Now it's June, though, and outside it's nearly eighty degrees. Thanks to the lake nearby, it is also stupidly humid. Sinclair could be at a gym trying to find people ballsy enough or foolish enough to spar with her, she could be at the Brotherhood doing her laundry, she could be working on her car, but instead she's here, at Kate's place, practicing swimming. This, unlike clawing someone to pieces, is not something she can do by pure instinct. Human beings and wolves are not aquatic creatures, however much some may love the water.
So she practices. She has her hair tied back as tight as it will go and in as neatly wound a bun as she can make but isn't wearing a cap, and has on the last racing suit she bought before leaving college. There is almost no noise foreign to the pool room but for the splashes made when she comes up for air or does a flip at one end or the other.
When Lukas comes in, whenever that is and wherever he comes in from, Sinclair twists in the water and rights herself, taking in a deep breath and shaking water from her face, already midshout, like an audience member at a gladiator arena calling for a deathblow: "CANNONBAAAAALLL!"
[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas is sliding the glass door closed when the pool room abruptly resounds with Sinclair's yell. The Shadow Lord's eyebrow hops up on his forehead. He grins abruptly, shrugging his bright red swimrobe off his shoulders and tossing it onehanded toward a nearby lounger while he flings something else in Sinclair's direction.
Turns out to be goggles. Speedos, good quality, but not exactly competition-caliber. Unisex. He snaps a similar pair on himself, working his face to tuck them firmly into his eye orbits. Without further ado, he bounds up on the diving board, springs off the end, and tucks into a cannonball.
SPLOOSH.
When he resurfaces, he snorts water out his nose, laughs, and shakes his face clear of water. "Got a three-pack from Costco," he says, tapping the right lens of his own goggles in indication. "Figured I'd give you one and maybe Asha the other, since I've never seen Kate do anything but float around on a pool lounger.
"Wanna race a few laps?"
[Sinclair] Lukas could have thrown the goggles at her head like a floppy, rubber-banded speedball and Sinclair likely would have caught it. Her moon has been out of its waning phase for a few days now, and her strength and speed has come back in full force as it always does. She snags the goggles out of midair, though it's a bit more awkward than it would be on land: a kick sends her upward a bit, but it has to be well-timed. She bobs back down, clutching the goggles well before she gets a good look at them.
Of course, then there's a wave hitting her chest and face as Lukas splashes heavily into the pool. Everything about him is heavy. Solidly packed, he's unquestionably the biggest dog in the pack, the toughest and the strongest and so on. The other males in the pack are Theurges -- or one was, before he vanished again -- and not quite so firmly made. It is the other females, athletic and vicious, who follow Lukas in the sheer ferocity of front-line battle.
Even if one of them mostly just lounges around on a float when she's at her own pool, and even if one of them used a blender for the very first time earlier this year. Even if one of them gnaws on Twizzlers like cigar stubs when buttonmashing, eyes unblinking on the television screen.
"We should get them bedazzled first, for Asha. I think she will be thrilled," she says, adjusting the strap with unsurprisingly familiar motions as she treads water, then donning them. She grins, her face turned alien and bizarre by the goggles. "Whaddya think? Pretty cunning, ain't it?"
He asks her for friendly competition. Which, for them, means an allowance for rather brutal intensity, singleminded focus, and just as much fervor as is given to practicing axes and swords or the like. Sinclair's grin doesn't abate. "If you think you can keep up," she taunts lightly, and returns to one end of the pool, climbing out. They don't have diving platforms here -- that's a whole other campaign -- or even proper lanes, but it's clear she intends to start out of the water.
[Wyrmbreaker] Their goggles on, they look like a pair of space aliens from some aquatic planet: blacked-out eyes, carnivore's grins. "Glamorous. Ready for the runway," he says. "Maybe I should get Asha oversized ones, though. Like about this big." He gestures with his thumb and forefinger: one at the level of his mouth, the other at his hairline, and bursts into laughter.
He follows her out of the water, then, and it's true: they're nearly matched for natural ferocity, but where Sinclair is lithe, viciously quick, Lukas is thick through the shoulders and chest, solidly built in the arms and thighs. A waterfall sluices off of him when he climbs out, his hair plastering against his head. He's in square-cut swim trunks, black and patternless except for the intrinsic weft of the fabric.
"Oh, I'll keep up," he says, taking up a position about three yards away, leaning into a crouch. "Three laps back and forth, on three?"
[Theron Locke] [[ Will hopefully post in.. but boy just woke up. Will see what's happening ]]
to Sinclair, Wyrmbreaker
[Sinclair] "You're never going to get over those sunglasses of hers," Sinclair says with a shake of her head, amused. He climbs out of the pool beside her and she flicks her eyes across him, adding -- with that same amusement -- "Oh look. A Shadow Lord in black."
Her crouch is effortless with muscle memory. She's been getting used to diving off without a board or platform and not slipping or breaking her jaw or twisting her ankles or flop-diving into the water with a miscalculation. The gift of practice is that you stop thinking about these things; you just do them. Sinclair is no expert at this, any more than she's an expert at baseball or sprinting, but she's well beyond competent. Her fingertips grace the tile and concrete; she looks ahead.
"On three."
Lukas counts off, and as the th is turning into the r, Sinclair leaps, the lunge as graceful and lethal-seeming as those she takes in hispo, towards an enemy's throat.
[Wyrmbreaker] "Keep that up and I'll take 'em off. Then you'll die of shock and awe."
Their easy banter doesn't change the way they go about their business of competition: Sinclair like the athlete she was and is, Lukas like -- well; like Lukas. Intent and driven.
He touches one hand to the tile at the edge of the pool. "One," he counts. "Two. Thr--"
In she goes, her packmate in the same instant, bound literally by spirit and instinct. They hit the water as "--ree!" is leaving his lips, slicing into the water like a pair of javelins, letting the sheer momentum of their dive carry them for the first few meters before settling into strong, surging strokes.
Racing Sinclair has made Lukas better at this, just like sparring with Lukas has made Sinclair better with her axes. Shoulders churn; arms flash; explosive exhales burst their mouths clear of water before each inhale a split-second later. At the end of the pool they tuck and turn, kicking off the wall, submerging only to break the surface again long seconds later.
[Sinclair] [dex + athletics, lap 1]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1
[Sinclair] [dex + athletics, lap 2]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 4, 5, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[Sinclair] [dex + athletics, lap 3]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 3, 6, 6, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Wyrmbreaker] [lap one!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 5, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Katherine Bellamonte] It's June.
The days are growing steadily warmer, and Katherine's home is at its most alluring with its white-washed walls and spacious, airy floor to ceiling window panes. It let the sun in, and dappled the rich blues of the swimming pool tiles, cast watery reflections shimmering and dancing over the walls. The plants surrounding the edges of the pool itself began to flavor the room with their perfumes, and the birdsong the Silver Fang had piped through speakers high around the ceiling added confirmation that the seasons were changing; had, in fact, changed all around them.
Weeks passed, bled into months and Katherine's Loft was once again growing empty. The guest-rooms save the one occasionally occupied by Sinclair remained untouched, their covers made up by Lucille and mantles dusted, Edward and Gabriella remained gone but their things, the areas that had been their own were still untouched so that the absent Bellamonte siblings were almost ghosts, phantom scents that occasionally caught the nose when walking past their old rooms.
Katherine would not have her sister's clothing removed, or her sheets changed.
She would not unwrap the shirts she last had steamed for Edward.
They might need them one day, she chided any who saw to reprimand her for this obsessive behavior. She knew full well the truth, but it was her cold comfort, and she fought hard to keep it in place. These days, in truth, she rarely went upstairs unless another was there. She let Sinclair play her games, and Lucille turn the sheets and stayed comfortably below in her little parlor, in her bedroom and kitchen, in her little lounge space.
