wolf.

[Katherine Bellamonte] She had felt odd all morning.

Not quite sore, but strangely tender with her limbs and joints as if she'd awoken after some great battle and knew she had been changed, somehow, but the memory of it had .. drifted. Left her consciousness. The realization that her Rage was entirely sapped had not at first frightened Katherine Bellamonte, for she was a creature who had once had all of it stolen right from her chest by some unknown force in the Umbra.

She'd lain in a coma for two days, then.

This felt strangely separate from that occurrence however as that nothing seemed to remain. No Rage, no shifting, no Gifts. It was as if she were entirely -- human. Her pack was still with her, that bond persisted but it was too strange to reach out and simply state: my Wolf is gone, I think I've lost it. So instead, the Silver Fang Elder took up her keys and drove around the streets for some time until she discovered a small Cafe in LakeView still serving, and was here to be found, frowning over a cappuccino; listlessly stirring it with a spoon.

Honor's Compass was still the same fair haired, blue eyed beauty, still in possession of her breeding, and her aristocratic looks but that was all she was right now. The same aura of anger did not pulse around her, and the female's skin seemed drawn, paler for the loss of it.

[Sinclair] Katherine wasn't alone, but this morning she may as well have been. Sinclair was asleep, a deep red seething in the back of Kate's mind, dormant as summer. It's hours later, now well into the afternoon, and that banked presence that signifies Warcry across their pack bond has stirred to wakefulness once more. When she can -- and especially in winter, it seems -- Sinclair sleeps more than any sensible creature seems to need to. She sleeps deep as a fairytale princess, in fact, as though no bramble or dragon could manage to wake her.

She's awake now, and it's been awhile, but she reaches out. It doesn't feel too strange to her to do so. But then, comparing her to Lukas and Katherine, it isn't that great of a shock that she's the first to bring it up.

I feel...

weird.

[Katherine Bellamonte] It was below freezing outside, but within the small Cafe the Silver Fang has appropriated -- and been served gladly, efficiently in -- for her own strange sense of despair, it's toasty warm. So much so that the Half Moon has shucked her coat and scarf, her gloves and hat to one side in favor of the cream-knit sweater beneath. Her fingertips are bare, she wore no rings, no jewelery save for a pair of diamond earrings that winked in each lobe.

The sleeves were pushed up each arm a way; and Katherine was staring at a sugar sachet, folding and re-folding the sides of it. The packet was quite entirely pleated by the time Sinclair's voice sounds in her head; the first noise all day and the Silver Fang started as if she were a Cub never hearing it before.

Where are you? I feel it. I've felt it all day.

She transmits some picture of where she is to the Glasswalker, the impression of the little Cafe, of her own person sitting in a corner; of the strange normalcy of the moment. They do not fear me, she says, half horrified, half ... mesmerized.

It is as if I am nothing at all to them.

[Sinclair] Instantly, the answer comes that Kate feels 'it', too. She doesn't ask what feels weird. She doesn't ask when it started or what it feels like, other than 'weird'. Sinclair's stomach sinks. Wherever she is, she closes her eyes for a moment, but she doesn't cringe. Visions of the little cafe show up in her mind, but Kate could have as well given her an address. The point of the sharing is more than that: it's the sense of the place. The lack of tension. People go about getting their coffees, taking a break in between bouts of shopping. The kid busing the table beside Kate's doesn't even flinch. Doesn't bat an eyelash.

I'm headed your way.


It's less than twenty minutes before that promise is fulfilled. Sinclair parks outside and comes in the front door, her hair long and loose and several strands falling across her face, threads of gold interfering with the glacial, pale color of her eyes. As she's coming in, someone headed out holds the door open for her. It's a young man, clean-cut and clean-shaven, wearing a wool overcoat. He looks like a professional, like a man headed back to an office somewhere. He tracks his eyes over Sinclair as she heads inside, cocking a half-smile as she turns her head around to peer at him like he's just grown a third arm out of his forehead.

When the door closes behind her and the seemingly fearless man has gone to his car, Sinclair finds Kate, her eyes wide with something like horror. Or shock. Or both. She doesn't even need to say it in Kate's mind for the message to be clear enough:

What the ASS.

[Bridget Geroux] Vapor freezing to one's eyelashes is a good way to determine that it is, indeed, midwinter. There's a certain bite to the air that goes beyond the cold, right down to the spirit. It is a night to curl up in bed beside a lover and not emerge until the sun was high in the sky.

The Fianna kinfolk has been performing at some nearby event, singing holiday jazz tunes for dosh. She wishes desperately for a mug of something hot to cling to, to ward against the cold and keep her core warm. She doesn't feel the zapping of rage because she has none, no spiritual bond withering since she only has her human heart by which to speak of things unseen.

Bridget manages to drag herself to a cafe bundled in layers and looking more polished than usual. A splash of makeup and other details appealing to this uptown crowd she'd been singing for. The young woman crosses the threshold of the cafe and approaches the counter to order a scalding beverage by which to nourish the instinct to eat, warm herself, draw away from the chill.

[Wyrmbreaker] Kate's cell phone rings.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Sinclair wasn't the type of Garou one typically ignored.

She wasn't the sort of woman that men were polite to, either. They didn't open doors for her like that, and they sure as hell didn't stare at her figure as she walked past them. They were usually already backing off, eyes elsewhere. Not today, though. Today she's just a pretty blond coming in the Cafe to meet her friend who is also just another pretty face.

