how to win the war (tm)

[ears] (( Just watching for now. Got some dinner to make and dishes to do. *Is domestic* Maybe later, though! ))
to Dylan, liar, Lukas Wyrmbreaker

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas looks at the heart drawn on the windshield with some amusement. Then his packmate gets in, and he hands her the half-finished, still-vaguely-warm cup of coffee.

"What were you doing," he nods at the heart, "trying to play a hooker and keep up the act, or something?"

This is one fucked world, she replies, or simply comments, and he reaches under the dash to start the ignition. The car's been sitting here long enough that it takes the engine a moment to catch. Still, the enclosed spaces, the insulation, and the heat of the ahroun himself have managed to make the interior of the car a little warmer than the outside. If nothing else, there's no wind in here.

"Now why is that?" he asks. The engine catches at last and he glances over his shoulder as he pulls away from the curb. And, "Pizza, right?"

[Dylan] "Just so much," Dylan says, beginning to shrug her jacket off, then changing her mind before one arm has left the sleeve, about the same time the side of her neck, heretofore protected by her collar, comes in contact with the air. "That won't be fixed. Not by a quick kill, not by a sudden brawl; just so much complicated, unfixable shit." The galliard sounds -- matter-of-fact; maybe even a little resigned. Not depressed. Not disheartened. Not full of the repairman's passion. After a judicious sip of the luke warm coffee (get it? Get it?), she gives Lukas an easy grin. Bit of teeth, but she's looking straight ahead, at the dirty snowswept street. "And if I was trying to play a hooker and keep up the act, I would've used another part of my anatomy." She wiggles her pointer finger, academically.

"Sharla was telling me about a girl who did, actually. Seems that her specialty was her tongue, right? This long, snake-like tongue that'd hypnotize all who saw it just by dint of its extraordinary length -- so along comes a nice-looking man, right? Smelled all filthy of money. And what does she do? Dumb bitch licks a pole, just to show him how well she could work it." A beat. "Was a cold night. Colder than this. The man was not impressed, but the pole liked it so much that it wouldn't let her leave with her tastebuds intact. No police'd come down and pouring warm water didn't work, so her pimp cut the tip of her tongue off, and that was her new 'thing'. Come make love to a tongueless freak. More room."

Dylan finishes with gusto, with the relish of a true urban horror story connoisseur.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Hm." He takes the coffee back without looking; she hadn't even needed to nudge him. He simply knew where it was, and that she would hand it back, because she's his packmate, and they were the circle unbroken.

Anyway.

He takes the coffee back, takes a sip, then plants it -- with much less precision than he had taken it from her, one might note -- back into the cupholder. "I don't know that it's unfixable," he says. "Complicated and not-easy-to-fix, sure, but if it's unfixable, then what's the point of the War, right?"

She tells him a Story. About a hooker and a tongue, and he listens, nonjudgmental for the most part, though by the end he's making a bit of an euch face.

"That sounds unpleasant," he comments, mildly, when she's finished. "Where the hell do you hear these stories? Because they sure didn't tell them around the moot campfires I've been to."

[Dylan] Dylan laughs; a small sound, mostly in her throat -- almost just a huff. Her shoulders move with it, though, the way foam moves with a wave, the way salt moves with water at the seashore. "It isn't exactly a moral, uplifting tale; doesn't have much place at a moot. You can turn here. Tony's is just around the corner."

The streets look like glass. Dylan laces her fingers together, precise, and looks at her human nails against her human flesh which looks so pink and so soft. "As for the rest," she says, a more serious note to her voice: "That's making it uncomplicated. Is the world worth giving up on just because it's unfixable? No. That's like saying a bone is worth leaving un-set, 'cuz it'll always be more fragile now that it's been once broken -- or saying let's not put curtains up, because the furniture is already faded."

She smiles, again, and it's a light skimming on clear water sort've smile, but steadier, easier -- the sort've smile her packmates see, but most other people don't. "Some wars, just fighting is winning."

[Sampson] Where Is this pizza place? If not just Any! White Eyes and I are near one! And it smells a spicy place! Lukas, did you not know! Ahrouns so close to the fullness of their moons! Require spicy foods!
From someplace not too far away, or rather, fairly close, Sampson speaks through the whirling feathered blur of their Totem.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "But by your own comparisons, that makes the world fixable, doesn't it?" He takes the left as she points it out, his tall stature keeping him far back from the wheel, plenty of room for his arms to spin the steering wheel into a wide turn. "Maybe not 100%, but at least ... better-able."

He slows the car. Tony's is, indeed, just around the corner: a small, dingy restaurant with a neon OPEN sign, smudged windows, and menus circa 1991. Also, a restaurant with some of the more authentic italian pizzas around, woodfired, lazio-style. Lukas cruises along the curb until he finds an open spot, maneuvering the car into the space with enough backs-and-forths to suggest he hasn't had this vehicle for long.

When the ford is finally wedged in between a late-model Toyota and an old BMW, Lukas kills the engine. The rush of warm air from the heating vents stops abruptly. "Hold that thought," he says, if she's mid-sentence -- gets out, shuts the door behind him, buttons up his coat and rejoins her on the sidewalk. "OK, come on."

[Armstrong] There was one thing that White Eyes did not like about going places with Sampson, and it was that he walked fast/ He did everything fast And Mrena wasn't even five and a half feet tall and was delicate bone structure and averagely endurant. So, by the time they got anywhere she was out of breath and tired and her hair was a mess.

She had quit trying to keep up with him at that point. The theurge had been set on cruise control at meandering speed.

And now? Now she was trying to recover from the fact that, for about twelve steps, she had kept up with Skinny Legs. New personal record!

[Dylan] "You know it's hard for me to stay negative," Dylan says, without wryness. Because it is true: she isn't a storm-crow, isn't a black-wearing doom-sayer. Most've her stories tend to be about things that last, about a brighter, better future and a better, brighter past -- worth reaching for. "Hmm. Not fixable, though -- still broken. Mendable, maybe. Betterable, sure -- " Hold that thought, Lukas says, and he almost needn't. As he reclaimed his coffee earlier with ease, without thought, knew she'd hand it back, knew the very level at which she'd hold it, she pauses when he kills the engine, unbuckles her seatbelt, gets out.

