's teat out here, folks, and I ain't got none-a them fancy coats and gloves and such. We're going to a magic land of swirling waters and then to the ever-pleasant gingerbread cottage nearby, where I hope that the witch's teat will not follow, though if it does I will shove it in the oven --of my mouth-- because good-god-damn, ain't nothin' better on a cold night than a mouthful of witch-boob. Onward!"
And with that, he throws up his arms and begins walking once more down the sidewalk, towards the northeast.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] There's a tea shop at the corner, somewhat apart from the spontaneous collection of garou, but probably in sight of them. And while tea is not exactly Lukas' thing, it's there that you'll find the Ahroun today. There's a cup of tea in front of him (ice cold), and some sort of glutinous-rice hong kong pastry (half eaten). He's sitting outside, of all things, even though the temperatures are subfreezing; even though he has to keep his coat buttoned to the top, the collar turned up around his scarf.
He's sitting outside for two reasons. The first is that the tea shop is crowded, cramped, a hole in the wall, and there isn't enough room in there for he and his rage both.
The second is that he's waiting for Kemp to show up, and whatever they'll discuss is better discussed without half a dozen humans milling around nearby.
[Kemp Oates] When he turned up, it was with his pockets bulging and not far from Imogen and the group. Though he was on the otherside of the street. It was with a swift swoop down and up, then a curl of his tongue against his teeth that he let her, and them, know he was nearby. A sharp, loud whistle rang out on a white exhale of breath and what he had scooped from the ground went flying between Imogen and the group to splat against the side of the building beyond them.
SPALT!!!!
He loved snow. His pockets bulged with a spare supply of snowballs and he was climbing over the mounds at the curb on his way towards the tea (yech ) shop and Lukas.
[Kemp Oates] ((And SPLAT too man! LOL!!! ))
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas watches this with some amusement. And probably some gladness that the snowball hadn't been aimed at him.
As Kemp nears, the Shadow Lord rises from his seat. He's moving a little stiffly today, though it could just be the cold. "Kemp-rhya." He holds his hand out to grasp forearms through their respective gloves and coats. "Thanks for coming out." He nods at the group a little ways down the street. "Who were you aiming for?"
[Armstrong] Mrena was one of the few people who was standing there who had little to gain from boning Imogen. Then again, there really was very little one could gain from attempting aside from a black eye if they were lucky; Mrena was unaware of this. That was neither here or there, the real point was that she appreciated the woman from an artistic point of view and it stayed there.
Across the totem link, she came across fairly clearly. Sam, quit oogling the kinfolk before you start drooling. And then? Then they were under snowy fire. She looked at the snowball splattered on the wall. She kept her hands in her pockets, looking at Sam.
"So, are we meeting at the gingerbread house or do we need to make a pitstop at the big swirlie mountain too?..."
A pause, then a look at the snowball.
"Or do we figure out where that came from so we can plot great, snowy venegence?" Her tone was playful. Dry. But playful.
[Kemp Oates] He glasped Lukas on the forearm with a red cheeked chuckle. While most of him was covered, the exposed flesh of his face, throat and where it shown through his jeans, was chapped from the cold.
"Lukas, good to see ya still breathe. I weren't aiming at no one, or I would of hit 'em."
His chuckle visible on the cold air.
[errant] Not quite gaunt but rather angular, hard as if muscle had been woven about his frame of bone by some arduous spider, Sebastian adjusts his pack's weight over his shoulder and looks from Fenrir to Shadow Lord.
"Be seeing you around," he says. "Gaia watch over you." A simple benediction, quietly spoken, and then he falls in step with Hatchet leaving the two strangers behind, Imogen falling to one side as she in turn extricates herself from the impromptu gathering.
A bitter, mean wind comes barreling down the avenue, serving to underscore Hatchet's desire to escape the weather for warmer environs. It brings with it the sudden splattering of a snowball against the brick wall, causing the Theurge to freeze and stare across and up the street to where Kemp is joining Lukas. Like a wild animal momentarily arrested by an errant passing of a flashlight he pauses, and then he's moving again, blind and live eye fixed on the distant strangers, chin lowered, shoulders hunched against the cold.
[Hatchet] A snowball goes splat, and Hatchet goes from sharply following the sudden projectile before his gaze bounces back to the direction it came. His eyes, for a moment, are mirthless, and then he just breaks into an enormous grin. "That's Kemp," he tells Sebastian at his side, nodding towards the youth that is taller than both of them. And then his eyes move from Kemp towards the man he's now engaged in speaking to, Lukas.
There's something else there, not enough to break an enormous grin but enough to give him a hitch in his step. He nods towards the dark-haired man. "And that's Lukas," he adds, as they start walking again. "He's Edward's second in command." And the only thing interesting about the way he says this is the curious, rather blank mildness of his normally expressive voice.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas laughs under his breath, holding the chuckle back. He settles back into his chair - and no, it's not just the cold. He's definitely moving gingerly.
"Well, next time," he advises, "aim for the tall blonde fellow. He'll appreciate the joke most of all." -- deadpanned, that. And moving on, "Anyway, I wanted to talk to you about a couple of things. Last time we talked about the Sept and its offices, you mentioned you were the acting Wyrmfoe. Would you be wiling to claim the position formally?"
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (wtf? willing.)
[Sam Modine] He answers hatchet's reply with another look. Eyes close a bit, lidding down, lips purse, a head shakes it's manes slowly. Dumbass. The look reads clearly.
Jealous? It comes mockingly back over the airy totem link. "Sou-"
Incoming.
The Modi's head flits sideways in the manner of either raptor or wolf. His gaze doesn't go where the snow hits the wall, rather across the street to where it came from. His shoulders square backways between himself and his packmate forward to Kemp. It's all so fast it seems to happen without even a thought on his part. "I've got a pretty good idea already." He grins wide and toothy across the street toward the senior Fenrir. A slow pan to the rotagar's destination has a familiar form front and center. Another windwhipped channel opens across the totem link.
Tell him thanks for the heads up. And that payback's a bitch. I almost jumped out of my skin.
[Imogen] Sebastien's bendiction draws a brief glance - but no reply; it had been a general statement, requiring little statement.
The kinwoman turns her head to glance over her shoulder at where the snow ball had landed, a half foot from her body. Her gaze flicks away, scanning the street for the culprit.
When she identifies the Ragabash, the corner of her mouth twists upward - a lightly more mirthful smirk than the one which she had formed a few seconds ago. The Rotagar's already moved on - headed for Lukas and the tea shop, so any potential reply she'd had is stifled beyond the edge of her amusement.
She heads down the street - disappearing around the corner soon afterward, back on whatever course she'd been on before.
[Imogen] (thanks for the RP!)
[Administrator] Imogen has left Chinatown (Southside)
[errant] Walking alongside Hatchet, shoes crunching the snow, Sebastian leaves one pair of Garou behind and focuses his gaze on another. From this distance it's impossible to discern the nature of their conversation, but certain clues can be pieced together, tentative hypotheses already falling into place. Turning so as to gaze at his Tribal Elder with his good eye, Sebastian studies him, and then looks ahead once more.
"Lukas. The one you fought with." Not a question, but perhaps an opening.
[Kemp Oates] He positioned himself so he could see those he threw at while he bent to start forming another snowball.
"Well, ya know what most would say to that Lukas. Most ain't so open minded. Most would figure someone born around the same time of month as you, would be better suited for something like that. Me? I'm trouble on a half shell ya know? But I do what's given to me to deal with. How about you? Ya deal with what's coming your way?"
He cocked his head faintly towards the trouble he invited his way.
[Armstrong] Hardly, she replied. I haven't seen a worthwhile male since I've come here.
She's never 'seen' a worthwhile male at all, really, but that wasn't something she went around broadcasting. Maybe it was because Armstrong was picky, or maybe it was because she was busy, or maybe it was because there was a ritualized practiced involved in courtship, no matter how brief, that she had not learned. Given her preoccupation with ritual, one would think it would be something she would be interested in.
She bent down and gathered a handfull of snow. She started putting it together, balling it up in a quiet and reverent way.
How's your aim? Let's wait until they're done talking. I'd hate to interrupt the conversation.
[Hatchet] What Lukas says is true. Of those standing along the street, Hatchet is the most likely to not snap his jaws at Kemp's throat for hitting him with a snowball. He might swear mightily as ice crystals melt their way down his spine, but any tackling he would do in reply would be playful. It is not that Hatchet has no shame, or that he stands humiliation any more than another Garou might. It is simply that he is incredibly controlled, and ...really? A snowball? It's not that humiliating.
It's a fucking snowball.
Hatchet nods. "And the bread and beer," he responds to Sebastian, noting two of the other items on that list of activities he has engaged in with members of the Unbroken Circle. He glances over his shoulder; other than the unknown redhead, there are few mortals around here. A lot of them are inside, or at home, getting ready to watch the Bears fight with the Packers later on. There are snack trays to be arranged, beer to be chilled, and so forth.
He turns back to Sebastian, meeting his mismatched gaze with his own. "Sam is called Mjollnir's Heart," he fills him in. "He's Fenrir and a full-moon. The smaller one is White Eyes, one of the Shadow Lords and of your moon. Kemp is Get as well, though I give you three guesses as to his auspice and the first two don't count. He's my rank. Lukas," he saves for last, "is a Lord as well, Ahroun, and last night he ripped out the intestines of a twelve-foot-tall spider-creature that was trying to claw the fuck out of him."
Hatchet recounts all of this quickly, as he is wont to do, in the few yards they have before they approach Lukas and Kemp.
[Administrator] Tin Can, welcome to Chinatown (Southside) (Night)
[Hatchet] [EDIT: "Kemp, Truth in Frenzy, is Get as well..." AND "Lukas Wyrmbreaker is a Lord...".]
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Not now. Throw it at each other. Lukas' tone comes over the totemphone: level, indisputable.
Then his attention turns back to Kemp, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "I've asked around about you, Rhya. It is true that Wyrmfoe is traditionally a Full Moon's job. And I would be the first to insist on tradition, if I thought I or any other septmate born under the Full could best you in combat. But I doubt that." There's no shame in the statement; no sense of bruised ego or cowering flattery. It's stated as simple fact. "Besides, you know the lay of the land. And that's important, for the Wyrmfoe."
[errant] "The Talons of Horus have taken a motley pack under their wing," says Sebastian. "I've never heard of a Talon pack that included so many non-Silver Fangs. Especially Shadow Lords and Fenrir." A wry grin at that, "Another mark of the end times, perhaps."
But the names and tribes are noted, as is Hatchet's tone as he describes the distant Lord. Lips pursed, Sebastian walks on, half turning as if to direct his blind eye at Hatchet, "Sounds like a fierce battle. Were you ambushed, or did you two agree to go hunting together?"
[Kemp Oates] "I know the lay because I been here so many years. I had a good teacher."
He placed the snowball on the table as he bent to gather another pile and start packing it.
"Never, ever doubt anything. Everyone has a bad day Lukas, and sometimes I think Gaia takes turns with the other two in having a good laugh at my expense. Though as I said. I do what duty I got to do and ain't never been smart enough to think twice."
He watched the others as they drew closer.
"That table bolted down?"
And directly on the heels of that.
"Should be somewhere out of the open where ya can deal with what's going on under your coat man. This could of waited. I ain't dying just yet."
[Sam Modine] He squats down carefully palming snow into bare hands, squeezing it into a semi-spheroid object. He slowly makes his way behind one of the few curbside parked cars nearby and leans back. Depositing it next to his right foot and reaching for another handfull of snow. "Maybe," He eschews the totemhpone now that the others are moving away. "That's because you haven't been looking at much beside your art since we got here." He knows that's not completely true, Mrena in fact is umbral more often than any of the rest of them, and they're always stronger for it.
"Not going to find a lay between the pages." Which doesn't mean Sam won't test her a little while he slaps down a third snowball and begins a fourth.
"Think we can ambush when they start moving?" He smiles to his packmate then, tossing a snowball up and down a couple inches in one hand, getting a feel for it's heft. The smile drops though as he peeks up over the rusted car's rear end toward the two chatting over tea. Just bought yourself a one way ticket to whitewashing later Wyrbreaker-rhya.
With that he turns and looks again to Mrena. and the snowball is drawn back; released.
Heads up.
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 4, 4, 4, 8, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[Hatchet] "I know, it's almost like the world is ending or something," Hatchet says with a click of his tongue against his back teeth and a voice full -- at first -- of almost bitter sarcasm. It lightens a moment later. "Cats and dogs, living together...mass hysteria!" He breathes in and gives a happy sigh. "I love that movie."
"Kind of a weird story," Hatchet begins, his feet crunching on ice and snow both and his teeth threatening to chatter. "When we get to the Caern I'll show you the Wyrmpole -- it is awesome -- and tell you all about it. Meantime, I'm gonna pay my respects. You want me to show you off?" he asks with a sidelong grin. He thinks he knows the answer to that.
[Administrator] Tin Can has left Chinatown (Southside)
[Administrator] Zeke, welcome to Chinatown (Southside) (Night)
[errant] This earns another wry smile, and a shake of his head. "No thanks. I'm going to keep heading north. You pay your respects, I'll pay mine. I'll see you at this Brotherhood place."
A few more steps, and then he turns so that he's walking backwards, facing Hatchet before he heads off toward the Fenrir and Lord. "Good seeing you, amigo." The wry smile moves from his lips to his one good eye.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "My packmates are nearby," Lukas replies -- a sort of statement of such utter offhanded confidence that it would be presumptive if it were not, also, utter truth. A faint grin, "They won't let the Wyrm get me.
"Anyway, I know you'll do what you have to. But I'm asking you to step up this next moot and claim it, formally."
[Armstrong] She looked at Sam for a moment, she had already primed her weaponry and just looked at him for the longest time. Three and a half seconds of consideration.
Which was too long, because he beat her to the punch.
She took the hit; Sam had much better aim than she did. And at that moment Mrena took a snowball to the stomach in a way that she hadn't done since she was twelve. Let it be known that White Eyes was not good at getting out of the way. Play held a very valuable lesson, in that one got to pracitce.
At that moment, she threw what she had at him. Which, while she was not a good throw, one had to note that her snowball had a much better composition than his. It looked very, very round.
(throwing!)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 3, 6 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Administrator] all eyes has left Chinatown (Southside)
[Sam Modine]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 6, 6, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 8 at target 6) Re-rolls: 3
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (jesus christ, is that a snowball or the projectile of icy doom?)
[Kemp Oates] He knew there was better. He knew because once they had been more than just blood, they had been Pack. The smile in his eyes left, replaced with a bleakness taht was quickly masked when he bent to gather more snow for another ball to the pile. And his reply was simple and direct.
"Ok."
[Sam Modine] (dodging, *L* if that were a snowball it'd put her in the hospital)
[Zeke] Three streets North.
One block East.
Sounds in the Yule Tide season of the Chinatown Markets.
Gunshots. Single shot trigger pulls. Multiple times with quick kicks and the faint sounds of expletive mandarin, tearing holes in the vintage crisp of the night. Muffled against the snow, enough to make it seem ear-muffed or part of some movie. The shots die after a few heartbeats, three voices in high pitched shrieks, falling to one which continues in the long string of curses, interrupted only by the hiccup of gulps and out of breaths (inaudible but intelligable by the sudden laboured and powerful exhale of another string of curses).
[Hatchet] Hatchet nods to Sebastian. If anything, he trusts that he can find the damn Caern. His eye, the white and deep-searching one, seems to give Hatchet confidence that the Theurge is fine on his own rather than making shivers run down his back. He smiles when the other Fianna says he'll see him later, though. It only grows into a grin when he adds that it's good seeing him again. "Y usted, hermano," he tosses back easily, and then turns his steps to trodding the last few yards to Lukas and Kemp.
Walking up, he sees the flicker of something in Kemp's eyes that makes his brow furrow slightly, and then he slows down to give them both nods of greeting. "Kemp," he says pleasantly, and then turns to Lukas. "How're you doing?" he asks,meaning inherent.
[Sam Modine] It's very, very round. So it flies very, very straight. Sam moves deftly sideways without even stepping and sees it spray against the blue metal of the car's rear quarterpanel. It leaves a perfect white sphere behind where it exploded and Sam admires it for a moment before standing up just a tad more than he was.
"Lukas said to."
He smirks. "Truce?"
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Briefly, and suddenly, Lukas breaks into a grin. His is a rather somber face, serious by nature, more given to expressions of thought and contemplation and worry than recklessness and joy. Still: when he smiles, he smiles. One thinks of silly stormcloud-rainbow metaphors; one thinks of phrases like it took ten years off of him and it made him look young, except, of course, he is young; and if you took ten years off Lukas he'd be a preteen.
They're all young. It's the end of days. There are none others left.
"Good," Lukas says, quiet, but he means it. "Good."
Next up, then: "The other thing regards a kin to my tribe, Nessa Malikoff. The other night my packmate, Mrena," a nod to Armstrong up the street, "found her in an alley with the Child of Gaia Theurge," if Kemp detects a slight sarcasm on that word, it might not be his imagination, "Dances-in-Fire-rhya. He was acting rather familiar with Nessa, though -- "
here he breaks off; Hatchet has strolled up, and Lukas isn't sure that Kemp wants his private kin-and-cub business blared out for the world to hear. Nevermind that Hatchet had been present at least part of the night in question. "Hatchet-rhya," Lukas says; there's always a touch of formality in his greetings. "Have a seat, if you want to freeze with us."
