dominance.

[Armstrong] The ritual was complete. It was assured that it was nice to meet her, she said that the pleasure was hers. It was a given that she enjoyed the brief company, or maybe they just said these things because they were the things that were expected to say. It was ritual.

But Mrena saw no purpose in ritual without meaning. She found it insulting, and yete she indulged in these common courtesies. Maybe she intended on giving them meaning. A that point was being polite a meaningless gesture.

"... where are you staying?"

[Nessa] *Leaves*

[Nessa] (HAHAHAH! tecate rocks!)

[Matthias] "We have a place in the city. Not too far."

Matthias then moves, letting his eyes follow Nessa for a short while before taking a seat in an unoccupied chair at a comfortable conversing distance. He shrugs...

"Good enough."

He thinks for a few moments, then asks a question of his own.

"How long have you been in this city?"

[Armstrong] "The Umbroken Circle has been here for, roughly, two months now. We came in December," she said. Spoke in terms of we and not I. Because, realisitically, how much of Mrena was herself and how much was her pack?

They had been eight when they had arrived, and now they were seven. It was a familiar feeling, really. She was, again, the only theurge, and while her position as spiritual advisor to the pack was not disputed, it was pressure. It was a challenge.

"Why did you come here? What does Chicago have that you desire, or what do you desire to give to Chicago?"

[Matthias] Matthias' eyes take on a somewhat haunted look, a weary look, as he contemplates the answer to her question. Then, his deep bass rumble answers after a long moment of silent consideration.

"A fresh start."

[Armstrong] His eyes were haunted, hers were haunting. Something she had been named for in more than a spiritual sense. She looked at him, and despite that critical air, there was always a degree of curiousity. She would always, always want to know. IT was just who she was.

a pause.

"Where were you before?"

[Matthias] Matthias' haunted look leaves his face as he smiles amusedly; nonetheless, the look never entirely leaves his eyes.

"Ask Zeke."

Then, raising a curious brow, he returns the question.

"Where were you before?"

[Armstrong] It was funny, really, how much one look did, or did not say. She pushed some of her hair back out of her face; White Eyes was just too comfortable with her body, too comfortable with the company she was keeping. It was a quiet self-assurance. Mrena knew what she was, and had spent too long denying and fighting. Maybe that's where the confidence came from.

"The likelihood of Zeke telling me anything straight is slim at best," she said. Acknowledgement, yes, and then a continuation of conversation. "And I came from Boston."

[Matthias] Matthias nods, his expression returning to the stern neutral that seemed to be his regular expression. Then, after a moment's consideration, he answers her original question in part...

"Minnesota was my home."

His eyes grow distant, as the claw on the leather thong about his neck seemed all too noticeable all of a sudden. Perhaps he was lost in some silent musing, perhaps memory, perhaps not... Regardless, whatever-it-was lasts a mere moment, no longer. The steel grey eyes return to alertness all too quickly.

[Danicka Musil] Some decisions take hours to make. Most others are made in a span of seconds. They aren't even counted because they come so quickly, so easily. Caramel or Vanilla. Yes or no. Look or touch. Stay or go. And others take more time, if you have that luxury.

Danicka has a lot of luxury. Silk. Diamonds. Technology. Her apartment, the items in it. She has no apparent Garou brothers or sisters to make demands of her time and funds, her attention and energy. She lives in a gorgeous high-rise building all but made of glass, with King in the name. No one here knows what she drives, though a few have heard that right now she is not currently employed...and yet apparently is not hurting for cash.

It is a silver BMW convertible that pulls into a slanted spot at the Brotherhood. It's a woman in a black leather jacket, a knitted scarf with no fringe, and suede gloves that exits said car. At least it isn't snowing. Her straightened hair is loose, the heels on her boots bringing her up to about 5'8". She's wearing the same thing she was at the coffee shop earlier, and if she were a completely different sort of person, she might be muttering to herself as she walks towards the back door of the Brotherhood. She is not the sort of person to talk to herself. So she hunches against the wind, walks quickly, and releases a sigh of relief when she is inside the kitchen and the door is closing behind her.

[Erick Wujcik] (( Places?))
to Armstrong, Danicka Musil, Matthias, Sam Modine, Wyrmbreaker

[Matthias] ((Upstairs))

[Erick Wujcik] *A tall figure decended form the El platform a block away and headed down the street towards the Brotherhood. Glancing over his shoulder now and then, Erick shuffeled across the ice and though the snow.

He was tall, at a little over 6'5". Not huge and muscle bound, nor skinny or lanky. Just nicely porportioned tall young man.

Tonight he was dressed... DIFFERENTLY. Same ol sneakers with one strip of neon green duct tape mending a tear, but there were new black cargo pants, a navy blue sweater, and over it a brand spanking new German cammo jacket with pockets out the wazoo~! Even it's wazoo had pockets! The hood was up as he approached the pub and glanced around, sniffing the air*

[Armstrong] (brb!)

[Wyrmbreaker] "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Friendly tonight, Lukas. And in the kitchen, sitting at the breakfast table. Staff table. Whatever the fuck you want to call it.

Sitting there, regardless. He has the remains of a lamb rack in front of him: nothing but bones. And a glass, empty. And a bottle of whisky, mostly empty.

His eyes are sharp but glazed: rage and inebriation, a war.

[Danicka Musil] [Willpower]

[Erick Wujcik] *Opening the front door the tall man stepped in and closed it behind him. Keeping the hood up he headed across the bar and though he slowed to look at the pastry counter, he didn't see anyone overly interesting down stairs. So he slipped though the doors and ascended. Slowing as he neared the top of the steps. Listening as he rose to the second level*

[Sam Modine] Sam Modine on the other hand doesn't have much in the way of luxury. One of the few luxury items he owns is currently in his hands. A baseball, weatherbeaten and with more than one seam coming loose is tossed nearly to the ceiling from the bed. A hand, larger than any human since prehistory catches it firmly and repeats the process. The shirtless form cranes across the bed to the small stand between his and Sampson's sleeping areas and reads the screen of his simple single piece cellular phone. He seems unhappy with the time and picks it up fully, laying back down flat. A thumb flips to the last made call, a name doubled at the top of the list then floats over the call button.