She was content, she maintained the words like a mantra though it was a pale, sickly imitation of the reality. She was content.
Happier, no doubt, on occasions like this when she returned home and found her Loft full of voices, shouting, splashing. Vibrancy that adhered to and drew her like a moth to the flame. The door to the pool slid apart and revealed Katherine. Still young, still so fresh-faced and lovely as if barely a day had passed between now and then when they'd arrived in the city as the Unbroken Circle. The differences were there, though, a laugh line where there had been none, darker colors in the wardrobe such as that which she wore now; jeans and a sleeveless blouse of palest blue.
A hint of something harder, older, matured in her stance and in her eyes.
Eyes which fixed on her competing pack-mates with mirth, now, as she took a seat and set about removing her shoes.
[Wyrmbreaker] [lap 2!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 4, 4, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Wyrmbreaker] [lap three!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 4, 7 (Failure at target 6)
[Wyrmbreaker] [D:]
[Sinclair] The only response Sinclair has to that comment is a pull of a disgusted face, tongue out, reminiscent of those green stickers they used to give out for families to put on bottles of household products that would poison the idiot child who decided to take a sip or five. There is no physical similarity between the Galliard and the Ahroun, no commonality of accent or background. They both have blue eyes, but the character of those eyes is utterly different: one cold, intense, unfathomable, the other... deceptively light, gentle, and soft.
Yet she has the reaction to that statement like a sister to a slightly older brother, disgusted and all the more determined to show him up. So he gets halfway through the last word of the count and she's off like a shot, but so is he. What Lukas lacks in trained athleticism he makes up for with sheer power, practiced determination, and inherent speed, and they both splash into the water at almost the same spot in their imagined lanes. For one lap of Katherine's expanded pool they're neck and neck, Sinclair darting through like a fish and Lukas hauling himself forward with long pulls of his arms. They never decided on a stroke, so this is freestlye.
After the first lap, Sinclair tucks her chin and rolls into a ball in the water, somersaulting forward and unfolding about midway through. Her feet touch the wall, and with one powerful push of her legs sends herself in the opposite direction. This may be what makes the difference in the second lap, when she pulls far ahead of Lukas: he has to waste time with a regular turn. Sinclair hasn't tried to teach him to flip yet, and even if he were to try, he wouldn't have her practice. Precious seconds, that's all: he might still catch up.
It isn't lack of stamina that slows him down. It's not lack of morale. He sticks with a stroke he knows, he focuses, but he doesn't know the water as well as Sinclair and, well... she's just faster. It probably doesn't help that during the third lap he also manages to inhale a whole lot of chlorinated water, which doesn't do anything for his swimming.
Sinclair is already hauling herself up out of the water at the end of the pool when Lukas taps the wall. She clambers onto the side, aware of Kate but not looking at her yet. She is busy dancing out of the Ahroun's reach and performing a quick cheer. In her goggles. "Gimme an E! E, you got your E, you got your E! Gimme a A! A, you got your A, you got your A! Gimme a T! T, you got your T, you got your T! Gimme an I! I, you got your I, you got your I! Gimme a T! T, you got your T, you got your T..."
[Sinclair] [Corrected post!]
The only response Sinclair has to that comment is a pull of a disgusted face, tongue out, reminiscent of those green stickers they used to give out for families to put on bottles of household products that would poison the idiot child who decided to take a sip or five. There is no physical similarity between the Galliard and the Ahroun, no commonality of accent or background. They both have blue eyes, but the character of those eyes is utterly different: one cold, intense, unfathomable, the other... deceptively light, gentle, and soft.
Yet she has the reaction to that statement like a sister to a slightly older brother, disgusted and all the more determined to show him up. So he gets halfway through the last word of the count and she's off like a shot, but so is he. What Lukas lacks in trained athleticism he makes up for with sheer power, practiced determination, and inherent speed, and they both splash into the water at almost the same spot in their imagined lanes. For one lap of Katherine's expanded pool they're neck and neck, Sinclair darting through like a fish and Lukas hauling himself forward with long pulls of his arms. They never decided on a stroke, so this is freestlye.
It isn't lack of stamina that slows him down. It's not lack of morale. He sticks with a stroke he knows, he focuses, but he doesn't know the water as well as Sinclair and, well... she's just faster. It probably doesn't help that during the third lap he also manages to inhale a whole lot of chlorinated water, which doesn't do anything for his swimming.
Sinclair is already hauling herself up out of the water at the end of the pool when Lukas taps the wall. She clambers onto the side, aware of Kate but not looking at her yet. She is busy dancing out of the Ahroun's reach and performing a quick cheer. In her goggles. "Gimme an E! E, you got your E, you got your E! Gimme a A! A, you got your A, you got your A! Gimme a T! T, you got your T, you got your T! Gimme an I! I, you got your I, you got your I! Gimme a T! T, you got your T, you got your T..."
[Wyrmbreaker] While Sinclair's up there doing her victory cheer, Lukas is hanging onto the side of the pool, spitting up the last of the water he inhaled. "Bravo," he rasps dryly. "You going to backflip too?"
Then, spying Kate by the poolside, "Kate!" Cough. "You here to swim, or are you about to bask as usual?"
No, he wasn't over the sunglasses yet.
[Katherine Bellamonte] The Philodox leans back in her chair, her shoes removed so that her prettily painted toenails are on display; this week's shade is a deep burgundy. She crosses her legs and reclines, a hand straying to the lever on the side of the chair to force its recline to her desired angle. "I am here simply to bask in the glory of my pack-mates," she declares idly, and then as Lucille bustles in with a tray of drinks, an umbrella perched in something that seemed rather fruity, judging by the color, she adds with a little shrug.
"And drink, while I do."
[Marni] Inside, there's a pool.
Inside, there are packmates.
Inside, there is laughter and cheering and swimming and companionship and...
...Outside, there is a gnawer, drawn here for some reason, any reason, no reason at all. She's
Even now, she hesitates. After all - she doesn't LIKE the people who likely are inside living it up while she struggles... Coming here was an exercise in frustration and
But still, across the street from the loft, hidden in shadows...
She watches.
[Sinclair] Sinclair considers this. She looks at the floor, then shakes her head at Lukas. "No. Too slippery." Reaching up, she removes the goggles he brought in, shaking her head a little and stretching out her face, looping the strap over her wrist. She heads towards Kate.
[Karl Holds the Line] The Unbroken packhouse. Umbrally, it was not hard to find when you knew what to look for. As with nearly all places inhabited by Garou, the spirits seemed more alive, quickened then anywhere else in the scab. The presence of the Unbrokens totem spirits, of the dark storms and the images of reflected perfect falcons that perched and lazily flew around it carried on ethereal winds no man or Garou could feel also named it for what it was.
A safe haven.
The Rotagar touches down close by. The soft pads of his paws brushing against the hard weaver patterns of the asphalt. The massive hispo drew claws across it, tearing small gouges in the spiritual matter that was repaired almost as quickly as he could make them by the smallest imaginable pattern spiders. Even here, in the presence of Gaian spirits, the Scab stood strong, static and unchangeable. A clear contrast. The Rotagar padded forward, bearing its massive bulk with surprising ease and agility. Head swirling from side to side, with sleek midnight fur rustling as he does.
In him lies the blood of Fenrir heroes. In the strength of his bones and power of his body they rest, a lineage proud and strong. For a Fenrir. He considered the umbral reflection of the loft for a moment, then a blur of change as he took human form, moving to the side of the building, where shadows would be present in the real world. Casually dressed, as always, with well-fitting dark jeans, and a simple dark grey tee bearing some random print and text. (Affliction). Low boots finished his choice of clothing. Simple taste.
