singularity: kate.

[-singularity-] Last time on As The Maelstrom Swirls...

Continuing onward from Sarita's trial, Margaret found herself facing the front door of her former Nunavut home. She informed her companions that she had once had a mate and two children; the mate and the younger child died of exposure one night. Passing through her door, the packmates found themselves on a winter tundra. The cries of a child could be heard in the night, but an apparition of Winter's Dirge, the first of his name, appeared and commanded Margaret ignore kin and kind to follow the path he had laid with his prophetic promises.

Spurred on by Sarita, Margaret turned away from Winter's Dirge, who subsequently vanished. Margaret ran into the night, pursued by the other packmates. Too weak to run quickly, Maddox soon fell behind; Lukas stayed with him. Meanwhile, Sinclair, Kate and Sarita attempted to dissuade Margaret from chasing what was almost certainly an apparition of her child. Torn, Margaret attempted to yield the decision to Katherine, who refused and commanded that she made the choice herself. Margaret then went to her child and attempted to rescue her from the realm, but the child demanded that she stay behind.

At that point, Margaret left the child behind. A door appeared to her; by the time she reached it, the tundra and the child had vanished, and an empty five-sided room was all that remained. Shaken but resolute, she walked through the door, upon which the pack found themselves in a narrow, cramped tunnel spiraling ever downward.

The next doors were Katherine's: a copy of the main doorway to King Calvin de Provence's Grand Hall. Though the doors stirred memories both old and new, pleasant and dreadful, Katherine bravely opened them.

[-singularity-] Katherine has walked through these doors twice. She knows what lies on the other side; sees it in her mind's eye.

A grand hall fit to rival the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. A vast arcade of polished glass both clear and stained to either side, great fluted columns between. A high, soaring ceiling intricately carved and painted with scenes of glories past. A floor of marble inlaid with gold, stretching down a vast distance; chandeliers glittering from the ceiling. A rich red rug laid forth from door to throne that none but the king may tread upon.

And to either side: courtiers, courtiers everywhere, magnificently attired, nodding respect to her face, whispering treachery behind her back.


The doors open without sound. Light pours out, light and the quiet, regimented cadence of some Baroque piece or other, played on a string quartet. The steady indistinguishable murmurs of a hundred voices. All is as Katherine imagined.

When the doors open those voices fall hushed. Every eye turns her way. One can only imagine how Katherine looks to their eyes right now: cheeks red from arctic wind, hair wild, frost still clinging to her eyelashes, the folds of her clothes; flanked by the riffraff. A tattooed Walker. A bedraggled Fianna bleeding tar. A Shadow Lord.

Everyone stares.

And then -- like a wave, spreading -- necks bend. Knees bend. One by one, every courtier in the room bows. In the sudden hush, in the sudden stillness, it's easy to see what Katherine may have initially missed: the throne at the far end of the room stands empty and waiting. Your Majesty, is the murmur on every tongue.

[Where the Sidewalk Ends] The tension in Maddox is greater than it was, even before. Since Margaret's attempt at cleansing him, he's only gotten worse as far as that attitude of his. He's cantankerous now, not just haughty and arrogant. Time spent on the tundra, attempting to run on four legs, two of them injured, and a terse "conversation" with Cold Victory have not made things any better. At least now he's quiet, keeping his commentary inside the confines of his own mind for the most part. Bitter and resentful, he is and yet is not with the group, keeping to the back, letting the others be the meatshields again in case, as with Margaret's door, Kate opens the doors of a palace onto some other realm.

Taking to two legs again instead of four, he's a hot mess. The black sludge he vomited and subsequently rolled in has crusted in his hair, spiking it in all directions. It paints sallow, prominent cheeks, defining sunken dark eyes. It stains his clothing. He still has that dagger, tucked away inside his bag. There's no need to check it now, there's only one path. One way down, one way forward.

The rooms are getting harder as the passage to them gets dirtier. They dig more deeply at the Garou's weaknesses and flaws. And even though he half expects the door to open on a brightly lit hall full of pristine, perfectly dressed people (who will all no doubt turn their noses up on sight of Maddox, Fangs, whatever), he keeps his faerie light, his only little glowing friend in this place, close, poised near his chest, between long-fingered hands.

[maybe?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Brutal Revelation] "Oh bullshit," Sinclair snaps, when people start bowing to Katherine, when they bend and whisper to Her Majesty. Her rage lashes, up and out of nowhere. Not because they're in the palace that Katherine remembers from childhood and once visited to accept the taste of silver, but because this. Again. This fucking damage buried in the Silver Fang's psyche, her megalomania just as bad as her phobia of germs.

