what tribe claims you?

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Heavy footsteps on the stairs, the sort of looselimbed stomp one uses when coming down for the first time in the morning. Only, it's not morning. Garou kept strange hours, though, and Lukas was, it appears, quite nocturnal.

They see his feet first: bare, thumping on the floorboards. Then his pajama bottoms, or lounge pants, or whatever the hell you want to call them: soft cotton blend, charcoal grey. Then his shirt, or lack thereof -- a plain white towel, courtesy the Brotherhood, wrapped around his neck in its stead. His hair is wet from a recent shower, scuffed into spikes and peaks. There are beads of water on his skin. He smells like whatever toiletries Andrea may have provided.

Yawning jawcrackingly as he steps off the final stair, Lukas snags an apple out of the ever-welcome fruit basket on the counter. Tosses it in the air, catches it onehanded, and then hoists himself up with the other hand onto some kitchen chair or stool or other.

"Shampoo's out in the men's room," he says in lieu of a proper good-morning. Or good-evening. He leans back against the counter, which is reasonably clean now that the restaurant's shutting down, but would be stacked high with pots, pans, utensils and ingredients earlier in the day. "Used the last of it." He spots Andrew. "Oh -- hey there, Dances-on-Fire-rhya."

[Andrew] Spanish? What exactly is spanish? He's not sure. But asking what Spanish is and how it relates to her tongue isn't a tangent he really wants to go down right now. Over the years he's learned that there are occassional tangents that he can go down with humans that will confuse him and be needless long and boring.

Moving along.... "No." And his purpose for being here would be..... wait.... wait... He walks along next to her. Stopping at the table and standing there, staring at the flames as they crackle away. Moments tick by and he finally turns his head to face Andrea. "I wanted to apologize. For the fight."

[Sobhian Dobbins] Leaving the bar, she scoots around it and the tables and makes her way to the kitchen, leaving Andrea to speak with Andrew. She pushes in through the door and immediately goes for the counter where her dish, that had been earlier requested, rests under cover and was ready to be warmed up. Black slacks, nice shoes, and a white shirt spoke of hospitality wear. Nothing too flashy, nice to blend in and perfectly reasonable to be serving people in a restaurant, yet it still looks good.

She, at first, thought Lukas was one of the others, until she's by her dish and the counter, and she registers that he's in a towel and is half naked. That, and he doesn't have shoes. He's also not kitchen staff. Tilting her head, she follows up pajama bottoms until she's looking at the unfamiliar sights of Lukas' face. Her mercury eyes are blatantly curious and a dash suspicious.

... a tick goes by. "Evenin'." Her smile comes easily.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Someone greets him. New someone. Lukas looks at her for a moment or two, his eyes pale as ice, blue as ice: mildly curious. Pretty sure he hadn't seen her before, but then, she entered the kitchen like she belonged here. No sense of Rage either. Deduction makes who and what she is all but a certainty.

"Hey," he says, then. "Are you new on the staff?" -- he waits for a yes -- "Great. Would you be so kind as to fry me up some sausage and eggs over-easy? I'm starving." He glances out through the porthole at the restaurant, makes sure there are no humans out there. "I'll take a glass of milk and some toast too."

[Sobhian Dobbins] "Aye." She had agreed to being on the staff there, and it wasn't but a few seconds after wards that he's asking her to make him some breakfast. Her laugh is soft, a little bewildered sort of sound. "Oh aye, sure I can. But I'm workin' on the bar, mae shift is over. I'm about te eat mae own dinner." Which she was now lifting the lid off, paying attention to it rather than himself as she went about her own business. "An' I cannae cook fer the life o' mae. Which is why I'm na in the kitchen..."

A quick glance over, bemused and eyebrow raising, "Ye really don' wan' mae cookin' fer ye. I burn a pot o' water."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "I really doubt that," Lukas replies, smiling. A droplet of water rolls down his brow; drips off the end of his nose. He raises the end of the towel to his hair and scuffs again, making more of his hair stand up at wilder angles.

"Anyway, just about anything will suffice. I'm not looking for a Michelin three-star meal here. Or if you're really that bashful about your cooking, you could pass the buck on to whomever your night cook might be." Dropping the end of the towel, he bites into his apple again.

[Andrea Locke] "Ah.." It's all she says, along with a nod, at the 'bums' words. She looks him over, appraising - ever so slightly a caress on the side of scrutiny - until, finally, she draws out a chair and indicates one for him, as well.
"Well, thank you. I take it you are not Kemp Oates but the other side of the fight?"

Simple deduction tells her that it is unlikely any Garou would first right a note of apology and then come in person to back it up. Not unless they had some ulterior motive and, given she doesn't know Kemp Oates from Adam, she doesn't see that as being the case.

"You know, it isn't the idea of two... men... such as yourself having a scuffle that bothers me. It happens. But I'm sure you can see why it puts me in a bit of a bind -- while I am pleased to be a hostess to what Garou or Kin require a place to stay and food in their belly, I won't be able to provide that service if my business goes to pot because customers are afraid to come near the other guests.[/i]" She speaks easily, but seriously. Not in a lecturing tone, but in one of earnest conversation. "Though you are the first who has caused some sort of scene who has come to speak to me about it face to face... the others have satisfied their sense of guilt with notes and 'gifts'. Frankly, I prefer being spoken to directly. Dare I say, it might even show some small amount of respect, though perhaps I presume too much."

----------------

In the kitchen, Jennifer Coltrane -- prepping some meat for tomorrow -- looks over at Sobhian and Lukas, speaking up in a voice that is somewhat strained with a natural nervousness, but is otherwise clear. "Don't worry, Sobhian... I'll handle it. How would you like your eggs, sir?"
From a corner one of the kinfolk occupied cleaning dishes before they are put into the sanitizer grunts, shaking his head, but nothing more.

[Sobhian Dobbins] "Do they 'ave a night cook 'ere? I'm nae sure meself. Far as I know, yer welcome te 'elp yeself, or so says Andrea." But Jennifer pipes in and Sobhian glances over to her, thankful for the interruption. She'd get the woman some chocolates or something tomorrow. Saint she is, absoloute Saint. It will be great to have Cliona around such people.

"Well there ye go.." This to Lukas, thrown in with an easy smile, as she picks up her plate and moves over to the warmer or microwave, she really wasn't that fussy about it. She has some vegetable orientated dish with a small marinated cutlet, which is popped in and left to warm up. Cutlery was gathered in the meantime, and a shared look given with the dish-washing kin.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Jennifer Coltrane steps in. Lukas glances at her, then grins at Sobhian -- a brilliant show of even white teeth.

"Look at that. You're rescued."

To Jennifer, then, "Over easy, please. Three. And ... say four, five links of sausage, plus two slices toast on the side. Thank you." He nods at the restaurant proper, "Is it safe to go out there like this, or are there humans about?"