[Zeke] ...Seconds of frantic tension, the sort that has old ladies, the curious and the brave, peeking out of their blinds and trying to catch a glimpse of what was going on so that they could offer some tidbit of gossipy news to their friends around the lunch table tomorrow.
...He rounds the corner, ice and snow crunching under booted heel, pace slightly hurried and manner, closed in around the buttoning of a winter long coat. A cap is pulled on overtop of a shaved head, gloved hand falling to brush over a beard and smooth down it's wild strands. Dark figure on a lantern and streetlamp lit street.
He skids to a halt, sliding and nearly tumbling onto his back, hands and arms pinwheeling before clutching to a brick corner leading into an alleyway. Pulled inside, ghostly breath turned to dark alongside everything else.
[Sam Modine] ((AFK for just a bit guys, i've got to go to the store and there may be shoveling to be done first. back in 30-60))
[Armstrong] She stopped and just had to look at him, halfway through making a snowball. Mrena knew she was a shitty throw, but that was just beautiful.
"Holy shit Sam, where'd you learn to do that?"
She just looked at him for a moment longer, then shook her head. She let a slight smirk cross her face, coupled with a affirmative nod; they would hold a truce for now. It didn't mean either party surrendered. And then? Then her attention was elsewhere.
To sounds that were just barely.. barely heard. Brows knit together briefly and the corners of her mouth pulled together. And she did not leave well enough alone.
[Hatchet] [PHONE. Argh.]
[Kemp Oates] He saw how the smile broke out and wondered if he had been had. Shrugging that off when Lukas began to speak of Nessa and some Theurge. A child of Gaian. Oh well, she had one kid that though he claimed him as his own, but it wouldn't stop her from popping out several from different fathers.
He pursed his lips then nodded to Hatchet with his approach.
"Lovely evening for freezing your balls off. Cop a squat if ya still got 'em."
It was fucking 5 degrees out, cold enough to turn tea to slushy.
"So Nessa was in an alley getting her freak on with some Theurge? Who I gotta say, off hand I don't place a face with the name."
His gaze sharpened on Lukas as he asked a little too softly.
"She have the kid with her?"
[Zeke] ...Followed closely by the spastic flailing of a young man, dressed in the remains of a black and white business suit, torn open and loosened for a night of drinking. His glasses are askew, jaw and features twisted into a mask of rage, skidding to a dangerous halt on the same street corner.
In one hand, the cooling and clip emptied presence of a black glock.
In the other, the long strands of black and pink extensions, clutched tight enough to whiten the knuckles.
"Fuckin' Shit!" Accented. He turns and glares down each street.
"Fuckin' meiguo guizi! Bakaro!"
He stands, awaiting the answer to his challenge, breathing hard, eyes in all directions.
[Armstrong] She could not leave well enough alone, and the sound of something caught her attention and compelled the theurge to take to the alleyways. Her movements were quiet, the crunch of snow was one of the few heralds that she was really going anywhere. Sam might follow, or he might not. Mrena wasn't sure.
She followed instincts and she followed what she had heard. Or thought she heard. Then, there was voices, and the petite Shadow Lord strained to hear. She wasn't quite where she could see things, but she'd get there.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "No," rather quickly putting that misconception to rest, "she wasn't. They weren't doing anything."
Kemp asks about the child. Lukas' eyes flicker to Hatchet; then, apparently deciding Kemp had opened the can of worms first, stops guarding his words. Out with the whole story, then:
"She didn't have the child with her. It was only that the Theurge -- he also goes by 'Andrew' -- had apparently ... fallen and was using her as his crutch. My packmate saw it and wasn't too pleased that a strange Gaian was making a walking stick out of a Shadow Lord kin. When she questioned him, he stared her down and grasped her by the arm. I was near by then, and when Theurge turned to follow Nessa I stopped him. There was some back-and-forth -- the important thing is, I asked for his word that he wouldn't try to go after my kin without my permission. After some more conversation, he gave his word, but his smile and his eyes were insincere. Still, he is my elder, and so I let him go.
"Then, because I did not trust his word, I asked the same promise of Nessa: that she would come to me, as her tribal guardian in this city, if Andrew were to try to claim her without going through the proper channels. At that point," and here, finally, is the point of all this, "she told me you may have already claimed guardianship over her, on account of the child."
[Zeke] The chinese fellow, looking like something out of a grindhouse knock-off, marches up and down the street, flashing gun and bravado at the world. It sends prying eyes in apartments above, scurrying back into their hovels. Not for fear of the individual but perhaps for who and what he belonged to. Dangerous allies for stupid people were common enough. Besides if you left well enough alone, stupidity usually took care of itself.
Right?
* * * * *
Mrena pulls herself into the collection of alleyways two blocks down, sifting through trash, around dumpster and over puddles of slush and snow, greyed by it's time in the city. Through the networks, quiet like snowfalls, she follows her curiosity until faced with a T Junction, in which she is currently nestled in the right portion of the Cross. To the left, lies the sound of the screaming Chinaman, coming from the main street.
Directly ahead; the smashed glass of a Sake Lounge, filled with disturbed patrons, a young girl, dressed for success and beauty, weeping just outside the club, blood mixing in with her make-up, running from a wound on her head, which she clutches with both hands. Two other well dressed friends are consoling her.
[Hatchet] Hatchet is quiet when he walks up to Kemp and Lukas, but for the greeting. They are talking, he realizes soon in, about Nessa. Nessa, who is Kemp's baby-mama and -- this matters -- not his mate. Hatchet was there, and the Garou of his rank whose child and baby-mama is the one being spoken of, does not require him to leave. Lukas does not answer the question posed to him, but this slides by Hatchet as fluidly as much else does.
If nothing else, he is hearing about what the problem was that spurred the conversation he did not quite overhear between Nessa and Lukas. Does he want to freeze his balls off? Hardly. Does he still have them? Indubitably. A few minutes earlier he seemed almost eager to get from the point on the sidewalk to a warm place. His hands are in his pockets and freezing; in a little while, he will be shivering the way that any mortal wearing his sort of layers would be shivering already.
But he stays, and cocks his head when Lukas's eyes flicker his way as though to ask: Seriously?
It passes. He has enough interest in this, for whatever reason, to stand quietly by.
[Kemp Oates] He heard the distant sounds, but hell this part of the city was full of sounds, like much of the rest of it. Right now he was stewing and he was concentrating on the conversation at hand.
"Nessa's child is mine. I claimed him before the Sept before he was born. The mother, she I have extended what protection I may to. Yet, she is....."
He paused trying to be nice then decided why change now?
"Well, she's a bit..."
He held his hand out and wobbled it back and forth like a plane banking from side to side, quickly.
"Ya know? In the head? I don't want to hold her back from happiness if she can find it. But if some prick is pushing her and she don't want it, it could become a big problem."
Fighting over a woman was the last thing he wanted to do because the damned woman would take it completely wrong, he knew this like he knew his own name. And his expression closed down further.
"I do no claim her as mate. Yet I will not allow another mutha fucka access to the child. I am being put in a position where I will need to do something about my son and one small world will never be the same, Lukas."
[Zeke] Zeke staying hidden: Dex 3 + Stealth 2.
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 5, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Zeke] Gunman search: Percep. 2 + Alertness 2. +1 Diff for intoxication.
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 3, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 7)
[Armstrong] Stupidity took care of itself.
Sometimes, however, it needed to be helped along.
To her left, there was a screaming man, gun in hand and waving it about as though this was the most important thing in the world. Some weeping patron with a gaping headwound, who was being consoled by her friends. There was no sympathy in her eyes for those involved.
At that moment, however, she made her way on down the street like a patron trying to get away from the scene. But Mrena listened. She stayed near enough, and out of the way enough that she did not worry about not-so friendly fire.
[Hatchet] Hatchet, lifting his eyebrows, sees Kemp point out with a little head-bobble the exact same point he had made about Nessa, and gives Lukas a pointed Look. This one says, quite clearly: See? I told you. This silent commentary is just as likely to be ignored as taken badly, but it passes. His attention is back on Kemp, and if there is anything there to be read, it's sympathy.
[Hatchet] test
to Hatchet
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] There's a quick grin as Kemp mentions Nessa's mental instability -- it looks a little like relief, that the Fostern had noted it as well as anyone else.
"It might be hard to claim the child without the mother," Lukas remarks, lightly. "Still, all I need to know is: do you want to act as Nessa's guardian? Because if you do, I won't dispute it with you. Whatever happened between the two of you, I wasn't around to insist on formalities then, and I can't unbreak an egg. It'll be over and done with in my mind, and I'll be hands-off. I'll certainly tell you if I see something untoward, but I won't worry about people coming to me for permission for this-and-that, and she will be as any other kin to me.
"If you don't, though, she remains Shadow Lord kin, and my duty."
[Zeke] Mrena shifts down the alleymouth and emerges out onto the street, nudging along at a gait and pace suitable to her tastes. She can hear the frustrated howls of the Chinaman, stamping through the street, kicking at snowpiles and tumbling through the night's chill air with all the care of a drunkard and a Rageaholic.
It's only after a few more precious and contemptible words that he thrashes around in a broad circle and storms dramatically back the way he came. Toward the Lounge and the waiting crowd that seems to file back into the club swiftly upon his approach. The girl outside is rushed back in by her two friends, leaving the young fellow, gun now tucked into his belt, to throw open the cracked door with a hard demand for more booze and a continuing of the night's activities.
* * * * *
...While the alley, dark and home to nothing a moment ago, suddenly peels back one of it's shadows, revealing the dressed down fellow with the smoothed down beard, light brown skin and narrowed eyes. He steps out onto the street, gloved hands tucking into pockets while stifling a yawn.
Only to catch Mrena's figure come 'rounding the street corner, not twenty yards down. He exhales a cloud of visible breath in her direction, cutting it off with a seal of lips, before the snow and ice begins to crack and crunch underneath his footfalls. Heading south.
[Administrator] cricket, welcome to Chinatown (Southside) (Night)
[Kemp Oates] "I have claimed the child without the mother as far as something like that goes. It was done before the child was little more than a missed period. And I had and have every right to take the child."
He sighed, weariness showing.
"I have tried and tried to be fair. I give all but a couple bucks at a time to her for the chilld's wellfare. Hell I been wearing the same clothes for damned near since he was born because I rather he had what I don't. My kid is not going to be thrown away. He's not disposable, unwanted or anything else."
He leaned with elbows on the table and his head in both hands as he scrubbed at his head through the stocking cap with his gaze on the table top, sighing again.
"I have found Kin are major trouble. Females are worse than males. They will cry and whine and flirt and pretend loyalty and brains while the entire time they are waiting for the first chance to stick a knife in your ribs from behind, aiming for your vital organs. While ya would think when ya tell one to stay out of trouble, remain in while ya take care of something, they on the other hand feel the first thing to do is run out with a neon sign advertising how you can not protect them."
Bitterness tinged his words. He shook his head, sitting up.
"She is your tribe. I protect where I can, but I will not prevent her from taking a mate. If ya find one ya think worthy, then so be it."
He felt like a trapped rat and here was Nessa being shoved up his ass, down his throat and into every cell of his body again.
[Armstrong] There was a figure that stepped out of the alleyway, and she stopped and looked at it for a moment longer. She saw nothing but colors and textures. Light caramel browns and granite solid. Mrena couldn't see his eyes, so she couldn't see the color. Whether they were glassy or clear.
But she got the distinct feeling of disinterest from him. Or boredom.
There was a cloud of breath in her direction, and with that she nodded slightly, it was like a greeting. No words, no reason to draw much more attention, but she haulted her approach. And waited with patience to see if his movements would reveal any more of the situation she had seen. The Gunman cared about the outcome, but not enough to pursue any further.
[Hatchet] As far as the last few minutes have gone, Hatchet has been standing there rather quietly. A couple of Looks, his hands freezing and his shoulders giving at least one cold-induced shudder. And then? Then Kemp unloads. He looks exhausted, not physically but most certainly drained by the whole situation. Hatchet's thoughts on the matter are not, in this instance, written across his face as they were when he lifted his eyebrows somewhat triumphantly at the Ahroun being careful with his upper half.
Oh. Don't think Hatchet hasn't noticed.
However, when Kemp goes on talking and ends up in a bitter-sounding vent session about Kin in general and Kinswomen in specific, Hatchet's eyes do not so much widen as they do light up. Yes, he knows that the end of the Ragabash's words are essentially shoving Nessa towards Lukas and saying DO NOT WANT. Yes, he is hearing what the man is saying about his son, who is not mere offspring or a bargaining chip but a child he claims and wants and does the best a werewolf can do when trying to support his rearing.
That is to say: very little. Step too close to the little bugger and it'll scream. Kids.
Hatchet takes his left hand from his pocket and quite calmly reaches over to Kemp, laying it firmly on his upper arm and giving him a squeeze of comraderie. "That may be the most accurate and plainly-put damned diatribe on the matter of Kinswomen I have heard in years, and for that, I owe you a fucking drink. Or...five." He claps the hand that squeezed the arm, and lets it fall again.
[Zeke] He did what most others would do when faced with an individual who stops to stare and nods a casual greeting, neither threatening or welcoming.
"Bodies turn to Cars, in the concrete, you know?" His words are slow. Chosen with care, a mixture of vocal caution and enunciated eloquence, the vagueness of a ghetto lifestyle crushed under a finely spoken tone. Everything but the accent. "Always gotta be doing something, going somewhere, being someplace, just...drivin' all 'round, windows down and worshippin' at red, yellows and greens. So a Brother's gotta ask himself, what's a girl doing, standing still in a city, staring all stock and strange at half-past dark on a weekday at lil' ole me? Hmmm?"
He pauses, half-turned to leave, frame facing the young Mrena, gloved hand held out toward her like he was offering her the chance to explain. Or maybe just telling her to stay put. Cautious and curious all at once.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] In the face of that unexpected divulgence, Lukas doesn't say anything for a moment. The young Ahroun just sits there for a beat, perhaps startled.
Then, "Look, Rhya, I don't mean to offend or push Nessa toward you or pull her away or -- any of that. I would be perfectly happy to ward her as kin to my Tribe, and I was well prepared to do so until she told me you may have already claimed that right. But if you haven't, in fact, done so -- and don't mean to do so -- then Shadow Lord kin she remains, with all associated rights and benefits, duties and burdens, et cetera et cetera. And that's all I'm really asking: is she your kin, or is she Shadow Lord kin?"
[Administrator] errant has switched to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)
[Kemp Oates] He was a bit surprised with Hatchet's reaction and for a moment his mouth opened and closed a few times.
"There's one Kin, one woman I have never seen games out of, never seen a desperate need to cling to the first set of balls, and every other, that comes along. This ain't her. And Lukas, ya should know something. Nessa was claimed by her Tribe when this all went down. She claimed they threatened her death when the child was born and many other things. Then they all up and left. Just like that."
He snapped his fingers.
"I been watching where I can, but I can't devote twenty four seven to babysitting anyone. Which is another story and bone to pick if ya listen to every woman I have known. It's suffocating. It sucks the life out of your soul. I have come to the conclusion that life is duty, then ya die. And I ain't trying to Kin bash here and someday she might find the perfect mate. I don't know. She has breeding, she can be loyal. She can't cook worth a shit, but she tries. But in the end. She is your Kin if we have to choose families. She is not mine. Only the child is mine and Luc will remain mine until I die and beyond or until he tells me to go fuck myself with a telephone pole."
[Administrator] Resists the Winter, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)
[Sam Modine] ((So, back. my god what an adventure. where's everyone?))
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (lukas kemp and hatchet are still at the tea shop. think armstrong is exploring an alley or something and meeting zeke. i could be wrong, i was skimming!)
[Kemp Oates] ((Not real sure where Armstrong and Zeke are. Lukas and Hatchet and Kemp are still at the table, freezing our balls off in the frigid temps. LOL! ))
to Armstrong, cricket, Hatchet, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, Sam Modine, Zeke
[Hatchet] Kemp is lucky, frankly, that Hatchet did not outright throw his long arms around him and give him a full-on hug. Then again, they were all born as humans, and have all spent a great deal of time in North America. Personal space, especially between grown men and almost always between near-strangers, is nearly inviolable. Hatchet may have missed that memo. Along with some others.
He frowns at what Kemp says next, though, not at all as delighted as he was to hear the rant about the women that chase after their Mighty Garou Seed. He glances at Lukas to see how he is taking that...not just the bit about the Shadow Lords that abandoned Nessa after claiming her but the part where he says She is your Kin.
His mouth closed, he runs his tongue over his teeth, his expression turning thoughtful.
[Zeke] ((Myself and Mrena are about two blocks down from the rest of the gathered, on the sidewalk in plain sight.))
to Armstrong, cricket, , Hatchet, Kemp Oates, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, Sam Modine
[Armstrong] Timpani. It didn't matter what beat he played, the man was pitched and classic. It didn't matter what was played, there was precision in the way his words hit and bounced.