The rage is directed at the tribe. At the corrupted spirits in this spiraling place that keeps tormenting them all. Not, really, at Katherine herself.

"I swear to god, Kate, if you fall for this shit I will beat you," she mutters, but, even so, waits to see what Katherine does.

[Honor's Compass] She would be lying if it did not appeal to part of her.

She stands there, inhaling remembered scents and hearing the rustle of expensive, one of a kind material as ladies bend like delicate wilting flowers before her; as gentlemen dock their heads; some pulling hats from their heads. She would be the most damned sort of liar if there was not a part of her that --

she'd walked through these people but they'd whispered different things, then --
the throne had been occupied, then, her eventual attacker with a hand to the back of it, turning cool grey eyes her way as she approached --
the King resting his eyes on her with the ease of someone above another, the Fostern's firmly on his chest, inlaid with jewels --

-- "The Great Reception Hall," she says quietly, her pale eyes wide, fixed. Sinclair's Rage pluming from her, lashing out at the whispers of Your Majesty. "It's alright, Sinclair," she comforts, beginning to move, slowly, back straight, chin held up as if she were in a fine silk gown, trailing out behind her.

Not in dirty jeans.
Worn sneakers.
Wind blown.

Heart beating rapidly against her chest. "I walked down this hall," she remembers as she moves, talking as much for herself as for them. "Toward the King, just like this. I could feel so many eyes upon me but the thrill of it was sickening, it turned my stomach."

She falls silent, approaches the throne.

"I dropped into a curtsey and came up and saw his eyes. They were mad eyes, King's eyes. Ones that had seen too much cruelty not to become cruel themselves and I knew, then, what my fate would be." She turns, looking at each of the faces with her; lips thinning.

"But I am not taken by this. Not even my imaginings make this mockery real enough."

[Brutal Revelation] Katherine's comforting tone makes the Galliard lift an eyebrow. It's not the first time Lukas or Kate have, even just tonight, reached out to ...soothe her. At the most, to Sinclair's perception, bizarre turns. When she's angry, when she's annoyed, when she's unnerved by the idea of rooms narrowing to nothing but a hallway they would be forced to take single file. There hasn't been a moment tonight when she's been truly sorrowful, and not even being disturbed by this place has reached the level of being afraid.

Sinclair knows fear deeply, and she knows sorrow and depression as well. She asks herself if the way she was before she left Chicago is why her pack keeps gentling towards her, metaphorically patting her shoulder or stroking her hair. If she needed it, if she was sad or upset or afraid, she would welcome comfort from them, the wolves who know her best. When it's unnecessary, it irritates her.

Granted, what flickers across her face at Katherine's It's all right, Sinclair is just that flash of irritation, bewilderment, annoyance. She's frowning, thinking as Katherine strides forward, telling them about what it was like taking Genevre and Fons's bodies both back to --

and then she looks over at Lukas, who killed Fons. Who was the reason, at least in part, why Katherine came here and got stabbed in punishment.

[-singularity-] Almost dreamily, Katherine muses on the last time she saw this magnificent hall. Walked its glimmering length. She's not taken in, she says. It's all right. She's not fooled by this false respect, this illusion of a reward that she doesn't even really want. Not when she's sane, anyway.

Wyrmbreaker, a rather major part of the reason Katherine Bellamonte took a silver knife in the side, paces just behind and to the right of the Philodox. At the rippling bows and curtsies he took his Hispo form again, as though the intimation of deepest respect were a dangerous foe to be faced. Or perhaps it's simply the concentration of pure breed in this room, because -- phantoms or not -- they smelled, they felt, they looked like Silver Fang phantoms. They cast eyes askance at the Shadow Lord and the Child of Gaia, the Glass Walker and the Fianna and the Uktena. A few, rising from their bows to the Queen, murmur behind their hands.

The throne seems to rise taller and taller as Katherine approaches it. Then she's there, right before it: a vast thing, hewn from the same marble that paves the floor -- an inextricable part of the room, the hall. Rich velvets drape the back and cushion the seat. Wolves snarl from each arm, and a falcon spreads its wings over the back. Enormous enough to seat a Crinos, it towers over a man. Is large enough, in fact, to hide a man.

And a man emerges from behind the throne as Katherine stops before it. He's aged since Katherine saw him last. He wears a beard now, neatly trimmed. There's enough grey in his hair that it overcomes the blond. But the hands are his, elegant and strong. The frame, the poise; the ice-blue eyes that he passed onto his middle child, and perhaps his truest heir.

Christopher Bellamonte smiles at Katherine. The corners of those eyes crinkle with affection; love. "Katie," he says, and holds out his arms. "It's been so long. Look at you."