[Andrew] Shaking his head. "No, I am not Kemp Oates." His face contorting as he says the name, lips turnin downward and the scar tugging one entire side of his face into a downward slant. One gloved wet hand takes the chair he is offered and lowers himself into it, sitting somewhat stiffly with his feet flat on the floor and his hands in his lap, forearms on his thighs and his back hunched. "Thank you. I am sorry I scared customers. I try to stay out of way." Nodding slowly and letting his eyes stare into the orange flames. Seconds tick by. His mouth is slightly open, like he's going to say something, but he lets the time pass. Finally with a little shudder he turns to look at Andrea.

"I offer whatever help you may need around here to repay. I do not have money. I can work though. But..." He looks around the resteraunt briefly. "You see, I am not so good with humans."

[Hatchet] The back door opens, bringing with it a rush of the night air growing steadily colder. Soledad enters first, hat on but scarf wound about her hands. She gives Hatchet a last Look and then is heading upstairs, needing sleep more than she needs the warmth that was sapped out of her Alpha's body over the last...well, she never asked how long he was out there.

Hatchet, for his part, enters after her and closes the door and lets out a forceful: "Mother of GOD." His face is pale, the tip of his nose and his cheeks bright red, his bare fingertips slightly blue. He is shivering, but not uncontrollably. Not after a brisk walk to keep the blood flowing through his limbs.

[Sobhian Dobbins] Chuckling quietly she looks over to Lukas. Her strangely coloured eyes sparkle. "Lady Luck be on mae side tenight." She agreed. "Might na last. But ye never know, next time I migh' be trained up in boilin' some noodles, an' ye can 'ave ye dinner served on a silver platter." Her smile is wide, humoured with a hint of a dimple by the side of her full mouth.

She was turning to the pinged food when the door blasts cold air through the place and immediately causes goose pimples across her flesh. Keeping half an eye on the two new arrivals, she gets out her warmed meal and sets it on the counter.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Is it her imagination, or has the grin developed an edge? "Well, not on a silver platter, I hope," he says -- softly.

The door blasts open. The kitchen is toasty from the stoves and the ovens, but the outside most certainly is not. Lukas, wearing all of a pair of pajama bottoms and a towel, wet-haired at that, grimaces at the sudden chill.

"Hey, Hatchet-rhya," he greets the other. Then -- a smirk, lopsided but genuine: "Close the fucking door, please."

[Andrea Locke] "No one out there but Andrea and another True Born... closin' up early tonight, due to the weather. I'll have this out to you in a jiff."
Jennifer doesn't speak or act like some simpering, eager-to-please idiot, by any means, but she is kind. Kind to a fault and, obviously, somewhat cowed when it comes to the likes of Shadow Lords with known tempers. As she goes about collecting eggs and things, she looks over at the plate Sobhian is preparing herself and... "Sure you don't want me to fix you somethin', honey? Ain't no bother..." There's a good bit of the South in her speech, far more at ease now as she speaks to her fellow kinfolk. Saint Jenny, indeed.

---------------------

Andrew is watched, closely, but comfortably. His words -- the way he says them, the meter of his words and grammar, such as it is. She is plainly trying to figure him out, though she doesn't make a show of it. In the end she shakes her head. "There's nothing to repay, I assure you. As I said -- an apology face to face is more than enough. Thank you. As for the humans -- if ever you would like a drink -- some food.. a place to warm yourself and, of course, a place to sleep, you can always come in through the kitchen. It's all kin who work here and you are welcome, so don't worry about it... besides, trust me: Most humans aren't so good with humans." Her lips curve in a touch of wry humour at that, then she shrugs, moving on. "And if ever you are around and you see someone who needs some help with some heavy lifting or the like, well, I certainly won't stop your helping. Though, there is one thing I would ask, if it is no trouble... your name?"

[Hatchet] The door is closed. That took priority over swearing. Which is something, considering that Hatchet is a Fianna, many of whom have elevated swearing to Louvre-worthy art. He has on his jeans and his boots and that black hoodie, and from the look of things that threadbare sweater is on underneath it, but that is not nearly enough to keep a person warm on an evening like this.

He shudders and pushes his hood back, running his fingers through his hair as he exhales. His eyes flick up from their aimless wandering as he adjusts to the different lighting in the kitchen, and hit Lukas. Hatchet just breathes for a second, a couple of rather sharp inhales and exhales to accompany a glance that almost seems angry, but then he shakes his head. "Did you know," he says, sounding -- and now looking -- anything but angry, "that in winter..." breath "...it gets very, very cold?"

[Dylan] The door closes; then almost immediately it opens again Maybe the wind has a sense of humor? There's certainly a sadistic undercurrent to the wind tonight -- Chicago's already frozen; why should the wind lend any help? And lend help it does. Dylan has spent some of her finest rue on the cold edge of the wind, which, if she hadn't known better, she'd've sworn was bedevilling her on purpose. First, she was walking into it; then she was cutting across an alley, and the wind was dying away. Then she was in the open again, and the wind was leaping and prancing as if it were a gleeful child made out of razorblades, all certain that it's Auntie Dyl wouldn't mind if it checked her pockets, maybe up her sleeves, oh HO, she's bundled up the hidden presents all safe, but Demon Wind Chill Wind has waaaaays of getting under the clothing and --

All to say that Hatchet closes the door, and Soledad heads upstairs, and Dylan opens the door. Her eloquent Galliard comment on the weather is: TEETH (grumble) CHATTER (grumble) CHAT-T-T-TER.

[Sobhian Dobbins] To Lukas there's no much more than a little smile and a single shoulder hiccup. Silver platters depends on what he would be demanding for breakfast. No need to share these things. James would get upset if she dragged him into such affairs.

"Na, it's all good Miss." She smiles over at Jenny, twirling her fork in her hand to point it at her own dish. "This I've been eyein' all eve." Not that many people ordered such things, but Sobhian wasn't such a big eater. Kin or not, she wasn't overly fond of meat. Vegetables wins hands down. But the small cutlet was just enough to satisfy her iron count.

Leaning her hip into the counter, she picks up her plate and balances it in her hand, tucking it close to her white shirt for better balance; boobs are great for that. But in truth mostly its balanced in her fingers. Serving trays as a bartender and a waitress has its perks and old habits die hard. She begins to eat, eyes smiling at Hatchet's words just before they shift to look behind him at Dylan as she enters.

[Andrew] He nods again, dipping his chin twice. Listing to Andrea quietly and staring into the fire as she goes on. He sits very still, even though an occassional chatter will shake his muscles or click his teeth. His muscles are held rigidly still. His speech, inflection, is utterly without accent and comes out well annunciated. Each word spoken carefully, and voice metered as though he were carefully choosing and pronouncing each word as he does so.