Says, via the totem's connection: We're at Tony's. You guys around? 'cause we can come to you if you aren't. The glass walker flicks a glance around, too, looking for her tall, long-legged packmate and her packmate of the moon shining on faded dime eyes, and finishes: " -- but if there wasn't a chance of bettering anything, would you say that it was still worth it, to fight and keep things from worsening?

[Sampson] There! In the umbra! At this point, Skinny Legs would be streaking across the path to hurl himself at his packmates, hoping to catch them off guard; his personal goal, to raise each of their levels of awareness and speed at dodging, or perhaps because he's just a real shit like that.
But! On the streets of the human world! He must instead! Mark the arrival of the car in front of them, as he rounds the corner and spies the aforementioned pizzaria.
Ah! That one yes! Lukas, you are SUCH a wise pack-beta. I would love triple peppers! When Mrena finishes dancing in circles sideways and backwards as she approaches at her own speed, as a wide leaf fallign from a tall tree approaches the ground, we will arrive!

Oh fuck. Its too much. He turns and rushes back to Mrena, and if she doesnt have a clue about what he is gonna do, then she's not nearly as wise as she thinks she is.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "To keep things from worsening? Definitely. To slow the rate of descent, even? Still yes."

There is jabbering in his mind, but after years of this Lukas has learned to dial down the volume a little, ignore it the best he can while he finishes a thought.

"But if I ever truly believed there was no longer a chance to even make a shred of difference, that no matter what I did, the world would keep on tumbling toward destruction without so much as a hitch, then -- well. I don't know what I'd do." His mouth quirks into a smile, though really, this is not a laughing matter. "Fall into hopeless Harano, I guess."

He pulls the door of the restaurant open, letting out a billow of warm, pizza-scented air. "Should we wait for them, or get a table?"

[Armstrong] She looked at Sampson, silvery eyes on him for a minute and hands firmly in the pockets of her coat. She had transitioned to a jersey-knit grey scarf instead of the red one. (It just wasn't the same.) And then? Then the monochromatic Shadow Lord just stood there for a minute.

"Sampson? No. No no no, no no it will still be there in three minutes," she said. However, the theurge walked a little faster at that point, not that it really helped. "I'm getting there, just enjoying the scenery while I do."

Like there was much to really enjoy, really, but she did look at the Ragabash and then? Then she tried reasoning with him. "It's cold, you're not stretched, you'll pull a muscle."

Excuses, excuses, excuses.

[Dylan] Should we wait for them, or get a table? Dylan glances down the street; Sampson, who appeared briefly around the corner, disappears back in the direction he came. In answer, Dylan steps over the threshold, wiping her feet on the mat thoughtfully provided, marked dark and runic by many snow-slush heels. "You order; I'll grab the table?" The note of query is real; if Lukas doesn't have the cash on him, Dylan'll order.

Then, voice pitched lower -- not quite a secret voice, but a private voice: "And I don't think you should ever believe that there's no way to make a shred of difference to how quickly we tumble into the abyss." Half a smile, but grim. "But there's a difference between fixing a problem and making it look fixed. Talking to those girls, that was -- " she pauses, and the pause is delicate. "Discouraging," is the word she finally settles on.

Then she goes to get a table by the window, not a booth -- more leg room for Sampson.

[Sampson] As he comes up on her, that fierce hunter look, the Sneaky one, the ragabash threat, enters his dark eyes-- again. They've been here before. Usually, he wins, and there's a scuffle and some yelling till he runs off with her someplace.

Tonight! White Eyes moves smoothly, slides out of his path. Were he an enemy, she would have bled not at all for at least several seconds. Which is more than enough time for the pack to destroy whatever threatens.

He gathers himself again, and this time merely slaps her on her back, grinning from each prominent ear to the other. "I knew you could go faster! Look! Mrena! When motivated, you move very well indeed! Pizza calls! We must answer!"
The rest of the j ourney is made with much hustling of Mrena by Sampson, and probably no little argument.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] He doesn't reply to the quiet words, the private voice, because the greeter is looking at him expectantly. They part there, Dylan going to find a table, Lukas stepping up to place an order. He gets three pies, all large, all meaty -- enough, he thinks, for his carnivorous pack.

Then, undoing his coat and unwinding his scarf, he joins Dylan at the table. "Why?" he continues, as though the break had not existed. "What did they say, exactly?"

Another break: a waitress comes by with a pitcher of beer, which she sets at the edge of the table with a smile. A small smile -- tight with a strain she will not be able to name or define.

[Armstrong] They had been here many times before, and usually Mrena did not win. And, since she was small, picking her up and taking her wherever the Hell they needed to go was quite easy. Like carrying an over-sized purse and just as detrimental to one's masculinity and self-esteem, as that she usually didn't stop protesting until she was put down. A purse didn't say the things she did. That, however, was something to be explored at a later date.

"Why thank you, Sampson... I think," she said. A slight grin flickered across her face.

True to form, they did get there, and Mrena was out of breath (but hiding it very well, which was also true to form) and her hair was not in its original state. Once int he building, somewhere warm and with food, she looked around. More importantly, she listened to hear if she caught any sound of her packmates. There they were, at the table with beer.

[Sampson] Inside, and he does not really bother with the greeter, just makes a quite generic gesture of somethign which has her stepping back; no one moves like he does, without purpose. One assumes he knows exactly what he is doing and where he is going. And she would, this time, be right. Can't always assume that, with Striders. Some roads they walk blind.

A few steps, and he is nudging shoulder against Dylan's in 'accidental' greeting as he plants himself in the seat across from Dylan, for placing Shadowlords in an every-other-chair pattern, rather than in a solid block, is not at all a bad thing.

A glass of beer is acquired, and he drinks half as if pouring it out, instead of down his throat.

[Sampson] (Oh, and a wide grin of greeting for Lukas, sorry, missed somethign)

[Dylan] "Exactly?" Dylan echoes, her eyebrows drawing together. "Tales of woe. Pointless woe. Sharla, mistreated by Johnny, Johnny, who doesn't have health insurance, so he buys pills off this one guy, pills that don't work, so Johnny's cousin, he goes to this one guy and: blood and ugliness ensues. This other girl, how she's goes home and -- "

Brief deviation from the topic at hand: Dylan's elbow is on the table. Her chin is in the palm of her right hand. She gives Sampson and Armstrong a brief two-fingered salute with that hand, before using it again as a prop for her chin. "Hey guys. Armstrong," she says, "Sit across from me before," and there' Sampson, nudging her shoulder, dropping into the seat across from Dylan. Dylan regards Sampson with quiet rue, and resigns herself to a game of footsie. Under the table, her feet rearrange themselves.