[-singularity-] [ffs. strider, not uktena >_

[Honor's Compass] Oh, my God.

The pack can hear it first, as she turns, as if in slow motion to the movement behind the throne. The man emerging from behind it with that punch of breeding almost more overwhelming than all the collected in the room. Here then, the physical reason for those pale eyes of Katherine's, the legend behind her blond hair, her proud nose.

"No."

She whispers, horrified and takes a half step backward, no older in that second than the five year old who had stood in this very spot and been called a little princess in the making. "Why did it have to be you," she grits out and then, tears squeezing from beneath her lashes, the Half Moon bravely lifts her chin.

Staring down the mirage of her father.

"You are not him. You smell like him, and you look ..." She breaks, steps nearer to those welcoming arms [the temptation is overwhelming] "... but my father is long dead. So what am I to learn here, what I wished once and what I hope to be? Hm? What lesson is this throne."

She reaches for it, sets a hand over one snarling wolf head.

[Where the Sidewalk Ends] Maddox doesn't know the significance of the man behind the throne. There's a family resemblance between him and the Philodox, but he doesn't know Kate like her packmates do, not yet. Maybe not ever.

At least he doesn't wander off, sick of these lesser wolves and in need of a cigarette and a silkwood shower. He keeps up the rearguard, and he keeps a light on, just in case.

[Brutal Revelation] This, she can't tell Katherine not to be fooled by, not to fall into. She hasn't got a clue who this man is, looks to Lukas for help. She frowns, because she sees the resemblance, but she makes no assumptions.

Granted, Kate's reaction makes a lot more sense when she says the words: my father is long dead. Sinclair frowns, and aches, and holds her breath a moment as Kate takes a step forward, walks up to the throne and puts her hand on it.

[-singularity-] No one here has met Christopher Bellamonte before. Not even Lukas, who has known Katherine longest -- even when they met, her father was already long dead. Dead before his times, mid-thirties at most, leaving behind a widow and three young children. One who never grew up. One who grew wild. And one who tried, so diligently, so painstakingly, to follow in his footsteps.

He stands before them now. If he had lived, this is how old he would be today. This is how he would look. He holds his arms out, but Katherine doesn't go to him. She comes a little closer. She keeps the throne between them, as though its empty, waiting seat meant something.

And Christopher lowers his arms slowly. His eyes are puzzled, kind, a little sad. He looks at his daughter for a moment, and then he nods. "I am dead," he agrees softly. "But this is not your realm, and spirits walk here. Ancestor spirits, like Winter's Dirge, the first of his name. Like myself."

The smile is quick, a little rueful. "Oh, Katie, you know I've watched over you, don't you? You didn't think I simply ... retreated to the Homelands and abandoned my wife and children? You've made me so proud, darling. You've followed in my footsteps, but you've exceeded me. You've risen higher than I ever did. You'll rise higher still, beyond anyone's imagination."

A small pause. Then his hand falls on the throne as well, long fingers curving over the stone back.

"As for this throne -- it's only a symbol, child. A representation of what is already yours -- something that was promised to you by your birth and heritage. Dominion. Kingship. Absolute power. All of which you have unparalleled potential for. Of course, you won't gain it by sitting in an imaginary throne. But if you accept that if you are fated for it -- if you sit this imaginary throne with the genuine belief and the true understanding that this is Gaia's path for you --

"Well. Then all things become possible, my daughter."

[-singularity-] [I gotta say, I'm kinda proud that what initially looked like a megalomania challenge is probably as much -- or more -- about Kate's relationship with/idealization of her father, and her constantly trying to live up to him. I think this is a subtler side to her character that nonetheless informs much of what she is, for better (and) or for worse!]
to -singularity-

[Honor's Compass] Katherine's fingers curl around that wolf's head when her father speaks to her. Calling her a childhood name that none other save perhaps Buried Hatchet, perhaps Edward, ever dared to after he passed. Gabriella never called her Katie, she was always Katherine to her younger sibling.

Always someone not quite to be trusted. Not quite rational enough, not quite -- anything -- enough.

"I've wanted to come and see you so often," the Silver Fang begins with closed eyes, whispered words, tear-stained cheeks. Still glowing faintly, which in such a realm and with such decoration seemed ludicrously fitting to the whispers that greeted her as she set foot within it.

Only a Queen should glow like that, of course.

"You have no concept of how much but I --," she draws in a breath, looks over the throne that seems to draw at her as if a string were tied between herself and its plush, waiting cushion. "Yes, it is a symbol but I do not deserve it, father." She trembles a little to say his name, drawn perhaps, despite her resolve into the idea of his presence. "Not yet, perhaps not ever. Gaia has a course for me, I live only by her grace but I do not need to sit on a throne here, or anywhere to know I have the power.