He sets the phone back down.

The Modi instead swivels about deftly, setting his feet on the floor and trotting to the door, past the half empty bottle of cheap whiskey on the nightstand that's long worked it's way through his system. By the time he makes it through the door he's simply a man again, albeit one brimming with rage under the hood of an over-large sweatshirt. He limps just slightly, the product of a calf wound, now under severe bandaging. The Modi makes his way through the shared bathroom and the common area, giving Mrena only a glance and an unspoken acknowledgement and heads down to the kitchen, looking presumably for something to eat.

[Danicka Musil] She manages not to let out a shriek, and she manages not to clap her hand over her mouth, and she manages not to jump. What Danicka cannot muster at the moment, however, is concealing the fact that she jerks, that she takes a sharp, truncated breath in through her mouth when Lukas's voice hits her. It takes less than that breath for her to go still, to keep her shoulders from staying hunched. They round down, as though she was startled and is actually relieved to see him, to see that it's just him, rather than some murderous monster coming out of the --

-- so of course it's a lie, that relaxation of her body language as she turns to look at him. Danicka unzips her coat, revealing the sweater she had on at the coffee shop. She exhales. "Looking for you," she says, somewhat breathless from the cold.

[Matthias] Matthias' eyes move to the stairwell for a moment, before returning to Mrena. Then, as Sam Modine moves through, steel gray eyes move to catch the blur of motion for just a moment before returning to the stairwell.

His hand makes a few idle seeming motions in that direction, slow enough to be dismissed as a stretch...

[Erick Wujcik] *The tall man steps out of the stairwell just in time to dodge Sam barreling though and down. A bit of a snort and shake of the head.

Pausing there, his hands rose to flip the hood on the jacket back. Each hand having an ultra dark black tattoo of a Barcode on the back and palm. Glancing around he smiled, headin' over to Matthias and Armstrong* Good evening.

*There's a bit of a bounce in his step and he seemed in a good mood*

[Wyrmbreaker] "Really now."

That's the same tone: what world do you live in?

He watches her. The kitchen is not dark, but it's not bright either. There's a light on over the stove. The exit sign glows red. And there's light filtering down from the stairs, the porthole in the free-hinged doors to the restaurant proper.

Whatever he had worn under his overcoat earlier, she did not see. What he wears now, though: a pullover, thin, ribbed, longsleeved, fitted. Dark. And his jeans: dark. And his hair: dark. And his eyes: pale, glittering, throwing back what light there is.

His arms are folded at the edge of the table, his weight leaning forward; his feet drawn up on the bar-style stool. The effect is predatory, like a raptor on a scarp, a mountain cat drawn in to pounce. Then he moves, unfolds one arm, refills his glass.

"Sam's upstairs," he says; dismissive, uninflected.

[Matthias] Matthias nods, his gaze moving to take in Barcode's new clothing. A blond brow raised curiously, before a low bass rumble asks the question upon his mind.

"Nice clothes... Go shopping?"

Matthias' head tilts curiously, giving them a second look.

[Erick Wujcik] *The tattooed hands smooth down over the new clothes and he beams* Um.... Something like that. I.... er.....
*Looking down* I do so exist on the charity and kindness of others.

You like?

*A nod of the head* Miss White eyes. Twice in one day. What will people think?

[Danicka Musil] She has many a black coat, but few black clothes. Danicka is usually seen in soft colors, about as pale as her eyes. Stark white seems to suit her; dark green is absolutely lovely. Cream makes her cheeks seem to blush. She starts to unwind the scarf from around her neck, shaking her hair off her neck and holding it in one hand. She hasn't moved towards the stairs, or away from the door, or towards the table, but she isn't looking away from Lukas.

No way. "And?"

One has to give her a little credit: she sounds confused, literally bewildered, rather than annoyed. Either she really has no idea what he means, or she's a moron. He's started to build up his opinion either way...or found some other option. "I just said I was looking for you," she says.

Now she moves, walking across the kitchen, winding around the stands in the dark til she stands at the other end of the staff table. She sets the scarf down so she can take off her gloves, slipping them into the pockets of her open jacket.

[Armstrong] She had been in her thought bubble, unable to really say much for the time being. She was, at her core, a social creature. There had to be others around, whether she was intending on interacting with them or not. Her reasons, however, were her own. There would always be some doubt as to whether or not her intentions were pure in surrounding herself with others. You never knew who could be useful. You never knew who could be a contact.

Minnesota was Matthias's home. Boston had been her's.
"Do you miss it?"

A question she had asked her packmate, once. Though, not the correct one. He had replied by not really answering, but ending it. Boston had not been Sam's home, either. And maybe, for a moment, she attempted this as a social experiment, to determine something of Fenrir. Were they all painfully honest? Were they all duty bound and driven?

Sam came by, she gave him a little smile, a half nod. He limped down the stairs and she watched him go. She looked back at her company.

[Matthias] Matthias simply shrugs at Mrena's question. Though his eyes do go distant again, remembering, as he speaks.

"The past cannot be quickened by mere desire. What was is gone. What is... Is all that remains."

Then, his eyes snap back to the present as Barcode asks his approval.

Matthias nods, then his eyes narrow warily. The low bass rumble is cautious...

"I'd like to know whose..."

Another slow hand sign, that seems a non-chalant stretch.

[Erick Wujcik] *A bit of a smile and a roll of his shoulders* Maybe I'm just that gooooood lookin'. Someone in this pack needs to be.

What are we missing or not missing? *Glancing between the two his hands dip into his pockets*

[Armstrong] And there was her answer.