It's absurd.
It's unsettling.
I know.

The Silver Fang's expression reads; her eyes drop.

Katherine's cellphone is barking; and Lukas Wyrmbreaker's face appears on the screen; captured mid sentence at some point in their acquaintance. It was not, it should be noted, the most flattering image of Lukas. She picks it up to answer, as a strongly bred Kinswoman is setting foot inside.

The Half Moon's eyes narrow for a moment in speculation, and this is in her voice as she greets her Alpha: "Lukas."

[Wyrmbreaker] "Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead." He doesn't even wait for the Lukas; he just starts talking. "Is Sinclair with you? Have you seen Asha?"

[Adamidas] What do theurges do when they can't play in the umbra?

Well, it's not necessarily play, but Alethea Adamidas has spent the better part of today trying to figure out precisely how she was going to do her job when she can't very well cross the gauntlet. More importantly, she's spent the better part of her day trying to figure out why she can't do this. Because the why was what was important to her. The why would have been easier to find if she would have been able to talk to the spirits but, as it stood, if Alethea was going to chat her head off to the trash spirits or the clouds or the starlight, she'd only be hearing her own voice in reply.

So, instead, she was doing footwork.

Which, sadly, involved her getting food. As that she's under the age of eighteen, Adam seems to think that a meal can involve coffee and rice crispie treats. So, this is where the Theurge elder enters, from stage right. Under her arm, there's a bundle of newspapers. Three to be exact. Various publications. A messenger bag full of random crap and a backpack full of books-on-loan.

[Sinclair] The last man who looked at Sinclair like that for more than the half-second it took his survival instincts to kick in -- and, in kicking, give him a testicle-shriveling roundhouse to the head -- was not only Kinfolk, he was a particularly strongwilled, adamant sort of Kinfolk. No mortal man in his right mind, no human, does what the guy who just left did. Sometimes bikers, tattoo artists, people a few steps outside what's considered normal or sane or even slanted towards one's own survival -- sometimes they look at her.

Nobody holds doors open for her. And Kate knows it. Kate knows it because she deals with the same thing. She knows because even Kinfolk who look at Sinclair like that -- like she's a girl -- are few and far between. Sinclair isn't just a wolf, Sinclair's a predator. She moves like one, even now. She feels like one

but not today.

Her movements are athletic, graceful in their way, but stiff as she walks over to Kate's table and sits down in the chair facing her sister. Sinclair hasn't blinked those wide eyes of hers. Her jeans are skin-tight, tucked into a pair of black boots. Her style has been changing ever since she moved to Chicago, ever since she joined the Unbroken, but it's no shock that those black boots have a couple of hard-looking buckles, are not adorned with little puffballs of fur or gleaming as though freshly polished. Her coat is not Army surplus but leather, over a white hoodie covered in sketched-out feathers stroked with flashes of color.

She doesn't take off any of her jackets as Kate's phone rings. Lukas sounds so intense on the other end she can actually make out the sound of his voice, if not his words. Sinclair just puts her hands in her lap, curled into tight fists.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine blinks; an action of surprise that he cannot hear over the phone, her clear eyes find Sinclair, her brows drawing together in a clear expression of unease. "Sinclair is right here, she's fine." Which is an over-statement, but right now it did not matter so much.

Lukas was too panicked. "Why would you think that? I can still communicate with Sinclair." A beat.

"But now that I think about it, you've been silent all day." The Theurge enters the Cafe; and Katherine's eyes flick to her, and remain. She lifts her chin in greeting, and waves her over. "I have no heard or seen Asha. We're at the Cafe on the corner." She rattles off an address.

[Sinclair] Sinclair just mouths it, not realizing that Lukas -- who she can still feel, still sense tied to her even if he can't feel her there with him, too -- wouldn't hear her anyway if she spoke across their pack bond. I am NOT, she insists, concerning whether or not she's 'fine'. Alive, yes. Fine, no.

Her eyes follow Kate's away from the table. She sees Adamidas, sees Bridget, and gets to her feet, going over to the Black Fury first. "Come to our table," she tells the other Fostern, then goes over to Bridget. "You come sit with us, too," she goes on, and nods her head over towards Kate. "C'mon."

[Bridget Geroux] A steaming mug of coffee retrieved is indeed a goal to be grateful for on a day like this. The Canadian leaves some cash and abandons the counter with her mug, taking it to some corner where she might be able to read and rest her heels.

Bridget's eyes flick over the cafe in idle passing. She spots a familiar blonde beside another who may or may not be familiar. In any case, Sinclair made her feel so damn helpless and uneasy the last time they met that Bridget knows to leave her alone unless she's deliberately flagged down.

It's simply not her business, whatever the Glass Walker is up to. But in the blink of an eye, Sinclair tells an unidentified young woman and Bridget herself to join the table. So she must. The Stag kin picks up her feet and shuffles over to the table with her mug in tow.

Something is different, however... Something is very off. She can feel something missing. Bridget is a daring sort, but she still has keener instincts than some kinfolk.

Without a beat, she raises her eyebrows and asks, "What's wrong?"