The man himself would not strike a very different look if it were not for the pulse of his rage within. Strong enough in the No moon to rival many ahroun, or those glacial eyes. Pale blue and cold as ice if you did not know the man to look deeper. Buzzed raven hair, kept short at all times. A slight dark shade that covers his chin and cheeks. At least a days worth of beard. In his human skin, those lines that carry the Fenrir blood make him seem hard, angular and gives him a presence that seems to whisper of deadly intent and imminent violence. A frightening man when he chose to be.
He focuses his will and spirit, lifting the gauntlet just enough to be able to see to the other side, to make sure that the immediate area is clear. He seems uncaring for the spirits that watch him, as coldly curious as spirits could ever be. He is no threat to them, no obvious threat to their domain, so they leave him be. Moments later, he takes a step forward, slipping through one shadow…
…Only to appear in another, past the gauntlet. He takes a deep breath then, rolling his strong shoulders as he adjusts to the real world. Here, the feel of his own totem lessened. That constant furious heartbeat that thunders in his mind dampened by the distance of the gauntlet. He looks around, then moves around the building. An easy pace kept as he takes his time, looking to the structure from this side. So different, yet very much the same, with the bricks forming near identical patterns as the web had in the umbra.
He reaches the door and rings the bell, then waits. He is not expected, but Wyrmbreakers invitation has not yet been withdrawn either. Surprise visits are always fun, right?
[Asha Singh] The Bone Gnawer hidden in the shadows across the street sees a sleek Lexus hybrid pull up. The car is black, the license plates now say Illinois rather tha New York. The driver - a tall man with graying blond hair dressed in an impeccable suit - climbs out, flicks an imaginary speck of dust from his cuffs, straightens his collar, and circles the front of the car. Nevermind that at midnight it is still a rather steamy, humid, seventy-six degrees with the promise of more rain in the air. Neverthemind that it is indeed midnight.
He: circles the car to open the right back passenger's door and finds it already opened. A slight girl climbs out, reeking of pure breed, her dark skin recedes in the shadows, her black hair gleams with health and shine in what light there is.
She is wearing sunglasses.
It is midnight.
- anyhoo. So: while Karl heads to the front door, Asha follows her butler to the trunk and
Which is to say the prototype wheel.
Which is to say: you know, hewn from rock. Cro-Magnon.
What Karl sees if he turns around is: a giant, round stone with maaaaaaybe fingers at opposite edges and a pair of dark-clad legs sticking down beneath. She cannot seem him over the lip of the stone.
"There is a gentleman," Thomas advises Asha, " - standing at the front door. He appears to have rung the bell."
"Well tell him," says Asha back. " - to move."
Maybe the stone thing is heavier than it looks. Maybe she's just got momentum on her side.
[Katherine Bellamonte] Karl, and now Asha and Thomas, do not have to wait long for the door to be answered. Before even a full minute has passed the heavy door is opened by a short, dark-haired Hispanic woman with a scowl seemingly permanently fixed to her mouth that puckered it unbecomingly. It was not that Lucille was an altogether unpleasant woman, in actuality, she was quite smart and quick-witted, but that she worked day in and out around supernatural creatures with high amounts of Rage.
It would make anyone scowl when they answered the door, really.
She looks the Fenrir up and down with quick scrutiny, and then spying the Silver Fang staggering up behind him pulls the door back and makes way. "Hello Miss Asha," she greets in her thick accent. "Lady Katherine is in the pool room," she beckons the others in and begins taking coats and the like.
[Sinclair] When Sinclair gets over to Kate, she reaches over and pokes the Silver Fang in the forehead with one finger. "I'm gonna go take a shower," she informs the other two Fosterns, swinging her goggles around on her wrist as she heads out of the pool room. "Back later, if the Xbox does not lure me to its bosom with its siren call."
[Wyrmbreaker] The Unbroken are an unusual pack. Once upon a time they were a mishmash of no fewer than five tribes; they were led by a Silver Fang, but their beta was a Shadow Lord. They followed a Silver Fang totem.
These days they're a mishmash of four tribes. They're led by a Shadow Lord. They don't really have a beta, but they still have two Fangs. Maybe three, if Caleb turns up again. They follow a Shadow Lord totem.
It's no surprise, then, that the Umbral around the Loft -- which is the closest thing they might have to a packhouse -- is rife with all manner of spirits. Storms from the storm-god crackle in the sky. Falcons wheel. Stags and -- much to Kate's horror, no doubt -- Cockroaches occasionally pass by. Other spirits, too. The eclectic spirit life of the city. The sharp-eyed, bloodthirsty spirits of war and bloodshed and glory and pain.
And luxury. Epithlings of luxury and wealth: man, are there a lot of them.
In the pool room, Lukas laughs under his breath as Sinclair declares the floor too slippery. She's right, of course. He was probably hoping she'd fall on her ass trying. He folds his arms on the edge of the pool, half hanging on, half floating.
"I'd ask you why you bothered getting a pool if you're not going to use it," he says to Kate, "but then you'd say you did it for us. And then I'd feel all touched and 'awww' about it."
A pause; then he grows more serious. "Are you going to clear out Gabbie and Ed's rooms?"
-- and a nod, a two-fingered salute, as Sinclair heads off to shower. Lukas stays in the pool, not done swimming yet.
[Sinclair] [Sorry for the abrupt departure, guys. Life is throwing a minor tantrum. Might be back later!]
[Karl Holds the Line] The Wheel. It follows the lexus and its driver and passenger. Yet it is certainly the wheel that draws the Rotagars attention, enough that he is quite unmoving as it barrels towards him, propelled by legs that just seem to thin to carry the weight. Then it speaks. Well, Karl actually figures it is the diminutive woman carrying the wheel that does the talking, but from his point of view? It is the wheel.
A glance to Thomas and then the man glides aside to make room for the woman and her burden. A fluid sort of step that makes it slightly hard to guess where he will end up, or even if he wasn’t standing aside from the start. Karl is still getting used to some of his totems gifts, the preternatural agility among them.
When the door opens, he turns that glacial gaze on the short woman with the scowl. A raise of his brow at her expression, but he does not speak up. Instead, he waits for Asha and Thomas to move in before following. He stops and remains just inside the door however, glancing around before looking to Lucille, offering the woman a ghost of a smile. Polite, if barely.
“I seek Lukas…” He falters, realizing he does not know the others surname. He leaves it at that and expects that if Wyrmbreaker is here, anyone in the house would know it.
[Marni] A limo. A driver. A....wheel?
Karl feels what is most assuredly a curious mental snort. But the Streetrat remains hidden - despite the fact her curiosity has definitely been elevated. She scratches idly at the back of her neck, and readjusts slightly, hugging her knees tightly to her chest as she remains crouched there, comfortably.
[Katherine Bellamonte] Lucille seems to know already, at least, that's what her emphatic head bobbing would suggest. She's beckoning Karl, and Asha and even Thomas to follow her, though the latter both already know their way around the Loft. Lucille's soft-soled shoes squeak efficiently on the floorboards. For Karl, the interior must come as something of a surprise -- it's nothing short of breathtaking. The high, vaulted ceilings, the open spaces. There's a lot of glass, and expense seemed to drip from everything around him without being overly ostentatious about it.
It was a minimalist's dream, really, the Loft.
The hall opened up into a spacious dining area, black leather sofas scattered around a coffee table, and, dominating a great expanse of the lower section's girth was an Olympic sized swimming pool, encased in glass walls and protected from the elements by a domed glass ceiling. It's to this room that the maid guides Karl, pulling open the door so that a waft of rich, tropical steam hits his face. That and -- was that birds?