"Thank you. Yes, my name is Andrew." Eyes meeting hers briefly.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas -- who, despite his vocal protests against the cold and his hunger, etc, is in a rather good mood tonight. And why not? He's clean, he's well-rested, the moon is on the wane and a slow pressure is easing off his mind. Besides that, his pack has fresh trophies on the Wyrmpole and his mind is full of strategems and maneuvers to crack the rest of that rotten nut.

He exclaims wordlessly as the door bursts open again to admit: oh look, Dylan. "When it's below freezing there should be a rule that you can only enter via Umbra," he opines. "Spare the rest of us some pain. Anyway," he gets up off his kitchen stool -- there's a small halo of water droplets around it where he'd dripped, post-shower, "I'm going to go sit in front of the fireplace before someone else opens the god damn door on me.

"Thanks for taking care of the eggs," this last is spoken to Jennifer Coltrane over his shoulder, and over the white terrycloth of the towel, as he heads out through the swinging doors.

There's a big blazing fire out in the restaurant proper. Lukas doesn't spend much time out here, and certainly not in his pajamas. It's a bit of a treat to take a table near the fire -- not one of those smaller, daintier tables with the dining chairs, but one of those big squat ones with armchairs arranged around it, lounge-style. He moves the table to the side a foot or two, pulls the opposite armchair closer, puts his bare feet up. Sprawls.

Totemphone, meanwhile: You missed a good hunt the other day. Remind me to tell you the details sometime for your next song. White-Eyes is working on some talens. We'll be making another foray when everyone's geared up and ready.

[Hatchet] "Jesus Christ on a cross!" Hatchet exclaims as the door opens again behind him.

It isn't jumpiness, it's the cold. The man hasn't been seen at the Brotherhood since this morning, and in some cases, since he went into his dorm room last night. (There was, for those who live upstairs, quite a clatter in that room shortly after he entered it, and some half-subdued swearing in Spanish, but it only lasted a few seconds before it died down. After that, there was nothing but the squeak of bedsprings protesting as a 6'2" Fianna flopped onto the thin mattress.)

Presumably, he has been out in the cold for the majority of the day, and it has not been a nice day to be out. He has on a hoodie over a sweater over a t-shirt, and that's about as far as his layering goes. No wonder his fingertips look like that. He lifts them up to his mouth as he glances over his shoulder and breathes on his fists, peering at Dylan. It isn't a long peer. He requires -- and has been informed by a slim Mexican girl that he is going to have immediately, whether he likes it or not -- hot drink and hot food. He moves over to the door out of the kitchen to get to the fireplace that is not currently cold, away from the back door, considering warmth a far higher priority than sustenance. For the time being, at least.

That is when Lukas says he's going over to the fireplace, and Hatchet hesitates, and then he keeps walking. Our the door, not to a table, but to the hearth itself. Lukas puts his feet up. Hatchet, looking at the fire, sits down about a foot from the edge.

[Andrea Locke] The door opens and closes twice in the backroom, sending a small shudder through the two kinfolk working in the kitchen as their cozy body-temperatures respond to the frozen draft. Jennifer looks up from the eggs and sausage she's cooking, looking over at the two new Garou who choose to stay - for the moment, at least - in the kitchen.
"Awful weather. Just awful -- maybe some coffee t'warm you up? Or somethin' stronger? I know where Reuben an' Andrea hide the best stuff."
Her words are a little shy as is her blushing smile -- a blush that makes the long, twisted scar down her once-lovely face glare a vivid white in contrast.

------------------

"Andrew." She repeats the name, adding it to the ever-growing list. She smiles then, easy-going as though some of the warm comfort from the fire emits from within. "Well then, Andrew, are you hungry at all? There's always something at hand, if you are...."

At which point Lukas enters, for all the world as if he's strolling around in his own living room. One dark eyebrow rises at the sight of him, though it seems to hold at least a touch of wry humour. At least. A touch. Hatchet moves in along with him, taking his place by the fire so that they both end up scant feet from where Andrea and Andrew occupy one of the small tables also next to the blaze.
"Evening, gentlemen... do you all know one another or shall I make introductions?" At which point she looks from Andrew to Taggart to Lukas and back again....

[Andrew] He glances over at the door into the main room as people wander in. Eyeing the two men appraisingly for a second from under his dark hood, then turning his gaze back to Andrea as she addresses him. Dipping his chin twice again. "Thank you. If it is alright, I will stay the night here. There is too much snow out there." Even for him. He'd lived here for years. Too much snow for him was... well, that was a lot of freaking snow. Stupid snow. Makes him want to animate a snowman, just so he can kick it's frosty butt. Ya know, if he thought like that.

"Wyrmbreaker." Nodding to Lukas. He apparently doesn't know the other. "I'm Dances on Fire. Fostern Theurge, Gaia Child."

[Dylan] Dylan takes it in. The kitchen: Lukas' attire, Hatchet's back, Sobhian, the other kinfolk -- the kind one. Murmurs, whilst drifting toward the ovens in an unconscious, but nonetheless telling instinct toward warmth: "Gonna give the patrons a show, eh, Lukas?" He disappears; Hatchet (and, seriously, her eyes all but lit up when she recognized him!) follows. Her gaze grows abstracted, and she grins at the oven. Just this gleam, brief, of teeth. Dylan isn't a particularly feral (monster) creature, but. Via totem phone: Consider yourself reminded. And pestered. Who else was there? And pestered. And reminded. I'ma join you as soon as I get some food. To Sobhian, a brief nod; to Jennifer, she says, "Aw, I can make some tea, if you tell me where the fixings are?"

[Andrea Locke] A moment later, Jennifer comes through the swinging doors, carrying a heaping plate of eggs-over-easy and Spanish chorizo [sweeter and more intricately spiced than the Mexican variety] as well as toast healthy coated with fresh butter, now nicely melting. She slips over to Lukas, setting the plate before him and sliding some linen-wrapped cutlery over... "Here y'are, sir... want anything t'drink with it?"

Her gaze lifts, sliding over to Andrea and Andrew, "Anything else I can bring out, Miss An--" Her words falter, trip and stumble just briefly as she catches the swiftest of looks from her employer... and her lips press together..

"Jenny, I don't recall eggs and chorizo being on the menu tonight -- surely that isn't left over from this morning..."
It is all Andrea says and she speaks it quietly -- gently even, though her gaze on the other woman is penetrating to say the least.

[Sobhian Dobbins] People come in. People walk out. She remains leaning against the counter picking at the food. Dylan receives a smile and a nod. Her gaze flickers to one person and then the other, gauging reactions to this and that. She was still getting to know the place and the people in it. Toying with her food, she picks out the vegetables by colour, the brightest ones first, taking her time eating it. She should get home soon, even if James wouldn't be heading out in the cold. Damn, its even more reason why she should be home sooner. With such a thought she's moving to scrape the left overs in the bin, plucking the cutlet off the plate before she does and moves over to the sink.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "There are no bloody patrons," Lukas calls over his shoulder. Then the door shuts.