[Adamidas] A fair chunk of garou never finish high school. Some of them don't even get to boast a middle school education. This does not mean, however, that they are incapable of doing mundane, claw-your-eyes-out research. The kind college students are prone to devolving into. Adam doesn't put her bag down just yet, as that Sinclair came over. She looks at Sinclair, and blinks. For a second, she doesn't recognize the Galliard.

She does, though, and nods. Things stay over her shoulder, and she toddles over to the table.

The backpack goes down hard, and falls like a ton of bricks. Makes the same sound, too. The messenger bag receives more care. "You guys okay?"

[Sinclair] "Don't know yet, but it's a lot of us and since we don't know, you're better off staying close just in case," Sinclair says, and she's rather brusque about it. She seems two steps from hauling Bridget over by the arm, Fianna or not, and shifts her weight from one foot to the other as though this will stop her from dragging the woman.

Thankfully, she doesn't have to. Bridget takes her coffee and goes. Sinclair isn't making her feel like her skin is crawling off of her bones. Sinclair doesn't feel like anything but ...well, from the look of her, she might be a grad student who thinks she's ever-so-alt. She might be a dropout who is using daddy's credit card to pay a lot of money to look just a few steps above trash. But she doesn't feel like a Galliard on a full moon. She doesn't feel like a predator who is as likely to tear Bridget's throat out as look at her.

"Nope," she tells Adamidas, on the way over. She doesn't comment on the blink, the look of vague surprise or the lack of recognition. When most of the people who know Sinclair can barely see past the feeling she gives off, that viciousness, it's no shock that when it's gone, they hardly know what to do with the young woman left behind.

She grabs two extra chairs, one for each of the two new women, and looks back to Kate, as though waiting to hear more from what's going on with Lukas.

[Gwen Sullivan] Gwen trembled at the encroaching full moon. She'd seen on the news that it would be a lunar eclipse, one during the full moon, and that it happened to align with the winter solstice. Now she didn't know the significance of solstices to the Garou culture just yet, but she did know that things tied very heavily to the moon, she felt that one for herself well enough to understand it. Her Rage wasn't near what an Ahroun's was, but it was still relatively new, while she'd grown accustomed to its presence she hadn't learned to ignore it very well at all. It burned and seethed in her chest, but she was used to it, ever aware but no longer uncomfortable. When the moon was full she knew it would be at its hottest, and that she would need to go out and roam and break things with her fists and scream and release, but she had absolutely no idea what an eclipse would do to her.

It scared her a little, truth be told, even if it would never be told aloud.

When the day came and she woke feeling normal, as though the past several months were nothing but a dream, she almost didn't realize it until after she snapped out of her mid-morning haze and realized that she was sitting pleasantly at the counter with her older brother, home for the holidays, chatting about the latest album of some obscure band that had come out lately and talking about how she'd gotten her diploma early, but due to the short notice of deciding to wrap up her high school career it wouldn't be delivered for another couple of weeks. When she realized how mundane the conversation was didn't irritate her, that nothing did to that point, she was confused.

She spent the day with her family, and all was normal. She wound up at a Christmas party with them in a ritzier part of town, family friends with enough money to invest largely in her father's Harley business, she stepped out onto the back deck and stared at the moon full in the face and felt.... nothing.

That was concerning. She glanced left, glanced right, and explored the concept. Her eyes found her reflection and the world behind it in the sliding glass door and she pressed to see if she could feel the world on the other side, hoping she could spring back before the thick, impossible cords that separated the two realities snatched her up and dragged her in. Nothing. She stepped down off the deck and into the back yard, along to the side of the house in the shadows and the snow, and she attempted to shift.

Not a goddamn thing.

Admittedly she should have handled herself better. She should have just let it go and taken a breath and ridden the night out. Rather, though, she panicked. This could very easily be the End of the World that she was always being told about, and she had a responsibility to be there when it happened. So she went back into the house, mentioned to her brother to tell her parents that she was feeling sick and catching a bus home and waving off his offer to drive her back, grabbed her coat and booked it. Literally, with her canvas jacket on and beanie on her head to keep her ears warm, she ran up the street. Ran and ran and ran, hoping that this relentless beating of feet into pavement would bring back the sensation of paws into earth.

Sure enough, it didn't, and by the time she needed to stop to catch her breath she was out of the residentials and in the easing of small, comfortable businesses that bridged the gap between nice city homes and the skyscrapers. She huffed and puffed for air, breath forming clouds in front of her face, and rested with her shoulder against the glass of the cafe that the Garou seemed to be subconsciously drawn to each other in. She gulped her breath, looked desperately at the moon again, then over her shoulder into the light of the cafe.

Adamidas and Her Highness. An honest thought, bald and earnest and relieved that she'd found someone she recognized. Her lungs burned with the frozen air having been breathed so heavily while she ran, but she ignored that and pushed open the door into the rapidly crowding cafe-- one that, oddly enough, people didn't rush out of from the sensation of being strangled by the invisible hands of many hungry murdering defiling beasts.

[Wyrmbreaker] Panicked isn't quite the word for it, but drawn, tense, taut as a bowstring -- these would all be valid. Kate doesn't get half her protest out before Lukas cuts in, "Because I woke up and you were all gone."

He doesn't mean from his presence. They don't sleep all in a pile, wolflike; they sleep in their own separate homes and dens, and one of them, at least, splits his time between three dens. Lukas slept alone last night (this morning). He woke in the darkness, in the unutterable silence of his own, singular presence, which is something he hasn't felt for...

years. Longer than he can easily remember.