To know I was born to lead others.

I understand what I am here to do, and were I forced to do it from the street-side, it would not be changed. I have not gained my path because of who I was born to, but how I forced it into existance." She straightens, and moves around the throne toward this ghost. Facing it, one can see the resemblance two-fold. The mannerisms Katherine has long held that suddenly are glimpsed in the one she has long modeled herself after.

The slope of her jaw, her mother's cheekbones.

"I am Gaia's Chosen." There, the gleam of that maniacal belief in her, the hint of insanity; it casts her face starker for a beat, her skin paler; her eyes wild with it; then recedes. "But I will never be the chosen you, or mother, Lucien or anyone wanted.

I will be the chosen that I made myself."

A beat, her eyes skirt to the throne, beyond to her pack-mates.

[Where the Sidewalk Ends] Maddox watches the interaction between the children of kings, the mad ones, the deranged. There's no way for him to know what this trial is for Katherine, or how watching it affects those who know her better. There are moments when, if things were different right now, he might have offered that cheeky smirk and lifted that light of his like a pint in salute. He doesn't, though. Kate is humble, yet her maniacal belief that she is Gaia's Chosen, like it's a position all her own, is something else.

He huffs, the sound not terribly soft. At least she turned down the throne.

[*BSHING* he's stubborn about his night light]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 4, 6, 10, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Brutal Revelation] Maddox's huff is soft. Sinclair doesn't bother softening hers. She lets out a sharp exhale. "Kate," she says sharply, firmly, to get the Philodox's attention. When she has it, she shakes her head at the Fang. If she never gets it... well. She still shakes her head. She still speaks her mind.

"It's great that you know better than to jump into the throne like the pretendy-spirit wants you to, but it's like you're just resisting because you know that's the right answer. I belive you when you say you might not ever deserve to sit on a throne, but it doesn't mean a whole lot when it's set up against your talk of being born to lead, that you're 'chosen' by Gaia like you're ...like every other Garou and Kinfolk and mortal in the world isn't quite as special as you are, doesn't matter quite as much, isn't meant for quite as epic a destiny. Certainly not a destiny to lead."

She shrugs. "You can't talk of this 'path' of yours like it's a destiny and talk about forcing it into existence and making it for yourself at the same time. You're either like everyone else, figuring their shit out and creating their own purpose, or you're 'chosen' and you have a 'path' and you're 'better' than everyone else. You really think that just rejecting your father or mother or uncle's vision is enough?"

A beat. She almost sounds angry. "You're not fucking 'chosen', Katherine. Grow up."

[Where the Sidewalk Ends] [LIGHT FOR THE LOVE OF PETE]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 5, 8, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Honor's Compass] Katherine's eyes struggle between the image of her father and the almost-angry words of her pack-sister, slicing like a blade through her visions. Maddox huffs, but the problem is, the thing is --

"But I am, Sinclair." She seems almost saddened about it. The reaction, the comprehension of how they look upon her, and her destiny. "A Silver Fang's birthright hands that to them, the destiny. The obligation to lead the rest of the tribes. We are given that responsibility along with the blood in our veins."

She has a smile for her father, at once proud and wavering to uncertain.
Don't we? it asks.

"I'll never be quite like everyone else, but I will never be ... I'm not just my destiny. There is more. There is death, and setbacks, and failing. There is.. " She looks again at Lukas. "Choices. I made my choice." She takes a step back from the throne.

[-singularity-] "You are my daughter," Christopher Bellamonte says, as though this in and of itself meant something. "Your own wolf with your own path, it is true. But you are also my heir, Katie. My one true heir. Chosen by Falcon. Chosen by Gaia. Chosen by me, Katherine, above all others. Above my brother, and above your brother.

"Katie..."

Oh, how compelling that voice: a voice that stirred hearts, roused courage. It commands her to look around even now -- away from her pack, toward her father. It doesn't seem to matter that she's the Adren, he the Fostern. She's still Katie.

"You're my daughter. Don't turn your back on me. Don't turn your back on what I've always wanted for you." His hand firms on the back of the throne. "Take what is yours. Here and now. Everything else will fall into place. You'll see."

[Brutal Revelation] Sinclair shakes her head at Katherine's insistence, her sadness, her waffling. She's no spirit-version of herself in here, she's not part of the challenge of this half-corrupted place. "Oh yeah, we've only gone through four of these places and we know for damn sure they bring out our worst qualities and that it's entirely possible to be corrupted by them, but no no no, for you, Your Majesty, it's just about reaffirming how you get to be Chosen By Gaia and Choose Your Own Destiny at the same time! Because you're special like that. Enjoy your cake."

