the truth of andrea's name.

[Lukas] The hour is growing late; the Brotherhood is emptying out, the Closed sign has gone up, and Lukas is sitting in what's fast becoming a favorite armchair by the fire, in front of the low, lounge-style table.

He has a bottle of red, but it's not one from the bar. Brought in from somewhere else, then. Opened; about a third of the way drained. He also has a platter of herb-roasted lamb rib chops, and these are from the kitchen.

Andrea crosses the room for one reason or another, perhaps to close the blinds and shut the drapes. He raises his voice: clean, accentless, quite american except when he pronounces his own name, or some word or other of his native tongue.

"Kinwoman. Come and have a drink with me."

[Andrea Locke] Running any business certainly involves the handling of bills and writs and orders and payrolls.... which likely explains the accordion file under one half-bent arm as she makes her way into the Restaurant proper, heading towards the bar to presumably fix herself something to drink and thus ease the blow of having to concentrate on the tedium of numbers and negligible profits.

Lukas' presence is noted -- the presence of any Garou is hard to miss. The presence of an Ahroun with whom you have had words [and pimp slaps] is even harder to ignore. Then there is the summons - not a request, a summons indeed. A politely voiced order. An eyebrow arches as she looks up from the Reserva she is pouring into a tumbler... but then she merely nods, taking file and bottle and glass with her to the table, where she settles in another of the cushioned seats before the still blazing fire.

"Evening -- I trust your meal is satisfactory?" She inhales, a slight flaring of her nostrils, a slight half-lidded slip of her eyes as she savours the scent.

[Lukas] The wine, it is apparent for anyone possessing even an ounce of awareness, is not his first drink of the night. He has been out between the hours of whenever and now; he may have done many things, but one of those things was to go to a bar and have drinks that were a lot harder than red wine.

He does not slur his words. Nor does he reek of alcohol. Nor does he sway; nor does his clothes -- which are the usual affair, expensive, well-fitting, casually elegant -- bear unseemly stains. It's merely a hoodedness of the eyes, a slight roughness at the edges; a slight dilation of the pupils. A slight inattention to his otherwise impeccable manners, codes of conduct, morals, unwritten laws all his own.

Whatever. The point is: she asks if his meal is satisfactory, and Lukas, the Ahroun, smirks faintly in response.

A beat of silence. Then, as she lowers herself to the seat across from him, he wonders aloud: "Does it give you some sort of satisfaction to play the good hostess, even to a bad guest? Or is that really all that goes on in your head: if I'm enjoying my damn lamb chops?"

He does, of course, seem to have a predilection toward lamb. Insert big bad wolf jokes as you may.

[Armstrong] For the most part, Mrena managed to become a snowy mess in a dignified, fairly fashionable way. She had gone to the caern, dusk had already come and passed. She was off to go teach Andrew whatever rite she had to teach him, and had decided to spend more time at the caern. It was time to think, to contemplate, and to observe the water coming in and coming out.

There would be a full moon soon, and at that moment she was taking it all for what it was worth.
You've spent too much time looking human, little thunder.

The little lady kicked her shoes off behind her and made sure that she didn't make a a complete snowy mess of comign in. It might have been for hospitality's sake. More accurately, she just hated the sound that her shoes made when they were wet and squeeked on the floor. Attire was boring. Jeans. Sweater, pea coat.

Still no scarf.
It was really starting to bother her.

[Andrea Locke] His state is... observed. It is observed. Noted. And she sips her own drink as she adjusts herself in the chair, crossing her legs, leaning back, perhaps pondering the likelihood that she might be able to use a fire poker to try and ward off the rages of an intoxicated Ahroun.
Likely not, Andrea. Likely not.
As though she's settled some fatalistic noton she rolls her shoulders, sipping once more from the rich, well aged rum that is - in the fire light - rather akin to the colour of her eyes at the moment. Eyes that shift over the hooded gaze, the slight roughness about the edges, the general mien that is Lukas. He responds to her query - more attack than response.

She laughs.

A sound from the depths of her belly, full and low-pitched, quickly becoming more vibrating hum than outright laughter. "Does it give you satisfaction to play the role of bad guest?"

[Armstrong] She slipped out, making her way out to go get something to drink and then head upstairs. Of course, she came out to see- no, she smelled lamb before she saw Lukas. And she heard laughter before she saw Andrea. And at that moment, the theurge stood, with posture straight and silvery eyes remarkably clear.