She looked at Matthias and smiled a little, letting the look of satisfaction cross too innocent features for a moment. They both knew it was a lie, an accident of birth. That she was no child, nor something as pristine as she presented herself. The theurge gave a little nod, looking at those gathered.

"Don't stay up too late," she said.

[Sam Modine] The Modi emerges from the stairwell, a pillar of breeding and of Rage less restrained than one is used to seeing, even in full moons. His will is still sapped from myriad events near the week's opening but his Rage oh that's taken little time at all to replenish itself to considerable strength. The hood over his head almost completely obscures the features that mark him as only the latest in a long line of heroes from view. The considerable length of his frame strides with just a bit less effort than earlier in the day across the kitchen though still he does have a marked hobble every few steps.

It doesn't take very many of those steps before he stops dead.

One of the presences he already knew would be waiting down here. The other hits him as a familiar smell, intimately familiar it assaults his nostrils. A single hand reaches up slowly, his index and middle fingers taking the worn purple cotton between them rolling it back in the slow reveal of a long golden mane. His hair pools around the oversized hood and down about his neck, cool blues eyes turn on the both of them.

Things it would seem just got a little more interesting.

"What're you doing here?" If it isn't just the kinfolk that feels like they're being questioned there may be a reason for that.

[Matthias] Matthias laughed, a low rumbling peal, as Barcode mentioned being the good looking one in the pack. He nods, genuine mirth crossing his features.

"The past... Home."

Matthias shrugs.

"The lady is right. I should go."

[Wyrmbreaker] "And since when," Lukas says, cold, "do Shadow Lords bow to the whims of their kin?"

It's not like him to play power games like this. It's not like him to be so fucking petty, and some distant part of his mind is disgusted. Then Sam comes down the stairs. Lukas stands up, grabbing the whisky bottle in one hand, the glass in the other. Which is empty again. Had he drank that? It had been instinct, the urge to drown what he might've said otherwise --

Why don't you fuck him in the shower this time. Save Andrea the cleanup.

-- had he not.

"Sam, let's talk later." There's little indication what about. Could be the kinwoman. Could be the hunt tomorrow. Because they did have that: a fucking hunt, tomorrow, while he sat down in the kitchen getting shitfaced. On that note he starts up the stairs.

[Erick Wujcik] *Erick paused and raised a brow at Armstrong's ignoring of his presence, absently he ponders tripping her to see if she'd notice that*

GOOD EVENING MISS ARMSTRONG.

*A bright smile offered as she seemed about to go. One of the tattooed hands even came out of the pocket to wave cheekily*

[Matthias] ((Sorry folks... I'm starting to fall asleep on you here.))

[Danicka Musil] From where she is standing, Danicka can see the stairwell, but there isn't a lot of light over there. She quails. The firelight is behind Lukas, making him all the more just a dark sillhouette with glittering blue eyes, but it hits her around the edges of where Lukas's shadow falls. It makes her hair brighter, her eyes thin rings of green around wide pupils. When there are footsteps coming down the stairs she turns her head to look, quickly, feeling more than seeing.

There's no answer for Sam and no answer for Lukas's pseudo-question. Just a tension that is not quite as easily sensed as Rage, and: "Lukas, please stay."

Fear.

[Matthias] ((I'll fade Matthias here; we'll say he made his way to the door without incident.

Night everyone))

[Sam Modine] "Christ..." His brow furrows, lower lip twitches inward, outward, riding the tops of teeth. "Look, I'll leave." He jerks a thumb to the refridgerator. "I only came down for a sandwich," The large man's shoulders fall, palms turning upward and out from his body.

"I know," He's only looking at Danicka right now. Lukas, however dangerously is being ignored for now. "I'm a huge jerk and if you wanted to talk to me you'd have picked up the phone when I called." The rising crescendo of pace but not tone comes to a halt when he makes a conclusion that mirror's the statement's thesis. "I get it. I'm sorry."

At this point his palms find a hiding spot in the pouch of his shirt.

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas doesn't even slow. He climbs the stairs to the second floor, turning sideways to let Matthias past him. He has enough courtesy for that.

His pale regard sweeps the common area as he comes up into it. He catches sight of Mrena; Erick.

"If you have healing talens," this is addressing the former, "Sam could probably use one."

[Erick Wujcik] *Erick turned and raised his brows.* I am gifted with healing touch. If your packmate requires it, I'm happy to share....

*His twice tattooed hands open in a universal motion of offering*

[Danicka Musil] One is placating, almost contrite, and she is literally taking a step back as he moves his hand to jerk at the fridge. Danicka's boot taps on the bare floor as she does so, watching him but not staring. Meanwhile, the Garou she actually came her to speak with -- the one she all but pled with to stay when she saw Sam -- has taken his whiskey and gone home, even if that home is just upstairs.

He's a huge jerk.

The woman at the table, scarf there and gloves in hand, takes a deep breath and gives him a nod. "I understand," she says, calmly enough.

[Wyrmbreaker] (folks, mindy's mouse is broken. she may be very slow.)

[Sam Modine] "Look." He offers exasperated. "Can we you know..." He leans back against the wall, grimacing and moving his foot up off the ground for a moment.

"Sorry. Can we try the talking thing again?" Lower lip is squeezed gently between teeth. "I can't possibly mess it up any worse than I did before right?" His hands reappear to wipe the hair from his face.

"If not it's cool."

[Armstrong] (I'm back on the laptop, it could go at any second)

[Wyrmbreaker] (LOL, oh man.)

[Wyrmbreaker] (well, if you don't post in 10 min, i'ma just jump order!)

[Armstrong] She had been so ready to let loose a stream of insults, derisive sweet tones and disgustingly perfect smiles to the Bone Gnawer. But then? Then, Lukas was talking and her Beta took precedence over her own desire to be... catty was not the correct term.