--
Katherine playfully grabs for Sinclair's finger when she pokes her brow, and sips from her drink as Lukas notes he isn't going to bother asking why she has a pool if she never uses it. "I do," she corrects him mildly, stirring her beverage around with a straw, "sometimes." Which is as much an answer as he gets before he moves on to more serious subjects and he can see his pack-mate's mouth firm, her posture tighten.
She turns and sets her drink down.
"Why would I? Non, that makes no sense. They are their rooms."
[Asha Singh] 'Would you very much mind, sir, moving just a touch to the left?" Thomas asks Karl somewhere in all this. Before he moves; or perhaps just as he moves, walking so fluidly he almost seems to fly. To hover. To - something elegant and birdlike, to be sure. "Ahh, thank you, sir." The gentleman finishes neatly, when Karl steps aside. Quite good of you. I'll get the door, shall I? Ahh, good evening, Lucille. Yes, I apologize my dear woman. Here - we really should get out of her way."
The slight woman - girl, she's a girl. She's whip-thin and slight. The only thing remotely voluptuous about her is her face - a generous mouth, big black eyes (presently hidden behind big black glasses) - and she turns as she is walking past Karl, quick-like, with the precision and surety of a raptor. Falcon's daughter is written in every line of her body - for all that her rich dark skin and shining black hair seem at odds with the looks of the Houses of Europe and the North America.
So: girl, barges in with a stone wheel. Or whatever: a stone something that looks like a wheel walking blithely past Lucille rather too quickly, such that Thomas must pull the maid aside to keep her toes from being stepped upon, and follows the tug of her tribesmates toward the pool.
Somewhere on the pool deck, she stops - just stops and puts the thing down, first the edge as if she were going to roll it like a hoop. It doesn't stay balanced on the rim long, though. Asha eases it half-way down, then lets it fall the rest of the way.
Here's hoping she didn't crack any tiles on the pool deck. The impact is jarring enough that she might've.
"Here." - says Asha. The tone is the tone your cat might use, when presenting you with a delicious mole it caught in the garden that morning. There's a certain smug pride. And a certain sense of I'm done. Your problem now. in there, too. "I got you this."
[Wyrmbreaker] "Edward has a mate and a cub on the way," Lukas says quietly. "And Gabriella -- "
Whatever he might've said about Gabriella, it's lost as the girl-wolf barges in with her stone something. Lukas's eyebrows: up. The stone: down. Rather hard. It surprises a "Dah!" out of Lukas, who hauls himself up out of the water in a great cascade of chlorinated water a second later, rushing over to roll the thing aside to inspect the tile.
He laughed when Kate's coffee table went to pieces. But this room: he has a vested interest here.
[Sinclair] "You're never going to get over those sunglasses of hers," Sinclair says with a shake of her head, amused. He climbs out of the pool beside her and she flicks her eyes across him, adding -- with that same amusement -- "Oh look. A Shadow Lord in black."
Her crouch is effortless with muscle memory. She's been getting used to diving off without a board or platform and not slipping or breaking her jaw or twisting her ankles or flop-diving into the water with a miscalculation. The gift of practice is that you stop thinking about these things; you just do them. Sinclair is no expert at this, any more than she's an expert at baseball or sprinting, but she's well beyond competent. Her fingertips grace the tile and concrete; she looks ahead.
"On three."
Lukas counts off, and as the th is turning into the r, Sinclair leaps, the lunge as graceful and lethal-seeming as those she takes in hispo, towards an enemy's throat.
[Wyrmbreaker] "Keep that up and I'll take 'em off. Then you'll die of shock and awe."
Their easy banter doesn't change the way they go about their business of competition: Sinclair like the athlete she was and is, Lukas like -- well; like Lukas. Intent and driven.
He touches one hand to the tile at the edge of the pool. "One," he counts. "Two. Thr--"
In she goes, her packmate in the same instant, bound literally by spirit and instinct. They hit the water as "--ree!" is leaving his lips, slicing into the water like a pair of javelins, letting the sheer momentum of their dive carry them for the first few meters before settling into strong, surging strokes.
Racing Sinclair has made Lukas better at this, just like sparring with Lukas has made Sinclair better with her axes. Shoulders churn; arms flash; explosive exhales burst their mouths clear of water before each inhale a split-second later. At the end of the pool they tuck and turn, kicking off the wall, submerging only to break the surface again long seconds later.
[Sinclair] [dex + athletics, lap 1]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1
[Sinclair] [dex + athletics, lap 2]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 4, 5, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6)
[Sinclair] [dex + athletics, lap 3]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 3, 6, 6, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[Wyrmbreaker] [lap one!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 5, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)
[Katherine Bellamonte] It's June.
The days are growing steadily warmer, and Katherine's home is at its most alluring with its white-washed walls and spacious, airy floor to ceiling window panes. It let the sun in, and dappled the rich blues of the swimming pool tiles, cast watery reflections shimmering and dancing over the walls. The plants surrounding the edges of the pool itself began to flavor the room with their perfumes, and the birdsong the Silver Fang had piped through speakers high around the ceiling added confirmation that the seasons were changing; had, in fact, changed all around them.
Weeks passed, bled into months and Katherine's Loft was once again growing empty. The guest-rooms save the one occasionally occupied by Sinclair remained untouched, their covers made up by Lucille and mantles dusted, Edward and Gabriella remained gone but their things, the areas that had been their own were still untouched so that the absent Bellamonte siblings were almost ghosts, phantom scents that occasionally caught the nose when walking past their old rooms.
Katherine would not have her sister's clothing removed, or her sheets changed.
She would not unwrap the shirts she last had steamed for Edward.
They might need them one day, she chided any who saw to reprimand her for this obsessive behavior. She knew full well the truth, but it was her cold comfort, and she fought hard to keep it in place. These days, in truth, she rarely went upstairs unless another was there. She let Sinclair play her games, and Lucille turn the sheets and stayed comfortably below in her little parlor, in her bedroom and kitchen, in her little lounge space.
She was content, she maintained the words like a mantra though it was a pale, sickly imitation of the reality. She was content.
Happier, no doubt, on occasions like this when she returned home and found her Loft full of voices, shouting, splashing. Vibrancy that adhered to and drew her like a moth to the flame. The door to the pool slid apart and revealed Katherine. Still young, still so fresh-faced and lovely as if barely a day had passed between now and then when they'd arrived in the city as the Unbroken Circle. The differences were there, though, a laugh line where there had been none, darker colors in the wardrobe such as that which she wore now; jeans and a sleeveless blouse of palest blue.
A hint of something harder, older, matured in her stance and in her eyes.
Eyes which fixed on her competing pack-mates with mirth, now, as she took a seat and set about removing her shoes.
[Wyrmbreaker] [lap 2!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 4, 4, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)
[Wyrmbreaker] [lap three!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 4, 7 (Failure at target 6)
[Wyrmbreaker] [D:]
[Sinclair] The only response Sinclair has to that comment is a pull of a disgusted face, tongue out, reminiscent of those green stickers they used to give out for families to put on bottles of household products that would poison the idiot child who decided to take a sip or five. There is no physical similarity between the Galliard and the Ahroun, no commonality of accent or background. They both have blue eyes, but the character of those eyes is utterly different: one cold, intense, unfathomable, the other... deceptively light, gentle, and soft.
Yet she has the reaction to that statement like a sister to a slightly older brother, disgusted and all the more determined to show him up. So he gets halfway through the last word of the count and she's off like a shot, but so is he. What Lukas lacks in trained athleticism he makes up for with sheer power, practiced determination, and inherent speed, and they both splash into the water at almost the same spot in their imagined lanes. For one lap of Katherine's expanded pool they're neck and neck, Sinclair darting through like a fish and Lukas hauling himself forward with long pulls of his arms. They never decided on a stroke, so this is freestlye.