And she watched. And she listened.

The petite Garou pushed her hair back behind one of her ears. Things were observed. Things were noted. They were seen for colors and textures and combination and, for now, all she wanted to do was stand and observe what sort of exchange may, or may not, occur. Truth be told, putting Andrea and Lukas in the same room occasionally needed observation.

Andrea needed to be observed anyway. That wasn't the point. Mrena cleared her throat slightly, but didn't get around to saying anything.

[Lukas] Perhaps this is a surprise: a genuine smile, curving his lips, showing only a glimmer of teeth.

"It gives me a certain satisfaction to see you react." She has her own drink, but he doesn't care: he invited her to have a drink with him and he'll pour her a glass. A full glass -- up to a fingerswidth from the rim. "You don't like me, but you'll still play your role. Fulfill your duty. I know something about that."

He leans back, recorks the bottle. "Have a drink."

And: "You, Mrena?" Without looking, he knows which of his packmates is there. "A glass for you as well?"

[Andrea Locke] "Armstrong," Her eyes dip down to the theurges bare feet, then back up to her lovely features, arching an eyebrow with something between simple curiosity and matronly responsibility. "I do hope you didn't go outside like that... abilities to withstand super-human circumstances aside, it would be damned uncomfortable."

She is poured a glass of wine and given a genuine smile... which, at the moment, she returns, accepting the wine with a nod, ebony curls set to lightly sway with the motion. "It gains me nothing to fight a battle I'll only lose... but all the same, I wouldn't go so far as to say I don't like you, Lukas. We're simply... different creatures. Different. If nothing else, you never bore me. Always a plus."

[Armstrong] "Sounds lovely," she said. And that was her hello. Her wave, her nod to the fact that she was here and, yes, that she wanted wine.

The confident young lady was unbuttoning her coat when she came in closer to take a position more appropriate for conversation. Then, a mention to the fact that she was not, at the moment, wearing shoes. "Oh, no. I just left them at the back door to dry out. I hate the sound of wet rubber."

Huh. Learn something new every day. And so, she listened to ambiguous statements from her kinswoman that said that she may possibly, almost, on some level maybe tolerate Lukas. The theurge inhaled slowly, taking in the smell of wine and meat and conversation. And she kept her mouth shut.

[Lukas] " 'Different'," he mimics her, quietly, his wineglass in hand, raised, undrunk. His eyes are fast on her, pale as ice, pale as frost. "What does that mean? Explain it to me, Ms. Locke: how are we 'different'."

And, as Armstrong approaches -- hopefully with her own glass, because Lukas was out -- he sits up again to catch up the bottle and decork it in the same smooth, practiced motion; tips it to fill Armstrong's glass. There is no question, none, that the pair of Lords are packmates. He has an absolute awareness of her position and posture, such that he doesn't glance at her or her glass once, but fills it flawlessly.

Sets the bottle back down after. And, picking up his own glass, sinks back once more: relaxed, feet planted apart, dominating the firefront with his rising gibbous-moon rage, every inch a Lord.

[Andrea Locke] "I am kinfolk. You are Garou. I am woman. You are man -- and yet nothing so simple as a 'man' at all. Even in just those facets we are made and wired completely different."
Her words are lightly spoken - low toned and comfortable, though measured with a certain amount of care. Yes, care -- whatever Lukas or Mrena might think, she does not make a habit of picking fights with garou just for the hell of it. Meek and mild? No. Stupidly suicidal? Rarely.

Slipping off her heels, she hooks one foot up on the couch with her, draping an arm over her knee, the hand holding the glass of wine turning it before the firelight, watching the play of the burning glow over the variances of red hues.
"Ultimately, I will never understand what it is to be neither True Born, no male, nor wolf... and you will never understand what it is to be a kinfolk woman of the Shadow Lords. There's nothing intrinsically wrong with either -- but all the same, the division is set in stone for what it is worth. So you act for your reasons which make sense from the perspective of your make up and experiences. And I act for mine."

[Armstrong] There was a sort of otherworldly familiarity between the two of them. She headed off to the kitchen to grab a glass, and had returned with one. The entirety of handing things off and waiting and drinking was just fluid. And there he was, with wine by a fire and very much in his element. Like he was the poster child for the tribe, or what other Ahrouns were supposed to aspire to be.