"Well, I'm more-than-willing to use a talen, but... Sam?" she called back, eyeing Erick for a moment. She weighed the pros and cons for a moment. "Would you like for me to help you, or him?"

One won't exhaust our resources, and he seems... eager to please.

[Danicka Musil] The way the kitchen is set up, Danicka would have to walk past the wash station and fridge to get to the alley entrance. Sam would get to her first. She might be able to skirt the staff table and go out the door to the dining room, but she knows where the front door is from there: Sam would get there first, would cut her off. And she knows better than to run. That doesn't always make anyone not run, though, the knowledge that it's going to provoke instincts better left undisturbed. The knowledge that you can't ever, really, get away.

Her other foot slides back, taps against the floor. Knowing not to run doesn't mean she doesn't keep moving out of his range. The conflict inside of her doesn't reflect on her face. Not in her eyes. Certainly not in her voice. She looks like she's shifting on her feet, the better to turn towards him, to give him her attention.

"To be honest," she says -- with some embarrassment, even -- "I don't really know what happened at the coffee shop." A little laugh.

[Wyrmbreaker] His eyes flicker to Erick, sharp and precise as a hawk's.

Only not quite so sharp, nor so precise. There's a looseness to his joints; a quickening of his pulse; a faint flush to his cheeks, all of which indicates a not-inconsiderable amount of liquor in his blood.

Not to mention, the whisky bottle in his hand. Three-quarters of the way drained. And the empty glass in his other hand, alcohol tears streaking the sides.

"Thanks," he says, polite, "but I'm going to have to decline. My packmate's Fenrir, a warrior to the bone. He won't accept it from a stranger, I think." A pause. "Lukas Wyrmbreaker. Cliath Shadow Lord Ahroun. I've seen you here before, I think -- the night the lights went out?"

[Danicka Musil] [Perception + Empathy]

[Erick Wujcik] *Erick nodded* I was at the bottom of the stairs that evening. Nice to meet ya formally. I'm Erick Wujcik. Known as Barcode... and if you won't be needin' a hand. I think I'm gonna catch up with Matt. He might buy me a chilli dog.

Nice to meet cha man.

*Stepping infront of Armstrong the 6'5" man bent and smiled to her* Good evening ma'am.

*There was no way she didn't see him. A nod and he headed for the stairs. Waving one hand, the dark black barcode tattoo standing out aginst his pale skin* Take it easy folks.

[Wyrmbreaker] "Matt's your packmate?" -- a quick question, as Barcode is moving to leave.

[Armstrong] Her beta had spoken, and with that the theurge continued on her way to her room to retrieve whatever wares she had. Mrena had put them together, grouped and ordered and categorized for reference purposes and ease of finding things. But?

The other theurge stepped infront of her. And her face was nothing more than innocence and too perfect smiles. All teeth, little mirth.

With that, the theurge didn't move. Let Erick make his way where it need be and went off to retrieve whatever talen she had been looking for to help her packmate out.

[Erick Wujcik] *Looking over his shoulder to Wyrmbreaker* One of them. Yeah. I'm the pretty one. He breaks shit. You know how it goes.

[Wyrmbreaker] The corner of Lukas' mouth tilts up -- a sort of lackluster smile, all told. The other was leaving; truth be told, Lukas didn't really want the company anyway. "See you, Barcode."

You're leaving too? This, to Mrena as he takes up his usual place on the sectional, setting his bottle and his glass down on the coffee table before him.

[Erick Wujcik] *A warm smile, no teeth, that could be mistaken for aggression or challenge, was offered and he waved again* Later.

*Then he was down the stairs. Entering the kitchen he looked to Sam and Danicka. Paused for a second, then waved and headed on out.

NOT. HIS. BUSINESS. And that looked like a seirous conversation*

[Sam Modine] "It's okay." His nose prickles up slightly, his voice hangs a little, almost imperceptibly on the last syllable. It's so quick even her ears, long trained for it can pick it up as something similar to fear, but well removed. A distant emotional cousin, perhaps. Guilt.

"Listen." He begins. "I'm not looking to settle down." His head turns on the wall so he's looking at her again. "If that's what you're worried about." Hands settle again into the pouch in front of him, asi if he were suddenly cold. "If that's what you're worried about." Turn again, speaking almost exclusively to the wall. "I do like being around you though. So if we could you know..." He'd started speaking without a true end in mind to the statement and he lets it stay that way, perhaps hoping she'll pick up the cue and help pick up some of the dropped words.

[Sam Modine] ((erg. C&P error when I was reorganizing that. Ignore the repeat phrase))

[Danicka Musil] At her side, hidden in the dark and the shadows, her hands curls into a fist, rounded and polished fingernails digging into her palm. She listens, better than one might think she would considering how much of a pooch screw this became.

She'll consider the irony of the moniker later.

"I'm not worried," she says mildly, sounding almost arch with amusement. Her head shakes, straightened hair shifting across her shoulders and the back of her leather coat. "I think...it might just be best if we spent some time apart." Her eyebrows lift apologetically. "I shouldn't have tried to talk to you about this today, knowing you'd gotten hurt."

[Armstrong] No, she started. He could hear her rummaging through drawers before one finally shut. The rustle of papers, then, and the movement of pillows. I just have to find that talen before I forget.

There was a pause, the theurge started her return, sketchbook in hand and messenger bag tucked over one shoulder and under an arm. Conserving resources. Rapture... how do you think tomorrow will go? "What are you drinking?"

Two conversations, but her eyes had traveled to the coffee table before they had traveled back to Lukas.

[Wyrmbreaker] It can wait. The talen. He's busy right now.

"Royal Lochnagar." Reminded, he refills his glass; then he holds it up to her, the lamplight resonant through the amber liquid. "Try it."

It's scotch whisky, strong but mellow, with a distinctive earthy aftertaste. He watches her drink, smirks if she coughs; takes the glass back and drains whatever remains.

