for his approval.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (is NO ONE posting!? *will start!*)

[Gabriella Bellamonte] (( I don't take initiative. Hence my lack of promotions in the workplace. *Awww* ))

[Katherine Bellamonte] (I THOUGHT YOU WERE.)

[Armstrong] (I just got here!)

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] It's late, but not for the Circle: night owls all. Katherine's sporty little number pulls up in front of the Brotherhood. Bit of a surprise, perhaps, when Katherine's archnemesis and packmate climbs out of the passenger's seat, his tall frame unfolding a trifle awkwardly out of the tiny space.

"Christ, I wish you'd get an SUV." It's cold, to be sure, but the front door of the Brotherhood is about 20 feet away, and he's Garou. He doesn't bother to put his coat on. It's slung over one arm. He shuts the door with the other, waits for her to get out before flanking her to the door.

[Katherine Bellamonte] "I would rather be dressed from a charity outlet."

The remark comes back from the blond counterpart, sliding herself without much in the way of discomfort from behind the wheel of the sleek Porsche. They were all of them partial to the evening hours -- an added boon for the elder Bellamonte daughter as her younger sibling had also inherited this partiality for the twilit hours.

Not, however, her elder sister's sense of propriety and decency.

The door was slammed, and Katherine, attired in her heavy woolen coat and gloves made her way with her pack Beta toward the door; their conversation, for the most part consisting entirely of monosyllabic retorts. It might have been endearing, to some.

[Armstrong] Lukas wasn't here at the moment.

Ergo, that spot on the sectional? The one that he always on? Yeah. It was hers. Well, right now. However, Mrena didn't take up half as much room as Lukas did, so part of the allure of taking up an entire sectional was lost on her. Mrena barely took up an entire love seat. That, however, was not important right now. What was important was that she was comfortable.

And drawing.

When was she not drawing?

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] If there was one word that best epitomized Lukas, it was control. Every sense of it. Control of himself. Control of the situation. Control, when necessary, of others. Control, control, control.

And if there's one person best suited to cracking that ironcast control, it's Katherine Bellamonte, she with her smallminded concerns and schemes (is that cup dirty? is gabriella in school? is edward drunk?); she with her incessant doubt; she with her unending distrust; she with her utter, effortless nobility.

Her very presence is enough to catalyze some strange change in Lukas -- make him quite different.

Armstrong can hear them from the moment they get in the door. The door bangs open, for one; bangs shut too, with no hand put out to slow its rush. Then Lukas' uncharacteristically heavy treading, nearly stomping. Pots and pans clatter in the kitchen. Some muffled voices --

(I would rather be dressed from a charity outlet.
"For god's sake, you say that like it's the end of the world. Wealth isn't everything. Armstrong dresses off the rack; does that make her less of a spiritualist? Sam wasn't born with silver spoons up his ass; does that make him less of a warrior?")

-- and then Lukas is heading upstairs, silverware clattering on earthenware, some rich scent of meat preceding him. He doesn't quite start when he sees Armstrong, but the hesitation, the pause, is enough to prove that he hadn't expected her.

A beat. Then: "Hey, Mrena. Thought you were out."

[Katherine Bellamonte] "It's not everything and yet you're not exactly dressing off the rack either, are you, Wyrmbreaker?" She reaches for an apple as she speaks, and sinks her teeth into its flesh as they argue their way up the stairwell toward the common area where Mrena had been enjoying her solitude.

Katherine does not start so much as she deviates upon noticing her packmate's presence, she makes a light-footed beeline for her and drapes herself along the edge of the sofa, peering down at the latest masterpiece in progress. "Who is the object of your desire tonight, Mrena?"

There is a teasing light in Katherine's tone as she takes another small bite of apple and allows her fingers to idly brush through Armstrong's hair.

[Armstrong] She heard them come in, and the Theurge stopped and listened. She strained to hear who was coming inside. She knew who was coming, on some level; Lukas and Katherine. Mrena could hear their voices, muffled though it may be. And they argued all the way up.

Something about it made her smile. Like this was normal, that this pleased her on some level. Their interactions had not been changed in some fundamental way. If Lukas and Katherine ever stopped arguing, White Eyes was fairly certain that there would be something wrong with either one (or both) of them.

And thus, her solitude had been interrupted, and she looked up at saw her packmates.

A beat had passed. They hadn't expected her. Mrena wasn't normally the type who spent too much time alone, and there she was enjoying (and the term enjoying could be used loosely) her time alone. The smell of meat came before the packmates arrived. "Hey, what's got you guys in so early?"