Sometimes she can be so comforting. She can be gentle. She's not, right now. She's as harsh as she was when she was answering her doppleganger, when she was standing in such unearned judgement of all her packmates and prospective packmates. She's as brutal as her name says she is. And she is, bluntly put, pissed the hell off. Fed up, it sounds like.

"I am so sick of you clinging to this. You can't acknowledge that this is insane and then claim to be meant to lead all of us because of your stupid fucking tribe at the same time. He's. Not. Your. Dad. He's a thing that's out to hurt you and are you even seeing that the way he's doing it is by telling you that you're Chosen? What do you think that means, Kate? Christ."

[Echoes of Laughter] She steps forward now. She's been quiet so far, watching and listening. But when Sinclair throws it out that he's not her father, that he's a thing that is out to hurt Kate, she decides it's time to speak. Because she can't let Kate cheat her way out of this by just 'disbelieving.' That's too simple.

"Okay...so wait a second though." She looks at Sinclair, putting a hand up as if to say 'one moment' before she looks at Katherine. "So Kate. Sinclair's right, this probably isn't your father, anymore than that little girl was Margaret's daughter or so on and so forth. That's entirely true. But that's not going to get you past this. That's not the way. That's suppressing the symptom, not fixing the problem. Not the reason that we came here. We came here to face down our problems, and surpass them. Just saying 'this isn't real' isn't going to do that. That's challenging the nature of the test, not the taking the test itself."

She looks to Christopher, then back. "So let's assume this is real. Throw those thoughts that this is 'not real' out. You need to tackle this. If not, I don't know that you'll pass."

[Honor's Compass] She backs away, but she still looks at him, listens to the voice that a hundred memories of her childhood instruct her to obey, to hear. Christopher Bellamonte had suffered the same insanity as the rest of his oh so noble tribe, his memory had battled him at the moon, stripped his mind of comprehension of those he knew, those he loved.

But he had been a noble wolf; he'd died protecting those he loved.

He had never demanded anything but the strength and courage to try, to push one-self. He had never -- don't turn your back on what I've always wanted for you. "You never wanted the throne for me," she says firmly, shaking her head a little. Back another step, looking up, but not without awareness in her eyes, the exact mirror for the ghost. "You would never have wanted that. Not even for Edward. If I sit there, all I am proving is that I am still, inside, the same selfish Cliath I was when I first came to Chicago. I won't be making any choice, I will be giving in to everything that is wrong about myself."

You have to give her this, she's crying, but her words don't lack conviction for them, they perhaps, are stronger for the fact she is not steeled and unruffled by all of this. It is, for those hoping to become her sister and brother, a glimpse of the very human side of Katherine Bellamonte. For those who do, it is at once a reminder and the misery of her human side.

He's.Not.Your.Dad.
He's a thing that's out to hurt you.
What do you think that means, Kate?

Honor's Compass turns her face, looking into the harsh eyes of Brutal Revelation -- "It means none of this is real. It means I have the capacity for greatness, but I am blinded by my own need to cling to -- by the sickness in me. By what I want to be real."

Someone murmurs Your Majesty.

"I am Katherine Isabella D'Albret Bellamonte, I am not your Queen, I am not your daughter. I am a Half Moon, I am a member of the Unbroken and I am walking away from you. You cannot offer me anything."

This, flatter.
She sniffs, her nose is running.

The No Moon steps forward, Katherine's focus swings to her. "My path is mine, I made it, I forged it when everything and everyone else could not. I am everything that this suggests, but I am still capable of saying no to it. I do not have to be what they planned me to be.

I don't need this."

She turns away from the throne. "I don't want to be this."

[Brutal Revelation] Sinclair snaps at look at Sarita, but it's gone quickly, her focus back on Katherine, waiting to hear and see what Kate's answer to the thing pretending to be her father is. She exhales when, finally, Katherine claims her auspice, her pack, and the will to walk away. Being the elder of this or that, being a daughter of Falcon, never enters into it. Sinclair immediately strides forward, walking on that damned red rug only kings are supposed to touch,

so that when Katherine comes down from the throne, she's there.

[Echoes of Laughter] The look Sinclair sends her way draws a return look. She isn't cowed, isn't intimidated. She looks back to Katherine, arms folded over her chest as she awaits the answer. Nodding to Kate. Trusting her.

Then Katherine speaks. She denies what the spirit in the form of her father commands her to take. And Sarita smiles. Never once did she think the Philodox would do otherwise, and she nods to her pack sister.