"I thought I heard a wreck, it seems to be in our nature to drive torwards disaster and look on. Saw you pulling away and decided to park and enjoy the view," she said. "So, I'm doing just what you thought. Standing still in a city staring stock and strange ar a stranger at half past dark."
And she did what she said she would, silvery eyes staying with him and she stayed in park and waited. She was no drum. Mrena was not percussive, but something harder to place. Either strings or woodwind, dependent upon her purpose.
"What's your name?" From car to person again.
[Zeke] "Mmmmm, strange folk making friends."
A pause, the rich depth (Not baritone, simply husky, as if, despite the eloquence, he were rusty to it's use) of his voice drifting off, like a trail-away.
[Zeke] ((Bah! Scratch that. Hit the 'go' too soon.))
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas' brow knits as Kemp tells him of not-so-ancient history. "I was not aware of what my predecessors did here," he says, quietly. "And I would not have approved of that."
-- as if these erstwhile Shadow Lords (and for all he knew, his elders and betters) might give a damn what one cliath Ahroun who followed Silver Fangs thought of them.
"At any rate, I appreciate the warning about kinwomen, and this one in particular, Kemp-rhya. But it changes little. I don't claim Nessa because I want to. Want has nothing to do with duty. It is my duty to watch over those who are of my blood." A small, self-deprecating shrug -- it comes with a faint wince -- before he continues, "So if she is not your kin, then she is, by necessity, mine. I'll let her know. And -- I'll let you know if I see anything you might take issue with, regarding the child."
[Zeke] "Mmmmm, strange folk making friends."
A pause, the rich depth (Not baritone, simply husky, as if, despite the eloquence, he were rusty to it's use) of his voice drifting off, like a trail-away. He turns fully now to face her, his hand falling away to stuff itself back into a jacket pocket. The brow is furrowed (but she wouldn't know that) despite the slight sense of warming-up to her disposition that tells in his voice. Practiced sooth with thoughtful analysis.
"Names are for friends." A reassurance on his prior comment. "That what we are, girl? Friends already or making friends just now? 'Cause one gets you my name and the other gets you something you don't know. Which ain't sure." He shrugs, without his hands leaving the pockets. "Depends on how much you like secrets, I'suppose."
[Kemp Oates] "Oh she knows what family she belongs to and who claimed her before, Lukas. I appreciate ya watching over her, duty or not because she has a habit of getting in trouble. She has a need for a man in her life. Her first mate left her. I can't recall if it was her second or third killed."
He wasn't going in to that history if he didn't have to. Lifting his chin with a faint nod of acceptance.
"Still, as we have both agreed, she was born Lord Kin and remains such. She is not Fenrir."
[Armstrong] "Don't know what we are. Could just be a couple people at the same stop light. Or we could be a couple people who just like wrecks," and she looked at him for a moment and let a little smile cross her face. It didn't meet her eyes. Though some degree of pleasure did- Mrena enjoyed the word play.
"Either answer would get me something I don't know, just depends on what you're willing to tell and what you'd get out of telling me," she continued on. "What do you get out of telling me your name? Aside from getting mine."
[Hatchet] Hatchet just whistles. It's quiet, partly because there is no need for loudness and partly because his lips are starting to freeze off, but that's his reaction to Nessa's...track record, as it were.
"Hey!" He says suddenly, a light dawning in his eyes. He claps his hands together, and then rubs them to create some warmth. "I just remembered! I'm an impartial Philodox of equal or greater rank to both members of this very civil discussion. Kudos to both of you, by the way, I've seen the blood of morons fly over shit like this."
He looks between them. "You guys sound settled, but for the polite stuff at the end. Which you can do en route to a haven out of the frozen wastes of Chinatown. Because Kemp, I owe you a drink, and Lukas, you owe me an answer. Who's with me?" he asks beamishly, with that madcap and masking cheer on his face.
[Zeke] It takes a moment of him just standing there, a silhouette without features to her milky eyed view. His expression is one of calculation and division. Small moments of comprehension whistling under the breath of a casual conversation. Out of his own mind for a moment, before he returns, without a hiccup.
"I get yours." He repeats, snuffing out what could be a snort, but comes off as too playful polite to warrant any disdain.
"S'bout all one can expect, wish or get for a name. Less it's a story behind it. Name for a Deed and a Deed for a Name. If that's the case, then you give me a story too 'n that I wouldn't mind. I could live without it and take my body elsewhere. World knows I got more concrete to walk 'n other people who may or may not be my friends to get with."
A pause then, taking a zig-like path toward her, the zag yet to happen in his snow crunching movements.
"So...Your name makes us friends 'n if we're friends then I ain't gotta worry 'bout giving you my name. Under-stand?" The last is two words in one, as if each needed to be emphasized outside of it's partner.
[Kemp Oates] "I thought."
He looked at Hatchet as he started gathering his snowballs together.
"Ya said 5 drinks?"
Always taking the greater offer over the lesser even as he smiled as guileless as he could.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] She needs a man in her life, Kemp says, and Lukas laughs quietly, trying not to strain his ribs.
"Yeah well. It won't be me. Thanks for the talk, Rhya. I'm glad we cleared that stuff up."
Then Hatchet congratulates them both, making Lukas blow a short breath out, ironic. He sets out -- Lukas stands up, stiffly as before. "I'm going to have to pass, Hatchet-rhya. I'm going to go back to my room and read." A faint, wry smirk, "In Glabro."
(thanks for the scene all! i'ma take a break.)
[Kemp Oates] ((thank you man! ))
[Hatchet] "Well fuck me," Hatchet says with a boggling look to Kemp, feigning a smack of the heel of his hand to his right temple, "you're right. And you know what's special? I can even pay for them, if Reuben wants me to. It's a magical day when that happens."
Lukas's bowing out of a drink, to go rest in other-than-his-breed-form, is enough of an answer to Hatchet's original question. He watches him rise, favoring his wounds with sharp eyes, then looks back at Kemp. "You have anything against the Brotherhood? I should buy Sebastian a drink as well, and. Y'know. Two birds. Stones. Etcetera."
[Sam Modine] five minutes ago.
"Truce." There's a musical something that comes from the pocket of Sam's jacket. He unzips the black leather pocket and reaches inside pulling out the newish cell phone, a present last christmas from a packmate. "My mom." He clicks the appropriate button and turns his back to take a few steps away from the Theurge.
Did the big bad wolf just really drop everything for a call from his mommy?
Three minutes ago.
"Yes mom Chicago." He's nodding impatiently. "I know, I know. Well we don't really have one yet." He smiles briefly before shots ring a few streets away, some yelling in English and Cantonese follows it. No sirens yet but they'll be coming. He nods upward to his packmate, urging her to go and check it out. Careful, White Eyes. The totemphone whispers in the cries of a storm crow. "Yes, I'll tell them both you said hello." The smile returns and he meanders over across the street. Jaywalking, he knocks a palm flat on the hood of a cab to stop it mid-block, crossing in front of it with a glare to the sallow faced cabbie inside. "Okay, i'll call you when we have an address. No...."
He trails a bit, maybe twenty, thirty feet from the tea house. The look in his eyes is maybe if one can see through the light snow and the windblown hair; sad. "I won't be home for christmas this year."
Now.
Click. The phone gives a false sound through it's speakers as the call ends. He makes his way up to the three men and their war council, pow-wow, tea party. "Hello, Kemp." He nods, diverting his eyes , exposes just enough skin above the collar of his jacket for the show of the thing and looks up again. "Hey Luke." a bit more familiar, that. Finally his eyes go to Buried Hatchet.
"Taggart."
[Armstrong] "Being friends implies we have an equal relationship. Not very equal if I'm the one doing all the giving and you're doing the taking. Makes me wonder," she said.
Then, she looked at him and slipped her hands into her pockets. I'm very careful came across the totemlink to Sam. Although it was a beat late, as if she was hoping not to interrupt the phone call from his mother.
Yes, his mother.
"But if you wanna hear the deeds behind that name, all you have to do is ask for it. You don't even have to say please."
Another pause.
[Kemp Oates] "Heh, other than avoiding the place cause I managed to get a beer mug broke on my jaw? Naw, got no problem with the place."
He was ready, armed and deadly with the snowballs. Given a chance he might use them and then Sam approached and did his little formality that Kemp even managed not to ruin or lessen with some offhand comment. Solemly he acknowledged the baring of throat with a canting of his head.
"Sam. Good ta see ya."
Family wasn't something he often saw or felt, but it was there as sure as the hair on his head.
[Administrator] Xandros Uthen, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)
[Xandros Uthen] ((Here or ghosting??))
[Hatchet] Hatchet glances at Sam and gives him a slight nod when he approaches, but his eyebrows go up at what Kemp says. "Who...what...h...eh?" he finally gets out, feigning confusion as much as he seems to feign anything else. It is not that the man is never genuine, never serious, but he is certainly not constantly so. No wonder he's been around as long as he has and only managed to achieve Fostern within the last two of those years?
Makes one wonder just how many times he was accused of acting out of his auspice, or how often the very fact that he is a wanderer has called his honor into question, or so on, and so forth.
[Zeke] "Mmmmmmm, Mama called me Zeke." A pause.
"It stuck."
The head tilts to one side, shoulders pushing back to give the illusion of that face leaning further forward as he comes within a few steps of the girl. Inspecting.
"Mmmm, listening hard while you're watching girl. I get that. Easy on the eyes though. Lovely in a lovely way." And the shoulders fall back into place, pulling him straight once more.
"Yo' turn."
[Administrator] eyes, welcome to Chinatown (Southside) (Night)
[Administrator] Xandros Uthen has left Caern & Adjoining Lands
[Administrator] Lukas Wyrmbreaker has left Chinatown (Southside)
[Administrator] snail, welcome to Chinatown (Southside) (Night)
[Kemp Oates] "Eh? Oh, well he was some ugly ass fucker that had a scar down the middle of his ugly assed head."
He made a gesture along his stocking covered head.
"Didn't like being smiled at. Heh. And then in the end, he ran out the fuckin back door of the joint and kept running. I knew which way and started to follow to tie things up, but fucker kept running and it occured to me. I said, fuck that. Damned shame that he had to run and hide. Not what I am looking for in our numbers."
He shrugged.
"Then again, maybe he was nuckin futs?"
[Sam Modine] Sam sits, nodding off to Lukas' departure while taking his place.
The changing of the guard, good cop, bad cop. Castling. He peers down at the cold tea still in it's cup in front of him, turning up his lip in a gross mask of disdain. He looks at each in turn, puzzling over the details of a story he's come into halfway. His posture is straight, shoulders high and wide spread across the table's back, his palms flat on it's surface. When Kemp reaches the end he does make a small inquiry though.
"How many times did you hit him once you caught him?"
[Sam Modine] ((scratch that. player read it wrong))
[Sam Modine] Sam sits, nodding off to Lukas' departure while taking his place.
The changing of the guard, good cop, bad cop. Castling. He peers down at the cold tea still in it's cup in front of him, turning up his lip in a gross mask of disdain. He looks at each in turn, puzzling over the details of a story he's come into halfway. His posture is straight, shoulders high and wide spread across the table's back, his palms flat on it's surface. When Kemp reaches the end he does make a small inquiry though.
"You never caught him?"
[Armstrong] "Daddy called me Dean, but that one didn't stick... Mrena."
Not Armstrong, oddly enough. Which was odd, because it was what she went by the most often. Her packmates called her Mrena. Now, their rivals called her Mrena. Zeke picked up on the way she did things; Mrena listened harder than she looked. And when she looked who knew what details she was actually focused on.
"And thank you, for what that's worth. I try," she said. Lovely in a lovely way. She was of a small and deceptively delicate build. But composed. A creature beyond contempt. "Use what you have."
[Zeke] "Usually do." Distracted sort of phrase, the creature in the dark tints and clothes, standing still and straight. Two cars parked and contemplating whilst having an entirely suggestive conversation between. He exhales loudly, blowing white breath off to her right side, before his tongue snaps out to lick the corner of his lips and vanish back inside again.
"So you were about to tell me the story behind that Soft M, loud R and emphatic little 'ena'. I hope it's more then just a disappointed Pops or I'll have to give you a name worthy of the Greeting I'm gettin'." He pulls the collar of his jacket up tighter around his neck and ears, shrugging into an attempt at condensing the amount of exposed flesh he has.
[Kemp Oates] He glanced at Sam with a slowly widening smile.
"I have learned to pick and choose in this life Sam. One who runs and hides is not worth my time. I can find him if I want, but I don't want. Life is short, there are better things worthy of my attention. Like...well fuck...in this case, picking jam from between my toes."
He nodded with a serious look.
"Yup, definately beneath that."
[Hatchet] "Mother...fucker..." Hatchet mutters. He is neither shocked, nor appalled. He looks annoyed. "His name is Dances on Fire," he says levelly. "He's a Fostern Child of Gaia Theurge. And," Hatchet points out, "he's a dick. Lukas nearly ripped him a new one last night, Soledad wanted to shove her spear through his ribs, and I ordered him out before we even burned the wreckage."
After a shake of his head as though to clear away the thought of that ugly-ass-fucker, Hatchet shivers. "All right. I am moving my skinny ass. Kemp, you want those drinks, those coupons are usable at any time, have no expiration, and are subject to doubling should we discover that we are stalwart and well-matched drinking companions. Now, for the sake of my testicles --" and he starts walking.
[Administrator] ..., welcome to Chinatown (Southside) (Night)
[Kemp Oates] He bowed with a flourish in a most courtly manner dispite his desheavled appearance and armful of snowballs.
"I will take ya up on that another time. I've got some shit I gotta do and rounds to make."
Solemly he handed his snowballs to Sam.
"Use these well young Skywalker. May the force be with ya."
[Administrator] ... has left Chinatown (Southside)
[Hatchet] [Switching to Caern, and thank you all for the RP!]
[Kemp Oates] Then it hit as he handed over the snowballs and waved Hatchet off.
"Hey! I want to hear more about this later when I ain't too frozen to give a fuck. Ya hear me?"
[Administrator] peeky, welcome to Chinatown (Southside) (Night)
[Hatchet] Hatchet waves his arm over his shoulder, not dismissively but as if to say Yeah, yeah, I hear you, followed by a thumbs up. Then? His hands are going back in his pockets. As he said, he hasn't got any gloves.
[Administrator] Hatchet, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)
[Hatchet] It's some time later when Hatchet, on foot, manages to make it back to The Brotherhood. He is shivering with every breath, his teeth clattering, and the simple truth is that if he had decided to stay out there much longer -- even with walking and keeping his blood flowing -- hypothermia would have begun to set in. The man's clothes are thin and his jacket is the sort of thing you wear to a football game on a crisp autumn day, not something you wear when you are walking through a snowy city in sub-freezing temperatures with the wind coming off of the lake.
Frankly, he doesn't have much choice unless he wants to be stuck up in the Brotherhood all day, every day. So he bears it, either when he has to or when he has good reason or when he simply can't stand to be holed up indoors any longer. He survives.
Coming in the door to the kitchen, he slams it behind him. They know him here now, there is no need for him to give a passwoord to be let up to the second floor. He is recognized. Deep down he's glad he does not have to get those drinks for Kemp tonight, and far closer to the surface he is glad that when he enters the kitchen he has a moment to simply let his expression and his body reveal just how painfully, terribly cold he is. Vulnerability -- genuine vulnerability, that is -- is not something he shows easily, or lightly.
It's safe, for a moment, to shudder, and then ask for hot chocolate. With enough rum in it, he says, to blind a pirate. Please and thank you, to the Kinfolk, and then he moves to carry the mug not up the stairs to the common room but into the main dining area, which is nearly empty but for a few rather familiar faces. Hatchet's hands are wrapped around the heated ceramic, a burn he can't stand for long because his hands are so icy. He goes over to the hearth, as he did just a few nights ago, and sits down on the floor near the fire.
[Resists the Winter] There's somebody else in the common room, a face that is at once remarkable to all who look and look away, and to Hatchet as well, now. The figure is gaunt, a shadow monster in the corner, his rain jacket still pulled tightly about his frame, collar raised high about his jawline, a hoody donned earlier on, black and as faded and worn and patched as the raincoat. Hood low over his brow, but the firelight when it flickers at times still catches the scar tissue, the length of jaw, the dead and live eyes.
He's hunched over as if he's brought the cold in with him, as if he was gifted by some spirit of pain and solitude with a core of ice that the interior of the Brotherhood can not melt, will not melt. Hands buried in his clothing under the table's edge, back curved like a drawn bow, tension palpable in his frame. A mug of something sits before him, stark simplicity against the barren tabletop, long stopped steaming and now simply growing cold.
Hatchet sits down before the fire, seeking to drive away his own cold, to warm his limbs, to bring heat back to his heart and blood, to kindle again the rage that has, perhaps, been but momentarily quenched by the ravages of Winter.
[Hatchet] At first he does not see Sebastian, and he does not sense him, either. The Theurge is not of his pack and Hatchet has no preternatural awareness of him. His nose is currently somewhat useless, congested by the cold and his nerve endings dulled from exposure. He sits down with his dizzyingly scented cocoa -- a manly drink if ever there was one -- and curls up in a ball by the flames.