--

There's something about a good roaring fire that promotes laziness, even in someone who's quite literally just woken up. Lukas can feel the warmth seeping into his bones, and while he waits on his food (his stomach growling quietly in anticipation), he stretches out, and then stretches out a little more, until he's almost prone in his armchair, his feet against the back of the opposite one.

He turns to look at Andrea when she speaks. Doesn't bother to lift his head. A faint flicker of a smile, "Yeah, I know them. Thanks." He is unfailingly polite, but it's somehow different when he speaks to kinfolk; makes a request, or thanks them. Not that it's insincere, because it's not. Merely --

Merely that he makes requests expecting them to be carried through. Merely that he thanks them with the subtext that they've only done what they were expected to do.

He doesn't introduce the Garou to each other. They are of a rank, and neither of them is packed to him: somehow, in his book, that made it their business. Besides -- his attention is elsewhere; his packmate is chattering into his mind.

Slow down. I'll tell you when you get here.

The doors open. Lukas leans up a little to look over the arm of the chair, and yes, his food is arriving. Excellent. He sits up, taking his feet off the opposite armchair, drags the low table back where it belongs. The table isn't light. He moves it anyway, without strain, the muscles in his shoulder and back and arm clenching.

"Excellent." He smiles at Jennifer, close-lipped this time, hiding his teeth. He picks up the cutlery and unwraps it, his hands sure without looking. "A glass of milk would be great -- thank you."

Then he digs in. And if the chorizo is reheated from the morning -- well, he doesn't notice.

[Hatchet] Hatchet does not look up immediately at Andrea's greeting of Hello, gentlemen. That may be because his ears are half-frozen, but it is more likely that 'gentlemen' is not something he answers to automatically. He blinks at the fire, and looks over at -- not Andrea, though he realizes a second later that she's speaking to him as well -- but Andrew, calling Lukas by his deed name and repeating his own.

He has not met Andrew. He's just heard...a very little...about Andrew, and he knows the name. He looks over inquisitively, his face momentarily childlike despite the beard, and then he nods. "Buried Hatchet," he says, nostrils flaring as chorizo enters the room. It takes effort not to look over there. He keeps his eyes on the scarred-up-as-fuck Theurge. "Fostern Half-Moon of the Fianna and Alpha of Weasel's Gang. Pleased to meet you, etcetera," he tacks on, and shifts a bit closer to the warmth of the fire.

A beat passes, and then he twists around, looking at Jenny. "Hey, Jenny? Could I get a mug of hot chocolate? I mean, it's the perfect drink. It's just so festive outside, with the testicle-demolishing cold and the constant carols stabbing into my brain like knives forged from the frozen tears of tiny children."

[Andrea Locke] "Well, Andy, Mr. Lukas here came down hungry and told -- ah, asked -- young Sobhian t'fix him up a plate of eggs and sausages and, well, I was already there and the girl doesn't cook so..."
That she is stammering again somewhat is - by the looks cast in the direction of Lukas and the other two Garou present - not a result of Andrea's gaze but of the present company within sight and hearing. It is that nervousness which melts away some of the ice in the owner's gaze, so that she responds still more quietly.
"That's fine, querida. After you get Lukas his milk and--" Darting a look over in Taggart's direction... "Start up the hot chocolate, you needn't stay in the kitchen attending to anyone. I'm sure Reuben would be glad of your company on such a night. Perhaps you might ask if Sobhian or -- Alex is back there, si? -- would be so kind to bring out the drinks. If not I'll do it. You get some rest, bella, you've more than earned it."

Jennifer smiles - not a simpering once, but a knowing one, nodding and shrugging in a manner that speaks volumes, if only to Andrea. She heads back into the kitchen and, once she is gone, Andrea looks over to Lukas, her head canting to one side, her words low-spoken and measured.
"Jennifer gets up at the crack of dawn and works straight through the day and into the night preparing and cooking and overseeing all that goes on in that Kitchen. It's hard work and quite thankless. All of the Kinfolk who work here work very similar hours and to quite the same extent, without complaint. But none of them are required -- nor will they be -- to play at the beck and call of any of the guests upstairs. They are kind -- Jennifer most of all is kindhearted... it's an insult to abuse that. Do bear that in mind in the future. Please."
The 'please' is spoken in just the same manner that Lukas likes to use such niceties with Kinfolk, come to think of it.

[Armstrong] She had spent the better part of the evening looking at the ice on the ground. It was cold; it had been cold for awhile. She had slipped into the Brotherhood long enough to eat, then slipped back out to do some independent research... of sorts. She was looking for some sort of inspiration, ideas, some answer. She hadn't found it in the sky that day, she had found it on the ground. She had found it in crystalized puddles of former-water.

The reflection wasn't right, she had told Kemp.
Like any ragabash would, he poked some fun at her, called her a space cadet, and wrote Mrena off as looney.
The reflection wasn't right.

It made her think for a brief moment, and let a smile, tinged with a conspiratory glimmer, cross her face. And, at that moment, inspiration set in. She let out something of a half laugh to herself, the sound following her when she came into the Brotherhood. Front entrance today, not the back. She shook her hair out, then her scarf, then took the time to knock some of the ice off of her boots.

White Eyes had kept strange hours for some time, some days sleeping until the middle of the day; other days, she awoke at dawn and did not rest for the remainder of the day. She was surprisingly alert that day, not it mattered how long she had been awake or what she had been doing, but overall Armstrong had an agenda to fill and now that she had that inspiration that was so necessary, her days would become much more infrequent.

Attire was the type that was build for snow and cold and ice and the like. Black had, black coat, jeans, and the ever-present red scarf.

"Perfect," she said. The smile didn't leave her face.

[Sobhian Dobbins] Biting on the cutlet, she freed up both hands to rinse off her plate under the spray of water and popped it into the wash with the last load to be done. She didn't leave Danny to do the washing up, not alone anyway, instead lingering by, with her hip to the wet counter, she bit off some meat and chewed behind closed mouth. "Yer na the only one tha' they make nervous. But it does get a bit easier 'n all. Na with the likes o' those stayin' 'ere tha' I've seen though..." Her conversation is paused as Jennifer returns and speaks to her of drinks and Andrea and saving graces.

Its the least she could do for the people here, keep an eye on the other kin, the Owner - who looks out for everyone else like a Mother Hen. "Na a problem! Go take a load off. 'Ave a nice soak in the tub. I'll brin' ye some nice washes tomorrow eve." The girl had skin like moonshine and promised to share her little secrets with a warm smile.