After the first lap, Sinclair tucks her chin and rolls into a ball in the water, somersaulting forward and unfolding about midway through. Her feet touch the wall, and with one powerful push of her legs sends herself in the opposite direction. This may be what makes the difference in the second lap, when she pulls far ahead of Lukas: he has to waste time with a regular turn. Sinclair hasn't tried to teach him to flip yet, and even if he were to try, he wouldn't have her practice. Precious seconds, that's all: he might still catch up.
It isn't lack of stamina that slows him down. It's not lack of morale. He sticks with a stroke he knows, he focuses, but he doesn't know the water as well as Sinclair and, well... she's just faster. It probably doesn't help that during the third lap he also manages to inhale a whole lot of chlorinated water, which doesn't do anything for his swimming.
Sinclair is already hauling herself up out of the water at the end of the pool when Lukas taps the wall. She clambers onto the side, aware of Kate but not looking at her yet. She is busy dancing out of the Ahroun's reach and performing a quick cheer. In her goggles. "Gimme an E! E, you got your E, you got your E! Gimme a A! A, you got your A, you got your A! Gimme a T! T, you got your T, you got your T! Gimme an I! I, you got your I, you got your I! Gimme a T! T, you got your T, you got your T..."
[Sinclair] [Corrected post!]
The only response Sinclair has to that comment is a pull of a disgusted face, tongue out, reminiscent of those green stickers they used to give out for families to put on bottles of household products that would poison the idiot child who decided to take a sip or five. There is no physical similarity between the Galliard and the Ahroun, no commonality of accent or background. They both have blue eyes, but the character of those eyes is utterly different: one cold, intense, unfathomable, the other... deceptively light, gentle, and soft.
Yet she has the reaction to that statement like a sister to a slightly older brother, disgusted and all the more determined to show him up. So he gets halfway through the last word of the count and she's off like a shot, but so is he. What Lukas lacks in trained athleticism he makes up for with sheer power, practiced determination, and inherent speed, and they both splash into the water at almost the same spot in their imagined lanes. For one lap of Katherine's expanded pool they're neck and neck, Sinclair darting through like a fish and Lukas hauling himself forward with long pulls of his arms. They never decided on a stroke, so this is freestlye.
It isn't lack of stamina that slows him down. It's not lack of morale. He sticks with a stroke he knows, he focuses, but he doesn't know the water as well as Sinclair and, well... she's just faster. It probably doesn't help that during the third lap he also manages to inhale a whole lot of chlorinated water, which doesn't do anything for his swimming.
Sinclair is already hauling herself up out of the water at the end of the pool when Lukas taps the wall. She clambers onto the side, aware of Kate but not looking at her yet. She is busy dancing out of the Ahroun's reach and performing a quick cheer. In her goggles. "Gimme an E! E, you got your E, you got your E! Gimme a A! A, you got your A, you got your A! Gimme a T! T, you got your T, you got your T! Gimme an I! I, you got your I, you got your I! Gimme a T! T, you got your T, you got your T..."
[Wyrmbreaker] While Sinclair's up there doing her victory cheer, Lukas is hanging onto the side of the pool, spitting up the last of the water he inhaled. "Bravo," he rasps dryly. "You going to backflip too?"
Then, spying Kate by the poolside, "Kate!" Cough. "You here to swim, or are you about to bask as usual?"
No, he wasn't over the sunglasses yet.
[Katherine Bellamonte] The Philodox leans back in her chair, her shoes removed so that her prettily painted toenails are on display; this week's shade is a deep burgundy. She crosses her legs and reclines, a hand straying to the lever on the side of the chair to force its recline to her desired angle. "I am here simply to bask in the glory of my pack-mates," she declares idly, and then as Lucille bustles in with a tray of drinks, an umbrella perched in something that seemed rather fruity, judging by the color, she adds with a little shrug.
"And drink, while I do."
[Marni] Inside, there's a pool.
Inside, there are packmates.
Inside, there is laughter and cheering and swimming and companionship and...
...Outside, there is a gnawer, drawn here for some reason, any reason, no reason at all. She's
Even now, she hesitates. After all - she doesn't LIKE the people who likely are inside living it up while she struggles... Coming here was an exercise in frustration and
But still, across the street from the loft, hidden in shadows...
She watches.
[Sinclair] Sinclair considers this. She looks at the floor, then shakes her head at Lukas. "No. Too slippery." Reaching up, she removes the goggles he brought in, shaking her head a little and stretching out her face, looping the strap over her wrist. She heads towards Kate.
[Karl Holds the Line] The Unbroken packhouse. Umbrally, it was not hard to find when you knew what to look for. As with nearly all places inhabited by Garou, the spirits seemed more alive, quickened then anywhere else in the scab. The presence of the Unbrokens totem spirits, of the dark storms and the images of reflected perfect falcons that perched and lazily flew around it carried on ethereal winds no man or Garou could feel also named it for what it was.
A safe haven.
The Rotagar touches down close by. The soft pads of his paws brushing against the hard weaver patterns of the asphalt. The massive hispo drew claws across it, tearing small gouges in the spiritual matter that was repaired almost as quickly as he could make them by the smallest imaginable pattern spiders. Even here, in the presence of Gaian spirits, the Scab stood strong, static and unchangeable. A clear contrast. The Rotagar padded forward, bearing its massive bulk with surprising ease and agility. Head swirling from side to side, with sleek midnight fur rustling as he does.
In him lies the blood of Fenrir heroes. In the strength of his bones and power of his body they rest, a lineage proud and strong. For a Fenrir. He considered the umbral reflection of the loft for a moment, then a blur of change as he took human form, moving to the side of the building, where shadows would be present in the real world. Casually dressed, as always, with well-fitting dark jeans, and a simple dark grey tee bearing some random print and text. (Affliction). Low boots finished his choice of clothing. Simple taste.
The man himself would not strike a very different look if it were not for the pulse of his rage within. Strong enough in the No moon to rival many ahroun, or those glacial eyes. Pale blue and cold as ice if you did not know the man to look deeper. Buzzed raven hair, kept short at all times. A slight dark shade that covers his chin and cheeks. At least a days worth of beard. In his human skin, those lines that carry the Fenrir blood make him seem hard, angular and gives him a presence that seems to whisper of deadly intent and imminent violence. A frightening man when he chose to be.
He focuses his will and spirit, lifting the gauntlet just enough to be able to see to the other side, to make sure that the immediate area is clear. He seems uncaring for the spirits that watch him, as coldly curious as spirits could ever be. He is no threat to them, no obvious threat to their domain, so they leave him be. Moments later, he takes a step forward, slipping through one shadow…
…Only to appear in another, past the gauntlet. He takes a deep breath then, rolling his strong shoulders as he adjusts to the real world. Here, the feel of his own totem lessened. That constant furious heartbeat that thunders in his mind dampened by the distance of the gauntlet. He looks around, then moves around the building. An easy pace kept as he takes his time, looking to the structure from this side. So different, yet very much the same, with the bricks forming near identical patterns as the web had in the umbra.
He reaches the door and rings the bell, then waits. He is not expected, but Wyrmbreakers invitation has not yet been withdrawn either. Surprise visits are always fun, right?
[Asha Singh] The Bone Gnawer hidden in the shadows across the street sees a sleek Lexus hybrid pull up. The car is black, the license plates now say Illinois rather tha New York. The driver - a tall man with graying blond hair dressed in an impeccable suit - climbs out, flicks an imaginary speck of dust from his cuffs, straightens his collar, and circles the front of the car. Nevermind that at midnight it is still a rather steamy, humid, seventy-six degrees with the promise of more rain in the air. Neverthemind that it is indeed midnight.
He: circles the car to open the right back passenger's door and finds it already opened. A slight girl climbs out, reeking of pure breed, her dark skin recedes in the shadows, her black hair gleams with health and shine in what light there is.