"Anyway, just tales of pointless woe. The theme of the week seems to be everybody's sick, though," she says, finally taking her hat off. Her hair is messy, a mass of dark tangles, they gleam like squid-ink and black-ice and asphalt, and she runs her fingers through. "And some've the girls think their guy, the one we were just checking out, are making them sick, so they won't be able to -- whatever; insert paranoid delusion here. So they'll be weaker."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas smirks quietly as Sampson takes the seat across from Dylan. Sitting next to her, he can feel her shifting her feet down there. Polite creature that he is, though, when her feet bump into his space he moves sideways a bit.

"Humanity is full of tales of pointless woe," he says, pouring himself a tall glass of beer. Of the four here, Sampson is the tallest, or at least the leggiest; Lukas is the most solid, the most massive. His coat is doffed over the back of the seat. Even in a thin sweater, when he leans forward over the table he seems to loom, all shoulders and biceps, forearms folded on he tabletop. "You know that. Anyway, war-worth-fighting or not, a few sad tales still doesn't make the world unfixable. Or unbetterable, at least."

And, for the benefit of those who have recently joined: "Dylan and I went to check out some rumors of wyrm activity a few blocks over. Dylan had the unenviable job of talking to the locals, and now she thinks the world's sliding inexorably toward ruin."

[Sampson] (mindy is slow)
to Armstrong, Dylan, Lukas Wyrmbreaker

[Sampson] (WAIT!! I mean!! She's like.. gonna post slow!! She's acutally brilliant! I didnty mean like.. insulting!!)
to Armstrong, Dylan, Lukas Wyrmbreaker

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (btw feel free to post over me. i'm kinda slow cuz multitasking!)

[Sampson] One leg on the left. One leg on the right.
Then they Strrrretch forward, and Sampson sighs in contentment. Dylan is flanked by Nikes.
The Kenyan is tall; he is also mostly leg. Sitting in a chair, his head height is not really in a 'tall' catagory. "Sliding... I think she IS right. But! We will tilt all of it back, we will rock this world at its foundations if we must. What is done, will be undone. What is dead, will yield new life. Lukas, I think you are right! We will still win! For we have no other choice. We will make this path but one path, with no branching."
His emphatic reply is spoken quietly, intense rather than loud.

[Armstrong] "Hey," she said. It was about as much greeting as she could get out for the time being. The petite one unwound her scarf, laying it across the back of where she was sitting; her coat was soon to follow. Today, Mrena's attire was jeans, boots, and a black v-neck sweater. It looked soft; it was probably why she bought it.

She sat herself down next to Dylan and shot her a smile. An actual smile, with teeth and brightness of gaze and something akin to genuine contentment. It was brief.

"Oh, that's... hmmn. You know, I wonder how many of the stories Dylan heard are lower class specific or if the problems span the whole socioeconomic spectrum." She said this, yes, and it could be considered a valid question, or one could wonder if this was Mrena having a moment of cold curiousity. Were people interchangeable in their plight as well? Did it all fall into patterns and ritual? People got sick, congregated, and shared their woes as a form of working through it.

White Eyes did the same thing. This was all something to think about, though.

Or maybe, possibly, she was asking as a genuine question of curiosity. Whatever it was, her question hadn't held any sort of malicious edge. Only genuine interest in knowing.

"Did you two find anything?"

[Dylan] First, the glass walker raises an eyebrow; her mouth curves halfly, an almost smile: a wry sort've moon-sliver of a smile, at Lukas' summation of their conversation and its cause. She also pours herself a glass of beer, the beer brims o'er, all the way to the top, slishes and sloshes down the side of her glass, onto the table, becomes a ring of beer, a stain she wipes away with the flat of her hand, and now her clothes will smell of beer until she washes them, but she's due for another laundry room run. "Aw, Sampson," she says, when he's said his piece -- and reaches over to knock his head with her knuckles. Her tone is not condescending: it's affectionate.

Then, as she takes a deep sip of her beer, her attention moves from Sampson (who may or may not've batted her hand away) to Mrena. Now when her mouth quirks? It's with amusement. "Some of the stories I heard were probably lower class specific; some of them, though -- " She shrugs. "Sickness isn't class conscious, whether it's sickness of the mind or body, clean living environments aside."

"And, regrettably," and, oh yes, she sounds as if she regrets it -- she sounds as if she regrets it as much as the hare who tried to swallow the moon regretted it, right before he drowned, right before he realized the moon was far too large to fit comfortably in his mouth, "the rumors were just rumors. Didn't find a thing."

[Dylan] ooc: I'm sorry, I'm slow, too! heh. eating dinner!
to Armstrong, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, Sampson

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Does the 'socioeconomic spectrum'," he says the words with a certain disdain -- you can almost imagine air quotes around them, as if they were human and unclean, and should not be allowed outside the cage of quotation to taint the rest of his speech, "even matter? I mean in the broad view of things, do you really think Gaia and the Powers That Be care who's rich or poor by human standards?

"Hell," he takes a swig of his beer, "maybe the Talons have it right and when Apocalypse comes the earth'll just open up and swallow 95% of the human race. That might tip the world back in balance, all right."

Let's get one thing straight, here. Lukas is not a bad garou. Far from it. He has qualities that bestow upon him a certain dignity, a certain honor, a certain nobility, even. But he is not, by any stretch of imagination, a good man, a caring, altruistic human being. If a man were beaten and mugged in front of him, he may step in to intervene; however, if he hears about a man beaten and mugged after the fact, the story may not stir him to much pity and outrage at all. He does not consider himself human and, just in case they had any doubt left of this, he does not, in the end, empathize wholly with humans.