They were in early. Mrena was still here. She leaned a little into Katherine's hand, not quite realizing she'd done it. Her hair was impossibly soft, it was almost enviable. Who was the object of her desire tonight? Not quite like that, but their Alpha was the subject matter of the evening. She'd revisited something several pages earlier; it was her last attempt at trying to draw Edward. He'd been asleep. She managed to get a little of the ground work in before he woke up. The picture was several months old, though, and still unfinished. She was shading.

"I'll let you know when I decide on an object to desire."

[Armstrong] (BAH!)

[Armstrong] She heard them come in, and the Theurge stopped and listened. She strained to hear who was coming inside. She knew who was coming, on some level; Lukas and Katherine. Mrena could hear their voices, muffled though it may be. And they argued all the way up.

Something about it made her smile. Like this was normal, that this pleased her on some level. Their interactions had not been changed in some fundamental way. If Lukas and Katherine ever stopped arguing, White Eyes was fairly certain that there would be something wrong with either one (or both) of them.

And thus, her solitude had been interrupted, and she looked up at saw her packmates.

A beat had passed. They hadn't expected her. Mrena wasn't normally the type who spent too much time alone, and there she was enjoying (and the term enjoying could be used loosely) her time alone. The smell of meat came before the packmates arrived. "Hey, what's got you guys in so early?"

They were in early. Mrena was still here. She leaned a little into Katherine's hand, not quite realizing she'd done it. Her hair was impossibly soft, it was almost enviable. Who was the object of her desire tonight? Not quite like that, but their Alpha was the subject matter of the evening. She'd revisited something several pages earlier; it was her last attempt at trying to draw Edward. He'd been asleep. She managed to get a little of the ground work in before he woke up. The picture was several months old, though, and still unfinished. She was shading.

"I'll let you know when I decide on an object to desire."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "That's only because I know appearance matters to you people." You people, he says, tarring some nameless crowd with the same brush: aristocrats, silver fangs, bellamontes, pick one. "Bad enough trying to get you to trust me as a Shadow Lord, isn't it. If I dressed in rags you'd mutiny."

He all but drops his platter on the coffee table. Lukas is a carnivore, make no mistake about that. Tonight's fare is italian meatballs -- not the sort you get frozen in a supermarket, 50% flour, but real meatballs, made from ground sirloin and spices, drenched in a red sauce equal parts tomato and wine. The sort of thing you see poured over a hearty pasta, only, there's no pasta under this. It's just meat.

No wine either. A mug of -- it might be apple juice, unfiltered.

"We're back," Lukas throws himself down on the singleton couch, since Armstrong had purloined his usual spot, "because Katherine decided she couldn't bear to go another hour without checking in on her bloody siblings."

He stabs a meatball with a fork. Down the hatch it goes. There are a handful of other forks, if they want a share. Never say Lukas doesn't share with his packmates.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine's fingers continued to stroke through Mrena's hair very carefully, very gently as if she were a sort of tamed creature of the Silver Fang's that she needed to soothe and keep settled. She did this as she viewed the drawing of her elder brother with an almost unhealthy amount of intensity, a small smile resting on her face as she lifted the piece of fruit to her mouth once again.

"I remember this one. He always does look so vulnerable when he's sleeping." A pause, her fingers stilled. "You captured him very well, Mrena."

Lukas throws himself down and stabs his fork into a meatball; commenting offhand about their reasons for returning -- neither of which, it seemed, were present -- and Katherine's pale eyes ticked toward him, she leaned down to rest her head against Mrena's. "I did not insist you return with me, Lukas. You were absolutely free to continue panting after the women at that club."

[Armstrong] There was something almost feline about Mrena's reaction to people playing with her hair. It was a rare occurence. The statement she made was clear, yes, it was acceptable behavior, but there was a certain degree of consent involved. Like holding a cat. [I'm letting you do this, this is nice, I approve- wait. I didn't say you could stop yet]

"He does," she said. And Mrena left it at that and shut her notebook

That was what she liked; Lukas came with food, Lukas shared his food. She'd taken his spot, and he still shared his food. The lady put down her pencil and was content not to fiddle with the shading anymore for now. It was a quick fix, pencil hidden between the pages for the time being and the book itself tucked beside her for the time being.