She bumped Danny with her arm as she passed, giving him a wink, and tossed the cutlet in the bin with only a single bite having been taken out of it. After wiping up her hands she went over and prepared some hot chocolate, got a glass of milk, and piled them onto a tray with some small supper delights she's seen served with such beverages (well the chocolate not the milk), and made her way out into the main room.

[Andrew] He nodded a bit to Hatchet at the introduction. Was there much need to say more? Not particularly. He wasn't exactly a chatty kathy. With a grunt, he stood slowly, easing himself up. Tilting his head to one side, then the other, working out the kinks in his next.

"I will go upstairs..." Spoken softly to Andrea. He starts shuffling towards the stairs, but at the words, and the tension he senses in them, he keeps his pace intentionally slow. Allowing him to stay close... just in case.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] A moment goes by, reactionless. Perhaps he hadn't heard Andrea.

In that beat: Lukas finishes his current bite of eggs. Sets the fork down. Picks his napkin up. Wipes his mouth. Folds the napkin. Sets it aside.

Then he gets up, crosses the two or three feet between their tables, pulls out a chair at hers, sits down. Settles. And only then, levels his eyes on hers -- if she can meet them.

"Let's discuss this. This is a business, Ms. Locke, correct? You provide services. I provide payment. True, your services are somewhat beyond the mundane. And the price you charge is somewhat lower than the norm. Nevertheless, there is a certain covenant of economy here. Do you agree?

"Now. If you don't want to serve guests past midnight, close the kitchen. If your staff is tired, send them home. If you don't think I'm paying enough, charge me more. I'll deal with it -- or I'll find someplace else.

"But don't think to lecture me. Don't feed me day-old food. And," he leans forward at this -- his eyes glint like gemstones, hard and cold, "do not insult my honor by insinuating that I have somehow taken advantage of your friends, or failed to live up to my role as the guest."

[Hatchet] When Andrea speaks, Hatchet -- looking again at the fire so that he will not look anywhere else -- rolls his eyes and sighs quietly. It is not with disdain, and his head does not move. If Andrea's attention is on him rather than her staff or Andrew or Lukas at the moment, or if anyone, in fact, is looking at him, it is a rather clear Here we go expression that passes over the Philodox's face.

Does he get up to intervene when Lukas goes to sit with Andrea? No. Does he look over and stare? No. Does he get to his feet, rub his hands together, and park his ass in the chair where Lukas was so recently propping up his feet? Oh, indeed. And does he calmly pick up Lukas's fork and deposit a bite of chorizo in his mouth?

...Well, he does have the Litany to fall back on, if he has to. Granted, it would be a horrible misuse of their law, but hungry men do desperate things. Desperate, madcap things. Like stealing a bite of chorizo.

[Andrew] Andrew was almost to the door, and he paused. Turning slowly to look back at the three people by the fire. His eyes widening slightly at the words. And a certain curling of his lips tugging his face into distorted odd shapes. Pulling the flesh off in unusual directions. One hand reached up and pulled the hood of his jacket back to reveal the scar on the top of his head, parting his hair. And he waits there, by the door into the kitchen.

[Armstrong] When she came into the resturaunt proper, she look the opportunity to look around and just take in the smells of the place. Mrena smelled like copper pennies and ice; the brotherhood smelled like hot chocolate and burning wood. And eggs. She started to unwind her scarf, taking note of who was were. What was where; familiar faces near a fireplace. Hatchet. Dances of Fire. Lukas.

Lukas and Andrea. The conversation seemed... She wasn't sure, she hadn't quite heard what was going no, nor did she see it as her place to poke around and find out. Yet. She gave a quick glance in that direction and then went to go get something out of the kitchen. She was thirsty; no point in making someone get her a glass of water.

But then, there was Andrew. She paused and cleared her thorat.

"You thirsty too?"

[Andrea Locke] Andrew stands, speaking to Andrea and she looks over to him, the coolness of her expression temporarily fading and warming as she nods. "Of course. Good night, Andrew. I hope you sleep well -- also there are towels and soap in a big closet in the front room upstairs as well as showers in the back if you like. Be well."

As Andrew leaves, Andreas eyes wander over past Taggart, catching the Here we go again expression -- her lips actually quirk at that, though not in any amount of impishness or real humour but rather from expecting nothing more. Garou never understand. Hell, most kinfolk don't.
That's the whole problem.
[if only from one persons point of view]

At any rate, her attention goes back to Lukas as he finishes chewing, wiping folding -- rises and makes his way over to draw out a seat at her table. Truth be told, the fine hairs on the back of her neck rise up, erect and quivering when Lukas settles himself across from her; some forgotten reaction to the inherent menace a Garou presents. Folly or not, she doesn't drop her gaze, though some amount of tension shows about the eyes silently speaking of the effort it takes. Superhuman she is not.

He speaks of business and she tilts her head again, the ghost of bemusement passing over her features before it flits away, replaced merely by somber attention. Only when he is good and finished does she speak and she picks each word carefully, ennuncating them in that sibilant manner of hers - the traces of her native tongue - still low-spoken.
"Have you ever run a business, Lukas? I don't think you have. If you had you would readily see that I stand to profit nothing, economically speaking, from providing room and board for these guests. Even if everyone did pay as you do - and most of your pack, quite kindly - it would still not cover the expenses. Profit and my economic status is not why I do what I do and is ultimately of no concern to me. I'd be just as happy to board you and your pack if none of you paid."

She rests one arm on the table, hand dangling over the edge, the slight restlessness of her fingers the only body-language that speaks of tension or stress. Her expression is clear and so openly devoid of any great emotion as to be a functional mask.
"Perhaps the problem here is that the very simple and basic terms under which I expect any guests - Garou or Kin - to adhere to while staying here haven't been clearly laid out. I didn't think they would have to be. These kinfolk work here to make a living, to provide for their families and themselves. They work here, primarily, to provide a service for the people who come to eat here in this front room and to do only that. Only on a secondary basic is my staff here to help with caring for any guests upstairs. If people dwelling upstairs wish to come down and have a meal that is on the menu for the day, they are more than welcome to ask for it and receive it. If a guest upstairs is hungry in the middle of the night they are more than welcome to come downstairs and make use of the kitchen so long as they clean up after themselves. And if someone on staff - like Jennifer - is kind enough to go out of her way to ask if one of you would like something special to eat or to make up a meal to provide for those late-night eaters, then that is entirely her prerogative and she is welcome to do it."