[Armstrong] ( have a resident... who just keeps talking... and talking... and talking...)
to Dylan, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, Meep, Sampson

[Sampson] "You might ask who suffers more, poor or rich. For those who suffer too much, are they not bait for what feeds on that sort of pain?"
As he asks, mostly of Mrena who knows of these things, one hand reaches out to snag the pitcher, refills any low levels around the table, then his own. When again his hand is free, its to start messing with the pepper flakes shaker. His left foot begins to tap out a rhythm to whatever music is playing in the background; not a song he knows well, or possibly knows at all. Irrelevant! Rhythm is a call to movement, and Sampson rarely says no.

At the mention of the Apocalypse, they will notice the momentary stillness, and then acceptance, from their packmate.

[Dylan] "I think what matters to the Powers That Be are the ways by which they can express themselves," Dylan says. Not quickly, but not slowly, either; this is, actually, something she's thought about before, when, as now, topics of a philosophical bent arise. Her eyes stray toward the kitchen, although she's listening, and then on cue:

The door opens, and three meat-y pizzas are brought out, steaming and smelling of garlic and cooked flesh and cheese so flavorful that they'll leave grease-shaped silhouettes on paper plates or napkins (soak clear through) or make hands all slick with it -- or maybe that's not grease, maybe it's garlic. The pizzas are put down, along with a side of ranch dressing, and then the kitchenboy who brings the pizzas leaves -- more quickly than he'd normally leave. He doesn't even think about why; doesn't think anything hostile about the table. Just leaves, quickly.

[Armstrong] "In the broad view? In the long term, when you're gone, money doesn't really matter. Just like a lot of things don't really matter. But the stress people place upon it? The bitterness and suffering it brings about, the hatred, the complications arising from the things that, really, don't matter- it opens them up to a whole host of possibilities. It gives a whole host of weaknesses, too. And that sort of suffering does draw attention."

She waited for the pitcher to come her way, then poured herself a glass of beer and took a sip. Her hand was steady, and she was off mid-thought and mid rant. Not quite a rant, really, just thoughts that seemed to come in succession. And then? Then there was pizza and she was pleased.

She then looked at Dylan, and the look of quiet contemplation hadn't left just yet. "Could you explain?"

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "No; I understand that." Lukas is getting into this discussion. He leans forward, intensely interested, and it's a tossup whether it's the heat of the restaurant or the debate that puts a flush into his cheek. "I get that ugliness and despair can draw the Wyrm. And if they're bait, then I'll deal with it then. But the point is that's not always the case. It wasn't the case today; those people were miserable of their own accord. And if the Wyrm isn't growing fat off their despair and their pain -- well, they're on their own.

"There's pain everywhere. It's been a fact of life since the dawn of time, not some recent black magic voodoo of the Wyrm -- "

He cuts off as he spies the kitchenboy headed their way, stopping to take a drink of his lager. Then, to avoid a suspicious silence settling over the table, he smiles at their server, thanks him cordially, compliments how good the food looks.

When the fellow retreats, Lukas rips a slice from the nearest pizza and relaunches. "Look, all I mean to say is: I'll fight where the fight is. If the Wyrm's decided to fight a war for the souls of men, or whatever, that's where I'll meet it. But if the Wyrm's off trying to crush our caerns, or if it's raising legions of banes to slaughter our Incarnae," he stops to tear a bite from his pizza, "I'm not going to worry about a few humans suffering on skid row just because I happen to look a bit like one."

[Sampson] Happens to look a bit like one..
Never mind that Sampson And all his wives are deeply involved in a major charity organization to rescue refugees and mroe in Africa-- he nods in agreement.
"Oh, yes! Perhaps I see! You speak of battlefields then. It is then as we do, my wives, myself, and many of our Runners; We work to change a battlefield and the breeding ground of the enemy because the danger is so great, it must be addressed; the immense suffering and violence and evil happening in the countries surrounding Kenya threaten our own war Out There. IS this what you mean?"
Second he has finishes speaking, that food is in his mouth.

[Dylan] "I wasn't saying you should, Luke, or that suffering didn't have its place," Dylan says, frowning at her slice of pizza. Armstrong gets an even-tempered glance, eloquent of this: one moment. "But sometimes it seems like too much. Especially compared to anti-suffering. That which is opposite of suffering." A beat. Then: "And if it's likely -- not a certainty, but likely -- that these people's particular brand of suffering will be used by the Wyrm? Do we wait until the Wyrm starts using them, or do we nip that in the bud? We aren't judges, but we do have people who fulfill that role."

She gulps down some pizza. She gulps it down in a way which Edward would tease her for, and the two Kats would probably be united in their vague social disapproval of. Sam, too, would probably make some joke: whoa, there, tiger.

"Now, what do you want me to explain? How it would work?" They're intense, this group; far too intense, now, for the staff, who are all making themselves as scarce as can be -- and it's so late, they're mostly on their own as far as the regular patrons. "Let's take totem spirits, for example. You know more about what goes into summoning one up, petitioning it for its patronage and so on and so forth -- but what I see is this: when one enters into a compact with a totem, it isn't because the totem expects to heap tons of unearned favours on our shoulders. They ask things of us. They ask us to do things a certain way, to live within certain parameters -- to express their view on What Is Right To Do on the world. See?"

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "If the Wyrm is at the root of it, then we treat it like any other battle in the War."

Lukas is still hung up on this topic; he pauses to devour a great amount of pizza and wash it down with beer, then continues.

"We haven't got the resources to try to save every last mewling victim, or crush every last shadow of the Wyrm. We have to focus on what matters. We pick and choose -- or rather, whoever's in command picks and chooses at his own level. The Alpha of the pack directs the pack's efforts. The Alpha of the sept, the sept's, so on and so forth up to the Elders of the tribes. We fight where we can win, or where we must win."

[Dylan] ooc: and I hate to do this, but! I have to get to bed in... er, a couple posts, so I may relegate Dyl to the realms of silent-pizza-snarfing chicks here soon.

[Sampson] (me too)
to Armstrong, Dylan, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, rubbish

[Armstrong] (that's cool! Get some rest, lovelies!)
to Dylan, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, rubbish, Sampson

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (i have to sleep in about 2 hrs :D)

[Armstrong] "Oh, well, I can follow that," she said, as though Lukas's statement had clarified some point. She took some pizza once all was said and done. foregoing forks and utensils and what-have-you and eating the way it was begging to be eaten- that was, of course, with hands and reckless abandon. Mrena appreciated pizza. She took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and then did the same with the next bite. "But, in regards to particular types of suffering and its relative usefulness, does the wyrm wait pick what would benefit it the most?"