The theurge grabbed a for and stabbed a meatball. "Thank you," she said. Mrena took a bite of meatball. Real meatball. And chewed.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (erk. no WONDER you guys weren't posting.)

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] A muscle flexes in the Shadow Lord's cleanshaven jaw. Katherine is right about one thing: he takes care in his appearance. He shaves twice a day, night and morning; he wears expensive clothes with a casual flair; he uses expensive aftershave on occasion, but never cologne. It's not quite vanity that drives this sort of meticulous self-maintenance; it's not self-love in his eyes as he checks his appearance in the mirror before heading out each night.

It's discipline. It's another form of control: he controls his appearance like he controls his strength.

"Don't attribute everything to primitive drive," he says, low, nearly a snarl. "I know it's hard for you to grasp, Katherine, but some of us have larger thoughts in our heads." And he jabs another meatball with his fork, rolls it once in the sauce, eats it whole.

[Katherine Bellamonte] There was something quite feline about the Philodox's pose, reclined as she was against the curve of the sofa. Her body was neither a thing of exceptional lean prowess or curvaceous wonder -- she was fit and her body could be neatly pencilled into an old fashioned movie-star's silhouette. She wore her skin in much the same way she wore her clothing -- with natural ease, as if her god-given looks and figure were as much hers as the pure blood that flowed in her veins.

Mrena and Lukas both dug into the meat on offer but Katherine made quick work of her apple; leaning forward only to set the core on the low-set table, the coil of pearls around her neck sliding with the motion.

"Excuse me," she interjects with a barely perceptible rise in volume. "But of the two of us which spent the most of her evening not a few days past coated in the insides of Bane slime?" She glances to Mrena, the only present who recalled how they'd appeared -- the Fang and the Fiann -- upon their return from the Umbra -- as if seeking confirmation.

"I'm perfectly capable of grasping larger thoughts."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "And that's exactly what I mean." He begins almost before she finishes, his words edging on the ends of hers. "You think it's some sort of competition. You think it's all about going out there and killing the most wyrm, or binding the most talens, or judging the most disputes, or what have you. You honestly seem to think sometimes that I'm your god damn enemy, and all the while I swear you're blind to the big picture around you. You think I'm doing any of this for my own good? Or, when it comes down to it, for your beloved brother's?

"Everything I do, every single thing of every single day, I do with one eye on the War. I do it because I think in some tiny, infinitesimal way, it might give us an edge when the final battle comes. That's larger fucking thoughts, Katherine, and if you ever took your nose out of the air you might see it."

Tirade over, Lukas stabs his fork into three meatballs in a row, squashing them one against the other -- then throws his weight against the couch, sprawling moodily back.

Quite belatedly, to Armstrong: "You're welcome. Have another one."

[Katherine Bellamonte] "Oh," her eyes widen with dramatic intention. "You mean we're not supposed to be going out and fighting with the intention of killing all the Wyrm we can find? You mean, I suppose, that your every action is solely for the good of Gaia and you never wage battles with the intention to, let's say," She shrugs her free shoulder lightly, off-hand.

"Impress my brother?
Gain footing in this Caern?"

She slides off the sofa and moves to resettle herself on the cushions proper.

[Armstrong] There was a talk of primitive drive, and for a moment the theurge just absorbed. These two were content to interact and, so long as she had food and someone was paying attention to her, she was just fine. So long as there were others around, White Eyes was content. Even if those two were arguing.

At that moment, however, she chose to shake her head some and give a rather uncommitted bite of meatball.

She took the opportunity to keep her mouth shut and to keep her eyes open. The theurge paused briefly and finished off her meatball. Then, well, she stabbed another one for good measure. He was done with his tirade, and somehow Armstrong couldn't help but expect more.

"You're spending too much time watching your back," she said. "You're missing what's going on in front of you." And one couldn't help but wonder why she was starting to sound a little tired.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Impress my brother--?

The words are hardly out of her mouth before he surges upright. One moment he's sprawled in the couch, avec food. The next he's flung his fork down, the meatballs bouncing loose. He's sitting on the edge of the cushion, feet gathered to spring, hands clamped on the arms of the couch, a hundred kilos of hard muscle and hot rage on a hair trigger. The air around him crackles and snaps with his sudden rage.

"Shut your ignorant mouth."

There's no immediate explanation, no logical reason, for why those words in particular should have such an effect on him. Blame it on the moon. Blame it on straw-and-camel effect. Every muscle is taut; a pulse throbs in his neck, echoes in his temple. Seconds pass, tense.