It should be fine, as long as Sam's in good shape and focused on what we need to do. A pause. I met the Fianna Theurge today. Sebastian. I told him about the expedition. He might be along.

[Sam Modine] "I get hurt a lot." He shrugs and moves his foot on the wall again. "It's the job."

He swallows. "Time apart's fine," He laughs out loud, almost deliriously. Uncontrollably. "I just want to know if I call you next week or next month," the irony that two are the same probably won't ever hit him. "That you're going to pick up." Samuel Modine is few things, and that's fine by him. It's a fact that keeps things simple, uncomplicated, framed into a pragmatic perspective. One of those few things is earnest. He goes out of his way quietly to be honest, to be honorable. She'd never believe half an hour ago he was cursing himself quietly and tossing a baseball at the ceiling for his own ethical slip earlier in the day.

"You might not've noticed that outside of them," his hands inside the pocket hop toward the ceiling to emphasize his meaning. "I don't get to socialize much. I can't really." People run, the curse they call it. But to someone like Sam, brought up away from Caerns and Garou and the trappings of the supernatural a human community is something not easily given up. "Hell," His cheeks flush red and his incisor grinds against his bottom teeth, scratching his jaw back and forth. "Until this week not one of them had ever even seen me on a date."

[Armstrong] She took a position nearby on the couch; Lukas had his space, but she had hers and wasn't sitting on the floor.

Mrena was comfortable. She took the glass, inspecting the color like only an artist would. The lady took a drink of it, letting it stay in her mouth for a moment. She swallowed and then handed it back; his smirk would be shelved for another time. Mrena didn't cough; and she did hand it back. Either she had developed a taste for whiskey or she had developed a tollerence for things that should (and would, in a few glasses) knock her square on her ass. "Where'd you get it?"

The name sounds familiar, she said. Business came and went, and she seemed to have no problem holding both conversations at once. If he may be along, we could use another theurge. If he's not, fine either way. What were your impressions of him?

[Danicka Musil] [Willpower // +2 (Flaw)]

[Wyrmbreaker] "This bottle?" Wyrmbreaker looks at the emptied glass; he's lost track of how many he's had. That's the thing about rage. No matter what you feed it, it burns right through it sooner or later: like a chemical fire, unquenchable. You can only wait for it to burn itself out. "Andrea's bar.

"My father got me my first bottle, though. When I passed my Rite of Passage." A tick of silence. "That's the last time I saw my folks, come to think of it."

I haven't formed any. The dual conversation continues. We were in a cafe. Lots of humans around. We had to speak in riddles, and he didn't stay long. He didn't piss me off, if that's what you mean.

[Wyrmbreaker] -- speaking, Lukas stretches out lengthwise along the couch. Pillows his head on the arm; kicks his shoes off and stretches his feet out to the far end.

[Danicka Musil] Danicka takes a deep, careful breath, and lets it out slowly. Sam can't know, but the list of things she wouldn't believe is far shorter than the list of things she's willing to consider. Sam can't know a lot. Like why she's taking that deep breath, why her fingernails are digging all the harder into her palm now as she counts internally to ten. This is happening before he gets to You might not've noticed, but it has to happen again when he goes on.

"Well, I suppose it's understandable," she says patiently, slowly, to all of that. "...But as for calling me, how about we just see what happens? I don't think this will be the last time we see each other. Maybe just...let it be for now?"

Let me be?

She's already nodding as she says this, a subtle social cue to agree with her.

[cricket] (*peers* is everyone here going to bed in minutes?)
to Armstrong, Danicka Musil, first aid kit, Sam Modine, Wyrmbreaker

[Sam Modine] "Sure." He frowns when he says it but the tone, the delivery is all resignation. "I'm should go upstairs." His lips press together and he rolls his head to look at her again, his face almost pressing on the wall behind him. "And unless you brought that change of clothes maybe you ought to do the same."

His body raises off the wall and again his foot hits the floor, some of his weight suddenly balanced on it. "Sonofa-" it's screamed but not physically. All Danicka can discern is a sharp intake of breath and the young man's face pulling inward as though he's just eaten a lemon whole. He manages though after a few seconds to right himself, even bear himself better than he'd managed walking out on her earlier.

"We cool?"

[Wyrmbreaker] (i got about an hour left in me :D)

[Sam Modine] "Sure." He frowns when he says it but the tone, the delivery is all resignation. "I'm should go upstairs." His lips press together and he rolls his head to look at her again, his face almost pressing on the wall behind him. "And unless you brought that change of clothes I'm assuming you aren't doing the same."

His body raises off the wall and again his foot hits the floor, some of his weight suddenly balanced on it. "Sonofa-" it's screamed but not physically. All Danicka can discern is a sharp intake of breath and the young man's face pulling inward as though he's just eaten a lemon whole. He manages though after a few seconds to right himself, even bear himself better than he'd managed walking out on her earlier.

"We cool?"

[Armstrong] (I've got an hour and a half left!)

[Sam Modine] ((the second, not the first. minor correction))

[Armstrong] It was easy to lose track. One became another and became another. Whiskey, women, battles, tactics, days. It was amazing how so many of these things could blend together. At first, one keeps track. By the end of a long, hard road (in the case of an Ahroun, maybe a few years) they all blended together. You remembered the ones that were important. The first bottle, the third blonde- the one that damned near tore your arm off. You remembered the important ones.

A wretched few remembered them all. They were to be revered, but never envied. We digress.

"Has it been that long?" she asked. Though, the real question came shortly thereafter. "What are they like?"

They. His folks. What were they like? Did he know what sort of vicarious pleasure she took in learning about other people's families? The pack had to have known. at first she had watched Gabriella and Katherine and Edward interact with a sort of quiet fascination. Had caught observed Sampson and his wives. Had tried desperately to fight the urge to listen to half conversations her packmates had with distant relatives. But, we ramble.

that's better than others have done, should be an interesting place to prove his metal should we see him tomorrow. Probably for the best that it was brief should there have been so many humans.