She is wearing sunglasses.
It is midnight.
- anyhoo. So: while Karl heads to the front door, Asha follows her butler to the trunk and
Which is to say the prototype wheel.
Which is to say: you know, hewn from rock. Cro-Magnon.
What Karl sees if he turns around is: a giant, round stone with maaaaaaybe fingers at opposite edges and a pair of dark-clad legs sticking down beneath. She cannot seem him over the lip of the stone.
"There is a gentleman," Thomas advises Asha, " - standing at the front door. He appears to have rung the bell."
"Well tell him," says Asha back. " - to move."
Maybe the stone thing is heavier than it looks. Maybe she's just got momentum on her side.
[Katherine Bellamonte] Karl, and now Asha and Thomas, do not have to wait long for the door to be answered. Before even a full minute has passed the heavy door is opened by a short, dark-haired Hispanic woman with a scowl seemingly permanently fixed to her mouth that puckered it unbecomingly. It was not that Lucille was an altogether unpleasant woman, in actuality, she was quite smart and quick-witted, but that she worked day in and out around supernatural creatures with high amounts of Rage.
It would make anyone scowl when they answered the door, really.
She looks the Fenrir up and down with quick scrutiny, and then spying the Silver Fang staggering up behind him pulls the door back and makes way. "Hello Miss Asha," she greets in her thick accent. "Lady Katherine is in the pool room," she beckons the others in and begins taking coats and the like.
[Sinclair] When Sinclair gets over to Kate, she reaches over and pokes the Silver Fang in the forehead with one finger. "I'm gonna go take a shower," she informs the other two Fosterns, swinging her goggles around on her wrist as she heads out of the pool room. "Back later, if the Xbox does not lure me to its bosom with its siren call."
[Wyrmbreaker] The Unbroken are an unusual pack. Once upon a time they were a mishmash of no fewer than five tribes; they were led by a Silver Fang, but their beta was a Shadow Lord. They followed a Silver Fang totem.
These days they're a mishmash of four tribes. They're led by a Shadow Lord. They don't really have a beta, but they still have two Fangs. Maybe three, if Caleb turns up again. They follow a Shadow Lord totem.
It's no surprise, then, that the Umbral around the Loft -- which is the closest thing they might have to a packhouse -- is rife with all manner of spirits. Storms from the storm-god crackle in the sky. Falcons wheel. Stags and -- much to Kate's horror, no doubt -- Cockroaches occasionally pass by. Other spirits, too. The eclectic spirit life of the city. The sharp-eyed, bloodthirsty spirits of war and bloodshed and glory and pain.
And luxury. Epithlings of luxury and wealth: man, are there a lot of them.
In the pool room, Lukas laughs under his breath as Sinclair declares the floor too slippery. She's right, of course. He was probably hoping she'd fall on her ass trying. He folds his arms on the edge of the pool, half hanging on, half floating.
"I'd ask you why you bothered getting a pool if you're not going to use it," he says to Kate, "but then you'd say you did it for us. And then I'd feel all touched and 'awww' about it."
A pause; then he grows more serious. "Are you going to clear out Gabbie and Ed's rooms?"
-- and a nod, a two-fingered salute, as Sinclair heads off to shower. Lukas stays in the pool, not done swimming yet.
[Sinclair] [Sorry for the abrupt departure, guys. Life is throwing a minor tantrum. Might be back later!]
[Karl Holds the Line] The Wheel. It follows the lexus and its driver and passenger. Yet it is certainly the wheel that draws the Rotagars attention, enough that he is quite unmoving as it barrels towards him, propelled by legs that just seem to thin to carry the weight. Then it speaks. Well, Karl actually figures it is the diminutive woman carrying the wheel that does the talking, but from his point of view? It is the wheel.
A glance to Thomas and then the man glides aside to make room for the woman and her burden. A fluid sort of step that makes it slightly hard to guess where he will end up, or even if he wasn’t standing aside from the start. Karl is still getting used to some of his totems gifts, the preternatural agility among them.
When the door opens, he turns that glacial gaze on the short woman with the scowl. A raise of his brow at her expression, but he does not speak up. Instead, he waits for Asha and Thomas to move in before following. He stops and remains just inside the door however, glancing around before looking to Lucille, offering the woman a ghost of a smile. Polite, if barely.
“I seek Lukas…” He falters, realizing he does not know the others surname. He leaves it at that and expects that if Wyrmbreaker is here, anyone in the house would know it.
[Marni] A limo. A driver. A....wheel?
Karl feels what is most assuredly a curious mental snort. But the Streetrat remains hidden - despite the fact her curiosity has definitely been elevated. She scratches idly at the back of her neck, and readjusts slightly, hugging her knees tightly to her chest as she remains crouched there, comfortably.
[Katherine Bellamonte] Lucille seems to know already, at least, that's what her emphatic head bobbing would suggest. She's beckoning Karl, and Asha and even Thomas to follow her, though the latter both already know their way around the Loft. Lucille's soft-soled shoes squeak efficiently on the floorboards. For Karl, the interior must come as something of a surprise -- it's nothing short of breathtaking. The high, vaulted ceilings, the open spaces. There's a lot of glass, and expense seemed to drip from everything around him without being overly ostentatious about it.
It was a minimalist's dream, really, the Loft.
The hall opened up into a spacious dining area, black leather sofas scattered around a coffee table, and, dominating a great expanse of the lower section's girth was an Olympic sized swimming pool, encased in glass walls and protected from the elements by a domed glass ceiling. It's to this room that the maid guides Karl, pulling open the door so that a waft of rich, tropical steam hits his face. That and -- was that birds?
--
Katherine playfully grabs for Sinclair's finger when she pokes her brow, and sips from her drink as Lukas notes he isn't going to bother asking why she has a pool if she never uses it. "I do," she corrects him mildly, stirring her beverage around with a straw, "sometimes." Which is as much an answer as he gets before he moves on to more serious subjects and he can see his pack-mate's mouth firm, her posture tighten.
She turns and sets her drink down.
"Why would I? Non, that makes no sense. They are their rooms."
[Asha Singh] 'Would you very much mind, sir, moving just a touch to the left?" Thomas asks Karl somewhere in all this. Before he moves; or perhaps just as he moves, walking so fluidly he almost seems to fly. To hover. To - something elegant and birdlike, to be sure. "Ahh, thank you, sir." The gentleman finishes neatly, when Karl steps aside. Quite good of you. I'll get the door, shall I? Ahh, good evening, Lucille. Yes, I apologize my dear woman. Here - we really should get out of her way."
The slight woman - girl, she's a girl. She's whip-thin and slight. The only thing remotely voluptuous about her is her face - a generous mouth, big black eyes (presently hidden behind big black glasses) - and she turns as she is walking past Karl, quick-like, with the precision and surety of a raptor. Falcon's daughter is written in every line of her body - for all that her rich dark skin and shining black hair seem at odds with the looks of the Houses of Europe and the North America.
So: girl, barges in with a stone wheel. Or whatever: a stone something that looks like a wheel walking blithely past Lucille rather too quickly, such that Thomas must pull the maid aside to keep her toes from being stepped upon, and follows the tug of her tribesmates toward the pool.
Somewhere on the pool deck, she stops - just stops and puts the thing down, first the edge as if she were going to roll it like a hoop. It doesn't stay balanced on the rim long, though. Asha eases it half-way down, then lets it fall the rest of the way.
Here's hoping she didn't crack any tiles on the pool deck. The impact is jarring enough that she might've.
"Here." - says Asha. The tone is the tone your cat might use, when presenting you with a delicious mole it caught in the garden that morning. There's a certain smug pride. And a certain sense of I'm done. Your problem now. in there, too. "I got you this."