There are armchairs by the hearth, but he does not go for them. He closes his eyes and waits for the heat to thaw out his hands and face. He sets the mug down on the stones and shivers again as soon as it is settled, crossing his arms and lowering his brow to his forearms.
Though he was glanced at when he came in, the non-Garou lingering behind counters and cleaning up for the evening giving him a once-over, he is otherwise ignored. What with werewolves coming in and breaking mugs over each other's faces and starting arguments or smacking Andrea Locke on the face or in general just existing in plentiful numbers, the Kinfolk note Hatchet but pay him little mind, otherwise.
He has not given any one of them reason to think he's one of Those type of Garou, not really. He comes in from the cold and goes to the fire and otherwise seems to keep to himself and to others of his kind. He doesn't even flirt with the Kinswomen.
So, because of all these reasons, because he thinks he is relatively alone as far as People Who Matter goes, he lets his shoulders drop and he rests his head and he lets a soul-deep weariness settle over his entire body. It is weak, and with his back curled outward like that is is vulnerable even in a literal sense. Occasionally he shivers, the cold seeping out of him only slowly, and after awhile he lifts his head, puts his chin on his folded arms across the tops of his knees, and breathes out as he looks at the fire.
[Resists the Winter] Dead and live eyes watch Hatchet where he sits by the fire. They do not drift about his frame, touching him on shoulder and elbow, nape of neck and lowered brow, hands and knees, length of corded thigh and feet. Instead, he simply looks at his face, at the flesh about his eyes, the skin about his mouth, the way the eyelids obscure his eyes with heavy fatigue. The Theurge gazes at the Philodox with no rush to disipate the silence, to make contact, to bring awareness. Instead, he drinks his fill, takes the measure of the Garou at his unguarded moment, contrasting in his mind the bravura and laughter he had seen in the street, the mercurial nature, the strength played in different ways, towards different ends. He watches and gauges and continues to fill in the picture that is Hatchet, to update the image of a Garou gone stale and out of date these past four years. To simply observe him.
And then, finally, when the Philodox is perhaps at his most entranced by the weaving deadly dance of the flames, by the mesmerizing beauty of fire, he reaches up with shaking hands, and pulls his hoody back, revealing the hard and harsh planes of his own face, the lurid redness of the fire playing havok over his scarred flesh, lighting up the milky eye with unnatural fervor that is otherwise missing, illuminating a face greatly changed from that which Hatchet had seen but a few hours ago. Fatigue is carved deep into his features as if chiseled by a careless artisan, and his mouth is drawn into a thin line. His skin has become pale, the olive hues now ashen, and it is as if he has aged five years in the course of a few hundred minutes.
[Hatchet] It's a few minutes between the time that Hatchet looks up and the time that his senses become turned outward and sensitive enough again to realize that for a least a little while, he was being watched. He turns his head slowly, as he is reaching for his mug of rummed cocoa, and sees Sebastian. A mild smile finds its way onto his lips, sincere -- and it is obvious how sincere it is, because that weariness is still in his eyes when he gives it.
So first he gets to his feet, and then he picks up his mug, and then he walks over to Sebastian's table. "You've been to the Caern?" he asks, as he pulls a chair out.
[Resists the Winter] "I have," says Resists the Winter, his voice a dry whisper, the sussuruss of ancient parchment being turned to a new sheet, a new leaf in some quiet, dusty library. He places his hands on the table, not cradling the mug but one hand loosely ensconced within the other, and levels a look at the Fostern before him.
One eye, dark like the bitter dregs of coffee, one eye composed of the substance of ghosts, the tissue of phantasmagoria laid over iris, pupil, sclera. One eye seems to looks at Hatchet with warmth bourne of fatigue, commiseration bourne of understanding, while the other sees through him, punches a hole in the Gauntlet that is Hatchet's self, and gazes through the ragged edges into his interior.
[Hatchet] Being looked at like that is unnerving, and not because Sebastian's eyes are themselves so different from those of most people you might pass on the street. He knows the deedname, has heard the name and is dimly connecting it now to stories he's heard in areas like Utah and New Mexico, but it is hard for him to think of the man across the table -- who shares his Tribe, his age, and at least one marker on his history -- as anything but the name he called him for months. Maybe time will change that.
It's only been a couple of days since he heard the new name, though.
The name the Garou bears now has nothing to do with the fact that it is difficult for Hatchet to be looked at like that. He does not know what Sebastian sees, especially when he knows that just minutes ago he was, in a way, exposed. Soledad does not look at him like this. Her searching glances are rare and utterly silent things. Hatchet takes a breath and lifts his mug to take a drink. No one else looks at him much like that, because no one else really has a reason to.
He doesn't know why Sebastian might. "And sacrificed to Maelstrom?" Pointless words, dancing words, and this from the man who asks ridiculous and annoying questions just to get people to stop being so polite to each other upstairs.
[Resists the Winter] Pointless words, but they ellicit mirth, at least, the shadowed reflection of such, Sebastian smiling and lowering his face to look down at the table top, nodding his head perhaps three times as he looks blankly at his worn and incurled fists.
"Yes," he says at last, confirming what the other must have known. "I have. It was more... what's the word." He pauses, eye growing unfocused, seeing through the table surface and into memory, or perhaps some place else, deeper, stranger, further away. "It was more than I had expected. It took more." He looks up again, and the smile returns. Sad now. "Or perhaps I gave more than I thought I would. Than I had planned to. Than I had expected."
The smile remains like an afterimage of the sentiment that had caused it, fading after the humor has gone from his eye. "Maelstrom," he says quietly, with such respect and reverence and dread that the name is imbued with a ring that most rarely give it, as if his mystic connection to the spirit world, his understanding of the weft and weave of the umbra, his appreciation for the nature of Maelstrom was other than that of the other Auspices.
Which, of course, it was.
"Maelstrom," he says again, softly, contemplatively. "The center of the Caern. It affects all that takes place here, suffuses the actions of the Sept. Maelstrom, the raw and ragged and ever famished heart of us all. A totem of Wisdom, but wisdom bought at what price?"
He takes a shuddering breath, draws air into his lungs with effort, and smiles again, despite the pain, despite the pallor of his visage. "At what price?"
[Administrator] Dylan, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)
[Resists the Winter] ((DYLAN IS SO FUCKING HOT RIGHT NOW))
to Dylan, Hatchet
[Dylan] (( *sucker punch!* ))
to Hatchet, Resists the Winter
[Hatchet] More than one Garou -- all of them, notably, members of the Unbroken Circle -- has commented on the fact that Hatchet is so often seen alone. One of his packmates up and left last week. Another has not even set foot in Chicago and he does not claim to know where she is. One of them lives apart from the pack and even flies across the country away from them on a regular basis. One of them has not been seen for weeks, is odd when she does pop up, and that leaves...
Hatchet and Soledad. Soledad does not often interact with others, usually sits quietly -- usually does not mean 'always' -- and is not the most social sort. Hatchet is. Hatchet seeks out other werewolves as if he cannot help himself. Whether he likes them or not is irrelevant. But still: in terms of his pack, his 'family', he is often alone, and it was alone that he made his own sacrifice to Maelstrom after speaking to the Sept Elders. And alone, he has contemplated his thoughts on the ravenous, incredibly powerful totem spirit.
Sebastian does not ask him questions. Sebastian offers his own thoughts, however, and that makes Hatchet smile as he sips again. Not with amusement at his words. Something else. His smile fades when Sebastian's turns sad, but all he does is nod...and go on listening as he sets his cup down, ceramic scraping against wood. He leans on the table, and he listens to the Theurge. He's good at listening.
As chatty as he is, as little as his one present sister has to say, one might not think it. But he is very...very good at listening. That much has not changed in four years, at least. He does not smile, at the end of what Sebastian says this time. He blinks his eyes once slowly, his eyelashes shocking dark and thick and long compared to the fair hair on his scalp and jaw.
"Are you all right?"
[Resists the Winter] "Yeah," says Resists the Winter after a long pause. A long pause in which his eye had grown unfocused again, as a love parade of thoughts and contemplations had passed before him, unseen by the Philodox but watched by the Theurge, evoked by the question and in their very manifestation provided the answer. The word, however, is spoken quietly, with a certain air of hesitancy that leaves doubt as to the verity of their claim.
"I'll live," he says again, "A good night's sleep, some meat and potatoes, and I'll be right as clean rain falling on new grown grass."
A beat, and he leans back, chair groaning as joints flex, Garou inhaling as his own joints flex. "You? How you holding up, rhya?"
[Hatchet] They are the same damn age. Though Hatchet wears a beard and his eyes are at turns ancient and childish, though Sebastian is horrifically scarred and right now looks sapped of his youth, they both claim to be twenty-three years on this planet. Differences of Rank and experience aside, they are the same. Damn. Age.
Yet the way Hatchet talks to him and looks at him, it's...protective. It's younger-to-older. Not, perhaps, stiflingly so or burdened with inherent dominance, but it's still there. When he asks if Sebastian is all right, there's real concern for not just the welfare of another warrior but the entire being of ...what?
A friend? Can he call him that?
He hears the hesitance and feels the doubt, but I'll live is true enough, and he will not ask again. Hatchet sips more of his spiked children's drink, remaining leaned on the table with one elbow. He shrugs one shoulder as he lowers the mug. "I don't know. My recurring melancholy may kill me. Sleep and hot meals aren't making me feel like springtime, though."
He speaks lightly. Oh, he speaks facetiously. But for a second, though he said the words glibly, that I don't know flickered with painful honesty.
[Resists the Winter] "What's got you down?" asks the Theurge, voice laconic, almost matching the other for humor. Almost. Beneath the easy words there's a level of genuine curiousity. Humor has opened up the potential for a conversation that might otherwise not have surfaced so quickly. And while the Theurge can take guesses, pot shots, at the numerous responsibilities, concerns and problems that might face his once time companion, he'd rather let the Philodox speak for himself.
In a way, it's a sign of respect. Not presuming to not what the other might say.
[Hatchet] "I smell bad and my mama dresses me funny," Hatchet responds immediately, automatically. Humor again. This time -- for once -- it's not being used as a shield. It isn't always. The man does like making others laugh, or at least think twice.
He sniffs moisture out of his sinus cavities, preferring that route more than going to find a tissue, and observes the surface of the liquid in his mug for a moment rather than meeting Sebastian's eyes. He shrugs, a little tighter this time and with both shoulders rather than his loose, indifferent one-shoulder gesture. "Hard to say," is the real answer, and he means it -- this isn't stalling.
Hatchet looks up again, a bit wry. "Could be that Sarah's god-knows-where. Could be that Belinda and Amunet are never around and I don't know why I've bothered bonding to them. Could be that Hector bailed and...same question, why'd I bother." He doesn't sound particularly down about any of those things, except perhaps the fact that 'Sarah', whoever that is, is gone. The actual burden in his voice doesn't fall heavily until his next words.
"I'm having fucked-up dreams. I'm pissed off and tired and tense all the time." And 'pissed off', just the way he says it...is not the same as Rage. Hatchet's Rage has grown and intensified since the last time Sebastian saw him, but it simply is not the same as whatever aggravation he says he feels now. "So like I said: it's just bullshit melancholy." His shrug now is exaggerated and his eyes rolling. "Oh woe!"
[Resists the Winter] His initial volley of humor rouses a quiet snort from the Theurge, but little else; given what he's just been through at the Caern, it would take a Ragabash of some skill to ellicit more reaction from the Theurge right now. He listens then, not rushing the Philodox, watching his face and body language as much as he does pay attention to the words.
And when the Philodox finishes, he nods, as if accepting the man's words, not judging, not rushing to council, not suggestion interpretations or encouragement. Simply accepts his words, and leans back with a groan, stretching out his spine, forcing it to uncurl from the hunch in which he had been sitting.
"Yeah, life's a bitch, and then you die and go to Wolf Country," he says, a flicker of amusement within his own eye belying the grimness of his statement.
A pause as he holds the stretch, and then he exhales and relaxes. Seems to have nothing more to say, until he offers up, almost as an aside, "Unbroken Circle seems true to their pack name."
[Dylan] For now, Dylan is upstairs; the second floor. The common room. She could be any woman, any common woman; her hair is curling from moisture around her ears, and her eyelashes are wet and stick together like stars. Her shoes are off, but Mrene'a socks are on. The book in her hand is a folded and cracked edition of Cormac McCarthy's The Road, picked up for a dollar at a used bookstore sale. Thus far, it is serving to depress her spirits, but there's something redemptive, underneath all the despair, that she's waiting to pay off, because the book is also beginning to piss her off. And her very normal, very common anger taps into a less common, more righteous anger; stokes it closer to a white hot radiance. And then something else happens in the book, as she turns a page, and the radiance diminishes and she glares intently at the book's page, waiting for a revelation, although she's starting to think she already knows the end of this story.
[Administrator] Andrew, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)
[Hatchet] "And then your descendants are calling on you for aid all the time, so nobody really gets any rest," Hatchet says with a shake of his head, moving past his confession and back into a more guarded place. He moves there comfortably, quickly, and easily. It seems to be where he is almost all of the time. It's not a defensive move, as he was going back there even before he stopped speaking.
They sit in silence, but only briefly. A stretch, a breath, and for his part Hatchet just drinks more of the core-warming, thought-relaxing beverage he asked for when he first came in. "What makes you say that?" he asks curiously, though not doubtfully. He has seen too much of them to doubt the truth in the statement, but he is wondering where Sebastian's opinion has come from.
Sebastian's opinion, apparently, might just matter.
[Resists the Winter] Sebastian smiles, "Honestly? Several sources. Mostly drawn from you. That and I saw three of them today within a block radius of each other, looking comfortable with the proximity, which is no mean feat for us Cliaths." Hatchet would know what Sebastian speaks of. That dramatic intensity that goes into any new formed pack, where each decision, action, combat and challenge is of life and death urgency, never before nor ever again of such import to the Garou nation. Like high school kids, which, it must be added, they are.
"There's the fact that the Talons of Horus wouldn't have sponsored them if they weren't a cohesive and serious pack, doubly so due to their mixed membership. The fact that their pack name is 'Unbroken Circle', a name not lightly chosen. But mostly I picked it up from you. Things you've said today, your attitude and feelings toward them."
[Hatchet] With a cock of his head to the side, his eyes calmer now than they were when the moon was full and heavy in the sky and less watchful than they were when the moon was in his auspice, Hatchet gives Sebastian a slightly questioning look. "My feelings toward them?"
[Resists the Winter] "Mmmhmm." Sebastian pauses now, waiting to make sure that the other's question is genuine, that he clearly wants him to explain, and then does so.
"You've expressed both concern and disdain for them, for the pack members beneath Edward and for their following him in the first place. You've spoken with... respect of this Shadow Lord, Lukas, fought with him, broken bread with him, and acknowledged the significance of that. You deal with other members in their pack with irreverence and delight, masking deeper feelings."
A pause, and the Theurge extends a finger onto the tabletop, where he begins to draw an invisible glyph on the polished wood. "Strong feelings, mixed feelings, when coupled with the state of your own pack, might indicate that that you envy their cohesion and strength while resenting their dedication to this Edward."
A shrug. "At least, that's the conclusion I reach when I take into consideration the other factors I mentioned before."
[Andrew] Life... had been simpler... as a wolf. He thought about that, sometimes. Of course, being able to sit there and think about that fact was something of a human trait. Wolves didn't sit around pondering the past. Why bother? Always more fun things to do. Like eat things. Or pee on things. Or sniff things, and then pee on them. Or eat them, and then pee on what's left. It occurs to him, he peed on things a lot when he was a wolf.
Which sort of makes him have to pee now. Humans worked in really strange ways. Ugh. The springs of the mattress creak and groan as he leverages himself up out of bed and steps to the door of the small room he had been staying in. He opens it and peeks briefly outside. Yeah, there was someone else out there. Fuck. Oh well.
He stepped out into the 2nd level common room in sweatpants and nothing else, paused there a second, and then started towards the bathroom door. His mangled face was well known in the area, but the other scars on his body were rarely seen. The dent in his chest, the many small scars around his midsection, who knows what caused those. Or the other ones. Few people ever asked.
[Hatchet] He shifts in his chair, not nervously but to move both of his elbows to the surface of the table, folding his hands and resting his chin atop his knuckles as Sebastian speaks. He listens and attends to the other Fianna with what looks like almost clinical interest, as though they are talking about someone not currently present. Those folded hands tighten almost imperceptibly when he speaks of the meaning of breaking bread and fighting alongside one another, though it is not obvious what might cause that gesture: cold? Anger? Unnameable tension?
His eyes flow downward to the tabletop, examining the moving tip of Sebastian's finger sketching on the surface. Whether he sees anything in the movement or not depends almost entirely on whether or not Sebastian intends for anything to be seen, but he keeps his eyes down when a comparison is made between the state of his 'gang' and the apparent unity of the others.
Perhaps four, maybe five full seconds pass before he says anything to that. He breathes in, and exhales. "I wouldn't use the words 'disdain' or 'resentment', Sebastian," he says mildly, but there's a flatness to it. Lifting his eyes, he looks to meet his once-fellow's. His voice falls quieter, losing that flatness though his eyes retain an uncertain, wary edge. "I have one sister whose devotion I never doubt. I won't deny to you that regardless of my personal opinions of the individual members of their pack, a part of me envies what they have."