"Christ," he says again; Kate can almost imagine him putting thumb and forefinger to brow, closing eyes, frowning hard. It's somewhere between relief and tension. "Okay. Stay put. I'll be there in ten."

Click.

[Katherine Bellamonte] They are appearing now.

Drawn out by the sense of isolation, of, in a strange sense, abandonment. They cannot in some cases hear one another, they none of them can tap into their ancestrally passed Rage, their sense of unity with the umbra is, quite simply, gone. Some feel it worse than others; they are suddenly human. Totally and absolute with only the hint of what they truly are left in their blood; in their very eyes and faces and family ties.

Katherine can still sense her brother and sisters, she can still reach out and feel the shape and form of Sinclair's presence, though it is a strangely empty sense to do so. It was as if whatever red hot substance comprised how Warcry had always been to the Silver Fang's totem-bound sense of her was stripped.

Just taken.

She hangs up from Lukas, and looks around at the growing number gathering at the table. To the humans in here, they are just an odd assortment of people; no better or worse than they are. "He's on his way." She comments first, her voice subdued. "He could not sense us, he believed us gone." Dead, her eyes say it for her, even as they shift to glimpse the Cub dashing toward the Cafe.

Honor's Compass waves her over; and takes a moment to address the Theurge Elder in a low voice: "Have you any idea what might be causing this?"

[Milo] It's been an odd day, but then what day hasn't been for Milo Sweeney? Each mile that takes him further from the west coast leaves him feeling more and more detached, more out of touch with the world. For one thing, the scenery outside the greyhound bus' windows kept changing, and it seemed to be carrying him further and further into an arctic wasteland. Today has been different, though. Worse.

At a stop in Walcott Junction, he got out to find himself a hat and gloves. Though his rage is nearly insignificant compared to other Garou, it's usually still enough to cut a path through a crowd. Today? Not so much. He had to push through a bustle of holiday shoppers, the same as any other human. He couldn't waste any time looking for something nice, or something that suited his taste. As it was, with the crowd fighting against his progress, he barely made it back to the bus in time for it to take off for its next destination. When he got on the bus back in Portland, no one wanted to sit anywhere near him. At the stop in Davenport, Milo suddenly found himself with a travel buddy at last. He'd looked up at the stranger with wide, clear eyes, and three hours later immediately left the bus at its next stop.

Chicago. Strange city. Cold. Utterly foreign. It doesn't matter. Maybe here Milo can find someone who can explain what's happened, why people aren't so afraid of him, or why Gaia feels suddenly so distant. First, though, a cup of something hot to warm him in the absence of the light thrum of Rage in his chest.

And so the Child of Gaia makes his illustrious entrance into the Chicago scene. One might say it was fate that finds him here, literally stumbling over a knot of Garou. It could just as easily be coincidence. He looks absolutely smashing in a long wool coat, a dark blue hoodie beneath that, jeans, a striped knit cap in shades of light green, yellow, red and teal. It makes him stand out, even as he blends in with the humans, as he takes his place in the line.

Ordinarily, the breeding of the Silver Fang and the Fianna would nearly bowl him over, overwhelming his senses and drawing him closer. Today, it's a flicker, a faint tingling, barely enough to catch his attention. It does, though, and he turns his head to look at the table before stepping forward to take the next place in the line leading up to the counter.

[Booker Abbot] Booker is cold. Usually he walks around without much care for the weather, finding himself able to stay warm regardless. Oh a coat is required upon extra chilly days, but today he is freezing. His knee length overcoat is wrapped tightly around him, a scarf protruding from the collar area and his hands are sheathed in woollen gloves. Fingers and all this time. Eve would be proud.

He might be proud too if it weren't for the fact that he walks just like a human today.

Waking up feeling tired isn't the best way to start the day, but it only got worse and by the time work started he was noticing quite a few oddities. They weren't scared of him, and they damn well should be scared of him. The dealers were hesitant to hand over product and money, they were unwilling to part from their merchandise even when threatened with the business end of a twelve gauge.

This doesn't happen to Booker. Cocaine falls from upper storey windows in plastic re-up bags before he even enters a stash house sometimes.

But today? He hears them slingin' them yellow tops, them WMD's and they don't even flinch when they see him coming. Today he takes the day off. And where does a rip 'n' runner go on his day off? Why Lakeview of course, a fancy Cafe. He has enough money to have his own place like this if he wanted to, surely he can afford the coffee here.

So in he strolls, an unfamiliar face without the blood or the rage to mark him as one of theirs, and without the perception to pick up on anyone else's either. Though he isn't aware of it. They are all new faces to him, just a bunch of mortals sippin' down hot drinks.

[Adamidas] She pulls open a newspaper, then another. They're folded in half, and stacked in suck a way that she can look at two of them at once. Her hand idly goes to her messenger bag. The Fury paws around while keeping her eyes on the papers. Eventually, she grabs a yellow highlighter. Adam looks through the pages, and her eyes narrow.

"Mn," is all she says. Grunts. Her eyes focus off the paper and go to the door. Gwen. She takes her third newspaper and shakes it at Gwen, "hey, come help me read stuff."