[-singularity-] It's perhaps a mercy that Katherine turns away. She doesn't see the way her father -- or this thing that looks like her father -- twists. The way his face changes, the way his eyes blaze.

She hears him, though.

"COWARD!" Christopher Bellamonte, Grey Claws, bellows the word. It echoes down the Great Hall. Heads snap up; eyes fix on Katherine, cold now. Resentful. And Katherine knows it's not him, knows her father would never say such things, knows her father was noble and honorable and kind and

died when she was so young that she did not have time to know him at all, and

even so the voice is his, the thunder in his tone is his. "Ingrate! Traitor to your blood! Is this what I gave my life to defend? How dare you walk away from me. I am your father!"

Every step away should put him farther behind her. Should make those words quieter, farther away, but they don't. His voice grows louder and louder, pursues her down that endless gallery. Her would-be subjects are rising now, getting surly to their feet, and for all their finery and all their finesse they are wolves, there's threat beneath their skins; their burn at her and their lips peel back from teeth. There's a snarl somewhere. A hiss at her back, Pathetic. Beside her Wyrmbreaker growls, heads snapping this way and that, ready to defend against some unseen threat, but it's not a physical attack that weighs on her; it's the combined pressure of a tribe's worth of disapproval, a thousand eyes sneering as she passes.

"You're a sorry excuse for a Fang that follows a Shadow Lord and packs with rabble!" The words follow her. Someone -- someone in that glittering crowd, someone who bowed to her moments ago -- boos now. "I was wrong about you. You are as worthless as your brother and sister, as craven, as irresponsible, an undutiful daughter. You will never live up to me. Do you hear me? NEVER."

[Echoes of Laughter] "I dunno, man." She looks at Christopher, stepping up next to Kate. She's got a grin on her face, though the look she gives him is straight, direct and anything but amused.

"Right now, I think she's not only lived up to the you that right here, right now is shouting like a kid who doesn't get to play with a favorite toy, but she's surpassed him. As in, BETTER THAN."

[Brutal Revelation] As much as she can't figure out why Katherine and Lukas keep reaching out to soothe her somehow, Sinclair cannot figure out what the hell is going on with Sarita tonight, what it has to do with her. It may all come to a head later, and for all she knows Maddox and Margaret will be welcomed into a pack of wolves yelling at each other.

Right now, however she's moving to flank with Wyrmbreaker, though she keeps her birth form. She tries to keep Katherine from having an exposed side open to the crowd. "You're not," she says, half-hushed to the Philodox, grabbing her arm. "You're not worthless and you're not responsible and it's not your job to live up to anyone. Let's go. You were walking away. Keep walking. Let's go."

[Honor's Compass] It is easier, now.

It makes the bellowing fury disguised behind her father's voice no less shattering, no less like the crack of whip-strokes lashing her back, but she knows now, with a certainty that was absent before, when he first appeared from behind that throne like a vision from her most private dreams --

that is not her Christopher Bellamonte.

The hissing, snarling, threatening crowds however, the jeering is strangely comforting. Perhaps she's seen it before, borne witness as some unlucky wolf was dragged down by guards for some sin, some trespass against the King, or the Queen to be judged as unfit. To hear, strangely, or perhaps not so, much of what the Other, the empty vessel but for when they feed its power -- is shouting after her.

Katherine's arm is taken, she grips the Glass Walker's, feels her pack closing ranks around her and strides on, her eyes fixed ahead. She does not answer the calling voice, and it takes all her resolve not to look back.

But Honor's Compass keeps walking.

[-singularity-] She keeps walking.

Like Margaret before her -- weathering a storm more emotional than physical -- walking, one step in front of the next. The apparition behind her, furious now, losing its prey or perhaps only failing its duty -- bellowing at her back, roaring invectives, insulting her contributions, her choices, her position, her name. Insulting everything about her while the crowds around her go from merely disgruntled to openly hostile.

Someone takes up the cry: Traitor! Coward! A lady's slipper flies through the air and smacks Katherine in the head. It's almost laughable, but it makes Wyrmbreaker snarl aloud.

"Sarita!" he barks; then shoulder-checks Margaret toward to door, snaps his teeth at poor Maddox's heels again to make him move faster. "Stop yelling at the ghost. This is getting ugly; we need to get out!"

The next thing that comes flying through the air isn't so harmless as a slipper. It's an ornamental torch snatched off the wall, hurled with furious force. Bitch! someone screams. Shadow Lord's whore! The door's not far now. Somehow she knows if she goes through it she'll be safe. She'll be out of this nightmare, safe.