[Danicka Musil] A couple of days ago she sat with someone in deep distress, so tormented he could not speak, and she had held his hand and then she had held him, while heavy tears poured onto her skin through her tank top. She had left him with a blanket, a glass of water. For nine years she watched over a child, from elementary school until the brink of adulthood. She was there in the morning. She was there at night. She stroked hair, she sang songs. She guided, she taught, she was gentle and warm and is still beloved. Before Sam fell asleep she touched his hair and pushed a sweat-dampened lock off his forehead, and earlier today and just a few minutes ago she expressed concern for the fact that he's injured.

It would be a mistake to think that she lives her life like this, that the welfare of others is her pulse and air rather than the less-vital (perhaps) bread and butter. It would also be a mistake to think that she is not somewhat nurturing, that she doesn't care. Then again, with how much she gives (with supple confusions) and yet how little that is in comparison to how much is withheld, how could someone like Sam ever begin to know that a moment ago she was more likely to slap his face, grab his jaw, and snap at him than she was to reach out and give him a comforting embrace?

She touched his hair. She ran her thumb over his cheek.

Danicka smiles slightly when he mentions a change of clothes. It's a reference to something she said earlier when they had coffee; she just gives a small huff of laughter and an accepting nod. And when he almost swears she tenses, but his attention is on his leg rather than her for at least a spare second. Long enough for her to breathe, to calm. One might think she'd wince for him, grimace in shared pain, run over and help him walk up, but she doesn't. She has her moment and she takes it to relax...enough that when she nods in response to his question, it's believable.

"Sure."

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas laughs under his breath -- there hasn't been a lot of true humor in him lately, and this is no exception. "It's not so tragic as I made it sound. I talk to them all the time on the phone. I write letters. It's just the face-to-face that's become rare. I don't go to New York often; when I do there's a reason. And there's never any time."

Strange, that she's asking him what his parents are like now. Years after they've met. Years after they've been bound together, packmates, sharing blood and spirit, linked by mind itself. Strange that even now, he hesitates for a second.

Then: "They're good people. Normal. They're kin. They raised my sister well; I suppose I turned out all right too. My mother is soft-spoken, but she's stronger than she looks. She's an excellent pianist. My father used to have quite the temper. I remember getting thrashed by him once, when he caught me trying to cut a chunk of my sister's hair off. I deserved it. He's more settled now, older. He's very well-educated. Loves books. He's fond of his whisky too, but he only ever nurses it, just a little every night. Not like me."

A wry twist of his mouth at the end. And he tips his head back to set the glass down, carefully, on the endtable at his head. No more. It was enough, for now.

As for his parents: it was only a slice of facts, a smattering of details that didn't quite add up to a life. Not a history; not even a portrait. But that's all he's willing to give.

It's growing harder for him to keep two running tracks of conversation. The other one, the mental one, is abandoned -- only a sense of acquiescence rounding out his end of it. Anyway, Sam was coming upstairs now. Lukas can sense it almost before he hears the footsteps on the stairs. And this draws him alert again, turns his head toward where the stairs opened up to the second story common area.

"I need to talk to Sam," he says, quiet. "I wouldn't keep you from it, but -- perhaps it's best between the two of us, for now. It won't take long."

[Sam Modine] "Good." His smile is dimmed significantly from what she's used to, and bounds better still that what most ever get. But it's there closed lipped and just a little bit dopey. "Thanks." He turns his back on her, trusting she'll let herself out. Her, the Shadow Lord. Three weeks ago that was a ridiculous notion. Before he'd fallen asleep to one moving a lock of hair out from in front of his face, smiling at him in way he wasn't entirely sure possible.

It might not have bought love. But as is often the case it's the tiniest acts of human kindness that are taken in trade for our affections and that much-

she's earned that much.

He heads up the stairs, one leg lifted stiffly up each with the assistance of the banister. By the time he reaches the top his face can't hide the bestial vision of pain it wants to become. His teeth are bared, and he's nearly spitting, nostrils flaring outward as he heaves out his exhalations.

[Wyrmbreaker] (i have to sleep in 30, so ... let's shorten these posts up, folks! 30mps mode!)

[Armstrong] It was odd that she was asking now. One would think that this was the sort of thing that one would ask in the beginning. When things were new and shiny and when it made sense to ask these sorts of questions. "You don't wear tragedy well," she said.

Seemed to be reference to his first statement. He called his family good people. Called them normal people, kin.

He needed to take a moment with Sam. Mrena stood up and straightened herself out. "I need to take a shower anyway, take your time."

[Katherine Bellamonte] (oops, sorry. got caught up elsewhere. I'll stay out of this one for ease of people's sleepin' soon. :P )

[Wyrmbreaker] "You look like shit," Lukas comments, not terribly sympathetic perhaps, but at least not mockingly. "She gone?" Danicka, he means.

He gets up as Sam gets to the top of the stairs, cleaving to Sam's weak side. There's no fuss, no awkwardness at all in the way he ducks under Sam's arm and throws his own around the Get's ribcage. It seems only natural for him to lend the other some of his own strength and balance.

[Sam Modine] "You should see the other guy." He manages to grunt. "I should've been here all day healing." The second is offered in passing, a regret of his own used against him like a knife of his own wielding. A pause. "Yeah, why?"

His packmate gets a look as he's walking over. It's confused and in no part pleasant.

He allows Lukas to help him along most of the way into the common area eventually shooing him away with a few clipped words, "I can't really have you tending to my weakness." He turns and sets himself down into a chair. The cushions expelling dust from cavities untouched in years. "I appreciate the thought though."

[Armstrong] ((unless you guys want a lovely description of Mrena in the shower, I say skip me))
to Danicka Musil, Katherine Bellamonte, Sam Modine, Wyrmbreaker

[Danicka Musil] [I would like to belatedly note that -I- would like a lovely description of Mrena in the shower. She's hot.]
to Armstrong, Katherine Bellamonte, Sam Modine, Wyrmbreaker

[Wyrmbreaker] Yeah why: "So we can talk."