A beat, and she looks at the people (people, because right now they were people. Because, right now, they were no different than Bridget or the barrista working here today). She knew it was a full moon today, or should have been, at least. She knew what day it is. She knows when the equinox is, when the solstice falls, the phases and position of the moon-

Her attention goes to Kate, and her voice is even. "That's what I'm trying to figure out," she says over the newspaper, "there has to be some information here. It can't be just the solstice, because if it were there would be no reason for this to not occur every winter. Though, admittedly, I think that the solstice has something to do with it. Winter is when the earth rests. So, I'm looking for something that would give us some indication that this solstice is different. Or some occurrence that would make the spirits withhold Luna's blessings, right? Maybe there's historical significance. I don't think this is the first time this has happened, but it's definitely beyond my lifetime, that's for sure."

[Gwen Sullivan] She was waved over by the two faces she recognized. Eyes hopped to Bridget and Sinclair as well, others were people that she didn't know, didn't realize she was supposed to know. Sinclair because she was at the table, Bridget because she was at the table and a strong impulse, stronger and more spiritual than anything else she'd experienced all day today, hit her in the nostrils and sinuses in the way malt vinegar right under your nose does. Revelry and clove. She stared at Bridget a little harder than the others, then finished her approach, flat-soled black boots scuffing and squeaking wetly on the tile floor as she joined the group at the table.

She came in on the butt end of Adamidas's reading and thinking aloud and grasped briefly at the hem of her coat, almost like a child, squeezing as though it would reassure herself before wrapping her arms around her own torso and frowning faintly.

Her cheeks and nose were flushed red from cold and exertion, she was still recovering her breath, and when she spoke her voice rasped a little more than the typical half-sultry sandpaper tone it maintained, throat and lungs both sore from running in such frigid airs.

"Eclipse," she said simply, followed up by an incredibly youthful statement. "I don't like it at all."

[Asha Singh] There are coincidences in the world, and there are confluences - places where the lines of energy dip and pool like snowmelt running down from the mountains, like runoff through a dry wash after the passing flash of a thunderstorm, like Jupiter aligned with Mars, whatever hippies might sing about. Confluence, not coincidence - Katherine and Sinclair are sitting around their table in a coffee shop and people look at them like women, not like wolves, like ordinary creatures - lovely, sure, but safe, more prey than predator, and outside the windows, painted against the early dark between the slatternly mounds of plowed snow already turning dark from the city's rampant pollution where they have not been painted yellow by stray dogs and stray men alike - a black Lexus (hybrid) idles, stuck behind a snowplow whose blade has come loose from its harness against the truck's nose.

The windows are tinted smoke gray, nothing clear behind the glass - except that a moment later the brakelights are brilliant crimson-white in the gloom as the driver performs an elegant maneuver, tucking the vehicle neatly between the mounds of fetid snow without disturbing either.

The passenger's door opens then - the back right door - and a girl tumbles out, tugging on a black wool coat perhaps too long for her slight frame, buttoning it furiously, slipping each button into its little noose of a buttonhole, all the way up to the topmost at her neck, like a monk, like some kid's makeshift Matrix costume, the white of her blouse lost beneath the coat before she hits the front door, shoving the café's door open with this economy of motion that bespeaks urgency.

She looks wild, Asha - not in the manner of wolves, but in this furious adolescent way - younger without the rage to buoy her spirit, to make her incandesce. The girl's low heeled black boots are firm on the hardwoods, a counterpointed rhythm - harder, firmer, more martial - against the quiet singer-songwriter's christmas album in the background - and when she reaches the table with the odd assortment of her packmates - the ones she cannot hear - she plants her palms on the edge of the table and leans forward, black eyes snapping from Sinclair to Katherine, Katherine to Sinclair and back again -


"What the hell is going on - " the girl says, only her breeding blazing against the senses now, dark eyes stark with intent - and something deeper. Some fear, some abandoned memory. Some lack. Then, Adamidas rustles her third newspaper and Asha - straightens, wheels about without charging. "I can't do anything and - you're reading newspapers?!"

With a certain adolescent outrage.

[Bridget Geroux] More presumed Garou approach the table, overwhelming Bridget only because she's not used to being surrounded by so many bodies. She has an inkling that most or all of them are Garou, which would make any kin nervous. Bridget shrugs her shoulders like she's shaking off drops of water or a shawl.

"Can't it be both?" the Stag kin chimes in.

"I mean, I read this book about the psychology of fairy tales and the symbolism of everything in them. If you think about it, the Solstice is really the middle of winter as far as the sun is concerned. I would think it has to do with---"

Just then a slip of a woman who looks important barges into the cafe, right up to the table, and seems furiously panicked. Bridget raises her eyebrows and shuts up.

[Sinclair] The only thing left to her is that thin bond. She can feel her packmates, however still and quiet they are. She knows she's still tied to them, she knows they're alive. She knows that Kate is there and she can hear her thoughts. She clings to that, digging in her claws. Being the person in the room everyone is frightened of never mattered too much to her. It made her lonely. It kept her apart from her parents, from those she might have gotten closer to. She feels strange, but it doesn't ache the way it would if she lost that one, last

link.

Katherine is talking to Adamidas, and the cafe is so busy with shoppers and families that they seem to ignore the gathering of young adults at Kate and Sinclair's table. Sinclair, hands curled tight, exhales as her packmate says Lukas is on his way. It'll be okay, once they start to get together. Someone will find Asha and get her here and they'll be together and it will be

okay.