Her eyes narrow, the barest fraction, but the motion is there. "But none of them - none - are being paid by you or anyone else to stop what they are doing to see to the demands of a guest upstairs or downstairs. Even the finest restaurants have the right to refuse a special order from a customer. The same is true here, irregardless of who is paying whom. I'm not insinuating anything Lukas. You came downstairs, saw the first kinfolk and told her what you wanted with ever assurance you would not be denied. That is where you took advantage of them and their hospitality, let alone giving a passing thought as to what respect they merit for simply doing what they do. Last time I checked it was one of your Laws to respect even us kin, if only by a modicum. Has that changed in the last decade?"

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas' eyes have narrowed. His nostrils flare with every breath. There is a belt of muscle in his cheek that stands out in the firelight, stark and rigid. He is aware -- sharply, crisply aware -- of everyone in the room, where they have paused, what they are doing. There is adrenaline in his veins, and his temper is edging into him.

Very softly:

"You would give terms to me?
"You dare speak of the Litany -- to me?"

A beat.

"What tribe claims you, Kinwoman?"

[Hatchet] Hatchet looks over as Andrea talks...which is to say, he looks over when she starts talking, as he is chewing his stolen bite of Lukas's eggs as though his totem is the cuckoo and not the weasel. He chews slowly the more he hears, his eyes impassive, until she gets to mention of the law. And then his eyebrows go up.

And then he feels Lukas's pique from mere yards away and takes a deep breath. Hatchet sets down the Shadow Lord's fork neatly on his plate, still cold and thinking that maybe Jenny or whoever else is back there won't bring him his hot cocoa, which is a damn shame. And then he gets to his feet, puts his hands in a stiff Time Out gesture, and gives the kind of sharp whistle meant to corral a team of junior varsity football players who are insulting one another's mamas. It is high pitched, it is brief, and with the deliberate way he rises Hatchet commands -- though does not own -- the room.

"BZZT," he adds to the whistle, creating his own buzzer sound to follow the whistle. "Time the fuck out," he says, with quiet calm after the brashness of the two noises. But he does not speak further. He waits, after saying this, to see if either of them will give him their attention. His hands go to his sides, and his feet stay where they are.

[Armstrong] ...

Nope, looked like she would not be getting a drink now. She looked back to where her beta was sitting and the rather displeased hostess. And at that moment, she just looked on and could do very little. Not fear, not anxiety, not a damned thing was written across her face at that moment. White Eyes waited for the end result of this exchange; a soft, controlled pitch was no less dangerous than screams. She was aware of the tensions, and later had little doubt that she would be aware of the events leading up to this.

And then, it seemed to dawn on her that if this got out of hand, they would not have anywhere to stay. And, not only that, her brain went to a place painted with different reds and golds and she had to spare that sort of composure. Lukas, take a moment to regain composure. Actions taken in offense can not be taken back. Across the spiritual wire. Get people out of each other's sights. Separate corners, come out swinging.

She cleared her throat.

"Ms. Locke, I need to speak to you it's rather important."

There was a definite hint of urgency in her voice, but not exactly for Andrea's sake. More like personal crisis.

[Andrea Locke] "Oddly enough, you're the first to ask."
An undertone. An undercurrent as she steels herself against the increasing Essence of Ahroun that is now permeating the room.
[On my headstone I hope someone thinks to put: Gee... she meant well.]

A beat. A pause.
"I am the niece of Grigore Constaninescu, Storm's Eye, Philodox Athro of the Judges of Doom, liason to of the Sept of the Wailing Cliffs to the Margrave's Sept of the Night Sky." That last is more than enough to tell him her tribe, but she supplies it plainly anyway. Quietly. "Shadow Lord."

She would say nothing more save Armstrong speaks up -- and Andrea nods. "Yes, of course." And rises to go with Armstrong unless Lukas stops her.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Stay where you are." His tone is freezing.

Only afterward does he look at Hatchet -- briefly. And he shakes his head. "I'm afraid, Rhya, that this has become a tribal matter."

It's the first time Hatchet has seen or heard Lukas directly defy convention, duty, and whatever complex ancient law it is he lives by. That said, perhaps the timeout -- and the mental note from his packmate -- has served its purpose nonetheless. The Shadow Lord is not happy -- that is an understatement -- but the sense of impending disaster is, at least for the moment, dispelled. He's staunchly under his own control again.

And, Lukas gets to his feet. And, oddly enough, holds his hand out to Andrea.

"Let's talk. Privately. You too, Mrena."

[Andrea Locke] For a moment, a singular instant, she looks away towards the fire - only Hatchet is in the position really to see the briefest exposure of naked misery that passes over her eyes, tightens the edges of her lips, and even then it is so brief and her face at such an angle that it is hard to say if anyone would pick up on it at all. She certainly doesn't look to anyone as though she is seeking aid.

She turns back to Lukas, composed as ever, though now utterly silent. With the barest of nods she rises, taking the offered hand lightly with only the tips of her fingers - either expecting Lukas will drop his hand away as soon as she rises or not about to help him fully if he chooses to grab it up forcibly.

And [for now] where he goes she will follow.

[Hatchet] He is not so much ignored -- okay, maybe -- as intercepted. By Armstrong by the kitchen and Andrea, and by the revelation that Andrea is a Shadow Lord. His eyebrows are up at that, and he makes a small, stifled noise in his sinuses before plopping back down in the armchair.

Last night he did not intervene between Nessa and Lukas. Because, quite obviously, Nessa is a Shadow Lord and there was nothing to intervene upon, in his eyes. Up until the moment when Andrea revealed her lineage, Hatchet was neither protecting her -- as she is not his -- nor chastising Lukas, for something along the same lines. The situation, with a few words, changed instantly from a matter between a Garou and a Kinfolk and into a matter between, well...Shadow Lords.

And somehow, whether by cowardice or experience, Hatchet knows better than to fuck with Shadow Lord and their Kin. He sits his ass down, and just glances up to nod at Lukas. As far as he is concerned, the Ahroun has not, actually, defied convention. But then, Hatchet himself could be considered somewhat unconventional. Regardless: "I'm gonna eat your chorizo, then, cool? 'Cause otherwise it's just gonna get cold, and go to waste, and there are starving children in Africa and so on."

He gives a small shrug, a feigned look of helplessness, and proceeds to have his way with Lukas's meal.

[Dylan] Meanwhile, In The Kitchen: They say that a watched pot never boils. But it does. Eventually. Dylan has stayed by the stove and the tea-kettle. The water in the tea-kettle finally burbles, merrily; in half-a-second it will whistle. Dylan takes the pot from the stove just before it can whistle, then she pours the water into a mug. The guest has seemed, for the most part, impervious to the ebb and flow of people in the kitchen -- first Sobhain disappears, then Jennifer. Maybe Jennifer has returned. Maybe hot chocolate is in the offing.

Dylan dunks a tea-bag into the mug and lifts her chin to watch slantwise as the tea begins to infiltrate the clear water, staining it darker; then Armstrong's voice -- her true voice; her spiritual voice; her ghost voice -- aches across Dylan's mind. This startles Dylan. She was that caught up in her tea. So, via the totem, Lukas and Armstrong hear: What's going on?