The wyrm planning. That thought didn't set well with her, so she passed on with it.

"But, Lukas, I do agree and see your point. We don't have the resources for that, so I suppose strategy and where the victory is important is key."

It was far enough from the wyrm that she could take a bite of food again.

[Dylan] (( well, I was gonna give it at least ONE more post. (grins) ))

[Armstrong] (I'm up for awhile. My first class is at 4:30 tomorrow)

[Dylan] Dylan raises her glass in silent toast. To Lukas, maybe. To the war. To the pizza. "I really wish we'd found something tonight," she says, with feeling. Then she swigs her beer, and eats her pizza, and listens with the same thoughtfulness she is wont to listen with.

(( And there it is. SILENT PIZZA SNARFING GIRL, CUE. good night, guys! ))

[Sampson] Sampson FEEDS, proving that the old phrase about wolfing one's food pales in comparison to what a group of hungry werewolves can do to mere pizzas. Hell if they were in the presence of the food for more than 5 minutes so far. There's a major dent. There will likely be nothing left when they all leave the table, unless one of them decides to limit consumption for a moment.

While he feeds, he is a fairly silent Strider.
(Silent pizza snarfing guy. Night!)

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Who knows what the Wyrm's capable of? It's like asking if Gaia thinks or plans. But I think for every mindless gibbering scrag, they've got at least one fomor, bane or Dancer that can think. And if we can plan, they can plan."

Dylan really wishes they'd found something tonight. Lukas, coming down from his debate-high, snorts quietly under his breath. He can understand the sentiment. Having something to kill is having a way to stop it.

"Yeah. Me too."

[Armstrong] "If we can plan, they can plan," she repeated. Sort of off hand while she was eating. The theurge took a bite of food, chewed and swallowed. Her gaze acquired a vague, somewhat far away look. If the garou could plan, would plan, did plan, then the spirals, the fomor, the banes? Some of them could, and did, plan as well.

"Anything come up from Cabrini Green?"

It was an offhand thought, a statement that came from her in the same manner. She thought to much, and more-than-likely she would be thinking of this for some time now. The distant look in her eyes lingered longer than Mrena realized, and it was something she shook off quickly and brought up.

[Andrea Locke] Just another restaurant in just another dodgy region of the city. A large city, but the coincidence of running into the same people over and over again does seem to occur. Often. And, more often still, when it is least appreciated.

Andrea enters the pizza-parlour/whatever, closely followed by a plain-faced man, both of them bundled up against the ghastly cold weather, and motion in motion enough combined to denote that they are together -- an idea furthered along by their joint claiming of one of the recently emptied booths, speaking lowly as they go, the man ducking his head slightly to speak closer to Andrea's ear. It could be an intimate nearness, though the pair never touch or brush along one another in any lustful or romantic manner -- still their faces seem somberly intense, as though whatever conversation they are engaged in is generally engrossing.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Cabrini Green. The subject makes Lukas frown faintly, reaching for another slice of pizza.

"I've been trying to talk to Edward about it," he replies. "I wanted to clear the details with him. Plan a raid, take as much of the pack as possible, clear the place out. But to be honest I haven't seen him for weeks. Katherine makes excuses for him; she said we'd meet today, but ... well, look who's here."

His gaze moves over Armstrong's shoulder; he's caught sight of Andrea. Truth is, even if he hadn't, he might've shelved the topic anyway. A distraction presents itself, and Lukas gladly takes it -- raising his hand in greeting, then beckoning her over.

Lukas and Armstrong are not alone; Sampson and Dylan are there also, though quieter. There are three pizza pies in front of them: lazio-style, woodfired with a thin, crisp crust, topped in all sorts of meat. There's also a pitcher of beer.

"Hey, Andrea," when she's close enough to hear. "Have a seat; there's enough to share."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (erk, brb 10min)

[Armstrong] "His excuses are his to make," it was where she left it. A slight, but clear displeasure at this statement.

Lukas looked over her shoulder at the arrival of the older woman. She turned around at the mention that Andrea was there, just enough to turn at the waist and see enough over her shoulder. Mrena didn't like sitting with her back to the door. Of course, she had because all the other chairs had been taken. Plus, she wasn't alone.

Had she been alone? Well, this would be a different issue. A much different issue. One that she would rather not explore.

"Hey," she said to Andrea. A smile, and damn if it didn't look genuine. "C'mon, come sit."

[Andrea Locke] It's the uplifted hand and, perhaps [if the place isn't too loud] the recognized voice that finally draws her attention as she removes her hat and unwinds her scarf in the general annoyance of constantly changing ones level of garb that usually marks this wretched season. She looks over towards the source, taking in the sight of [count them] not just one but four identifiable Garou scarfing down pizza and drinking cheap beer. If Andrea was the professionally jealous sort [or any kind of jealous for that matter] she might be offended. But she isn't, in either respect. Instead there is the briefest glimmer of something over her features.. perhaps disappointment, perhaps frustration, perhaps annoyance, perhaps indigestion or cramps. She lifts her own hand, her lips curving vaguely, nodding in Lukas' n' Companies direction but not immediately moving to join them... instead she turns towards the unknown companion, the man casting barely veiled looks of suspicion in their direction... suspicion and keyed-up awareness. They speak again - Andrea seems to protest something he says, but he shakes his head and is soon doffing his hat once more. He passes her a slip of paper and then makes his way back out of the pizzeria.

The best laid plans of mice and men, indeed...

With a half-shrug, she looks back at the gathered pack. The scarf at her neck is unwrapped, revealing a patch of white gauze taped at the lower left-side of her neck, down just above the collar bone, perhaps because of this - or perhaps simply because she is still cold, or doesn't plan on staying long - she re-wraps the scarf loosely, covering up. Her overcoat, at least, is removed, tossed over the back of a chair as she makes it to the gathered mass of prickling Rage.

"Evening... a small world even in big cities, hmm?" Sitting at the table she nods to Lukas first, then Mrena, then Sampson and Dylan rather in unison. Her eyes slip first not to the pizza, but to the beer and she pours herself a glass from the pitcher, taking a drink, before reaching for a slice of the meat-laden pizza. "Thank you."