As Kate lowers her voice to address Rain of Brass Petals, Sinclair closes her eyes and leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. She takes a deep breath, and exhales it slowly, and tells herself at least she's not

alone.


But then she flinches, hunched over as she is. She breathes in sharply and flinches again, as though she's being struck. A third time, Sinclair jerks her shoulders up and together, cringing away from something, and lifts her head. Her face has gone pale, her eyes stark in color. She stares at Kate, as though to make sure Kate's still there, still real, and then she covers her face with her hands and breathes very, very slowly.

Asha comes near and Sinclair can't just sense her there. Can't feel her approach. She jerks at Asha's interruption and drops her hands, staring at the girl, then gets to her feet -- nearly knocking her chair back -- and throws both arms around the smaller, even more temperamental female, clutching her tightly in a ferocious sort of hug.

"Mr. Man is on his way," she says, muffled by Asha's shoulder, or hair, or the side of her head. "He --"

Then something occurs to her, something she hadn't noticed because, well, he's not always there as it is, he's not always hiding in her pocket, and she shoves her face into Asha's shoulder. As though Asha, of all people, could be comforting right now. As though Asha, of all people, might have any clue that Sinclair just realized her numen is gone, too.

[Adamidas] Eclipse,

[Adamidas] (close that tag and try again!)

[Adamidas] Eclipse, Gwen says, I don't like it.

Her eyes widen, and the expression on her face is one that is too much like a kid on Christmas. The newspapers hit the table, and what Bridget's saying finally dawns on her.

"It could very well be the combination of both, or the spirits' reaction to both. And, if this is the case, if we have some kind of knowledge of when this has happened before, and what happened then, we'll be able to gauge what we need to do next. Best indication of future behavior is past behavior and, if this has happened before, obviously it wasn't permanent because if it were permanent, we wouldn't all be here, right?"

She flips through the newspaper to find out more information about the eclipse, and her attention falls on Gwen for a second.

"I don't think all eclipses are like this. I met a full moon once that was born on an eclipse. It's like being dual-natured, but not quite."

Asha rages, but then Asha is getting hugged. And Adam highlight a few more things in the paper. Times, specifically. Dates, specifically.

[Angelina] (Mind a lurker?)

[Sinclair] [Feel free!]

[Wyrmbreaker] [join the fun!]

[Wyrmbreaker] Just then the fourth and final member of the Unbroken barges through the doors. Lukas isn't the type to muscle his way around. If anything, he's the opposite: he wears clothes that are cut to diminish his physical presence, to give the illusion of slightness and litheness where he is, in fact, so very broad, so powerfully built. He doesn't slam doors open and shut. He doesn't stomp when he walks,

or he tries not to. Tonight, though, the cafe door flies open fast enough to make bystanders startle. What's different is that that's the only thing that makes them startle. Someone mutters under his breath --

Asshole.

-- which is something they would have never, ever dared before. Lukas barely notices. He goes straight to his pack, straight to the others, casts a single searingly blue glance around the table and sits. Beside Asha, who's getting hugged by Sinclair. Reaching across to clasp Kate's hand briefly. All here now. All together, all alive. Okay.

"So we all feel it, then?" It's confirmation only.

[Gwen Sullivan] "If our knowledge is handed down by tales and words, like I've been told, then good luck finding a story from last time."

Gwen stepped to the side, scowling when Sinclair throws her chair back wobbling to launch herself at the small dark-skinned woman that had slapped her hands on the table throwing a fit about reading newspapers. She stuck her knee out, swathed in denim, and caught the chair to keep it from toppling completely. Her eyes, a murky green-gray, slipped across the establishment and took in the faces that stared openly, unafraid and unabashed, at the scene with all the women crowding the table. She huffed in a breath and held it in her cold-burnt lungs, sensations of Fianna's cloven scent and the frost and silk of the Fangs clashing in the front of her head for a moment before she shook it and finished her thought in an undertoned voice to Adamidas. "The last time this happened was 1554." She'd watched CNN this morning and saw a report on the occurrence. That was all.

"....People are staring." She says this quieter. "Should we all meet somewhere else? Make sure the... totem is still...there?" She wasn't sure if she should be using veiled words or not. It was awkward and uncomfortable, and it had her scowling in a heavy, unattractive way.

Almost as an afterthought, she looked to Kate, then dipped her head in a half-nod half-bow sort of gesture. "Miss Bellamonte. Honored to meet you in person." Because Fire Claws would bust her clavicle if he was here and she didn't greet her elder as appropriately as possible.

[Booker Abbot] To the counter he goes, waiting in line patiently. His eyes flick to the outbursts happening near him and he watches with curiosity. But the words alone don't create the knowledge that would have him suddenly far more interested in their little party. At least not yet. Soon it is his turn to order.

"Coffee." He says, and his accent is bred more from demographics than from geography, at least to the untrained ear. To the trained ear it speaks of somewhere southern.

"In one'a them big cups. Sugar, no milk."
"Anything else?"
"N'a pack'a Newpawts."
"..We don't sell cigarettes here."
"Ya don't?"
"No."
"Oh indeed."

But he gets his coffee and he parts from the counter in time to hear some rather intriguing words. I once knew a Full Moon..Eclipses.. So we all feel it then..

Slowly but surely he edges his way closer until suddenly he is simply standing amongst them, an unfamiliar face without so much as hint of reservation about it.