When Sam decides he can move on his own, Lukas lets him go. The modi settles himself on a chair that might possibly be older than either of them. Lukas takes up his previous location on the couch, though he doesn't sprawl lengthwise.

Serious now, he watches Sam for a moment. A Garou's metabolism is like a raging wildfire. The last haze of inebriation is rapidly clearing away, peeled back like mist before the sun. Lukas' eyes are sharp and clear, pale as ice; his expression grave.

There's no preamble at all, in the end. He just gets into it.

"I know what you did in the cafe today," he says, absolute, no room for denial. "Sam, I love you like a brother. But if you dishonor my kin again like that -- if you dishonor yourself again like that, I will not forgive you. I will not be able to.

"We're a pack of honor. We follow a totem of respect. You should have known better."

[Sam Modine] "Lukas." He starts. His own Rage only slightly dimmer than the werewolf across from him ow, but not nearly as controlled. It has, after all been a very, very long week. "You know what I did when I got home?" He lets the question hang, looking away, his angry grin like a few dozen ivory knives at this point. "I drank half a plastic bottle of whiskey." He taps each of his fingers against his thumb as if counting. "Took me maybe four - five drinks."

He turns his gaze to the other man, his face all anger and frustration between the golden locks that sway to partially cover it. "You think I'm proud of what I did? Think I don't hate myself right about now?"

"The Talons of fucking Horus is the tip of the giant iceburg of things I have to live up to. So please," This Fenrir isn't particularly prone to crude language. He's only uttered the word fuck a handful of times since they'd arrived in the city, once in verbal defense of one of their own kinfolk and a few others in the early hours of the morning in response to cries in a language he couldn't understand except for it's context. Those too, he might've changed given a little more control in the situation. The way he spits the obscenity out now only further underscores his point.

"Don't remind me of how badly I fucked up."

[Wyrmbreaker] "It's my duty to remind you," Lukas replies, flatly, "and it was your duty to own up to your own mistakes and stand for judgment. I should not have had to order you to come before me in the first place."

A beat. Then Lukas raises his chin a slight degree.

"I forgo retribution this time. When we're done here, go and see what Katherine wants you to do to set things right."

Sam might think he's dismissed -- but then Lukas continues. "There's one more thing."

And now the Ahroun shifts, his eyes briefly leaving Sam to skim over the bottle, the glass. Seems the Circle was doing well for whiskey and whisky these days. Sam's not the only one trying to test the limits of his Garou liver. A moment passes. Steady, then, Lukas' eyes return to Sam.

"I find myself -- drawn to Danicka. I did not intend it to happen. I'm not proud of it. But it's the truth, and I won't try to deny it to you." The Ahroun sits with his feet flat on the floor, hands relaxed on his thighs. One of them closes now, slowly, the fingers drawing in, opening again. "The fact is, you asked my permission to court her" -- one wonders if it makes it easier for him to stay detached, stay focused, when he uses archaic, stiff language -- "and I gave it. So long as she shows herself willing to accept your advances, I will not interfere.

"You have my word on that."

[Sam Modine] As the other full moon speaks Sam's face does most of the talking for him, through several shifting stages. Each tells a simplistic version of exactly how he's feeling at that particular moment.

No it's really not.
You do?
Does it really seem that important?

After that though, before Sam can begin to even think of arguing the point Lukas moves on. And there's no nuance to this particular expression. No room for error in judgement. Sam's pissed. His hands fleax hard around the arms of the chair he's sitting in, hard enough the wood beneath his hands creaks with the stress. "You," Slow. His voice wound like cable on high tension line. He keeps his breath steady, his words even. All of them have ways of excersizing control, this is one of the.

"are so lucky I don't get up out of this chair." His meaning is absolute, clear. It may never have been turned upon him but Lukas has seen Sam tear lesser men apart, perhaps already heard about him shoving one hand through a crinos dancer and promptly biting the head from another earlier in the week. "I don't care if you expected it to happen or not. And whatever she and I do is between she and I, you had your chance to say no, you can live with it." He's angry now and on a complete tirade now, all but pointing fingers. "Or isn't it enough that you're spending the night with out hostess you've got to play the field?"

[Wyrmbreaker] (inits!)

[Sam Modine] 7+

[Wyrmbreaker] (+8)

[Wyrmbreaker] (okay, i've got higher base inits, so it's your declare, man)

[Sam Modine] split pool

-2 dodge
1 wp - resist pain

[Sam Modine] (unless the gift is a reflexive)

[Wyrmbreaker] (it's reflexive man)

[Sam Modine] (kay so 1 wp resist pain

and full dodge

[Wyrmbreaker] (just the dodge then?

also: is he gonna try to take the totem boon? lukas will preempt him if he tries; otherwise he'll leave it be.)

[Sam Modine] (nope. he wouldn't take it to fight one of his own. kind of taboo with the spirit of the ban)

[Sam Modine] yeah, no rage actions

[Wyrmbreaker] (okay, declaration:
1 rage to hispo
3 rage for extra actions
splitting first one
1a Spur Claws (WP)
1b bite
2-3-4 bites

stop at incap and all, but yeah, sorry man: ANGRY LUKAS.)

[Sam Modine] (demmit. I guess i'll burn a reflexive rage too to get to hispo.)

[Wyrmbreaker] (spur claws. -2 for split. +WP.)

[Wyrmbreaker] (damage str+1(claw)+3(hispo)+3(succ))

[Wyrmbreaker] (shit... dodge. hang on.)

[Sam Modine] dodge 6 dex 3 dodge = 9

[Wyrmbreaker] (nice dodge! bite 1b, -3 for split)

[Wyrmbreaker] (damage str+2(bite)+3(hispo)+1(succ))

[Sam Modine] soak!