Sebastian mentioned factors earlier. He left one out, and Hatchet does not willingly bring it up now, but they both know what it is. It's why he doesn't bother even trying to deny what the Theurge is saying. Though that edge in his gaze, that wariness, speaks a silent question: does Sebastian know how deep of a wound that 'factor' still is?
[Dylan] Eventually, Dylan throws the book at the wall. The book takes umbrage; a yellow page loosens, the glue un-sticks. When she pads across the floor to pick the book up, the spine cracks in her hands and the pages sort've flow over her fingers, fanning onto the floor. She sighs, deeply. Opens her hands, to let them all fall. The spine, too, and the cover (the skin?). They fall like -- : Snow would be the pretty image, if this weren't Chicago; if Chicago wasn't caught, people made wingless by the storm. Those with even the slightest grip on sanity, fast inside.
This is why she begins to muse on a walk. Outside, find one of her pack, find another garou, find something nasty to kill, find something. Find hot chocolate. Mm, hot chocolate. No, cider. No. Soup. No! Food. Dylan crouches again, and this time she cleans up the pieces of the dissolved (very) book so automatically there's no room for any more pages to escape.
This is about the time Andrew pokes his head out, and what a head it is. The man could give Ugly lessons on scaring people. He was so ugly that it wasn't really a matter of pity, so much of as revulsion; then again, in certain cultures, scars were very in, tres sexy. So, Dylan's attention touches on Andrew when he comes out of his room.
Cue a small doubletake, and then a look. The look isn't hostile, per se; understand that, okay? The look is -- something else. Interested, maybe? Because he's distinctive: she knows who he is, although they haven't met. The look is a measure of his scars, a measure of his deformities; a measure of his f'ing walk, and the sort've measure that says:
This is how much of you will go into the stories I sing of your name.
This is how much of you might be remembered.
I'll take this part. And that one.
And maybe that one.
But not that.
"'Sup," she says. Then, yeesh, he's in the bathroom, and although her sense of privacy may diminish with proximity to pack, he isn't pack, and she's not staring. She's going downstairs, still in her socks, for some hot chocolate. Or cider. Or soup. Or food. And she's hesitating over whether or not to chuck the book out or keep it and try reading onward, the pages are numbered after all, but she could just get a new one, but that's wasteful, and so on and so on.
[Resists the Winter] "Yeah, well," says Sebastian, and the fatigue becomes evident, the strain on his face resurfacing. "Just half formed thoughts. I'm sorry. I wouldn't have brought any of this up if I had my shit together. Thoughts are getting away from me."
He reaches up and pinches the brow of his nose, and then flashes Hatchet a smile, "You know, one thing I've never been able to get a handle on. My mentor, Questions the Setting Sun, always used to chide me on this one. He'd say, shut up. Just shut up. Nobody wants to hear it." He says this last with fond pleasure. Considers the memory, and then snorts with amusement. "And for the most part, as he well knew, he was right. For the most part. But occasionally you meet somebody who actually listens, right?"
He leans back once more, and closes his good eye, leaving only the milky blind one to stare at him with. "And you've always been one of those, Hatchet. For better or worse."
[Andrew] He nods to the woman as he goes by. Humans. And their books. Books. Pfft... You get what you need from the world around you... and your ancestors... if you listen... "You broke your book." Quite an obvious statement. Kinda odd though. Not many people break books. Apparently she'd figured out a way.
He walks past her and ducks into the bathroom. Spending a few moments in there. It's really more satisfying to save it and pee many times in many places. Humans had apparently forgotten this and now they wasted it, peeing all at once into a hole that took it away. It was wasteful. Who needs pen? Paper? Signs? Just pee on stuff. Works great. He thought about these things while he peed.
And then left the bathroom and started back towards his room.
[Hatchet] Hatchet just shakes his head slightly at the first, the apology, the statement that Sebastian doesn't have his shit together. Maybe that head-shake is too dismissive, but he means it to be a dismissal of the necessity rather than the words themselves, or -- worse -- Sebastian himself. No, his head says, it's fine.
And it is.
He flicks his eyebrows up at the smile. He remembers Questions the Setting Sun, though, and mention of him makes Hatchet smile a little. As though he doesn't know who Sebastian's mentor was. He has stories about Questions the Setting Sun's failure to teach him the same lesson that he tried so hard to impart to Sebastian. Shut up. Just shut up. Granted, the lesson was meant less as an instruction as to Hatchet's purpose in his auspice (as it was meant for Sebastian) and more as just genuine irritation with the gray-eyed Phildox, but that's beside the point.
He has fond memories of Questions the Setting Sun. Even when those memories involve his ass getting beat for not adhering to the Just Shut Up, You Mouthy Bastard lesson.
The smile on his face is quieter a moment later, with appreciation and even some relaxation. The oddity of one eye closing and the other continuing to stare does not seem to bother him. He finishes off what's left in his mug and breathes out. "Thank you," he says.
[Resists the Winter] Hatchet gets the same dismissive head shake back at his words of thanks, and then the Theurge is rising to his feet like all the world as if he were an old man himself. Hands flat on the surface of the table, pushing himself slowly erect so that all his bones are on point. A sigh as he straightens completely, and then he rubs at the back of his neck and looks down at the Philodox.
"I'm going to get to work on that sleep. Lot to be done, tomorrow, and the day after, most like. See you around, Hatchet."
He reaches up to touch the invisible brim of a cowboy hat he's not wearing, and with a wry smile, begins to head towards the stairs.
[Administrator] Resists the Winter has left Caern & Adjoining Lands
[Hatchet] No no no, thank you.
Oh, think nothing of it!
And so on. Hatchet chides Garou for being polite, for laughing like they are at tea parties and apologizing to one another for nothing and thanking each other pointlessly, but there was nothing in that little exchange that lacked meaning, from dismissive nods and acceptances to the very words used. Then again, there was nothing particularly human about it, either.
Hatchet nods to Sebastian, both in acknowledgement and agreement with what he's said. He says a quiet Good Night, and does not follow Sebastian with his eyes when he walks away. He trusts he can get up to a bedroom by his own damn self, and he knows what the guy looks like. He does get up after a bit, though, and walks over to the armchairs by the fire.
They're more comfy.
[Dylan] "The wall," she'd've said. Andrew can muse over that. The wall? What broke the book? The wall, or the hand that threw it? Technically? Logistically? Devil-contractually?
See. Dylan can't bring herself to throw the book away yet. Maybe she'll give it to Maelstrom, she thinks. Then: no, maybe Maelstrom would be offended; it isn't a trash disposal. She angles a glance back up the stairs when Resists the Winter passes, a look nowhere near as intent as the one she'd given Andrew; the intensity has collapsed, along with the white radiance the book kindled, into ashes. Dylan tucks The Road under her arm and makes herself a cup of tea, no cider being readily visible, and the inclination to putter around and poke here and there being very slight.
Then, once her tea is brewed and glints all the color of Freya's skin, she takes the mug and heads into the front. The hearth, the fire. Hey, Hatchet, just settling into the armchairs. What're the odds? "Hey," she calls, an upward lilt to her voice -- something that misses being a question by a very narrow margin.
[Hatchet] With a twist of his neck he turns his head to look over the back of the armchair and over at Dylan's Hey. His eyebrows go up. "Do you want to know," he says by way of greeting, "how I got my name?"
[Dylan] "How?" she says by way of answer, one part of grave, the other part easy and the third part cool. She's a little surprised, and she raises both eyebrows. Then she pads across the restaurant to join Hatchet at the armchairs, by the fire; a glance around, for anybody else who's around, but the place had emptied out for the most part while Hatchet and Resists the Winter had talked.
[Hatchet] "Sit down, mi cielita linda," he says, waving his hand at the chair opposite his own, "and I will tell you what I told your Beta."
Hatchet waits for her to find her seat, to park herself across from him, and then he clears his throat. He has need of this because he just finished drinking chocolate. He is not buzzed from a couple of shots of rum, not even close, but it was enough to introduce a pleasant warmth to him, augmenting that of the fire and the cocoa.
"The sept I was fostered at after I Changed was held by Wendigo, with a smattering of Uktena. There was a traveling pack of white folk there, bringing a prophecy. My Alpha was one of them, a Fianna of my moon, and he was my mentor," Hatchet begins, explaining this part more to make clear that he was not taught the ways by a Tribe so very different from his own but that his instruction was actually Fianna in nature.
"While I was learning my nature and my role, it only seemed to increase the bitter tension between the native tribes and the so-called 'Wyrmbringers'." He hates that word. He really does, and it shows. It drips from his voice. "They had not wanted them to stay as long as they did, but it was ridiculous to suggest that I be trained on the road when I could not even control my shifting yet."
A shrug follows his shoulders up, then down. "But after the first couple of days after they found me, I did not cry, or try to run away. I listened. I was allowed to walk through their Bawn freely, without a hard Wendigo paw on my shoulder or an Uktena snapping at my heels. I won't claim that they trusted me, or respected me. I will say what I was told: that my behavior, as the sept and the pack underwent the joint effort of teaching me the Ways, gave them a kind of level ground to stand on together."
Hatchet looks at the fire, briefly, then back at Dylan with a slow, calm blink. "When I came out of my Rite, one of the Uktena of the sept and a member of the wandering pack that then took me as one of its own members gave me my name. Both 'sides', as it were, participated in the trials I underwent, and when we departed the sept, they clasped arms."
He tips his head. There is so much he is leaving out. So very, very much. But it explains the name, at least, with this epilogue: "Many hear my name and expect me to be a peacemaker, or to be constantly saying 'Aww, Guys, Quit Fighting', but that's not what it means, nor ever meant."
[Administrator] snail, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)
[Dylan] Dylan leans forward while Hatchet tells the story, her elbows on her knees. Her expression is absorbed. Not only by the words, but by Hatchet's manner in the telling of it. She isn't so absorbed she forgets to drink, however. Every now and then, she takes a -- at first cautious, and then thoughtless once the heat has diminished somewhat -- sip.
"Interesting," she says, when he's done, if there's nothing more. There might've been more; there's a brief pause between his epilogue and her comment, waiting for that might've been more. Then she pulls her eyes away and glances at the fire. The fire limns three strands of her hair, rosy light; glides across one eye, the top of her cheek.
[Administrator] Katerina Ashcrofte, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)
[Administrator] snail has left Caern & Adjoining Lands
[Hatchet] Dylan leads forward and Hatchet leans back, mellowing in the armchair and telling the story almost the exact same way he has told it many, many times before. He adds certain bits: you do that, when you are talking to a Galliard. You don't when you are talking to an Ahroun. You are careful with your facts when you speak to one of his own auspice. You make it quick and engaging and as light as you can when you speak to a Ragabash, or you're likely to lose their interest.
He also leaves out certain things, things he does not usually include anyway, but that he told the Beta of her pack. She doesn't know that. Hatchet may not even necessarily realize what the hell he did during that common-room conversation about a week and a half ago.
No way to know.
He lifts an eyebrow at her Interesting. "Jesus, was it that bad?" he asks dryly.
[Administrator] Lukas Wyrmbreaker, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)
[Dylan] Her mouth quirks and she turns rom the fire. "You would rather I said 'boring' or, maybe, 'yawn'? What was the name of this sept?"
[Dylan] ooc: christ, bad typo!
[Administrator] dotdotdash, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)
[Katerina Ashcrofte] T'was the night before the nightbefore Christmas, and all through the house - the Garou were grumpy, and they ate the mouse.
Or atleast, that is what could be assumed given the state of things as it always was with Garou. Grumpy, but not so for the little princess. She had gone to the brotherhood in search of Lukas, to see whatever for Mrena could be wanting with water elementals. The woman had just popped up and asked for such, as if she was not a theurge herself and couldn't perform the task. Maybe her rival just wanted to see if the blond could do it.
In any case, Katerina just walking into the Brotherhood, handbang slung over a shoulder, as she cast her eyes around looking for the man. "Lukas?" she called, over the totemphone.
[Hatchet] "As long as you said them sarcastically," he replies, feigning pouty woundedness, "with perhaps a twist of irony in the delivery." The word 'twist' is pantomimed with his thumb and forefinger in the air, as though he is turning a loose screw. Or, given the shape the rest of his hand takes, squeezing a halved lime into smithereens.
"Mmm, that would be telling," Hatchet goes on mildly, hand dropping and eyes meeting hers. He is not being coy, though his words and tone suggest it. His gaze does not.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Well, Lukas is definitely not downstairs. And there's silence over the totemphone for a while until -- somewhat groggily -- the Ahroun responds.
mmmnnggh... what? Katerina? Where the hell are you?
From upstairs: a light thump as someone's feet come off a bed, onto the floor. Lukas is evidently in his room, asleep.
[Administrator] dotdotdash has left Caern & Adjoining Lands
[Dylan] At first, the quirk of her mouth becomes a more generous smile. "Ah. I'll remember." Then, for the space of an instant, at least, trouble touches Dylan's gaze; makes it less steady, less clear. But: she takes Hatchet at face value. Literally, taking her cues from his body language instead of his voice. The dark-haired woman shakes her head, and says, "Well, then -- why'd you decide to tell that story now? Or," and here, the quirk is back, both rueful and cool, "have you reached your daily allotment of taletelling words?"
The last word -- words -- is a bit distracted. Katerina's just walked in by the front door, in the manner in which only Katerina can walk into an establishment; Dylan turns her head, just a little, so her cheek is agains the armchair's back and she can see her packmate out of the corner of her eye. Then she turns back to Hatchet, shaking her head slightly.
The totem phone is an open line, and Dylan throws her two cents in with, You know where his room is, don't you, Kitkat? Don't clutter up the liiiine. Which is a trifle unfair. Everybody gets wasted occasionally and clutters up the line. It's perfect for in-jokes, and also for harassing your family in a way they really can't avoid.
[Administrator] Armstrong, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)
[Katerina Ashcrofte] "Downstairs, you great oaf", she said pleasantly. There was always a bit of innocent teasing and ribbing between the Shadow Lord and Silver Fang, Katerina usually trying to get Lukas' goat for the sake of amusement. Idle banter, and all of that. With the thump of feet hitting the floor, she glanced up as she began to head upstairs.
'You sound as though a truck hit you. I'm coming up - I need to speak with you." Pursing her lips, with a last glance around the front room, she began to head upstairs, adjusting her purse over her shoulder as her heeled boots clicked along on the floor.
When Dylan piped up, she merely cast a glance over the woman's way. "Darling, I can honestly say I don't make a point of knowing where a man's chambers are. They are usually smelly, and in need of a cleaning." There was a wink cast Dylan's way, with a tilt of her head to indicate to follow of her packmate would like.
[Hatchet] The look he was giving her was as blank and stony as a wall, but not threatening. He is following her attentively, to the point that when her word wavers he pops his head up and looks towards the front door and the blonde that just walked in. He lifts his eyebrow in an appraising glance, but he's seen her before. Namely, he's seen her amongst other members of the Circle, and so he looks back to Dylan without spending much time noting the face.
He smirks faintly at her shaking head, but not unkindly. Packmates. Yes. Oh, they can be such a trial sometimes.
"Let me tell you what," he says, the opening of an offer -- she'll recognize the tone, she's a Glass Walker, he's negotiating -- rather than the answering of the question as to his motives in telling the story of his name, "if you can get your Beta to spill the beans on the last time he got too drunk to remember little details like how he got home or how he ended up wearing half a lemon meringue pie and someone else's pants, then I will tell you not only the name of the sept where I was fostered, but I will sing with you any song of your choosing, at any time you choose to call said song in."
Hatchet leans forward as he gives this offer, this deal, and then flops back in his chair again. "Now, a drunk Ahroun story may seem trivial, and it may be that a tiny, tiny bit of information about my own history is ultimately so banal that it's simply not worth it to you to try. But there it is. I'm not an unreasonable man."
Beat. "Like, seventy, seventy-five percent of the time, at least."
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] It's upstairs, Lukas says, helpfully. Then another thump. A door opens -- the handle thuds against the wall. It's the one with the open door. And I could use a chat with you too. Especially if you've got some Gnosis to spare.
If and when Katerina brings her ass upstairs, she'll find one of the dormitory room doors open. It's dark inside. The ceiling light is off; the reading light clipped to the headboard is on. Lukas is sitting on his bed in his boxer shorts and nothing else, which afford the idle spy a fine view of his broad shoulders, corded physique ... and the jagged, seeping, red-black wounds raking down his torso from collar to hipbone.
His feet are flat on the ground, his elbows on his knees; he's rubbing his face briskly as though this might help him wake up.
Also: he's in glabro. So those broad shoulders and that corded physique is, in fact, heavier and huskier than they would ever be in his birthform, and also dusted with either a heavy coat of black hair or a light coat of black fur, depending on which definition you used. When he raises his head at the sound of footsteps on the stairs, his brow is sloping and neanderthalic; his jaw juts; there's a fine fringe of hair at the line of his jaw, more fur than hair. Very sexy indeed.
With his lamp at his back, indirect light filtering in from the common room, his eyes gleam preternaturally blue. He winces as he straightens up to show his packmate the extent of the damage. The expression he makes must be a smirk, though it looks more like a snarl: curling upper lip, bared teeth.