From the throne, far behind her now, the apparition of her father, roaring:

"YOU ARE NOT MY DAUGHTER. DO YOU HEAR ME. YOU ARE NOT MINE!"

[-singularity-] [random note: tbh i meant to have maddox degrade slowly across the SL, but the cleansing fucked him up so badly he couldn't degrade much more *LOL*]
to -singularity-

[Brutal Revelation] [dex + athletics: snag!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 5, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 8) Re-rolls: 1

[Brutal Revelation] [dex + athletics: toss!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 5, 7, 7, 8, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Brutal Revelation] A slipper hits Kate in the head and Sinclair snarls, openly. Out of the corner of her eye she sees something rushing through the air towards the Philodox and before they can even tell what it is, Sinclair whips around, half-leaps, and snatches it out of the air. She's done this before; Kate was there when it became clear that trying to have a snowball fight with the Walker is nearly impossible when she catches snowballs in mid-air.

The ornamental torch hits her hand, with moves back from the force of it, but that only gives her more leverage when she hurls it back into the crowd. It's unaimed, it isn't going for anyone, but it's a threat as much as the snarl was. Lukas urges the others on with Kate, and Sinclair turns again soon enough to go with them, harried by the big, black, overprotective Shadow Lord.

Her arm locks around Kate's waist. She doesn't find it surprising if she finds anyone else's hand or arm there already. They go through the door together. All of them. Unbroken.

[Echoes of Laughter] Well, yeah. Now that the crowd is revolting in a major way, what was support for Katherine is now a bad thing. She turns to follow the pack, brow furrowed as she joins ranks with them to get out the door.

[Honor's Compass] She does, at one point, collect a slipper to the head. It doesn't make her stagger, but it does bring a flinch. She lowers her chin, setting her teeth together and keeps marching toward the door. If she can just make it to the door, then she can let go, then she can let the words being shouted by the thing that was not her father but sounded so, so painfully like him roll over her, through her.

She can give a little when she's free from hearing she's a Shadow Lord's whore, from her father saying she was not his child.

Katherine's lips part in an unvoiced protest -- of course I am! how can you even suggest -- but then Sinclair's arm is around her, propelling her forward again and they are at the door. The final thought of the Silver Fang is, perhaps not surprisingly, about her father.

That is the last time I shall hear his voice, though it is not really his.

[-singularity-] Every step away, and his voice seems to ring louder. She's not his child. She's not his heir. She's not worthy, not good enough, not a Silver Fang, nothing, nothing, nothing but filth. She's low, she's pitiful, she's --

-- and then, mercifully, it begins to recede. Like the tide going out, the jeering, the thrown things, the torches that Sinclair grabs and whips back, the brooches and cell phones and whatever else people had on hand hurled at them that Wyrmbreaker catches on his side, grunting and growling but never flagging his pace for an instant as he ushers his pack out --

all these things begin to fade away. The grandeur of the hall fades. The people in it. The richness of that rug, even then details of that door she approaches. Her father's voice fades to an angry blur, and then it doesn't even really sound like him anymore.


In the end, it's just a door, plain and unremarkable, waiting for them. A stained door in a corroded room. Four walls. Katherine grasps it and pulls it open and they pull themselves through into a narrow, suffocatingly small tunnel. Even in homid, they have to stoop. Even in Hispo, Wyrmbreaker's ears brush the ceiling, and his shoulders brush the walls.

It is very dark here. The only light comes in gasps and sputters, and from Maddox's faerie glow, which -- through thick and thin, with bitter faith -- he has kept all this time.


"I think we all know I'm next," Wyrmbreaker says into that silence. "The greatest weakness I can think of is my rage, which sometimes gets the better of me. If you have protective gifts, use them now. I have talens to soak and heal if you need it. When we get through the next door, stay behind me.

"Stay together. We're almost done."

[Honor's Compass] Once they are through the door, into that tiny, tiny hallway Katherine has to stop, has to bend forward and brace her hands on her knees for a moment. Has to scrub her palms over her face and rest like that for a second before she rises and catches Sinclair's hand, turns her attention toward her and then says, softly, but with a world of meaning-- "Thank you."

Her eyes flick to Sarita, Lukas, everyone. She smiles, briefly, then lets silence drift until Lukas speaks in the gruff language of wolves. "I still have my Gift activated," she notes and then looks to Maddox, perhaps the weakest, physically, after his own room's ordeal.

"Perhaps you should give some talens to Sidewalk's End."

[Honor's Compass] [Ahem, Sidewalk Ends, rather.]

[-singularity-] [hahah. i've been calling him sidewalk's end for short! cuz he's where the sidewalk ends. so. he's the sidewalk's end!]