A moment later, Dylan pushes the kitchen door open with her shoulder, mug in both hands. Her expression is perplexed.

[Armstrong] She nodded slightly, taking her hands out of her pockets and then taking the opportunity to unbutton her coat. She slipped her hands behind her back like she was looking through an art gallery. Mrena gave a nod. Tribal business. She was more-than-willing to go wherever she was needed. Suddenly, it became a tribal matter. And White Eyes knew that these sorts of matters were often more complicated than they seemed. This was already a mess.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] As it were, he neither grabs the woman by the wrist nor drops his hand away. He takes her fingers firmly but gently, the way a gentleman might've grasped a lady's hand in a prior century before kissing her knuckles, or leading her to the dance.

It is decidedly not a dance that Lukas leads Andrea to. But there is, perhaps, an echo of that in the way he swings her in a wide arc in front of him. Lets go. Falls in behind her, escorting her back into the kitchen with his packmate and tribemate behind him.

"It's a day old," Lukas reminds Hatchet over his shoulder as the other speaks. His mood makes what might've normally been a mild, easy statement clipped -- though there's strain in his voice, as though he were trying very hard not to let it show. "If you don't care either, have at it."

The kitchen door, then. And Andrew. And Dylan, appearing. Lukas' eyes move to his packmate first. Armstrong can explain.

Then he reaches past Andrea and pushes the kitchen door open.

--

Footsteps on the stairs. Then overhead. Then the sound of one of the dorm-room doors -- most likely Lukas' -- opening and shutting. Not quite slamming; not quite.

--

Inside, Lukas' room is surprisingly spartan. No expensive gadgets, trinkets, gewgaws. No custom furniture he's moved in or out. No pictures, no mess; everything is stashed away in the small closet, or in the small writing desk. Perhaps both of them have seen it, though: one his packmate, the other the hostess and part-time housekeeper of this joint.

There's only one chair, tucked into the desk. He pulls it out, sets it down, and waves Andrea into it. For his part, he goes to the dresser, pulls open the topmost drawer, grabs a shirt at random. Pulling it on, he rolls the hem down to his hips and takes a seat on his neatly-made bed.

"If you had something to say first, Mrena," he says, low, "go ahead. I'm going to brew some coffee."

Correction: there is one small customization in the room. He has a small four-cup coffee machine on the desk.

[Dylan] He needn't push the kitchen door open; Dylan has it well in hand -- or, rather, well in shoulder. Andrea, Armstrong, Lukas: they go. Andrew: also goes? But not upstairs: or maybe upstairs? He goes. Hatchet: feasts on the remainder of the (day old? reh? but why are they eating it, then? is it bad?) food. Dylan gives Lukas a nod. Her gaze rests, briefly, on Armstrong; on Andrea. Then: hey, they're gone. They're all gone.

Except for Hatchet (and maybe Andrew, but since he might be gone, Dylan won't be paying very much attention to him yet). Dylan lets the kitchen door close, finally. "Hey, Hatchet-rhya," she calls, hesitating on the threshold. Her voice is clear, though; clear as the water that's never known tea or blood or cloud. "Mind some company?"

[Hatchet] Hatchet does nothing more than snort. It's a terribly boyish sound, almost a giggle, but he makes it manly by restraining it and having a raspy voice from being too long out in the cold. That is all he has to say to the reminder that the eggs are a day old. He doesn't care. If he'd had anything in his stomach already he might care -- he is not a Bone Gnawer, after all -- but he has not eaten since leaving the Brotherhood early this morning.

Food's food.

There are footsteps going upward and then walking overhead. The door. The rest of it. Hatchet eats faster when he is briefly not under scrutiny, and Lukas's plate is cleaned in moments. He was hungry. He is not ashamed of hunger, or of taking the food of a Cliath. He looks up as he's laying the fork down, finishing chewing his last bite, and lifts his eyebrows at Dylan.

"Only very rarely... and usually if there are repugnant smells involved." He nods at the chair Lukas was occupying. "Come. Sit. We shall be merry. Tra-la. Tra-la," he deadpans.

[Dylan] "Winter took my nose," Dylan replies. Why, she's as serious as a rattlesnake faced with a cowboy's naked ankle and a surfeit of venom, "so if I bring any repugnant smells, you'll have to let me know. I can't f'ing tell." Her teeth aren't chattering anymore, but her cheeks are still roses; the blood is still heated. Before she tra-la-las over, she adds, raising her eyebrows again, "Want anything more from the?" The: she indicates the kitchen with a cant of her head.

[Hatchet] He snaps his fingers, leaning back in his chair. He slouches. Nothing wrong with slouching. Maybe it makes you look lazy, maybe it makes you look stupid, but Hatchet is not terribly concerned with correcting most people's assumptions as to his work ethic or his intelligence, whether those assumptions are based on posture or something else. People, he has learned, are going to think what they think regardless of what he says. It is only through luck, half the time, that any words out of his mouth manage to make a bit of difference to anyone.

At least, that's how he sees it, and he could be wrong. He could be not giving himself much credit. There's truth to it, though: sitting up straight is not really going to make his life much easier in the long run. He's probably going to die long before his spine decides it's sick of his bullshit and is going to tag out when there's no replacement. That's not morbidity; that's reality.

With a shake of his head, he adds a shrug. "Nah. I asked Jenny for some hot cocoa. Which was apparently okay." He pauses and holds up his hands in bewilderment. "And chorizo is not." His hands drop to his thighs. "But I'm good. I get too used to being all comfortable and shit, I may just grow my beard to my knees and call it a life."

[Dylan] "Why is chorizo not?" This is asked as Dylan takes Lukas' chair. She doesn't waste time, not once she has a goal -- say, a chair by the fire, some (potentially full of stories) Fianna companionship, and a first, long-delayed sip of her tea, the scent of which is beginning to make her throat dry, just so she'll be quicker about taking a drink. "What is chorizo?"

Dylan settles easily into place. She doesn't feel uncomfortable, although -- there's something reserved; something contained, composed, that still places Hatchet and Dylan at a remove from one another. She curls up against the chair's arm, tucking one leg beneath her, begins to takea sip of her tea -- and then delays a little longer, in order to shrug out of her jacket, shimmy it off like a swan-maid divesting herself of feathers. Then she takes a sip of her tea, closes her eyes. Smiles.

Opens her eyes, still smiling. "You ever hear the one about Beard Like Waterfall Full Of Danger, Ahroun of the Children of Gaia?" There have been some suck deednames: Beard Like Waterfall Full of Danger must be a contender for some kind've suck deedname award, however.