"Ya'll feelin' like ya ain't quite yourselves today huh? Names Booker. Here I was thinkin' I was just specially cursed."

[Sinclair] No one calls Lukas an asshole for barging around a coffee shop, just like no one brings Kate her latte with a gleaming smile and hopes for a good tip, just like no one gives Sinclair a once-over and a cocky little grin. Not on any normal day. Today's not normal. If it were, Sinclair might be introducing herself to this teenager in their midst, and she might be joining in on a conversation about stories and solstices and history since. That's. Sort of her thing. She would not look like she's on the verge of tears, while Lukas is strangling near-panic and trying to stay in Business Mode.

She probably wouldn't still be clinging to the Silver Fang Ahroun packsister like this, even as Lukas enters. Her head just turns and she nods. As something of an afterthought, she goes ahead and eases Asha out of her arms, straightens, and looks over at Gwen for the first time. Her head tips to the side. "Who're you?"

And then, before the poor Philodox who saved her chair can answer, she's snapping her eyes around to Booker. Any other day and that would wither him, or make his hackles rise. Any other day and the sense of What She Is would permeate the air around her like an aura, like a warning, like the crackle in the air before a storm. Today, though. Not today.

[Asha Singh] Dark stains underneath Asha's fingernails are nearly invisible, hidden by the cuff of her crisp military style coat - newly purchased and therefore imperfectly tailored. The collar of her blouse, too, tucked firmly underneath the collar of her black wool coat is hidden away. But when Sinclair stands up and grabs Asha in a ferocious hug, she can smell the blood underneath, sluggish now, oozing from underneath field-bound injuries minor enough that she can storm through the coffee shop, eyes blazing. Severe enough that the scent is distinctive in Sinclair's nostrils and that the Glass Walker can hear the sharp, stalled intake of breath as Asha digs in and swallows hard against a lancet of pain.

Comfort is not inside her to give; and Asha lacks whatever creative imagination is necessary to shift her perspective and stand in another's shoes, but by instinct worked into her bones by that blood she bears so brightly even, Asha seizes Sinclair by the arms and the back, returns - if not the hug, then the fierceness of the greeting, her fingerpads digging into the Glass Walker's skin, through all the layers.

" --- " Asha expels a breath, not immediately able to speak; but she draws in another one and says something into Sinclair's ear.

[Sinclair] [ack!]

[Sinclair] [DLP, i'll rewrite]

[Milo] The door to the cafe is thrown open. The quiet young man with the odd hat isn't the only one to turn and look. Twice. Twice the blast of cold air shoves its way into the room. Twice, the Ragabash looks over his shoulder at the entrance of an unsettled Full Moon. Only he doesn't know that they're Full Moons. He doesn't know that they're anything other than angry individuals. Except for that faintest tug against his senses.

He doesn't turn fully to watch the progress of the one called Wyrmbreaker, instead looks ahead when it's his turn to order up a hot beverage. Canting his head up at the board, those clear eyes find the barrista. Apologies are muttered, and the youth instead makes his way toward the table full of people.

For a second, he hovers. Not because he's afraid, but because a young woman just threw her arms around another young woman and looks like she's crushing her. He doesn't want to interrupt, but he has to know.

"Excuse me," he says, his quiet voice almost lost in the crowd. It's said to the table at large, but whatever might have come next is interrupted by the tall rangy black man. "Me, too," is all he says at first. Then, "I'm Milo. Sweeney. Uh." He reaches up and removes that ridiculous hat, revealing brown hair that can only be described as shaggy, runs his fingers through it and makes it more so. There are too many people for a proper greeting, so he just says, "What's going on?"

[Kristiana Coleman] The slip of a girl makes her way into the coffee shop more out of seeing warmth and escaping the isolation of her motel room than for any real urge toward coffee. Standing back near the door after it closes behind her, she studies the menu while more or less trying to stay out of the way.

[Wyrmbreaker] "I can't even feel the Umbra, much less sidestep," Lukas replies to the girl-cub. Unfamiliar faces around the table; he doesn't even bother with introductions. "There's no way to check if the totem is still there, and at any rate, we're not going to go running to the caern at our weakest. Any wyrmspawn could follow us there and devastate everything.

"The caern has its own defenses. Spirits and subterfuge. The best thing we can do for it right now is leave it be. There's a Travelodge up the street though. I'll go book us a room. We'll take turns standing on the street to catch our septmates if we see them. And our kin."

[Sinclair] No one calls Lukas an asshole for barging around a coffee shop, just like no one brings Kate her latte with a gleaming smile and hopes for a good tip, just like no one gives Sinclair a once-over and a cocky little grin. Not on any normal day. Today's not normal. If it were, Sinclair might be introducing herself to this teenager in their midst, and she might be joining in on a conversation about stories and solstices and history since. That's. Sort of her thing. She would not look like she's on the verge of tears, while Lukas is strangling near-panic and trying to stay in Business Mode.

She probably wouldn't still be clinging to the Silver Fang Ahroun packsister like this, even as Lukas enters. She's breathing in deeply, deeply enough to smell something that makes her only hold tighter to the other girl -- for a moment. For a moment, before she relents a little, easing Asha out of her arms a bit. No apology is given. No apology is, she seems to think, needed. Asha is still an Ahroun.