[Katherine Bellamonte] Close on the heels of Andrea Locke is another familiar face; equally bundled up against the chill weather in a checkered overcoat, a white scarf carelessly thrown across slim shoulders and a set of gloves clasped in one hand. Katherine Bellamonte pushes into the pizza-parlor, her long legs encased in knee-high boots that seemed as much fashion as practicality; her pale hair tousled by the wind and snow and dusted with flakes of ice.

The fresh-cheeked Silver Fang pauses with her hand wedged to the door; as if, despite her pack-mate's clear presence she would rather not take another step within the premises. The Aristocrat's nostrils flare, and she steps inside with the same tentative care one might on the Wyrm's own doorstep.

I saw a rodent outside, are you sure its sanitized in here?

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] The table is not large, particularly when one takes into account Lukas' height and breadth, and -- this is more subtle and insidious -- Sampson's length of leg. Real estate is very cramped under the table; Andrea would be best off sitting like a lady, legs together and kept to herself.

Lukas' clear blue eyes follow her (ex-)companion with some interest; then they return to her, speculative. He doesn't ask. Yet, anyway. Instead, he nods at the bandage now exposed on her neck.

"What happened there?" Nothing in his tone suggests anything more than casual inquiry.

And, on the totemlink: Quite. All the rats have been summarily killed, chopped, and baked onto our pizzas as toppings. Come have a slice; it's delicious.

[Katherine Bellamonte] You are not an amusing man, is his droll reply, as the blue-eyed Philodox makes her round of the space as if more a judge than a diner, uncurling her scarf from her neck and tousling free her thick waves. Irritation rides free and clear on Katherine's regal features -- the most familiar of which a small furrow sitting above her nose -- as she glances in idle acknowledgment at the Kinswoman she beat only by moments.

"Mrena, Dylan, Sampson... " Each name called like a roster, her Beta receiving the benefit of her eyebrow. "Lukas."

[Armstrong] "It's a small, small world. But I wouldn't want to paint it."

her eyes flickered to the gauze, silvery eyes trailing to the gauze and then back up again to Andrea's face. It was a brief flicker and then went back to her face. The presence of said gauze did not seem to please the smaller shadow Lord.

She didn't have to say anything, Lukas had it covered.

It's sanitary, don't worry. Just come over, it's clean, and the beer's good enough that, even if it isn't, you can drink until it's okay and then it won't matter. It came across the totem link, about as comforting as she could be. Then again, Mrena was not the most empathetic person, but she did try.

[Andrea Locke] She does, indeed, sit like a lady: Legs together and quite to herself, those legs crossed as she leans one arm over the back of her chair and holds her slice of pizza with the other, folding it slightly to handle the slice better - her eyes doing a search for any sign of napkins on the table.

If it surprises or annoys Andrea that Lukas' picks up n the bandage before she loosely re-wrapped the crimson scarf, she doesn't show it. Her sherry-brown eyes meet the blue ones across the table [briefly -- very briefly. the moon is far too pregnant and full for anything else], eyebrows lifting very slightly as she shrugs. "That?" She touches where the bandage was glimpsed and rolls her shoulders fluidly, a gallic expression of general unimportance. "Tsh.. nothing. The streets are rough in this City -- in every city. Little more than a scratch, I assure you."

Then, Katherine makes her appearance and, outside of a look, doesn't acknowledge the woman who provided a roof over her - or at least her packs - head. Andrea, unphased, nods easily at the barest glance Katherine offered as though the Theurge had given her a most pleasingly regal curtsy instead. Then her eyes slip to Mrena and she chuckles, a low, barely audible sound, more a vibration deep in her throat.
"No. But speaking of painting, we really must get together about that mural."

[Andrea Locke] Man + Sub = 6, Diff 6 -- Bandage Explanation:
to Armstrong, Lukas Wyrmbreaker

[Andrea Locke] Heh.. Kahseeno's my bitch. (struts)
to Armstrong, Lukas Wyrmbreaker

[Armstrong] (per+subterfuge. Somethin' ain't right)
to Andrea Locke, Lukas Wyrmbreaker

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (*grumble* this is the LAST TIME i roll for normal ic rp stuff!)
to Andrea Locke, Armstrong

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas' eyes linger on the kinwoman a moment. An eyebrow rises, dark and straight. "You got mugged?" It's not disbelief of her lie, per se -- which he probably doesn't even catch. It's disbelief in general. He tears another slice of pizza. Then, "What the hell were you doing?"

[Katherine Bellamonte] She was not quick to forgive.

Which was not to say forgiveness was not in her nature but rather that in order to achieve it from Mlle sang bleu there had to be a measure of effort extended -- or perceived to be extended -- toward ensuring her renewed benevolence. That Katherine Bellamonte was unaccustomed to offering most kin the time of day comes as no great shock to any present. Unless they were of equal standing in her pale eye they had little purpose or use to her and so few outside the sphere of her great family and its extended bloodline could ever quite be her equal.

The small table is quite full; with her pack-mates lounging around it and so Katherine; one lap of the establishment completed finally sits herself at the counter; her back presented toward the parlor tables at large -- she shrugs her coat from her shoulders and folds over the back of her stool, choosing instead of partaking of the offered pizza slices, to pull a small notepad and glasses from her purse.

[Armstrong] "You have terrible habit of down-playing the vast majority of things that happen, or have happened, to you," she said. "When did this happen?"

The theurge took another bite of pizza, looking between the two of them and deciding that this was the time to keep her mouth shut and listen. She wasn't sure how she felt about this, but she seemed to believe, for now, that it really was just a scratch.

The fact of the matter was this: something had touched her kin. Mrena was not pleased. The degree of that displeasure, however, was a bit muted. After all, she had believed that Andrea really didn't have anything to hide there. She finished off her piece and gave a little wave to Katherine. What's the notepad for? Asked the Shadow Lord who slept with her sketchbook.

[Andrea Locke] "Apparently I was walking down the wrong street at the wrong time wearing a sign that said 'Mug Me'..." Her response to Lukas' general disbelief, her mouth twitching slightly at one corner, a spark of wry amusement in her eyes. "Really, Lukas, such a question..."