The wine was a red. More than likely of a good year and respectable vineyard; if there was one thing she learned, it was that her packmates did not skimp when it came to quality. Mrena inhaled, then took a sip. Any sort of ladilike demeanor that she had was born of observation. Because, if nothing, she was observant. So, when she took a seat, she chose her position so that she could see as much as possible of those she was conversing. with.

Oh, the tactics of chair-placement.

[Lukas] "And what are your reasons, exactly?" A tilt of his head, a quick, precise, oddly avian gesture. "Thrillseeking?" And he smirks again, because surely that was not the answer. "Alleviation of this 'boredom' of yours?" Not for the first time, he tosses her words back at her.

[Andrea Locke] "Well, ultimately my reasons are just that: My own."

The glass is brought to her lips, and like any true connoisseur, she first inhales the initial bouquet, before taking a lingering sip, rolling the fluid over her palate and tongue before finally swallowing. She raises a single finger [no, not that one] as though to keep him from immediately assuming she is being deliberately belligerent.
"But the only reason that need be of any concern to you and anyone else of the Tribe is one of simple reconnaissance. It's no secret that the Lords don't hold the same sway in North America as they've come to hold in Europe. But if the Margrave wishes to win a War and not merely one battle front, then it doesn't hurt to have one willing kinfolk in a position to give information on the goings on at a Caern potentially -- possibly, maybe -- up for grabs. If the resources were to pan out and any other number of things. It's no mystery." She shrugs, brushing back stray strands of hair. "In all probability it'll amount to nothing. But still... I was willing."

[Armstrong] (ahh! Crap, lost my train of thought, skip me!)

[Lukas] "My god," he marvels: for a moment she might almost think he was moved by her selflessness, her courage, her standing up for the tribe.

Then he continues: "Have people actually believed that pretty little spiel?"

He does not, for his part, take lingering sips. He takes a great gulp of wine, draining half his glass at one pull. Then, lowering it to the arm of his chair, he rolls the glass lightly in his large hand, sloshing the liquid to within a millimeter of the lip. All the while, his sharp blue eyes study the kinwoman before him, who had a certain elegance and poise of her own, this is true, but in the end, cannot meet his eyes for long.

"You see," he adds, "I'd be a lot more willing to believe you were performing reconnaissance for our friends back home, as it were, if it weren't for the fact that not a single one seems to even recognize your name. So: either you have nothing to do with the old world Lords -- or they know you by some other name. I wonder, which is it?"

[Andrea Locke] "Oh goodness..."
Both eyebrows raise now, twin ravens wings, poised high on an alabaster brow. "We have been a curious lad. Reached a dead end, did you?"

Leaning back, she props and elbow on one arm of the chair, lightly resting a cheek against down turned fingers. If she is disconcerted by Lukas' checking out her story, it doesn't show. "Andromeda Palenciano Constantinescu. Though some of the younger of the Tribe - like yourself - might remember Andromeda Constantinescu de Leonte, the widowed mate of Valgos Leonte. Ahroun. Children of Crow -- but that was, oh... nearly two decades ago."

[Lukas] She calls him a curious lad -- rather patronizingly -- and he merely smiles in return.

"Don't be too flattered. You're my kinswoman. My responsibility. Some Garou accept the burden blindly. I like to know what I'm getting into.

"So: why don't you save me the trouble of digging up more information, and tell me about yourself? Ms. Andromeda Palenciano Constantinescu."

[Armstrong] She took a drink, curling up and getting comfortable for the time being. Mrena wasn't wearing shoes, she had nothing to worry about in regards to getting the furniture dirty or otherwise having to appear too appropriate. However, it could be said that the young lady took a comfortable position and regarded Andrea then.

And she gave appropriate introductions. Who she was, in a most literal sense. A quiet regard for the woman, and she just took her in. Then, a small glance to Lukas with a raised brow. How long had he known? How long had he been looking?

"Of course people believed it, they believe what is convenient."

She took another drink, then decided to shut her mouth again. She would ask when she was curious.

[Andrea Locke] "Oh, it's the truth..." Armstrong's commentary about Lukas' sarcastic response to Andrea's "reasons" has the Kinswoman bemused, still not apparently feeling threatened by anything coming out here. "It's just relatively boring. It was also never a matter of anyone believing anything -- I don't know who knows about this outside of my uncle -- not for any great desire of secrecy but because it simply doesn't rate much importance. I'd have no reason to lie about it. I am many things -- I'm not a liar."