[Wyrmbreaker] bite 2.

[Wyrmbreaker] (damage +5succ)

[Sam Modine] soak!

[Sam Modine] soak!

[Sam Modine] wtf!

[Wyrmbreaker] (that was bizarre. same results!)

[Sam Modine] ded though.

[Wyrmbreaker] (nah, stopping at incap. come on, it's his packmate. back IC!)

[Wyrmbreaker] One second Lukas sits squared and at ease on the couch.

The next .... Lukas doesn't exist anymore. It's Wyrmbreaker instead, nothing but black fur and blazing eyes so pale they were nearly colorless. The Ahroun lunges at his packmate with a short, sharp snarl. His hindpaws rake into the cushions, splitting the fabric, padding boiling out. By then Wyrmbreaker has barreled into Mjollnir's Heart, and teeth are meeting flesh.

The fight is brief and vicious, and leaves Mjollnir's Heart in far worse shape than before.

Afterward, Wyrmbreaker's teeth remain locked on the Fenrir's throat for a second or three. It had happened so fast that his body is only now catching up; like a 100m runner, he's only now beginning to pant. There's a low growl still vibrating in his chest, forced thrumming out on every breath. He pins his packmate for a few seconds, throating him, long enough to make a point.

Dominance. Wyrmbreaker is the Beta, the higher ranked wolf in this pack.

Because that's the point here. Not girls, not kin, not philodox punishments, not permissions sought or not. All that, in the end, is incidental; symptoms of the root. It was the threat, the perceived challenge, that Wyrmbreaker responded to.

--

Slowly his heavy jaws unlock. Moving on all fours now, his hackles up all along the length of his spine, the black monstrosity backs away from the grey. Slaver runs from his jaws, red: it splatters onto the floor. He shakes himself like a dog coming out of water, the thick black pelt moving a second after the skin beneath, showing the duller, downier hairs of the inner coat in flashes and sweeps. He shakes, and shaking, slips his skin, reverts to homid form.

Lukas wipes his bloody mouth. There's blood everywhere: on him, on Sam, on the floor, on the furniture. He looks nothing close to human now, but there's no doubt of this: he's well in control of himself.

"I'll send Mrena out. Get yourself to Katherine for judgment." A pause. "That's an order, Mjollnir."

[Sam Modine] The words stupid pompous drunk are about to come out of the injured Modi's mouth when his packmate is upon him.

The packmate he'd just told was lucky he was such as it prevented what violence would other wise have followed. Perhaps Sam is astonished but the best he manages is to shed the human form and get out of the way of the first blow cleanly. He though underestimated the lengths this would go, merely watching in a mixture of disappointment, disgust and abject horror that this might even be happening.

Now he is a man again, albeit one naked and bleeding profusely, much of what formerly served as organs and muscle fallen about him on the floor.

[Armstrong] She had just taken a shower.

Mrena came out of the bathroom and had started to head off to her room to change clothes, but had stopped by the common room instead due to the over-whelming smell of blood. Lukas was a mess. Sam was a mess, but a different kind of mess. Mrena looked at her standing packmate (or rather, the one capable of standing) and offered him the shirt she had discarded in favor of a towel.

"... I'm not sure if this constitutes as a discussion going well or not."

She looked at the scene again, starting to make her way to her room to get whatever it was she needed. The theurge inhaled slowly, through her nose, taking in the scents and emotions and whatever it was that she could in this form, and then exhaled one strong, even breath. There was no contempt in what she had said; just a statement of fact. Incredibly even tone.

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas catches the shirt out of midair. Curiously, the blood, the bits of flesh and fur stuck to his face and his arms, under his fingernails: these things are all the more grotesque when he stands in his homid form, in his undershirt and his underpants.

The pullover is in shreds. One sleeve did not tear completely, and hangs off his arm. The pants are in pieces on the floor, soaking up blood.

"I said what I needed to say," he replies. "Whether he listened or not, and whether he likes it or not, we are both bound by it now."

The Ahroun wipes his face off on Mrena's shirt, spits once or twice. The aftereffects of his rage is still jangling in the air, but for him at least, the release had been a good thing. He's less tense now, his mood not so dark. He does not seem to have taken it personally, any of it -- there's no rancor in him, even against the disrespect that had precipitated this violence.

As far as Lukas is concerned, these things have to happen. They are werewolves, and they settle their rank through aggression and violence. There's no discussion amongst wolves, no votes. This is not a democracy.

"When he wakes up," Lukas adds, wadding the bloodied shirt up and dropping it on the floor with the rest of the mess, "tell him he needs to report to Katherine. And don't heal him completely. Leave him something to think about. We'll patch him up before the battle."

[Armstrong] She had come back a few moments later, clothed in something that she would no doubt get disgusting in the wash. That she would, no doubt, get filthy while she helped clean up the mess in the common room. There was no frustration, no irritation, none of that.

Well, maybe a little irritation.
"I just took a shower," and it was the only thing that she could really say about that. She would, more than likely, end up taking yet another shower.

Her approach to Sam was a brief and focused one. Mrena was not Katerina, but she was thorough. She knew that this was an area where she was lacking, and thus made up for such by paying close attention and making sure that she left no loose ends. Nothing untied, nothing forgotten, every organ back where it needed to be. But, if nothing more, White Eyes followed orders. They would patch him up before the battle, nothing was healed completely. Just enough that was reasonable.

Besides, gave her time to replenish her resources.

"Alright," she had said. "Water should still be warm if you need it."

[Wyrmbreaker] "Yeah." He needs a shower. In fact he's already heading that way, tracking blood in dark smears and blotches. "I'll be in my room if you need me."

(craptastic post! thanks for the play folks! crashing now!)

[Danicka Musil] [Definitely thanks for the play. And the post-play entertainment.]

[Armstrong] (good night loves! See thee anon and thank you again!)

[Sam Modine] (going to bed)