[Wyrmbreaker] "Edward has a mate and a cub on the way," Lukas says quietly. "And Gabriella -- "
Whatever he might've said about Gabriella, it's lost as the girl-wolf barges in with her stone something. Lukas's eyebrows: up. The stone: down. Rather hard. It surprises a "Dah!" out of Lukas, who hauls himself up out of the water in a great cascade of chlorinated water a second later, rushing over to roll the thing aside to inspect the tile.
He laughed when Kate's coffee table went to pieces. But this room: he has a vested interest here.
[Asha Singh] The thing has lichens on it. It's old. It's eroded.
It isn't a wheel. There's a subtle curve to the face of it, and the bronze plaque affixed to the center of the stone by great bronze bolts has half-a sail sticking up from it. Which is to say: a right-angle triangle, one of those sexy, pythagorean deals, except that it has been cut off a third of the way up the b axis. So, instead of a nice tall right angle triangle, the sticking-out metal piece looks like a rather drunk parallelogram slouching toward Bethlehem.
- or pointing toward Kate's ceiling.
Oh and: there are four small bronze pieces - hash marks, really - at each of the cardinal directions.
So: lichens. Lukas moves it, and gets lichens on his wet, chlorinated hand.
Green ones.
[Karl Holds the Line] Karl is not far behind, just in time to catch Lukas burst out of the pool and run up to the strange stone wheel. The Rotagar just raises a brow, watching the fostern ahroun, with something of surprise painted on his face. Then his attention is stolen by the others. He looks over to Katherine and then once more to Asha before looking back to Lukas, raising a hand slightly in greeting.
“Either I am watching a whole new strategy of warfare take form…” A glance cast to the wheel.
“Or I simply have more to learn then I would ever have guessed.”
The Norse No moon offers a slight smile, genuine in its honesty.
“Did I come at a bad time?”
[Wyrmbreaker] Once he's sure the floor isn't cracked, Lukas rolls the stone back over and straightens, his keen, pale eyes lighting on Karl.
"Holds the Line." For what it's worth, Lukas doesn't sound irritated to see this Fenrir. If anything, he sounds pleasantly surprised. "Didn't expect to see you here. You've found our top-secret meeting room. This is where all our plans to Take Over The World are laid.
"If you guys haven't met yet," he adds, "this is Karl Holds the Line of the Get of Fenris. He's the prospective I mentioned a couple weeks back. He's with Marni and Mama Anklebiter now.
"Karl, these are my packmates Katherine Truth's Meridian, Honor's Compass, and Asha Kalaratri. Both of the Silver Fang tribe."
The picture they make. The Ahroun dripping wet in squarecut black swimtrunks. The Philodox lounging on a deck chair, sipping a ... whatever fruity concoction she might be sipping. And Asha, moving rocks.
[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine does not rise instantly when her newest guests arrive which paints for a moment the strange notion of supplicants come to bear their Queen gifts as she reclines there in her pale beauty. She does get to her feet eventually, swinging herself to one side and blithely rising, her golden tresses settling around her shoulders with enviable perfection. She's almost the polar opposite of her tribesmate; the Silver Fang Elder. Her coloring pale to match Asha's darker.
She's examining her newest gift, one groomed-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life eyebrow winging upward, her mouth suggesting amusement; eyes pleasure as always at anything material being gifted to her. "What is the occasion for such a lavish gift?" She's inquiring of Asha and rising to cant her eyes toward the newcomer.
"Bonjour," she trills at the Fenrir, stopping short of holding out her fingers for him to bow and kiss. "Welcome to my home, Holds the Line."
[Asha Singh] "I thought you needed one." Asha says. Which cannot be it. She is wiping her hands on the thighs of her black jeans. Katherie is reflected twice in the dark lenses. When Lukas introduces Karl, Asha gives him a brief, curious glance. She's turning back to Katherine, remarking " - the gnomen's broken, though."
The what?
- when something about Karl sparks somewhere under her skin, niggling its way down into her body and blooming through her blood. Karl. Karl: he's new. Wheeling on Lukas - " - gods, that wasn't even like one-tenth of it," then Karl, to whom she offers her most winning smile, which is wide and sleek and charming and full. "I'lll give you a proper introduction. Thomas? Thomas!" - she continues, shouting for the kinsman who lingers at the entrance to the indoor pool deck.
Back to Karl, whose figure swims in her dark lenses. Twinned. "Just a sec," she assumes him, grinning like the cat that just ate the canary. Holding up a finger, "I promise, it's worth the wait."
[Karl Holds the Line] ”Wyrmbreaker-rhya.” A nod, shallow but respectful given to Lukas before he turns his attention to Katherine as she stands and greets him. She is given an equally respectful nod.
“Truth’s Meridian, honor’s Compass-rhya. Apologies for coming unannounced to your home.”
His habit of naming Garou by their deed name sometimes makes for a strange flow of conversation. Then again, it is clear enough that English is not his first language in the way he uses it. His dialect not strong and harder to place then Northern Europe unless you are well versed in languages of that region. It does not carry the harsh sounds of the German’s however.
The Rotagars pale blue eyes seems colder than what they probably are. He turns his gaze at last to Asha, about to offer her greeting when she pre-empts him, and the Rotagar smiles, silent and waiting.
[Wyrmbreaker] "I," Lukas announces, "am going to go get a drink. And if I take my sweet time about it, I might be back in time to catch the end of that introduction." That's hyperbole. But only by a little.
"How about you, Karl? Get you something to drink?"
[Karl Holds the Line] “I figured I would accept your offer of hospitality Wyrmbreaker-rhya, if only to meet with yourself and your pack in a more relaxed setting.”
Relaxed is good when these amounts of rage are involved after all.
“So yes, I would enjoy a drink. Any cold beer will do. Thank you”
[Asha Singh] Thomas returns, finds Karl speared on the point of Asha's attention. Like a bug in a collector's box, really. She's just watching him and she's smiling, and she's - oh.
So: the butler returns, looks from Asha to Karl, glances briefly at Wyrmbreaker and Katherine for something like permission when Asha kicks him in the side of the foot by way of encouragement and Thomas returns to the businees of heraldry.
"I have," the kinsman states, quite solemnly, quite directly to Karl. " the deep and abiding personal honor to present to you Her Exalted Highness Arundhati Sunyana Elevarisi Asha Priyamvada Natajaran Singh,
"Scion of House Wyrmfore, beloved daughter of Vision of the Fall, Adren Theurge of the Sept of Falling Waters;
"Scion of House Blood Red Crest, the long-awaited true-born great grand-daughter of Sri Padmanabha Dasa Vanchi Pala Karthika Thirunal Rama Varma Dharma Raja Kulasekhara Natajaran Singh, Maharaja of Karpathula, Bundi, and Maharawat, called “Svatantrya” by the Nation – Adren Ahroun of the Sept of the Broken Sky.
"Descendant of the Maharajadhiraja Bahadur, Great Prince of Princes, Elder Philodox of the Silver Fangs, House Blood Red Crest. She is named kâlarâtri to the nation, born under the full moon, cliath Ahroun of the Silver Fangs, now pledged to Maelstrom and Perun."
"You can call me Asha," says Asha to Karl, when it is over. She is beaming and also finished with it. Except, perhaps not. She turns to Thomas and whispers, sotto voce, "I think we need to add more ancestors, don't you think? Needs heft."
[Asha Singh] "Plus," Asha continues rather sensibly to Thomas, " - I feel bad leaving some of them out."
[Karl Holds the Line] Karl’s full attention is on Asha as the introduction is given. He appears to be listening quite intently. When it (finally) is finished, he inclines his head to Asha, his smile still very much genuine, perhaps surprising to someone expecting this Fenrir to be just that. A Fenrir.