Slowly finishing off one slice, she doesn't reach for another but instead occupies herself with her glass of beer. Mrena speaks up and Andrea looks her way, her lips quirking once more. "Some might call that modesty -- or a generally private nature. And last night -- but as I'm still quite healthy and whole I see no reason to make more of a fuss of it than it really was." She can hold Armstrong's gaze only slightly longer than she could Lukas', but long enough to clearly denote she has no desire to go into details, if there even are any to divulge.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Hm." Lukas leans back; cheese stretches as he pulls his slice back, and a glob of sausages and meatballs threaten to slide off the pizza. His regard breaks for a moment as he tips his head back, mouth wide open like a kid in the rain to catch a landslide of cheese and toppings. It's the sort of thing you'd see any college kid his age do; briefly, and poignantly, Lukas acts his age.

Then he washes the mouthful down with a gulp of beer, wipes his mouth on his napkin, replaces it over his lap. And he's himself again: calm, controlled, with eyes like ice.

"Well, it seems like you got lucky. You should be more careful, though." His tone is a faint rebuke, but mostly, it's rather apathetic about the whole deal. "Carry a gun in your purse or something. What would happen to the Brotherhood if you died?"

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine's head, bent to her task does not rise. The note is for things I have yet to do which I must remind myself of, Mrena. If ever I manage to pin my brother's shirttails down, for instance there are several things requiring his urgent attention. Something like agitation rides in her quiet reply, her shoulders briefly sagging as if she were deeply tired.

But still, her pen scratches softly in the background of their discussion.

[Andrea Locke] For a moment she watches him eat. Watches him act his age -- act how he would probably act always if he was even remotely just human. Just another human kid. Then he resumes his more normal manner and speaks to her like a generally uncaring guardian and she takes that opportunity to drink down more of her beer least her tongue and her temper run away with her. Again.

"A gun would be useless. I'd be likely to shoot my own foot." She lowers her mostly empty glass and takes up a napkin, lightly wiping her own lips and then laughing lowly. "And if anything happens to me, the Brotherhood will pass on to Reuben and Jennifer. And god knows she'll coddle the lot of you more than I have a mind to."

With that she moves to stand, reaching for her coat to shrug back into it. "Thank you for the drink, the pizza and the company -- it was very nice of you all. And, Armstrong, I've noticed you come back in from a morning constitutional at about... 9:30 or so? It would be lovely if you would come see me sometime this week. Have you ever indulged in a Sauna? I've one in my apartment - very relaxing."

[Armstrong] She did not press. At least, not right now. There was always the given that, someday, she would press. She would ask, though more than likely it would be privately. And it was left where it was.

"Actually," she said, "A gun might only be useful assuming that someone doesn't try to take it away from you. If you decide to keep a gun in your purse, please be a good shot." It was about as close as she could get to saying Please, Andrea, don't get shot and die horribly.

And then? A response to Katherine. You may want to tackle him. The full-contact method is usually fairly effective. She perked up some and looked at Andrea. "That sounds really nice, by all means, we should indulge. And definitely sometime this week."

The answer to that question was a big, resounding maybe to the question of whether or not she's enjoyed the finer joys of a sauna.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "You have a sauna up there?" Lukas is full of general disbelief tonight. "Jesus Christ, woman." A pause. "What if the pipes spring a leak?" -- suddenly, Lukas laughs, an unexpectedly pleasant sound. "It'd be raining on the second floor."

[Andrea Locke] "Brilliant." In response to Mrena's apparent acceptance of the casual invitation. She smiles to the young Theurge, an action a touch -- to continue with the general term -- indulgent. Does she think the theurge to be a sweet, innocent maiden? Hardly. Still, there seems to be something about her that strikes true to the older woman... perhaps even, dare we say it, a spark of maternal instinct.

It's bound to happen, surrounded by pups and all.

Lukas laughs and it is that sound that catches Andrea's attention more than his words -- unexpectedly pleasant and she seems intrigued by that -- though the words that follow the laugh are met with somewhat of a look that might question either the Ahrouns sense of humour or sanity, whichever comes first. "Sauna's actually use very little water all in all." Her lips curve, perhaps a touch saucy. "If anything it should be the whirlpool tub that worries you. Never fear. I shall give you a gift of an umbrella in the event I flood the second floor." And, lo and behold, she winks.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Oh, really." Lukas takes another bite of his pizza, puts it down, leans back in his chair to look at her more easily now that she's gotten to her feet. "I'll remember that promise. We've got witnesses here."

Perhaps his easy good humor -- considering their less pleasant exchanges earlier -- is a bit galling; or perhaps one should simply be glad of his good mood tonight, particularly considering the moon phase.

"Whirlpool tub, she says," he adds, mock-disappointment, speaking now to the table in general. "And here all along I thought she was pinching pennies and clipping coupons to keep our rent low and our bellies full."

[Armstrong] "So long as the pipes aren't strategically placed over my room, I'm fine," it was an offhanded comment. A grin crossed her face and then stayed there. The petite theurge let out something of a high-pitched half laugh. Her laughter, however, seemed to fit her body quite nicely.

Truth be told, Mrena liked the sound of her packmate laughing. It was unexpected, and it was just infrequent enough that when it did happen it was a pleasant surprise. She would keep it wherever she got it.

"And," she said to Andrea, "It sounds like a plan. I'll catch you some morning and we can indulge."

And it was so easy to believe that she was some sweet, innocent maiden. It was easy to believe that Mrena was some sweet, unassuming young lady. Because, on some level, maybe it made it easier, could help shake the idea of the things this not-yet-twenty year old girl did. But that illusion fell the minute someone spent more than three minutes with her. "Oh no, the coupon clipping still happens. You're never too well-off to clip coupons."

[Andrea Locke] "Now, now, Lukas.. I never said I was sacrificing anything for you all." Easily followed by a nod as Mrena pipes in the last.. "And, precisely -- clip enough coupons or have to good sense to marry for money - whichever comes first."

Her lips curve now, neigh on close to an impudent grin, though not quite reaching the mark. After all -- she is certainly no 20-something [or not-even-20-something] year old to be lazing about, shooting the shit, eating pizza and drinking beer all night. Whatever she's done to get where she has financially she's done it well -- the reward being she's going to go home to a lovely apartment, soak in an expensive tub and sleep on expensive sheets, no doubt.

And then, tomorrow, she'll probably be doing laundry again.

Highs and lows.
Highs and lows.