"Want to kiss it and make it better?" The mindvoice is unchanged: his usual low, even tones. It only makes the guttural growl-laced Glabro voice all the more startling.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (good grief, the typos.
1. Paragraph 2, middle of last line: "which affords the idle spy a fine view..."
2. Paragraph 4, second to last line: "...more fur than beard.")
[Andrew] Idle spy? No, not quite. He wasn't particularly interested in stretched out well muscled very sexy men. He was pondering a shower. But he'd had one only a few days ago. Surely that was wasteful. I mean, he'd wiped most of the gore off of him the previous night in piles of snow outside the house. His mouth, in particular, took a couple rinsings to get right. A couple rinsings and some strong beer. Good stuff, beer. Hearty. Food in a liquid. Yum.
Hmm.... might be good to get some of that now.
He paced back and forth in his sweat pants, notably unmarred by the fight from the previous night. Much to other's irritation, it seemed. He paced back and forth with what was once a fist-sized red rubber bouncy ball. Many dents and dings decorate it, along with a healthy dose of dirt, and it's obvious the thing has been slobbered on quite often. As he paces, he tosses it in the air now and then, catching it, only to toss it up again. Juggling from one hand to the other.
[Armstrong] She and Sam had been out and about. Interacting and meeting people and... well, he wasn't making contacts. Fenrir didn't make contacts. There was no shame in that.
There were times that she wondered what the young Ahroun was like before he joined the pack. Often times, Mrena wondered what all of them were like before they came together. She didn't think on it too long, she had work to do. The theurge came to the back door, taking the opportunity to slip into the back of the Brotherhood.
She kicked the snow off of her shoes, shaking coat out. Her braid swung a little as she did so. And with that, it was up the stairs to go drop off her things. And, more importantly, to take inventory of what she had ready and what she didn't. What she had available and what she needed to acquire. What she was willing to part with and what was too sacred to lose.
So, inventory. Priority one. Right. Off to her room to do that. Up the stairs!
[Katerina Ashcrofte] I could use a chat with you too.
That didn't bode well. Whenever someone that stood above you said they wanted to chat with you, it never did, but Katerina will have to deal with it in turn. "Of course," she said. It didn't take her long to climb the stairs, or see Lukas standing there as if he had been ran through a meatgrinder. An eyebrow rose at his condition, looking over him up and down in a way that a predatory bird examines something a bit far off. Of course, the distance wasn't much to her. He might as well of been standing directly in front of her (Eyes of the Falcon).
"Certainly, Lukas," she said. "Sit down, and let mama take a look." When he sat, she'd lay hands on him. Her touch was gentle, as one used to dealing with the injured and sick. If she were born a mortal woman, it was very likely she would of gone on to be a nurse or a doctor. As Garou, a theurge healer was the closest she'd become. The infirm could never handle being in the presence of a being packed with Rage. Even if the healer was an attractive, blond woman with an ample bosom and round hips.
) 1 Gnosis, 1 WP. Mother's Touch - Reroll 10's as per Medicine 4: Field Medicine specialty. Hail kahseeno!)
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 6, 7, 7, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 7 at target 6) [WP] Re-rolls: 2
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (holy shit.)
[Katerina Ashcrofte] ( HAIL KAHSEENO! )
[Hatchet] [I say god DAMN!]
[Dylan] Rich Girl. The same tone as Katerina's 'darling.' How silly of me just now to think otherwise. Then: I'm talking with Buried Hatchet. This explanation (because it is an explanation, of why she chooses the fire just now) is accompanied by a brief shake of her head; an answer to Katerina's tilt of her own. Even when they're in each other's heads, even when they're listening to their throatless voices; heck, even then, the body wants to play a part in it. Wants to add layers to the communication that wouldn't've otherwise been there. Wants.
"Really," Dylan says, raising both eyebrows. She is surprised, and a little wary. Dylan is, although a Glass Walker, and a Glass Walker who was brought up by a very old school (new school?) Glass Walker, a repository of stories and lore and, okay, basically there's this: there are a lot of Fianna stories about deals with the fairies. They're trickery! Bargains with the devil. Sign away something insignificant, get screwed later.
And Dylan's such a traditionalist and so respectful of Lukas and, even, Hatchet, and so conscious of bad blood, and how it sometimes boils over, and sometimes simmers down until it's just a little stain to be scrubscrubbed out, that she's not all HA HA THAT'S ALL OMG LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT THE TIME WITH THE UNDERWEAR AND THE BANANA O WAIT HE HAS TO SAY IT? Naw. She gets it.
Beat. "Really? Cool. Well, we'll see. And," a smile that verges very near a grin. "That's not what I've heard." The whole unreasonable thing. Because, really. That isn't what she's heard. From Edward. Her expression changes, again. The thing is Dylan is, while generally very controlled, in an expansive mood tonight; as expressive as she ever lets herself be without purpose.
"Although... actually." A pause, thoughtful: measuring. Dylan sort've looks at Hatchet the way most people look at a fire.
[Dylan] ( ....... ! nice. )
[Katerina Ashcrofte] ( lol@underwear and banana)
[Hatchet] Hatchet notes the shake of the head but doesn't question it. He of the many meaningless gestures does not automatically read worlds of significance into everything. He was once asked by a rather spastic Theurge in North Dakota why he kept clearing his throat. He tried his damndest to inform her that it was because he'd just swallowed roughly a gallon of blood and healing the wound along his neck didn't do nothin' to change that, but still: she kept thinking he was trying to make a point or something.
We'll see makes Hatchet smile, a slow and toothy grin that looks like a wolf is making it. Which, in a way, a wolf is. His eyebrows lift when she indicates that maybe, just maybe, she has heard nasty and patently true -- yet confirmed by at least a dozen reliable sources on each occasion -- rumors that he is most certainly not a reasonable man seventy-five percent of the time.
Hatchet feigns shock, dropping his jaw. He stops just short of letting one hand flutter to his chest to guard his oh-so-stunned heart. The look passes, morphing into a cheeky grin. Gray eyes can twinkle. They just turn a bit silver when they do. "Maybe fifty percent of the time," he admits. There is a mild joke in that, not terribly funny because it is utterly true, but then his expression becomes one of gentle curiosity. "Although, actually, what?"
[Administrator] peeky mcsneakypeek, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)
[Dylan] "Actually," she repeats. "Actually, this," and she leans forward until she's right off the armchair and sets her mu down on the floor and gives Hatchet a real* hug.
*not to be confused with a fake hug, or a false hug, or a girly hug.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Well, not quite a meatgrinder. Perhaps a lawnmower.
Lukas sits; Katerina puts her healing hands on him. The Ahroun is burning up -- a human with a temperature this high would be going into seizures. However, he's not a human. He's a werewolf, and he's regenerating, and his body is burning through its fuel at unimaginable rates to regrow the tissue, reknit the flesh.
Still. It doesn't matter now. A diffuse glow spreads from the points of the Theurge's fingers, flickers fitfully over his skin and fur, settles into the gaping red gashes of his wounds and rebuilds him from pure spiritual energy. When the last glittering light fades, the Ahroun is hale and whole, nothing but a faint scent of his blood in the room to give testament to what wounds he once bore.
Lukas rolls one heavy shoulder, then flexes his elbows backwards to stretch the healed muscle and tendon. He makes a low sound in his throat, a grunt, and diminishes -- drops eight inches of height and some ten or eleven stone of mass. Back in his homid form now, he runs a thumb thoughtfully along the streak of pinkish new skin.
"Hm. Well." He smiles at Katerina. His gratitude is there, genuine, and not in the droll words. "I suppose you're not useless after all."
He gets up again. There's a pair of jeans slung over the back of his desk chair. It's rare that Lukas leaves clothes lying about; today had evidently been an exception. He picks it up now, though, and steps into it. Then he opens the topmost drawer in his dresser, pulls out a shirt more-or-less at random.
"Come on." He clicks his bedside lamp off, nods her out of his now-darkened room. "I'm starving."
The Ahroun trails the Theurge out of his room, pulling his shirt on as he goes. It's a thick pullover, microfleece, fitted; the sort of thing that's really meant to be worn as a second layer. He unzips the collar with one hand as he pulls his door shut with the other.
Andrew's outside. Playing with a ball. Oh the things he could say -- but Lukas is not, in fact, snarky or rude. He eyes the Gaian for a moment. Then, perfectly neutral: "Rhya."
[Dylan] ooc: DEEPSIGH. mu = mug
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (mu. mooo?)
[Dylan] ooc: baaaaahhh! humbug. (no sheep jokes need apply )
[Katerina Ashcrofte] ( brb phone)
[Katerina Ashcrofte] ( back )
[Andrew] He glances over at the door to Lukas' room as Katerina disappears into it. Now, there are a few things that he's learned as a human. And one of them is that beautiful women going into men's rooms usually means something. The fact that only kin and Garou come up to this floor is also important in this determination. As he paces past the open door, he glances in and catches some of the moment where Lukas is healed. Enough to know what's going on anyway.
He continues pacing. People are coming up the stairs, going down the stairs, always in and out of the common room. He continues pacing.
But the greeting to him is met with a little nod. "Patched up." Again, just a statement. His face stays serious, and it's hard to tell if he's still irritated about the other night, or not.
[Hatchet] There is a Shadow Lord upstairs and a Get of Fenris somewhere around town who have both observed -- nay, experienced -- Buried Hatchet's lack of barbed-wire-topped interpersonal boundaries. He touches Garou that aren't his packmates, full grown North American males, without so much as hesitating or thinking it over. Whether or not he should think it over is entirely beside the point.
That said: when Dylan hops up and gives him a hug, he does not stiff-arm her and shove her back. He does not ask her what in the Hell it is she thinks she's doing. He does not blink in surprise or flail internally or look around for someone to save him from the crazy Moon-Dancer. What he does is lift his eyebrows a bit at her motion, more curious than wary, and then -- once her arms are around him -- he quite calmly hugs her back.
A real hug. Not to be confused with a physical lie, or a careful manipulation, or one of those yawn-and-grope numbers. He just hugs her, as one might imagine he would hug a sister, and then gives a rather benign smile. It could be compared to a dog's expression when said dog has been given a scratch behind the ears. That would not be inaccurate, or insulting. At least, not to Hatchet.
But because he can't help himself, he says: "D'aww..."
[Administrator] peeky mcsneakypeek has left Caern & Adjoining Lands
[Administrator] Sam Modine, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)
[Katerina Ashcrofte] "I have my moments, Lukas," she said to him. "While I am not the fighter you are, my talents lie elsewhere." He mentions food, and she shrugs her shoulders. Content to leave her coat and purse in his room for the moment, she follows after. When he mentions food, she responds with: "Oh, what ever shall I do? A handsome man taking me out to dinner."
She wore a pair of black flared slacks that hugged her hips and were loose elsewhere, complimented by a dark red v-neck pull-over sweater with a white camisole beneath it. Booted heels clicked along as she walked behind the Ahroun. The French-Canadian woman glanced at Andrew, and when Lukas spoke to him she merely bobbed her head in greeting. She wasn't all that familiar with him. She was still getting to learn the others of the pack, being newly come to it and all.
"I suppose if you are to keep coming back like that, I shall have to make you some healing talens," she murmured softly to her beta.
[Katerina Ashcrofte] ( To clarify - Katerina didn't mean Andrew was a packmate. Just that she was unfamilair with people in general here. )
[Hatchet] Random question! Where in Canada is Katerina from?
to Katerina Ashcrofte
[Katerina Ashcrofte] ( Uh. Don't think I got that far? But I'd assume Quebec or another French-Canadian area. )
to Hatchet
[Armstrong] She started to head on up the stairs, off to her room, until-
Wait. She took a moment to take in all the people that were there; she kept her mouth shut and just took in the fact that there were beings standing there. There was a slight sound that came from her, halfway between surprise and clearing her throat.
"I was not expecting people up here," she said. It was the best that she could do.
And there was Katerina. She looked at her briefly, giving another nod. It seemed that she had been doing work. "Katerina, you look nice today." As if she didn't look nice everyday, she just had to give something of a greeting. It was a formality, backed by some sort of sincerity that she just hated to admit.
[Sam Modine] There's a Get of Fenris somewhere in town-
Oh. Here's one now.
Sam's entrance is heralded by the door swinging closed behind him downstairs. Then the tapping of shoes toe first on the door frame, pounding snow away. There's some rummaging sounds and the tink of glass behind the bar and then he's off to the common area upstairs. His hands don't go immediately to the railing as he takes the walk up like most do, he seems possessed of a preternatural balance that doesn't falter all too often. The pull of the familiar guides him to the upper landing, passing through to regard first and foremost his packmates going the opposite direction in the hallway. "Hello." He's got an open beer in one hand, drawing from it after addressing the two of them. The other is clutched in his opposite hand, waiting on deck as it were. Both are stouts, thick and dark for a winter's night.
The next is a hard look over the other Full Moon's shoulder. Toward a face only familiar from description. "That's the guy?" He doesn't even look at Lukas when he says it. The timbre of his voice falling an octave to a growl as a lip curls up hard in decisive snarl.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] A line of muscle becomes visible from cheekbone to corner of jaw -- then relaxes.
"Yeah," he says to Andrew, just as monosyllabic. Whatever his better judgment might tell him here, Lukas isn't even attempting to be friendly. He can't bring himself to try. The most he can do is bite back more comments that had no place here, in a house of truce and hospitality.
His mood has altered sharply -- Katerina can sense that. Even if she couldn't, she'd guess by the way he fails to respond to her banter, which is a rare thing. Banter is constant between them, sharp enough that an outsider might think them unfond of each other. But it is not the same as the razor-edged comments that fly between him and the other Silver Fang female.
There's a difference. Katerina is highborn, but she can take a joke. She can give as good as she gets. Katherine -- Katherine is stiff and straitlaced, and, to be blunt, she rather despises Lukas.
Lukas, who now starts heading down the stairs, nodding briefly to Armstrong as she comes up. "I'm going down to get some food. But if you want, I can bring it upstairs."
Katerina's offer draws his attention. He stops halfway down the stairs, turning to look up at the Theurge. "Yeah," he says, "if you could, I'd be grateful."
And then: another packmate. Sam Modine, Fenrir extraordinaire. That the guy? he says; perhaps Lukas winces a little, internally, at the lack of restraint; the lack of subtlety; the sharp difference between these two brothers of the Full.
Calmly, because he's realized most of them are not introduced: "That's Andrew Dances-on-Fire, Fostern Theurge of the Children of Gaia. Andrew, these are my packmates, Katerina Ash-Cat, Fang Theurge, Armstrong White-Eyes, Lord Theurge, and Sam Modine, Get of Fenris Ahroun. All Cliath."
On that note, he continues down the stairs. He was starving. Starved. Regeneration requires enormous amounts of energy, even if it's only gone on for half a day or so. He feels like he's fasted for a week or more.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (sorry so long, guys. PEOPLE KEPT POSTING AND I KEPT HAVING TO ADD *LOL*)
[Dylan] Hatchet didn't strike Dylan as one to boil out at a human gesture of (gratitude, actually) affection; closeness. Still, she is glad to see her instinct was correct. It isn't very nice to be mauled. Hug completed, Dylan reclaims her mug and drinks the last swallow of her tea. There are dregs, and she eyes them, and wonders idly on how some theurges use tea-leaf ceremonies in their rites and rituals, like casting the bones.
At the d'awww she huffs out a chuckle. "So. What'cha think of the city?" The same tone as whatcha think of the weather. "Have you been in Chicago before?"
[Andrew] He glances up at new people coming up the stairs. Great Gaia there were more of them. More Garou showing up packed up with men who in one fell swoop he had managed to irritate. Life always favored him, yes, yes it did. That's why he lived in the streets, talked to things no one could see, and looked like he'd been run through a wood chipper.
At the formal address, he pauses in tossing the ball around. Standing still and looking over each one. Finally, he nods a bit and grunts. That's about as formal as he's apparently going to be tonight, when it comes to greetings. They'd already said his name. Who needed more. He went back to pacing the common room and tossing the beat up red ball in the air, back and forth.
[Hatchet] Hug completed, Hatchet's benign smile remains in place, eyes almost drowsy though this is more from the hour and the heat of the nearby fire finally permeating his body rather than from the rum-laced drink earlier. He props his elbow up on the arm of his chair, and puts his jaw in that hand, and watches Dylan with something akin to amusement.
Though there is, unhidden, at least a little spark of genuine appreciation for the contact. He shrugs. "It's cold as fuck. Noisy, farther in. And...as far as I can remember," he says with a little laugh, "I have never been here before."
[Katerina Ashcrofte] She simply nodded to Lukas' mention of being grateful to her making talens for him. She would make them for him and the rest of the pack, but probably leave them with him or Mrena - perhaps some of the other more war-like of the pack. That could of been why the Bellamontes had suggested that Katerina come along - two theurges were better than one in new territory, and took some of the workload away. She would confer with her fun-house mirror image: Mrena.
"Thank you, Mrena," she said gently to the other woman. "You are looking lovely as usual." She didn't mean to bite off the words as if chewing iron, but when Lukas was in a sour mood it sometimes rubbed off on herself. She hopped the Shadow Lord female wouldn't take it personally. "What did you need with those Waters, anyway?" she asked.