[Hatchet] In a span of mere moments, Dylan asks three questions, all of which have rather simple answers. Hatchet is opening his mouth after a moment of thought to answer the first, when she chimes in with another. And then she settles into her chair while he is thinking of what he just ate and what was in it and, basically, the answer to the second question.

And she has her eyes closed while she sips, so he does not speak. He is about to, when she opens them, and asks him if he knows a story. Hatchet closes his mouth, closes his eyes and opens them in a slow blink, and lifts an eyebrow at her. The Look only lasts a moment, and then he takes a breath. He stops before speaking, looking at her again as though to check and see if she has another question ready to go, and when it appears that she does not, he decides it's safe to go on:

"I don't do this often," he says mildly, sounding a bit drowsy, "because I am just about the shiniest bubble in bathtub -- I don't know why," he sighs, planting his elbow on the chair's arm and draping his fingers around his jaw when he plants chin in palm, "maybe my mumsy and daddy beat me and I'm desperate for everybody's approval or something -- but here's the thing.

"Today I spent...oh, about ten hours...wandering around the city in below-freezing temperatures wearing these dashing and cold-weather-appropriate threads that you see me in now." His free hand, as he says this, performs a lazily slow flourish, indicating his hips to his face. "Now I know you're a Galliard, and you really seem very perky -- which is charming, don't get me wrong -- but one of the handful of things I do not have in common with the stereotypical Fianna is a ravenous hunger for the tales and history of our kind."

Our kind. He does not mean the Fianna. At least not in this case.

Hatchet holds up a finger. "I don't want you to think that I avoid them, not at all." He wags the finger pointedly, then drops his hand again. "I just don't have an ever-present insatiable thirst, you see what I mean?" Of course she does, he apparently thinks, because he goes on: "On another night, under other circumstances, I would tell you the story of how I received my name and I would ask you for the tale, or joke, or whatever 'the one' about Beard Like Waterfall Full of Danger is. I would do this gladly and we could share some cheese and it'd be awesome.

"Tonight, however," he says rather heavily, "I am praying that I may forget these matters that with myself I too much discuss...too much explain." The words ring with quotation, before the tone drops. "Tonight I am tired and everything in me -- everything I am, you see -- is chilled and exhausted by more than December. Tonight, Dying Light, I could do with the quiet company of another wolf. I know I said we would be merry...but if you will simply sit with me awhile, without questions and without stories, I would consider it a kindness."

That last. That last is sincere. Almost painfully so. The man looks all right, but he sounds drained.

"Though," he adds a moment later, "if you can sing, and you would not mind, a little music would be kindness, too."

[Dylan] You've gotta understand this: Dylan doesn't sound at all offended. When Hatchet began to speak, she listened. Her listening skills are prodigious, in some cases; in others, they're not so good. But when Hatchet began to speak? She listened, and she continued to listen. The smile went crescent moon, knocked askew, when he called her perky. You see what I mean? he says, and she opens her mouth --

And shuts it again. She shifts her weight, shifts her position; both feet on the floor, elbows on her knees, mug held loosely so the steam can touch her cheeks. Head's tilted, low; canted to the side, so she's regarding him more out've the one eye then the other.

When he's done -- when he's really done, drained and sincere and tired -- well. For a second, there it is again: perplexedment, a shadow 'cross her clarity of her gaze; then it's gone. Pushed aside. The question she'd've asked (where is your pack? why don't you go to them?) she swallows. Instead, rueful:

"Well. That's a shame, Hatchet," she says, "And I won't lie to you; I enjoy telling the stories, I do. But it's really a shame because the point of his is basically: don't grow your beard so long you trip over it all the time, and also, long beards are really, really ugly and kind've hard to maintain. Then again, I guess I could've said: did you read that GQ article?"

A beat. Then the Glass Walker sets her tea down and stretches out of her chair. You'd think: oh no. Maybe he has offended her oh so traditional galliard sensibilities; certainly, some of the more traditional Fianna galliards would've walked away from Hatchet, no time to be wasted on melancholy, even though it had its place. But what Dylan decides to do is sit herself on Hatchet's armchair, the curve of her hip near his arm or his shoulder, her leg shading almost into his space -- but not. She's quite conscious of that, of boundaries.

"My throat's kind've dry," she says, "But I can manage a lullaby. And when that fails, I have ipod. Hear this."

And she will give him a lullaby, quiet but not sad.

[Hatchet] He does not mean to offend; and she is not offended. This is good, this keeps them on a level playing field when in many other respects they would not be. It would be inaccurate to say they 'understand' one another -- they have only spoken twice, including this time, and on both occasions weariness or a bus to catch has stepped in and interrupted. Tonight it's weariness, which does not have headlights, and the fact that tonight he seems to have to little to give does not necessarily give her any more understanding of who he is.

You'd think he'd be more careful. He knows full well that Dylan is the Galliard of the Unbroken Circle, that her loyalty is to Shadow Lords and Silver Fangs and Edward, and should the two ever butt heads again in some public arena it is entirely likely that she might use whatever perceived weakness on his part she can ferret out as fuel for the fire they burn him on. Maybe he should be more guarded, though that would take some doing considering how little about himself he actually reveals even in an extensive soliloquy.

Yet instead of keeping his cards close to his chest when he speaks to Edward's Beta, he tells him he would be glad to call him his brother and asks him how he actually feels about the Bellamontes. Instead of arguing with Armstrong, he smiles cheekily at her. Instead of ignoring Sam, he asks him for a favor and thanks him even when it comes in the midst of a brief struggle for dominance. Instead of...okay, well, he provokes the hell out of Katherine when he can, but the man isn't a saint.

And instead of playing along and twisting the conversation to get information out of Dylan, he asks for companionship outside of his own pack, and he welcomes a lullabye.

This may be why she, like Lukas, has said aloud that it's hard to know what to make of him. And why doesn't he go to his own pack? Where are they? Is he melancholy or just tired? Would a Fianna Galliard scoff at him and walk off or write a poem about his brooding eyes and how they look like stormclouds and blah blah blah...

He gives her a smile when she pops in a question about GQ. It grows for a moment into a small grin. He does not go gazing into the fire. He watches Dylan get up and walk over, which is unexpected but not to the point that he rejects it. The physical closeness, to humans, would mean something entirely different than it does when she sits down. Hatchet looks up, leaning his head back.

When I was just a little girl, I asked my mother...

He smiles again, the slow grin returning. He knows this song. And after the first round, he joins her on the chorus, his singing voice rough tonight but warming slowly with the welcome heat of the room. The way Hatchet speaks, especially when he is speaking Spanish to Sol or Andrea, you would imagine him to be a baritone, if not a base. When he sings, however, his voice is an agile, resonant tenor. The man does have that in common with so many members of his Tribe: he can fucking sing.

...whatever will be, will be...