"I have never," he lays his words out like stones, his face wholly blank of anything but tension, "done a single thing for the express purpose of impressing your brother. I do not do what I do for his approval. If you insinuate it again, I'll tear your pretty face off."

A slow, slow unwinding -- the fire subsumes, the rage slips back under his skin like a sword into its sheath, a seasnake into dark waters. Lukas releases his grip on the couch and he leans back, slowly, steadily.

"As for the caern," it's hard to say what changes in his tone exactly to shift raw menace to his usual mildness, "I wouldn't give a damn about what they thought of us if I didn't honestly believe our ascendancy here would benefit Gaia in the long run. I never said I don't have goals and waypoints along the way. I'm just saying that it helps to have an ultimate destination in mind."

[Katherine Bellamonte] Shut your ignorant mouth.

There is movement in Lukas' quarter as he physically draws himself into an attack position; his rage charges the air in the common room, would make it difficult to draw a breath for anyone who was not a warrior of Gaia. But his is not the only movement. His rage is not the only that sparks.

Meridian's Truth moves at the same time he does. She sits forward, her body curving in, legs drawing up as if preparing to launch herself across the space between them -- coffee table and all. The Silver Fang's eyes flare: "Do not tell me to shut my mouth, Lukas."

Each word carefully annunciated, her fingers flexing against the sofa cushions.

He threatens her pretty face; it darkens with fury.

"Don't ever."

The pulse beneath her pearls beats at the base of her neck as -- oh, he relents and lets go of his rageful hold on the atmosphere. She is slower to allow this ebb in her temper -- the pale eyes are still resentful even as she sinks back against the cushions. Regal, even now.

[Armstrong] And it was, at some point between the outburst and the silence between breaths that White Eyes realized that this was not a room that she had any continued desire to be in. She could taste the tension. She could feel it on her skin, she could hear the rage crackle in the air and hang there until it subsided.

It was fine and dandy that the two of them were poised and ready to lunge at each other's throats and tear each other to little bity pieces, however, the most immediate problem the theurge saw with this was that the only thing that stood, physically, in the way was a coffee table and a five foot three inch body.

The theurge gathered her wares though, fork included, and looked between her packmates. She hadn't changed positions, not just yet anyway. "I recommend that you both take a step back and have a moment to cool down," she said. She was no philodox; Mrena was aware. "Before either one, or both of you, say something or do something that you can not take back in the heat of the moment."

A beat. A step away from the two of them torwards her room. "Or, if you insist on continuing, please do so quietly."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] A faint scoff. Lukas lifts a hand, lets it fall.

"I'm quite done." Perhaps we should note he's yet to take his eyes from Katherine. "You, Katherine?"

[Katherine Bellamonte] She is calm, her eyes are quite as riveted as the Shadow Lord's, however as Mrena deigns to remove herself from the midst of their argument and perhaps remind them both (more pertinently the one here whose calling it was to defuse such things as these) that they should take steps back -- that they were on a course to nowhere but ruin.

"Yes, you are right Mrena, I should not be so careless with my anger."

Katherine tears her eyes from Lukas, her expression softening to something closer to the good humor she'd returned with.

[Armstrong] She could spend hours thinking about what was said. She could spend time sitting and thinking and making sense of the statement and what being quite done could mean, but? Well, the theurge had already gathered up her things and had deigned to head back to her room.

"Thank you," she said. "Now, good night."

And with that, she retreated to her room and shut the door behind her.. The light stayed on though.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Katherine looks away; Mrena moves away. Left to a sort of solitude now, Lukas' eyes lower as well; his mouth twists, something between wry and regret.

"Well," low, as he pushes himself upright and gets up, taking one last meatball off the plate with his fingers, "maybe I'd better follow her example and head to bed myself."

The Ahroun stands. Bends to pick up his apple juice; pauses. There's a hesitation where he might have said something -- it passes.

"Goodnight, Katherine."

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine is still looking away from Lukas, away from Mrena. She has her fingers on those pearls of hers once again, winding and unwinding her fingers in the length of them. Both her pack-mates bid her goodnight and make motions to leave the common area -- the Silver Fang remains seated, her back very straight against the sofa, some expression of thought hard to decipher on her face as she returns their farewells with a soft, neutral: "Sleep well."

It seems clear she is far from it for several hours.

[Armstrong] (thanks for the scene! night guys!)

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (thanks back, all! night!!)