Re-wrapping her scarf and buttoning up her overcoat she nods to the assembled Garou at the table once more. "Again, thanks for the food and company. Have a pleasant night, all."

And then she's heading for the door and back into the abysmal cold.

[Andrea Locke] ooc: MUST go to bed. Now. Goodnight, all! Thanks for the play!

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (aww, she missed this post! *LOL*)

Lukas nods his farewells. In the kinwoman's wake, there's that silence that always settles over a dinner party after the first of its participants leaves.

Then, Lukas says, "She's not so bad when she's not being a self-righteous little harpy, is she?" -- and he genuinely means this as a good thing. He tears off another slice of pizza and digs in. Perhaps the ladies have finished already -- god knows Andrea had all of one slice -- but Lukas, at the least, is still Stuffing His Face (tm). "Who do you think that fellow she came in with was? Didn't look like a boyfriend to me."

[Katherine Bellamonte] "Perhaps it's her bodyguard," Katherine says dryly from her position, her back, swathed in expensive linen and blond hair, still presented towards her pack-mates, though her legs neatly crossed to one side of her are fully revealed, the laces on her boots tightly looped through every notch up her calf to just below her knee. "Apparently the woman cannot go out without being attacked."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] An eyebrow rises -- "What, has this happened before?"

(sorry for jumping order, but i gotta sleep VERY SOON, so i'm gonna just post fast and short!)

[Armstrong] "She's really not, it's kind of refreshing," she smiled a little. Mrena kept on eating; she hadn't made her way through too many pieces yet, but she had the tendency to not eat when she was thinking and it seemed that White Eyes had done a lot of thinking that evening.

"Maybe she's working on a business deal of sorts, he didn't seem the sort who would have wanted to come over here so there's a chance that it's more mundane interaction.

"If he's her bodyguard, he's not going a good job if he couldn't stomach coming over here. If nothing more, he should function as a meat shield."

[Katherine Bellamonte] "I'm sure I have no idea," she sniffs and turns on her stool to lift her own fair brows. "I don't make it a habit to follow your kin around, Lukas. Though maybe I should since she seems so chummy with my sister."

[Armstrong] "What did happen?" She looked at Katherine, brows raised. The curious expression seemed to be her ever-present accessory that night. Hey, if she couldn't wear that red scarf, she had to try on new expressions.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine peels her eyes from Lukas, and levels them toward Mrena, tapping her pen against her notepad in clear annoyance; it glimmers in her eye and around her brow. "Hatchet happened, Mrena. As he always does. He wedges his nose where it does not belong and gets it unceremoniously bitten. Or in this case, punched."

He got into a fight with Sam and that Bone Gnawer, Ryan something or other, I don't recall his last name. Sam came upon Gabriella loitering where she ought not to have been and warned Oscar away. Naturally, this did not sit well with Hatchet-Ryha and they fought. Hatchet started it, and lost. And then the other night Gabriella did not return to the Loft as I instructed her to, Lukas and I tracked her to the Brotherhood where she was consuming alcohol with Hatchet, Ryan and Ms Locke in the kinwoman's apartment.

[Katherine Bellamonte] (I totally wrote rhya in my head, my fingers are just drunk.)

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "I had a talk with Hatchet, actually." This takes some of the good out of his mood. "I tried to explain to him why he should put the the War ahead of himself and nip this business with Gabriella in the bud before it interfered with more important matters.

"I'm not sure it did any good, to be honest. He seemed to under my point well enough, but he saw it as bending over backwards to keep out of the Bellamontes' way. I told him even if that were the case, it would be the honorable thing to do, as a Fostern and a Philodox, to avoid unnecessary strife with his fellow Garou. Well; doubtlessly we'll see how this plays out."

He eats the last of his pizza, drinks the last of his beer. Eyes the platters for a moment as though considering another piece; then decides against it. "You might want to have a talk with your sister," he adds to Katherine -- perhaps unwisely. "I suspect she's going to be as much trouble in this as Hatchet, if not more. I've been meaning to talk to her myself, but," a shrug finishes the thought.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (REALLY MUST SLEEP VERY SOON!)

[Armstrong] (skip me!)

[Katherine Bellamonte] "Gabriella will do as I bid, or she will regret her actions." Her sister says, with as sure a tone as any that sent chills up the spines of countless kinwomen before her in the Silver Fang lineage. "I will speak with her, perhaps," Katherine pauses, and her fingers still in their tapping action. Her blue eyes searching her pack-mate's at his offer. "Perhaps you should speak with her as well, Lukas." It's grudging, to an extent, her next few words.

"She seems to listen to you."

[Katherine Bellamonte] (Let's wrap up so Damonetti can zonk!)

[Armstrong] "Let her come to her own conclusions," she said. And then, she took a drink of beer and continued. "And if those conclusions happen to coincide with yours... That's perfect."

It was clear, just clear enough that, when she said that, she wasn't speaking too much about letting the poor, unfortunate teenage kinfolk make her own decisions. Or even giving her much say in it at all. Just careful arrangement, careful planning, and meticulous execution.

She then stood up and finished off her beer. One glass. Everything put together and arranged for ease of clean up. The theurge was reaching for her coat. "I have to get going, it'll be dawn before you know it, and then I'll have wasted the day away."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas snorts a little at that. "Thanks for the olive branch, Katherine, but that was doubtlessly because I was the lesser of two evils that night. She's 18, spoiled, and one of you Bellamontes. Believe me, if I say something that's not a direct command, and that she doesn't like to hear, she'll tune me out as well as any other.

"The truth is, if your sister gets it in her head that she'd like to be best friends forever with Hatchet, I suspect only Hatchet's honor will keep them apart." He wipes his fingers clean, then folds the napkin and tosses it over his plate -- a sign that he too was on the way out. "Either that, or sending her away to boarding school somewhere far, far away."

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine's expression is dark, and she rises as well, reclaiming her coat to shrug on over her tall frame. "I do not wish to send my sister away from me, I ... I want her with me." For a moment, there's actual emotion in the Philodox's eyes, some fleeting chasm of terror and fear, but she blinks it away the next instant and throws her scarf on.

"I will deal with Gabriella."

This stated, Katherine follows their lead out into the cold.

[Armstrong] (thanks for the scene! Night lovelies!)

[Katherine Bellamonte] (night pretties!)