“It is my honor kâlarâtri-yuf. Your presence brightens up my existence and the pleasure of your company a sun to warm night chilled flesh.”
Alright, so he may not be the most well-versed when it comes to etiquette, but he has a natural charm hiding somewhere beneath that hard exterior. And he seems quite genuine in his response to asha.
[Asha Singh] Karl responds to her introduction with a stiff but native courtesy, which catches Asha off-guard. She looks from Thomas to Karl, Karl to Thomas, as if the Fenrir had sudden grown a vestigal appendage, or a third eye. The look, thankfully, is hidden behind her dark glasses.
It is Thomas who replies, quickly, covering up any little faux pas Asha might be about to make. "Most - " and for a moment, even Thomas is at a loss for words, " - most - - -
- kind," he smiles, broadly, as he hits upon the word. "Most kind of you, good sirrah. I am certain that Miss Asha appreciates your eloquence. Thank you, indeed."
[Katherine Bellamonte] Truth's Meridian listens in rather dreamily as Asha is fully introduced. At one point she picks up her cocktail with it's little purple umbrella and straw and begins sipping from it, at another she's hiding her amusement behind a well timed and discreet little cough to one side behind a fist. Then --
"Shall we move into the lounge? It's a little less tropical in there," Indeed, they're all starting to sweat a little in the pool room. Katherine sets her drink down, and carefully navigates around Asha's present, still set on her tiles. "I shall have to find a fitting place for it," she comments as some private, important aside to her pack-mate, then, linking her arm through the other Silver Fang's, she proceeds to guide them toward the comfort of her plush leather sofas.
[Karl Holds the Line] Despite having been honest, it seems the Fenrir is grateful once the introductions are over. A strain to dredge up all the old things only half remembered from a very traditional raising before the first shift. Unsure footing to be sure and he was just glad he hadn’t made a complete fool out of himself.
He lets Katherine and Asha move past before following them, letting the Silver Fangs lead to the lounge where he will remain standing until Katherine (She is the hostess after all) indicates that he is invited to sit.
A slow roll of strong shoulders, as if to keep muscles loose and warm. A animal’s instinct. He does spare a few looks to the room itself. He has never quite grasped the whole thing about luxury, but he has a nagging suspicion that these sort of living arrangements? Might top that of a Cardboard palace just about anytime.
[Wyrmbreaker] "I'll catch up later," Lukas says. "I need to wash the chlorine off. Karl, thanks for dropping by. Let your Alpha know that I have you guys down as a recon pack. When the kin turn up more information on this Whole Heart Farms deal, I might ask you guys to run out there and have a look."
He picks his swim robe up off the lounger where he'd left it, shaking it out and tossing it over his shoulder like a towel.
"Asha," he adds, "quick word with you?"
[Asha Singh] Katherine links arms with Asha to lead them toward the lounge. Lukas, dripping wet, stinking of chlorine asks her to stay for a quick word. And so: Asha decouples from Katherine with an apologetic look and ducks back into the pool lounge. "Yeah?" to Wyrmbreaker.
[Marni] Outside, suddenly, a garbage can across the way falls over. the noise is jarring, but brief. And it's origin known only to one - should anyone look - there's simply darkness.
[Katherine Bellamonte] So, it is left to Katherine when Asha slips off and Lukas asks her for a word and Sinclair has also vanished to shower -- it is left to the Hostess to guide her new-come guest to a lounge and gesture that he should sit. It is left to her (and she is so very, very good at this, is she not?) to settle herself grandly across from the Fenrir and watch as Lucille tends to bringing out a cold beer and setting it down, chilling, atop a coaster.
Katherine's half-finished drink is brought to her on a tray, and she thanks her maid with diplomatic courtesy and grace. If Lukas was the pack's Alpha, it's Warleader and key Warrior, perhaps Katherine was the face of its PR, a Public Relations Guru who doubled as the Sept's Half Moon Elder and tribal Elder as one. She was imposing only in so much as another allowed her to be with her fair complexion and pretty, regal features. The slope of the brow, the long nose that was so much her father's; her breeding and manner.
She watched the Fenrir much the way one imagines a curious feline might a sparrow venturing close to its slumbering form; there's curiosity, and some measure of potential danger. "So, Holds the Line, tell me of yourself." It's a prompting, an opening.
A polite demand.
[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas isn't dripping as much now. He still bears the flat chemical smell of the pool, though, which reminds him of hot summer days in the City; the local YMCA pool; good stuff like that. God knows what it reminds Asha of. Girl probably grew up swimming in rose-scented marble reflecting pools.
Their unexpected guest and their host go to the sitting room. The two Ahrouns are left behind -- the pool room quieter now, mildly tropical with the twittering of birds playing over thousand-dollar loudspeakers. Lukas folds his arms over his chest, compressing his robe against his side. Reflexively, he hunches a little to speak to his much smaller pack- and auspicemate.
Looking at them like this, anyone could guess Lukas for a warrior. His bones are solid, his musculature heavy, supple. No one would guess Asha's every bit as much a fleshrender, though. Look at her size. Look at her quicksilver grin. Look at her sunglasses, for god's sake.
But she is.
"I sent Hatchet's crew and Simon Bone-Grinder to follow up on a lead in Cabrini the other night. They turned up some sort of wyrmridden fight club. A Dancer, half a dozen fomori, and dozens of blood-mad humans. At least ten of them were resistant to the Delirium.
"They cleared out most the fomori and scared the humans off, but the Dancer got away with two of his fomori. Hatchet's going to track them down soon. They'll need a strong Ahroun. If I can't make it out when they go on that hunt, I want you to go with them."
[Asha Singh] And the girl - who grew up swimming in jasmine scented reflected pools surrounded by bouganvilla, who looks like she belongs on the set of some Bollywood movie, playing the elegant little ingenue brahmin, smiling graciously at all the lower castes - smiles a scything sort of smile at Lukas.
And says: "&+2344; &+2325;&+2350; &+2344; &+2332;&+2381;&+2351;&+2366;&+2342;&+2366;" which sounds like na kama na jyâdâ.
Or perhaps, "Cool, okay."
[Karl Holds the Line] Karl nods to Lukas as the fostern returns and announces his intentions.
“Sounds about right Wyrmbreaker-rhya… We stand ready as needed.”
Then Lukas is moving away with Asha, and Karl looks back to Katherine and follows her lead, taking a seat as she indicates. When his beer is brought, he places his hand around the bottle, feeling the cold drops of water as they condense on the chilled glass. A dark look passes his features as he seems for a split second to focus elsewhere, as if something tugs on his attention from a distance. But it passes quickly, and his full attention soon returns to Katherine.
“A rather long story, but I will try to keep it short.”
Said as he lifts the bottle, taking a swig from the beer, allowing himself a short break to focus his thoughts, trying to figure out what the silver fang elder of the sept would be interested in hearing.
“I am a No moon. Just recently arrived from Europe, and the defense of the sept of the Sword where I earned my name and my first scar.”
The bottle placed back on the coaster. There is that strange inhuman grace to his movements, as if the human body was just a shell in the way of something fluid beneath. It is a strange thing to watch, to focus on, yet it is hard not to do just that.
“I am not sure how much Wyrmbreaker-rhya have said. I am learning the ways of my moon, even if I at times like to believe I am wise enough to know what I am doing, I quickly realize that is far from the truth yet.”
[Wyrmbreaker] The edge of Lukas's mouth hooks quickly up. It's a fleeting sort of smile, there and then gone, but in that ephemeral instant it's surprisingly warm.
"Someday," he says, turning to head for the showers, "remind me ask you what your name actually means. And how you got it. And what the hell that long Hindi thing you keep saying means."
[i'm bowing out on that post!]
[Asha Singh] (thanks! me too!)
[Katherine Bellamonte] (thanks guys, night!)