Asha grabs hold of her, though, and mutters in her ear. Sinclair's pale eyes flicker, and then an expression of aching, saddened humor flies across her face at something Asha mentions. It goes away quickly, and then is just... ache. "I could," she says quietly back. "At first. Feel you. But not anymore." Those last three words are blunt, spoken hard and quick like ripping off a bandage.

She glances at Booker as she saunters up, then Milo, and then jerks her head at the table. "Sit," she says to Asha, and does so herself again, adding: "Flipping out on her isn't going to help."

[Katherine Bellamonte] It could have been overwhelming; it should have been with this many bodies that possessed the capacity for anger; for supernatural energy. But it's strangely ... okay. Or not okay, as was the case for many of them. They were at a loss, and reaching to cling to whatever was left that bound them together.

Sinclair was falling apart, and Katherine looks sharply at her as she feels a strange silencing; she can see Sinclair, but she cannot feel her. Asha, too, her tribes-mate who rushes in and slams hands on the table in a gesture that cries I'm scared without my powers, fix this, is there but not. Katherine senses them, but there is a snapped point to their connection; as if a phone line had been cut.

Lukas is the last to enter, and to him the Half Moon's eyes shift; when he presses her hand; she lifts her other and sets it atop his for a moment. Reassurance, tactile sensation. "The eclipse." Katherine is considering, for all of what occurs, she is strangely calm amidst it; her center is still there but she seems -- better, somehow. In mind. There is no madness dancing behind the blue eyes, lingering in her throat like a rasp.

"Yes, perhaps." They are swarming the table, and Honor's Compass is looking at the stack of newspapers; then canting a vague smile Gwen's way. "Under any other circumstances, we'd be discussing how you have been, Gwen." Katherine's fingers brush her coffee and she realizes its almost stone cold. She picks it up, anyway, and drinks from it.

"How long does the eclipse last?" She asks the table, her eyes moving, restless. People are reacting; approaching, trying to throw their anger, but it is useless; nothing but looks and empty air.

[Adamidas] So we all feel it, then?
"Yeah," is her only reply.

Excuse me, Milo says.
Ya'll feelin' like ya ain't quite yourselves today huh, Booker says. The Fury folds up her newspapers and inhales. She regards the people that are here, and she exhales. She's a theurge, damnit. She's cut off from the part of herself that makes her feel at home, literally half of herself. All that leaves is will and resolve.

"Okay," she says, "I know this is pretty fucked up, but we can get through this. I have a feeling that if we're this impacted, so are our enemies. To a certain extent."

How long does the eclipse last? Kate asks.
"Gimme a minute," she replies, and goes back to her newspapers.

[Booker Abbot] "And who be our enemies?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. Just to make sure.

[Adamidas] She reads, "the lunar eclipse December twenty-ten will last for seventy-two minutes... it says in here, too, that the eclipse will occur in the middle of the night for most people in the US. Eastern time, it should start between one-twenty-nine and five in the morning."

She rolls her eyes and puts the paper down, "ugh, so precise."

[Gwen Sullivan] Sinclair looks at her sharply, though Gwen gets the feeling she doesn't mean anything personal by it-- it's just how she is, and without the Rage there to proverbially cut the flesh before setting the poison into it. She asks who she is, and Gwen answers simply with a shrug of one shoulder clothed in the thick canvas of an olive green jacket. "Gwen." That's all she would give in public.

A black man and a young white man came to join them, and Gwen seemed to grow more and more anxious as their group became larger. They were becoming more and more obvious, and she felt anxiety bunching up tight in her chest, spasming like a starving stomach that clenches in the absence of food, though rather than missing food she was missing her Rage, her furnace. She took a deep breath and looked to Kate when she smiled and greeted her, then nodded simply. The nod was compliant, 'another time' it agreed.

Lukas glanced to her and reassured her that the Caern would do fine, and went on to agree that they should go elsewhere. He would book them a room at a motel, and she nodded in agreement with that.

How long would the eclipse last? Well, Admidas was on it, and though Gwen had two answers she could give she was starting to feel like she was becoming too know-it-all for a cub amongst Cliaths and Fosterns. So, rather, she rubbed her throat and looked to Booker, quirking one eyebrow at him. "...Who do you think?"

The crowd was bothering her, the eyes that stared. With Rage people would be calling the police, certain they were up to no good. Right now they just looked suspicious, and rather than having already phoned the cops someone would probably do so in a few minutes. So Gwen tugged her hat on her head snugly and took a few steps toward the door, then stopped to look back at the group, then rolled her shoulders and switched her weight between her feet.

Anxious to go, anxious to lead them out, but well aware of her place on the totem pole.

[Kristiana Coleman] Finally having reached some sort of a decision, she makes her way to the counter and waits to order.

"Tall half caf skim latte, light foam, with half a shot of peppermint and half a shot of vanilla. Half a shot of each only, I don't want a full of both. And don't try to give me old milk either, or whole. I want fresh skim"

Either oblivious to or uncaring of the annoyed expression on the barista's face, she digs her card out of the large bag on her shoulder and hands it over.

[Wyrmbreaker] "We can't assume," Lukas interjects, "that this will end with the eclipse. And I'm not sitting on my ass to find out if it will or won't."

He raps his knuckles on the table twice, sharply, attention-catching.

"Let's move to the Travelodge. We'll talk more there. Figure out a plan of action."