Well, not where it matters but that is neither her or there, right?

Then, looking back to Lukas, she smiles blandly. "Andrea. I'm no more Andromeda than I am married any longer. And, well... lets see. After the death of my mate, I moved to the states. For various reasons I was not allowed to take my then infant daughter with me." The only indication that that last bit of information might cost her something to speak of is the faintest stiffening of the fingers around the stem of her wine glass... otherwise... "I remarried. I sought a position of some behind-the-scenes influence in Washington, D.C. -- I became a widow once more, but continued my assorted ventures there. I still have certain dealings there and suspect I'll be returning within the next year or so -- but the shifting of the political climate required a scrupulous - if only temporary - extraction. So now I am here. Really, quite uninteresting." She doesn't smirk or preen, she simply shrugs once more and takes more of her wine.

[Lukas] Quite uninteresting, she says of herself, multiple times and multiple ways, and every time she does so Lukas seems to believe it a little bit less.

The glance from his packmate is fielded, returned -- his face gives little enough away. He's careful about such things. It's what he's good at. The details. The information. The planning. Just look at their arrival to this city: the advance notifications, the introductions, the lodgings -- all the fruit of Lukas' quiet labors. And, like those, this particular bit of detective work has apparently lain dormant while he mused it out, not yet important enough to divulge to the pack at large.

We digress. The point is: Andrea proclaims the uninteresting-ness of her history, and Lukas watches her, his eyes faintly narrowed, the wine rocking gently to and fro in his hand.

"Let's just focus on the interesting part, then," he suggests. "Why change your name, if secrecy was never a concern? Surely the name of your uncle, the glory of your dead mate, could only help."

[Armstrong] Let's just focus on the interesting part, then, he said. A clear and concise statement, for a moment she took the time to think back to Andrea and the last conversation they had that included all three of them sitting around Lukas's room. There was coffee; there were words exchanged. The thought was left there.

Mrena let a finger trace across the top of her wine glass. Lukas had thought about this.

And, for a moment, she looked at him and he really was the picture of what a Shadow Lord could be. It was a bit admirable, it was a subtle reminder. And for now, she continued to listen and think on this. And log it away for reference purposes.

[Andrea Locke] She does, of course, watch the looks that pass between the two packmates - tribemates - noting them in her own manner. Perhaps simply discarding them either, as they bear no real fruit.

"Again: Rather boring. Like many children I found my parents choice of first name to be less than satisfactory. Really, going about life with a name like Andromeda? Merciless." One side of her finely etched mouth quirks upwards, no more. "Locke was the legal name I acquired when I married my second late husband." At least two husbands, both dead. But Andrea Locke, a black widow? Never. "I simply never changed it back afterwards. I built a new life for myself here in the New World -- there was no need to cling to old remnants of the past. I continued what contact with the family back home was required of me, but by and large I'd already fulfilled my principle duties as a kinswoman: I'd given birth a True Born of the tribe and made little fuss when it was agreed her upbringing should be seen to by those who would eventually be her real family. My first mate was not a loyal sort - not sexually at least - and one of his indiscretions led to my contracting a disease which, of course, had no impact on him whatsoever but left me barren. Free of the obligation of breeding further my Uncle saw no harm in letting me leave Europe and make myself useful in other ways. Honestly, neither you or Armstrong seemed at all impressed at the existence of my illustrious uncle and one dead mate more or less hardly makes more of an impact -- Overseas it would be a different story. The Garou here don't care one way or another. I'm hardly a suitable mate. I provided usefull information when I came across it. A genial arrangement for all involved."

[Lukas] Andrea -- or Andromeda, if you would -- is fast landing on Lukas' list of epic speechmakers. When the woman wanted to make a point -- or perhaps to cover one -- she could rattle out quite the syllable count. And it's sometime in the middle of this latest oration that Lukas, against all odds, begins to smile.

By the end, it's quite the grin, showing the white points of his canines. He masks it behind his wineglass -- drains it -- and then sits up to set the emptied glass on the table, beside the almost-emptied bottle of wine.

"You know, I think you're really just trying to bury any and all further inquiries and objections in words. I think there's more to your story than you care to divulge. You're keeping me at arm's length," he glances at Armstrong as he says this, sharing a wry look, "which wounds me terribly, but doesn't particularly surprise me. Shadow Lord kin survive to your age by giving in or by being very, very careful. I don't think it's the former for you."