Green eyes flicked up and down the Child of Gaia briefly. "-Rhya,," she said and bobbed her head again. It should be noted, however, that her eyes did not meet his own out of respect for his station and nothing more. Children of Gaia, she has learned, while accomplished healers of their own were good for not much else besides preaching of peace and love and whatever hippy nonsense they spouted at any given moment.
"Hello, Sam," she said to the Fenrir before moving downstairs with Lukas.
[Sam Modine] He cock his head toward the side. Tick.
It'd be comical if it wasn't so goddamned scary.
" 'Kay."
Before he breaks in passing, Lukas is offered a very simple choice, one offered without much of a question. He can either take in hand the two bottles that are pressed into his chest. Alternately he can let them drop to the floor. It seems, to the Modi, it doesn't much matter. Sam is by him with the quickness of a defensive end looking for a sack. their shoulders brush one another and Sam's doesn't quite give as he passes. His face is still set in that snarl, that visage of an angry Norse god who will not be swayed from recompense. Andrew is heading toward the common room and the Fenrir is on a markedly fast, hard, and angry intercept course.
Theirs is a violent society, perhaps moreso his own little microcosm.
From the looks of things he's about to show them how that reputation was earned.
Fists clench so tightly that fingernails threaten to break skin like a razor claw through butter.
((Andrew, initiative?))
[Andrew] ((Init + 7))
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Sam Modine] 10 + x init
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1 (Botch x 1 at target 6)
[Sam Modine] ((ok, declaring a punch, faceward, spending WP. taking the totem bonus
go ahead and declare))
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas knows his packmate. He hasn't known him very long -- not as long as he's known Edward -- but he recruited this one; he recruited Sam precisely for his no-holds-barred, take-no-prisoners approach. His unbreakable courage. His leadership in combat.
He had not recruited Sam for his impetuosity, but he had known of that, too. It was part and parcel.
Still.
Even so.
Lukas is taken by surprise. His hands close around the beers instinctively. "Wh--" he begins -- by then, Sam has already lunged into action.
[Andrew] ((Splitting actions, shifting and blocking))
[Andrew] ((Shift to Glabro))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 5, 7, 7 (Failure at target 7)
[Sam Modine] dex+3+brawl diff 6 WP w/specialty
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 6, 6, 6, 7, 7, 9, 9, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 9 at target 6) [WP] Re-rolls: 2
[Andrew] ((Block))
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Sam Modine] 9 succ + str - 2 block succ = 10
Dice Rolled:[ 10 d10 ] 1, 2, 5, 6, 7, 7, 9, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6)
[Andrew] ((Soak))
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 4, 4, 6, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Dylan] Upstairs, there is a brawl, which Dylan is unaware of. Perhaps, just perhaps, due to sympathetic influences and whatnot, she feels a niggling little something in the back of her mind; pressure at the nape of her neck. Intuition. Instinct. Then again, maybe not. Because downstairs, by the cosy fire, this:
"S'that supposed to mean?" Dylan says, tilting her head to the side. Now she's got an elbow on the arm of one of the arm chairs, leans her weight in that direction; rests her cheek on the flat of her hand. The empty mug she rests on her stomach; keeps one hand curled lazily around it. Tongue in cheek. "There might be a period you don't remember that you were? That'd make a good story."
[Sam Modine] ( 4b, and stun for next round )((ok, round of posts if you guys'd like to))
[Armstrong] "Sam and I ate earlier. I need to do inventory before I head out again, the little suicase is getting pretty packed. Thank you though," she said. She did appreciate it.
And then? Then Sam was... well, she wasn't going to be getting her inventory done any time soon now, would she? Mrena groaned a little, Sam was beating things. It's what he did, he was good at it. In a way, White Eyes appreciated this for what it was. The Ahroun making a judgement call that... was...
I wish I could say that I didn't expect that to happen, but... and that's all they got from the totemphone. She wasn't stepping in by any means, but she was just watching at that moment.
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] " -- Sam, STOP."
That is all.
[Katerina Ashcrofte] "Men," Katerina huffed in a vexed manner. They were always beating their chests and trying to prove whom was better than whom, in her eyes, and it was worse when said men were Ahrouns. She supposed she expected as much from the Get of Fenris, but then she just cast a look to Lukas and shook her head. The beta commanded the Modi to stop; would he?
She stood there, waiting for the fight to end or for Lukas to lead the way.
[Hatchet] [Charisma + Subterfuge]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 4, 4, 6 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Sam Modine] The Modi reaches his target, who sees it coming. The scarred Garou makes an attempt to block the shot but Sam's got the edge, the training, and the drive to make the first one count. He swings upward, his hand finding and biting the man's jaw.
There are no words. Only A loud grunt as he lets loose. If he hears Lukas it hasn't registered quite yet. His feet set back and forward, a balanced symmetry for his frame above. He's coiled and waiting for a the return volley.
[Andrew] ((Stun is only if it EXCEEDS his Stamina in one turn, you did equal to, no stun.))
[Dylan] [ Perception + 'Empathy' ]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 6, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)
to Hatchet
[Sam Modine] (ah, ok, word))
[Andrew] He took the hit to the face. Grunted. The red ball dropped from his hands and rolled off somewhere. He grinned through the punch. Didn't even reach up to touch the bit of scar tissue. He lets out a growl. His bones and joints pop, crackle, fur expands, and he grows to his full Crinos height. The floorboards under his huge clawed feet creak.
The gutteral language of the Garou issues from his mouth. "Try that again and I will gut you, coward." His teeth splitting into a grin.
[Hatchet] There are thudding feet. Hatchet is aware of that. He lolls his head back and looks upward, then lowers his head again. His expression on his head's way back is mild; his expression on his head's way forward is the same. No matter to him. You get that many Garou living in close quarters long enough someone's bound to go at it sooner or later. Hell, apparently Kemp already got a beer mug to the face, and he doesn't even live here.
He seems to have briefly lost track of his conversation with Dylan, though, as he moves his hands to lace across his belly. He is slouching. He lifts a dubious eyebrow at her suggestion, but there is something flickering in his eyes that is not quite anger, not quite fear. It's wary, and from the glint in his gaze and the half-beat of hesitation before he responds that the reaction he is hiding is much like an animal who has been kicked and is now bristling, baring its teeth and raising its hackles.
That is not the smile he gives, though. The fact that Dylan can see through it does not mean the mask isn't there. He looks amused, maybe even a bit condescending as he says: "Or...I've been wandering all over the country for so long that I'm shocked there's a place I haven't been before."
[Sam Modine] "You've got to be the dumbest...." Sam trails off and swivels his neck, popping the bones there. "I never said I was done." He smiles, not real smile, but the closest approximation of a wolf's challenge this form can muster. In his homid form he's already two thirds the size of the beast before him and the scene before them looks like a caricature of Davey Crockett grinning down the bear from hell.
And in an instant it's on again.
[Sam Modine] ((round 2, init?))
[Sam Modine] 10+x
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Dylan] There are thudding feet. Dylan is aware of that. The glass walker doesn't look upstairs, but she is, perhaps, a trifle more invested in the noise than Hatchet is. After all, she just saw Katerina go upstairs. Just heard Mrena trail away from an ambiguous statement -- oh, those voices in her head. Then again: she's not yet concerned enough to clutter up the line with an 'anything on' boys and girls? Besides, Hatchet just became even more interesting. The change in his demeanor isn't remarkable; what she notices beneath it is. The galliard blinks, once. Then she says: "Or that. I suppose one snow-choked city looks much like the next. Ever travelled to another continent?" There -- back on an easy question. A question she thinks will be an easy question, anyway. Who knows, really?
[Andrew] ((Init + 8))
[Andrew]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Andrew] ((Bite him))
[Sam Modine] ((spending 3 rage
1. autoshift - hispo
2. extra action bite
3. extra action bite
4 base action, dodge, WP ))
[Hatchet] Hatchet gives a slow nod. He is watching her closely, though, his guard back up after the hug...though not because of it. "South America, but that was when I was very young. I didn't even speak Spanish then and was completely hopeless, but I nearly died a few times in the Amazon and that sure was exciting."
[Andrew] ((Changing action, using Gift Luna's Armor))
[Sam Modine] ((which means i'm doing the same, main action will be gift, falling touch, still spending WP))
[Hatchet] [EDIT: "...and was completely hopeless as far as not-getting-lost goes, so..." Not 'but'.]
[Andrew] ((Enjoy the 10 difficulty on that one))
[Sam Modine] ((sta + ath?))
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 3, 6, 7, 8, 9, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[Andrew] ((That's a fail))
[Sam Modine] ((shit,sorry, i didn't mean to roll))
[Andrew] ((Luna's Armor))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 4, 4, 9, 9, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 6 at target 8) [WP] Re-rolls: 2
[Dylan] "More exciting there than elsewhere, huh?" Dylan raises her eyebrows, again. The expressive, expansive mood of earlier has -- contracted, somewhat. Hatchet is on his guard, and Dylan is curious about why, although she isn't trying to dig the answer out of his ribs. That wouldn't be her style. "Is't true that everything's bigger down there -- bugs, and the like?" And the like, meaning -- well, quite a lot.
[Sam Modine] falling touch,
Dex + 3 (totem) + medicine + WP + 2 (hispo) = 11 w/specialty diff 10
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 3, 4, 6, 7, 7, 8, 8, 8, 9, 9, 9, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 10) [WP] Re-rolls: 3
[Andrew] ((You already rolled, and failed, you can see the dice rolls, do there's no need to reroll. Sorry.))
[Sam Modine] ((except there was no WP on it, it set the wrong diff and I didn't get my re-rolls. I had a number in there previously and it accidentally rolled when I asked you the diff))
[Andrew] ((You rolled two botches and a 10, plus 1 WP, it's still a fail.))
[Sam Modine] ((either way, it's cool, i'll call it a fail and move on if that will make it go faster))
[Sam Modine] that's alright, rage action 1, bite
Dex + totem + hispo + brawl = 13 w/specialty
Dice Rolled:[ 13 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 3, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 7, 8, 8 (Success x 6 at target 6)
[Administrator] cricket, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)
[Sam Modine] Str + 1 + hispo + 5 succ = 12
damage
Dice Rolled:[ 12 d10 ] 3, 4, 5, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7, 7, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 7 at target 6)
[Andrew] ((Soak))
Dice Rolled:[ 13 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 6, 6, 6, 6, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6)
[Sam Modine] ((luna's armor is a full action it takes a round to come into play))
[Andrew] ((Rage actions occur after all other actions have been taken))
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (hmm... sorry thestral, i'ma have to agree with cody on this one. even if it's after all other actions, your gift takes a ROUND, not an action. it's not in effect til next round.)
[Andrew] ((Fine. Soak))
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 4, 7, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Sam Modine] ((and i'll forgo my last action in order not to kill him. Totem ban and all.))
[Sam Modine] ((and pull damage if I have to, obviously. Whatever puts him at incap.))
[Hatchet] "Depends entirely on your definition of 'exciting'," he says with a shrug, following her first (rhetorical) question. "Getting my ass devoured by bugs the size of my head, being bitten by snakes I'm pretty sure are incarnate nightmares -- I'm talking about the Wyrm's nightmares here, not your average everday mortal nightmares -- and eating smething that made me nearly vomit up my intestines...could be considered exciting," he admits finally, nodding a few times rather sagely.
His eyebrows flick up immediately thereafter, like they're on speed. "On the other hand, if you like being chased through an ambushed ravine full of rocks by a pack of pissed off Black Furies and consider that exciting, then you might prefer Montana. Umm..." he chews thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. "Whatever is going on upstairs sounds kind of exciting, but you don't see me running up there...uhhh..."
Hatchet smiles at her, looking a bit tired around the edges of his eyes finally. It's a good thing she is not trying to dig an answer out of his ribs. She would be seen as going for sensitive tissue, vital organs, and he would respond in kind. Perhaps in a less metaphorical sense, though. "Now, I know that Soledad is up there ignoring all this. I would bet money that Sebastian is not involved in this. Given the people I know are living upstairs and are most likely to currently be upstairs tonight, I am going to take a wild guess her and say that one or more of your packmates is involved in some kind of altercation. So why are you still down here, talking to my lazy ass?"
[Hatchet] [EDIT: 'something', not 'smething'. Apparently I am getting tired.]
[Andrew] ((passes out))
[Andrew] ((Sorry, I'll make it more clear with an IC post))
[Andrew] Andrew collapses, succumbing to his wounds.
[Sam Modine] The dire wolf, a full six feet at his shoulder steps back, a step, then two on it's paws. His teeth bared, bloody, stained crimson with Gaian life blood he snarls and sets his jaws around the other's throat, waving his head back and forth, the teeth don't break skin, only grip the giant mass of the other's warform. It's a piece of wolf culture, that.
It says only. 'I am dominant'. He plods over toward the rest of the group, his form shirinking before their eyes. Becoming instead a stocky, grey wolf, his head, eyes go low before Lukas. His forepaws go in front of him and he leans heavily on the onesin back, his hindquarters pushed up and away. 'A gift' this says.
Then the wolf plods off, toward it's....
bedroom.
[Dylan] "I'm listening," Dylan says, with a shrug, but also as if the answer were simplicity itself. As far as she's concerned, her pack would've (or: will) call her when they need her, if it was serious. Trust, and all. Of course: Okay, seriously guys, what the hell is going on up there? The fianna's all a-wonder and so'm I.
Then she stretches, cracking her back -- pop. "Buuuut I can take a hint. And I should probably go to bed, or go for a walk; something. Was nice talking to you, Hatchet."
[Katerina Ashcrofte] "Sam is beating his chest."
Katerina's reply, watching.
[Armstrong] And someone else's.
[Hatchet] "Wasn't meant as a hint, but!" he says, and claps his hands onto the arms of his chair. He rises, only to pick up his empty mug and the one Sebastian left behind as well. "It was good talking, Dying Light," he says, and he means it. That singular moment aside when he may as well have been waiting for her to jab at him again so he could have reason to bite her hand off does not affect the sincerity in that agreement.
"Goodnight," he says to her, when she goes. A few moments later he is in the kitchen, washing dishes.
[Administrator] cricket has left Caern & Adjoining Lands
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Sam, STOP--"
-- unnecessary now. One cataclysmic snap of the Modi's jaws ends the altercation in the time it takes for Lukas to bound back up to the top of the stairs. There's blood, to be sure, but oddly not a lot of it: just a single, long, artful spray, plus the slow-soaking puddle that seeps out of Andrew's wound.
Singular.
Lukas grimaces, looking at the Fostern. The Fostern. Then he turns to the grey wolf, symbolically laying the 'kill' before him. "Christ." It's all he can say for the moment. A pause; "Christ," again. "I didn't want this. Do you think I wanted this? For God's sake, Sam. I would have called him out at the moot, before the elders, and settled it there. The right way. Not like this -- some bloody brawl in a safehouse, two Garou of Gaia tearing each other to shreds. Now whatever his dishonors and follies, he'll always be able to throw this in our teeth."
He's silent on the totemphone. Katerina and Armstrong about wrapped that up
[Andrew] Time slips past and slowly he starts to regain consciousness. His eyes blink slowly a few times, opening. His claws flex, digging into the flooring as he does so. He lets out a low snarl of irritation. But he's not up quite yet.
[Hatchet] And a moment after that...he's hearing Lukas's voice come down the stairs, the end of his words. Dishonors, follies, throwing things in teeth. It doesn't grant him amusement, though he does take definite note of what the Ahroun says. He pauses as he washes the mugs used, mulling it over, but does not rush as he rinses and dries.
As far as he knows, there are two Fostern Garou present in this house at the moment. One of them, if his guess is right (and based on Lukas's words, he's pretty sure he's right), just got 'settled' by Sam. The other one is downstairs, washing dishes and staying out of it. For now.
He finishes drying one mug, and hangs it up on a hook. Then he goes for the second.
[Sam Modine] Sam gives no answer until he reemerges from his temporary room, wearing a clean pair of worn jeans and a blue form-fitting sweat-shirt.
His cheeks purse and he'd cluck his tongue if that were a verbal tick he was prone to, instead he just stares at the giant thing that lays heaving on the floor of the common area. "I was only planning to break his face." Sam finally looks back to his Beta in response. "Then he called me a coward and put on the war skin." the pause between the two sentences is palpable, as though it's the gap between memory and experience. As though he's just this side of the violence and waiting for the battle haze to clear out. The fire in him crackles a bit less brightly now, though outwardly he is no more easy. Simply less wanting for the fits they're all prone to.
"If you need to punish me," He shrugs. "You can. But he did leave you in the lurch, couldn't manage his own job. The birds say we have to you know..." A brief head shake. "Do something about it." With that the Modi goes silent, resigned and resolved both to take what might be coming.
[Dylan] As Hatchet may've lately noticed, and as many garou've noticed previously and as The Unbroken Circle knows quite well: Dylan asks questions, the better to get a fuller account than -- say -- Sam's beating his chest and someone else's. Not yet, though! Dylan heads up the stairs; catches Lukas' speech, some of it, the last dregs of it. There's Armstrong, two stairs down from the top; Dylan nudges her in the back, at the base of the spine. The gesture is eloquent of these things. 1.) Hey, I'm here. 2.) So, I'm here. Is't over? Why are you standing on the stairs? Annnnnd 3.) Oh.