[-singularity-] [note to self: on the way out, show all spirits in their uncorrupted forms]
to -singularity-

[Echoes of Laughter] "I'm...well, maybe a talent or two might be good. Though Maddox should get priority right now, obviously."

She stops when the rest of the pack does, taking a lean against the wall close to the others. She reaches out and touches Katherine's arm lightly, and then Sinclair's and finally Lukas'. A faint smile. "But otherwise, I'm ready when you guys are."

[Brutal Revelation] Sinclair lets Katherine go when they get through the door, lets her sink down and catch her breath, rearrange her thoughts. She was on the verge of tears when she left her own room, Margaret had to walk away from her own child, Maddox is a wreck... Sinclair understands if Kate just needs a moment to put herself back together after that trial. She keeps her hand on the Philodox's back, resting there. She blinks when her hand is caught and squeezed, when she's thanked. Her brows tug together.

"I didn't do anything," she says, a bit roughly. "It's not like I expect you to not be crazy anymore, Kate. I know you can't help it." There's a moment, a frown still on her face, her hand still held by the Fang. "I knew you were going to be able to walk away from that stupid throne. I was just pissed off."

Lukas speaks up to them, talks about the upcoming trial he'll face, his weakness being his rage, and she flicks her eyes at him, then at Sarita. "Hey, I'm going to try giving some advice to one of our packmates that I have actually considered, is based in a long history of friendship, and which I strongly believe in. Maybe if you disagree with it you can be up-front about it instead of just...saying whatever the fuck is opposite of what I say," she tells the Strider, a little flatly. A lot harshly.

It is not, as it was not in the room, an attempt to intimidate or cow. But she's annoyed, she's been annoyed with the Ragabash for some time now, and as is her habit, she just straight-up puts it out there, as direct as she knows how to be. She doesn't wait for an answer, because in truth, she wasn't asking a question. She wasn't giving an order. If anything, the undercurrent is simply: back off for ten seconds, okay?

Her pale eyes meet Lukas's more intense, glacial ones. "I'm not so sure your rage is your greatest weakness, Lukas," she says, a little more gently. "If you'd asked me what I thought my greatest weakness was before we walked through my door, I don't think I would have thought of the one I actually faced. I don't think this is always about our greatest flaws, but the ones that are closest to home. The ones that hurt us and the ones around us the most. The ones we're so ashamed of we can't even admit them to ourselves til they're shoved in our face.

"At least in my case, that was it. And it might be in yours, too. Just be ready for something worse than rage, just in case."

She nods to what Sarita says about Maddox getting priority, though -- annoyance doesn't derail her good sense like it did when she was a Cliath -- and moves closer to Sidewalk's End as she takes hispo form, chuffing: "I stay by arrogant black-blood. I protect."

[Echoes of Laughter] She looks at Sinclair, frowning. Her instinct is to jump to her own defense. She watches her a moment, and then she lets it go. Arguing about it isn't going to get them anywhere. She just nods a little bit, letting it slough off her back, and takes a breath as she gets ready to help them face Lukas' test.

[-singularity-] Some part of Lukas must realize he's rushing. He's planning ahead, or trying to; he's readying himself for the worst, whatever it might be. Some part of him wants to slow down, wants to give Kate a huge right now -- and Margaret, and Sinclair, and everyone else who's faced some darkness in themselves tonight.

But he has priorities. He knows his place, leader and guardian both. And though that interchange between Sinclair and Sarita draws a flick of a glance, he ultimately doesn't interfere. Trusts them not to let it interfere with ...

whatever might come next.

He twists his small bag of talens out of his fur instead, drops it on the floor. "I've enough soak talens for all. A few Gaia's Breaths, too. Take them all; I have my own Bandages if I need them."

A beat of pause.

"Kate, what that thing said to you wasn't true. You kicked its ass and it was pissed off. That's all." He bends, grips the bag gently in his front teeth, and tosses it a little farther forward, offering. "Now come on. Let's gear up and finish this."


[-1gn to BB! +6
-1gn to soak talen! (6 more in the bag) +3
-1gn to luna's armor, rolling now!]
Dice Rolled:[ 10 d10 ] 3, 4, 4, 4, 5, 6, 6, 8, 8, 9, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 7 at target 7) [WP] Re-rolls: 3

[-singularity-] [oh and! -1WP to resist pain.

NOW WE PAUSE. see you guys tmrw night, sameish time! probably a lil later actually.]

[Brutal Revelation] [-1 WP RP
-1 G to soak talen from Lukas (+3)
-1 WP to steelfur
stamina + science]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 2, 4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 5 at target 7)