He gets to his feet, drawing up the bottle of wine by the neck. And no: he does not sway.

"Anyway. You look tired. We'll talk again, kinwoman."

[Andrea Locke] "I am.... tired, that is." Though she smirks slightly at having it so nicely pointed out to her. Thankfully she isn't a vain woman -- or perhaps is simply possessed of a healthy ego and sense of self-worth. Whichever.

He stands and she also rises, taking her wine glass with her. "Though perhaps you understand more of Kin than I gave you credit... you're right about how we survive into my... ripe old... age. Goodnight, Lukas..." Then she looks to Mrena, nodding. "Armstrong. Rest well."

And, without further ado, she moves into the kitchen and from there to the stairs to make her climb up the third floor and her apartment there.

[Armstrong] "Good night," she said.

The lady took another sip of her wine, turning and watching Lukas stand. He was headed up the stairs, it seemed, or at least was getting ready to either wind down orread or make plans or what-have-you. It was what he did, and as of tonight, it was reaffirmed that he did it well. Once all was said and done, and Andrea left, the smaller Shadow Lord turned to her beta and looked up at him.

"How long had you known?" she had to ask. She just had to; Mrena didn't expect too much of an answer. Because, honestly, she had enough of an answer already. Lukas had known, and Lukas had known long enough to make it worthwhile.

[Lukas] The Ahroun is, indeed, heading upstairs -- though he lingers long enough to give Andrea a headstart. No need to chase the kinwoman up the stairs, after all.

So when Mrena asks the question, he's standing by the fireplace, warming his free hand. Or making some semblance of it. Truth is if one were to touch his skin now, one would find it quite warm of its own accord: as though some internal thermostat were set higher than a mere human's.

He turns -- regards the Theurge over his shoulder. Then he smiles, suddenly, and turns fully to face her.

"Since a few days after she told us she was Shadow Lord, and niece to an Athro," he replies. "I hadn't even heard we had a kinwoman named Andrea Locke here in Chicago, much less one that claimed such an mighty uncle. So I made some phone calls to my folks. They called their friends back in the homeland. Soon enough the pieces came together. Constantinescu-rhya has many family members, but only a few of them fit her description.

"Truth be told I wasn't sure she'd own up to it tonight. But I wanted to see what she would do. If she didn't tell us, I'd have believed her bringing up her uncle that night was an honest slip, an act of minor desperation. But she did. So I suspect she wants her old family ties to be common knowledge amongst the tribe here -- a bit of a bargaining chip in her corner. But the rest of it; well. The woman is hiding something. You don't throw away a name like that just because you get married, and if I had a nickel for every time she insisted her background was of no import and no interest, I'd be richer than Edward.

"Still. It's a minor puzzle; not really worth great effort." He lifts the winebottle, pulls the cork out, tops Mrena's glass off, takes a gulp. Then he jams the cork back in on the dregs, intending to throw the bottle out at the nearest trashcan. "Just something to occupy my downtime."

[Armstrong] "Makes for a lovely hobby," she said. The lady looked at the glass for a moment and let a slight grin cross her face. Mrena then looked back to her packmate. "Originally, I believed that she was trying to ride his coat tails. If I understand correctly, she did acknowledge that the old world and this one are... different."

So sayeth the woman with no ancestors of note. No family name that held that sort of power. We digress.

"She could have done something or she burned the wrong bridge. That woman can talk circles though, and one can assume that it worked previously because she hasn't changed her style. I hold firm that my original assumption of her riding his coat tails may be vaguely accurate." The smaller Lord took a drink of her wine, then nodded some. Her eyes flickered back to the fire and she let a slight smile cross her face. Something seemed to have flickered into her mind that obviously amused her.

"Thank you for the wine, by the way, it's nice," the theurge stated. It was offhand, like she had almost forgotten.

[Lukas] "I wouldn't be surprised if she rode his coattails at some point. But I also suspect whatever caused her to change her name put an end to that." The Ahroun shrugs his shoulders; his thin-woven black pullover rides the motion like a wolfspelt, loosely, fluidly. "No matter. The truth will come out or it won't. At this point, I don't see a reason to pursue it too much."

As for the wine -- "Yeah, I'm fond of it myself. I've another bottle in my room. Let me know if you want to share it some night." It's been long enough to be polite; he heads for the stairs himself now. "Night, Mrena."