[Katerina Ashcrofte] "Do you want me to heal him?" she asked, tenatively, to Lukas while she stood there dumbfounded at the whole scene of it all. As Lukas said, this was supposed to be a safehouse. While they should of done it formally at the caern before the Master of Challenges, she supposed there was going to be no stopping a Get of Fenris Modi in full-charge.
There was a small, subtle shake of her flaxen head as she brushed strands of the hair from her face to hook it behind one ear. A glance at Dylan and Mrena, and she turned her attention back upon the scene.
[Armstrong] She turned around briefly and looked at Dylan. She looked at her briefly, pushing some of the strands of hair back out of her face. Armstrong peered at Dylan's expressed, then gave an affirmative nod. A grtadual up and then a solid downward motion. She moved to the side slightly, giving Dylan time to go up the stairs.
[Administrator] cricket, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas' jaw clenches and then releases. "He did escalate the situation," he admits, "and we can all thank god for that much."
Andrew is beginning to stir, the first, milder damage of the fist blow fading off. Lukas snaps his mouth shut, taking the rest to the totem. It gives us half a leg to stand on. As for your punishment, Sam -- that's not mine to mete out. See Katherine in the morning; see what she has to say. And there'll be a reckoning at the moot for all of this, you can count on that. Only now we'll have to stand for it too.
We, Lukas says. Whatever his opinion, he will not leave a packbrother to swing in the wind. The Shadow Lord draws a deep, steady breath, exhales it.
A flicker of a glance at Katerina. And a short nod. I hate to tax your spirit further, but it'll be a gesture of truce, at least. And Dylan -- when he comes around, say something properly apologetic, but don't overdo it. Don't grovel to him. By the oldest laws of the wild, Sam kicked his ass, and that puts us above him.
What's done is done. No point not taking advantage of that much.
[Katerina Ashcrofte] ( What is Andrew's base Rage? )
[Andrew] He's coming to now... as people stand and gawk. And he slowly sits up, huge eyes narrowing as he sees Lukas. And lets out a short bark of a laugh. "Escalated." Crinos lips curling around the word, it's equivalent really, spoken it the Garou tongue. Pulling himself slowly, somewhat unsteadily, to his feet. "Congratulations... young Ahroun.. you ambushed and bested a Theurge in a safe house... You are... so brave... so tough... your ancestors would be proud."
[Hatchet] And now he hears Andrew's voice drift down the stairs, rough and the words snarling but otherwise hard to make out. Hatchet sighs as he hangs up the second mug after drying it out, and then uses the towel to dry the last of the dishwater off his hands. He folds the towel over a cupboard door, and then makes his way towards the stairs to start ascending. He has to eventually, anyway.
That's where his bed is.
So here they come: booted feet, trodding upwards.
[Katerina Ashcrofte] Katerina nodded to Lukas and stepped over to Andrew admist the blood. Some that know her better would wonder why she was treading carelessly in her expensive boots, to ruin them. Those that knew her best would know that it did not matter. Healing was to be done, and she the one to do it.
kneeling down, she made to lay on hands to Andrew. If he were to shove her away or fuss, she would tell him to stop being stubborn.
( 1 Gnosis, 1 WP. Mother's Touch - Reroll 10's as per Medicine Specialty: Field Medicine. )
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 8 (Success x 5 at target 4) [WP]
[Sam Modine] He closes his eyes for a moment. Nodding slowly. "I will." At that the talk of punishment seems over and he moves to snag one of the beers from Lukas, the already opened one, if he'll release it. The calls of five turkey vultures call out the totemlink, it's airy warble filling their heads. The fuck's a wolf like that ever get past it's passage is beyond me.
Sam shrugs Dylan's way next. "Might throw in next time he leaves one of you in dangerin the middle of a battle." He shakes off something, snapping his head in a jerking motion sideways once. "I'll toss him out the window and see if he can fly." His voice is serious, stern. Not fucking around it would seem. Not anymore, if ever before.
And at that a rumbling voice comes from behind. "Just be thankful you aren't seeing yours, Moon-Calf." He responds without even looking at the other. Refusing to even look at the other. A totem of respect, theirs, a sampling of the whole of falcon's brood. And falcon is not a spirit who deigns let his children suffer the follies of those who are below them.
[Dylan] He has not much of grace, Dylan notes, when Andrew comes-to sooner than Lukas had perhaps expected. "An ambush?" Her voice is sharp, on that word, but then becomes more careful; more even, steady, calm and curious. "If you perceive that's what happened, we're sorry; tell me what happened. I wasn't here."
And, she adds, thoughttalk: The proper apologetic thing to say would be -- well, there is no proper apologetic thing to say. Sam won. He lost. The fact that Hatchet is downstairs does not escape her memory. So she also adds, Do we need a mediator for this, guys?
OOC: warning, I figured out I'm too tired to post coherently so if I ... ignored ... something or ... whatever, sorry.
[cricket] (lemme know if I need to bring Katherine in, I probably could.)
to Andrew, Armstrong, Dylan, Hatchet, Katerina Ashcrofte, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, Sam Modine
[Andrew] ((Sorry, I don't know who Katherine is))
to Armstrong, cricket, Dylan, Hatchet, Katerina Ashcrofte, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, Sam Modine
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Sam won; he lost: Perhaps. Sometimes, Lukas is doggedly stubborn in his adherence to formalities, traditions, and That Which Is Right. But this is a safehouse, and he is our elder. We -- I -- should have given him the respect of a formal challenge at the Cracking of the Bone.
As for a mediator -- a moment's thought. Then, Offer him the option, if he wants it. But if he takes it, I say this matter is settled tonight. He forfeits his right to call Sam out on it at the moot.
[cricket] ( D: I feel so unloved. Katherine is the Unbroken Circle's philodox. :P NM though, seems settled!)
to Andrew, Armstrong, Dylan, Hatchet, Katerina Ashcrofte, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, Sam Modine
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (a mediator should be a non-packmate anyway :P but you can log katherine in and mete out punishment!)
to Andrew, Armstrong, cricket, Dylan, Hatchet, Katerina Ashcrofte, Sam Modine
[Andrew] Healed.... he seems steadier on his feet. And now, his intense Rage focuses more clearly on Lukas and Sam. "You all share the dishonor of this now, Wyrmbreaker." Apparently, he's mainly addressing the Beta, rather than Sam. "And all will know of it. It is expected..." Turning his eyes to Sam briefly, "That he could beat me... An Ahroun that cannot defeat a Theurge is... pathetic." Grunting and squatting down, to avoid the ceiling, his feet standing near his own blood. "To attack me, without challenge, in a safehouse.... you have no shred of the honor, or wisdom, our aspire to."
[Andrew] ((* "...our kind aspire to..." ))
[Katerina Ashcrofte] And if he held any wisdom of his own, he would not have called Sam a coward, to escalate the fight further, her voice echoed across the totemphone. Sam's attack might not have been provoked, but it certainly was not cowardly. Katerina's take on the situation. Andrew got his ass handed to him, and now used words like "honor, wisdom," etc.
She healed the Child of Gaia, and received no gratitude. Not that Ash-Cat expected any such. A twist to her lips, as she moved to once more stand with her pack.
[Hatchet] As Hatchet is coming to the top of the stairs, he hears a Fenrir, feels the edges of the Mother's power, hears Dylan's voice -- which is becoming steadily more familiar to him -- and, finally, Andrew's voice again. He comes around the corner and into the common room at about the point that the Fostern Gaian is saying in a safehouse...you have no shred of the honor...
"Wyrmbreaker has the honor worthy of a Half-Moon," Hatchet says flatly, loud and clear, speaking over Andrew if necessary. "If you question it again I will call for a challenge to prove such when the moon is full again." He sounds not annoyed, nor angry, nor even sarcastic. He sounds dead serious.
Hatchet looks at Andrew, then looks over at Sam, then to Lukas, his gray eyes guarded but not ferocious. He is waiting for someone to tell him whether or not his further presence is required, or needed, or wanted.
[Dylan] "Don't belittle your own battle prowess; your physical feats are noted as being beyond your auspice." Dry as white wine. "There's a neutral philodox downstairs; coming up the stairs, if my ears don't mislead me. If all you can do is reiterate insults, let us call him."
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (wait! i wanna post!)
[Dylan] ooc: and I'm totally pretending that came before Hatchet's post, because then it makes perfect sense. Also, y'all npc Dyl now -- night!
[Administrator] Dylan has left Caern & Adjoining Lands
[Katerina Ashcrofte] ( LoL. )
[Sam Modine] Beer in hand rises to meet his lips. Swilling half in one go. He turns, his yellow blonde hair falling along his shoulders to frame his face. One cannot doubt that he may in fact know exactly what his ancestors would say. For this is their scion. This is one of those they've picked to fight the final battles.
His veneer does not break. "You speak." He begins his voice dripping with disdain, superiority and a pity that might not be the affect it is coming from Katherine or Edward. "But you don't seem to be able to tell the truth," that word the hammer's heart hit's hard. "From your own lie. No challenge needs offered to a coward. He will not take it. I don't want your property or your position." He grins. "It was a lesson. One your thick fucking," again words ooze of a newfound emnity, "skull can't seem to wrap around. Ours is a warrior race cow-herder and that fact you couldn't last ten seconds without nearly dying? That is pathetic. That you suffer kin to tend your weakness, and one not of your tribe? That is pathetic, and it is criminal." He hears The half-moon coming up the stairs and utters one final thought.
"I'll see you stripped of your rank."
[Administrator] lurker, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (HEY TIME OUT AND LET ME POST.)
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Sam begins, coming up the stairs like a building storm: You speak--
"Silence, Mjollnir's Heart."
Lukas, directly addressed, raises his chin a small degree and levels an even gaze on Andrew.
"I apologize for my packmate's impetuosity. If I could have, I would have called you out at the moot for your actions yesterday, and on prior occasions. That's how I would have chosen to settle this: formally, before the Sept."
A beat. Then his voice steels.
"But I cannot apologize on his behalf for a dishonorable ambush, because I saw no such thing. You saw him coming up the stairs. You heard his name and he heard yours. You saw him move to strike, and you had time to defend yourself; to taunt him; to shift into your warskin and turn a fistfight into a potentially lethal combat. It may not have been formal challenge, Rhya, but it was a challenge from where I stood.
"If you dispute that -- " and here, Hatchet steps up to the landing, speaks; Lukas waits for it before he continues, " -- if you dispute that, you may dispute it at the moot, or now, before this Half-Moon of your rank, who is neither my packmate nor yours."
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (btw cody -- will Sam actually shut up at that point, or he gonna get the rest of that speech out? *LOL*)
[Andrew] He spits at the feet of the Modi. Snarling, but staying in the war form. Glaring at Lukas. Pointing with one clawed hand. "Then I was wrong about you, Wyrmbreaker. You have honor." With a glance at Hatchet. His attention turns back to Lukas. "I apologize, for my statement against your honor." Glancing at the rest of the pack. "And that of your pack. That was wrong of me. I will perform a Rite of Contrition to you, if you demand it, for that."
His claw moves to point to Sam. "But he, will be punished. He attacked unprovoked, without warning. It was luck that I reacted in time. I shifted only to defend myself."
[Sam Modine] ((Heh. he'd shut up. at that point.))
[Hatchet] [Folks, I apologize, but I need my 4 hours of sanity sleep before I get up tomorrow for an interview. I am going to break posting order for Hatchet's response, unless someone screams and waves their arms and yells NOOO.]
[Administrator] lurker has left Caern & Adjoining Lands
[Hatchet] Hatchet stands calmly, watching Andrew apologize to Lukas, and retract his statement of the pack. He nods, without looking at Wyrmbreaker for his approval. As far as he is concerned, the apology is Right. Whether the Unbroken Circle demands a Rite of Contrition or not, he leaves to them by virtue of his silence. He stops nodding as Andrew's claw moves, and then he speaks up again.
Most of them have seen him at least somewhat jocular or facetious. A few of them have seen him completely serious. This is, however, the role he was born to play -- and literally. Mediator. Judge. Not necessarily 'leader', not necessarily 'serious'. But Judge he is, and though it is a stark difference from his glib bullshit, it seems to be him in his most natural state. The only thing missing is fur, claws, fangs: his true nature.
"Dances on Fire-yuf, I see no serious injury on you and I felt Gaia's own power in the air just moments ago. It would do you well to shift down." He does not order him. They are of equal rank. Going on, whether Andrew speaks or not, he says: "I trust the honor of Lukas Wyrmbreaker, and given your apology, I deem that you trust it, too. I believe what he says and will not insult him by using a Gift to determine it for certain. Mjollnir's Heart began this, but he was not the first to shift into a form designed for war. If he had intended to kill you, you would be dead."
There's a beat, to let that sink in, and then he takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, crossing his arms over his chest. "If he needs punishment, be satisfied with what his pack's Philodox will mete out. She is many things, but not unfair, not even where her packmates are concerned." It's the nicest thing he's ever said about her. "Given your behavior on Clover Street, I understand the Fenrir's motives." He does not say 'condone'. Not right now, not out loud...not with witnesses. "But you are a Child of Gaia, known throughout our history as peacemakers, reminders to all of us that we are ultimately all sons and daughters of the Mother."
His voice lowers, encourages. "Let him be punished by his pack, who -- I remind you -- healed you without your request, another mark on their honor. Let this be settled for tonight, and if it is to ever be spoken of again, let it only be spoken at the Cracking of the Bone."
[Hatchet] [EDIT: whether Andrew SHIFTS or not.]
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas does not wait for the rest of the Circle's input on this one. They may be unbroken, they may be circular, they may value one another's input and judgment -- but they are not, in the end, a democracy.
"The Unbroken Circle does not require a Rite of Contrition. The insult is forgotten."
[Andrew] He snorts and licks his chops. Hungry for blood, maybe. Irritated, yes. "I fought alongside your pack, and Wyrmbreaker that night, and did all I could. If you, or he, want to fault me because he was wounded then handle it in challenge at the Moot."
His eyes flick to Sam for a moment, then back to Lukas. "But letting that dog, lead your pack...." He shakes his head. "It is bad for your reputation, Wyrmbreaker."
[Hatchet] Hatchet's voice, this time, is not as calm. It is quite edged, in fact, hinting at impatience. "Dances on Fire. Do you accept my judgment or not? If so, silence your insults. If not, I wash my hands of you and ask only that this be taken out of the den we all currently share."
[Sam Modine] Sam Modine.
Mjollnir's Heart.
Born under a full moon and taken in by the children of Fenris wolf.
Nods. For once looking at the Fianna of greater rank with something less than annoyance or outright hostility. Again he looks back to Andrew, and shifted of not he remains unbowed. The slow spread of lips across his face belies only more of that superiority. A high ground born of tradition and strength of purpose. It says I told you so and it says I win. Lukas speaks and he shrugs. Enmity is beyond now being bought and sold with even complex apologies.
"See you at the moot." It's smug. It's hateful and it's said through a smile. "Cow-herder." With that he's turned and is walking out of the room, the final look toward the still Crinos Garou in the room. The one not smart enough to shift after he's been judged and asked, nay, told to; is not wicked, not evil, only utterly perplexed.
When he hits the stairs two calls go out on the totem link, ruffled feathers against gale-winds. He says another word and I don't hold back next time. Teh second is called further away, across distance toward someone he addresses without anger, without anything but respect and more deference than even Lukas gets. Katherine. We need to talk. He's in the kitchen now, opening a refrigerator and rummaging through carefully.
[Andrew] He growls and shifts down into homid, sweatpants again replacing fur. Taking a step forward to avoid stepping in his own blood. "Fine. Accept." Nodding his head. His speech careful, slow, deliberate. "Moot will see argument."
[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Andrew flings insults -- Hatchet speaks sharply -- Sam, much to Lukas' relief and delight, does not spit insults in return.
Well. Not many, anyway.
After the Modi has descended the stairs, Lukas speaks: softly, and stonily.
"Mjollnir's Heart is not my Alpha. Nor is he a dog. Words like those could be read as a challenge by the Get of Fenris. They do not often forgive twice.
"As for my dispute with you: we will discuss that also at the moot, Dances on Fire."
[Hatchet] Hatchet gives a single nod, glancing at Sam. His jaw clenches when he calls Andrew a Cow-herder and Hatchet looks at Lukas almost in pleading...or perhaps warning. The Look is clear. He just judged Andrew for his insults. He leaves Sam to Lukas for the ones he dished out.
Taking his eyes away from the Shadow Lord, Hatchet starts to walk away from all of them, towards his and Sol's room. "Wyrmbreaker, tell Mjollnir's Heart I have something to say to him tomorrow," he says, calm again, but only barely. Just barely. And then he is in his bedroom, closing the door behind him.
[Hatchet] [Guys, that was very awesome RP, and I thank all of you. Sorry I had to sort-of rush/take over the end of it. Take it out of my hide another day. G'night!]
[Andrew] ((G'night.))
celebration.
9 years ago