lukas loses his shit.

[Sam Modine] It's not a particularly cold evening. In fact this is one of the first days above freezing in weeks, the snow, so thick last week has turned during the tepid daylight conditions to a watery slush underfoot. The banks are now sad, dirty relics of their former glory along the curbs and much of the ground save that around the odd steel-ringed trashcan or out of place tree growing from an exposed circle along the sidewalk where the crunchy white still clings in heaps around their bases. Ten feet, five sets, make their falls heard in tandem growing down the sidewalk, sending terror into the darkness in their wake.

And they are not being quiet about it.
Because tonight--

--"We have to celebrate." The Modi between the middle Bellamonte and the street itself pushes her playfully, that dangerous hint of fire behind icy blue orbs as another predator turns upon her to smile without the bearing of teeth. The moon and the moot both in turn have roused them to fury, most especially the evening's close, a riotous chorus of Garou of all tribes, all packs, all backgrounds chasing upon an epiphling through the Caern's bawn. After all, nothing gets a monster's blood hotter than to hunt.

"You're the Mistress of the Challenge, Katherine!" He almost cannot contain himself in the silver light, he turns and gestures wildly as he speaks. "Anyway, the place is quiet, and we'll have the whole thing to ourselves. There's a private dining room, the employees will be seen and not heard..." He gives her a look as though there should be no problem with this, the group of young turks invading the space of mortals on a time reserved for things that go howl in the night.

"And when's the last time we had pizza?" He jokingly intones as he reaches for a swinging glass door's handle, pulling it roughly before leaning back against it to let all the others pass.

Inside the place is empty, as promised only a moment ago. The walls are painted in most places with incredibly intricate floral swirls of red, silver and gold and the incandescent illumination is set low, giving it an almost palapable sense of sophistication. Not bad for a Modi picking a place for Silver Fangs to dine on deep dish. It's only a minute or so later that they've been led through the restaurant toward the back of the place, through a large wooden door. Awaiting them they'll find a long oak dining table, with places set for eight, should more of the pack arrive late. For the moment they are then left ot their own devices as the waiter rushes away from the feeling of dread boiling up in his gut and fetches drinks for the assembled beasts.

[Sampson Musembi] Sampson is a happy man.

Also, the dark-skinned Kenyan is out celebrating Katherine's new office with his packmates; any excuse to be with as many as possible. LIke a flock, they always have stragglers, those who haven't quite gotten there yet, those who stopped for a quick bath in a pool or some found shiny item someplace. Or for sex. For the most part though, the line between pack and flock blur, leaving them united. Not always in agreement, but united.

BBH.

Sampson jumps over a couple of puddles, hopping his way across this part of Chicago. "An hour ago, Sam. Pepperoni. I think! Pepperoni is of Gaia. I think! It is a Holy food! Especially with beer!"

Splash! Hard not to make a splash, with shoes in That size. But he'd moved ahead enough feet to avoid getting his packmates. Not before dinner. Not on the ladies' pretty clothing.
After? They are serious targets. Feet first, he explores the world ahead of them, needing to roam, needing the point position likely due to his tribal wont to range far and wide. Ok, so its not so far and wide-- but it helps.

Sampson slips into the position at the head of the table first.

[Katherine Bellamonte] It was different, tonight.

Normally they were not out en masse like this. There would be perhaps one or two, on the rarer occasion three or four of the Unbroken Circle out at any given time together in the city or lounging at the Brotherhood. But tonight, the night of the full moon, hanging large and opaque above them they were as one. Their combined strength and (at least in the Ahroun's case) Rage was surely more than enough to clear entire streets of late night dwellers.

Collectively, they controlled the sidewalk, spilling out over the roadside in Sampson's case, jumping puddles as if they were in middle school and all the while amidst this swirling, chattering group there strolled in the middle the white-clad figure of Katherine Bellamonte, now known not only as the daughter of Kings and the sister of Alphas but as Mistress of Challenges in her own right. This was a title none could claim she had not earned with her own words and bearing.

Gaia had looked upon her at the Moot and been pleased.

The glamor of the tall blond was dazzling this evening, she all but glowed from beneath the skin as if a layer of diamonds existed beneath her high cheekbones and regal brow. The smile was rarely torn from her lips but for the brief period when Edward had spoken out against Buried Hatchet -- that and her shared feelings on the matter had stolen away but an hour or so's pleasure on her new office.

Sam all but crows at her; and the Silver Fang gleams at him in the dark. "Yes I am." She echoes quietly with no small amount of satisfaction. They had done well to establish themselves tonight, excepting -- her eyes, so pale they might have been silver on the street linger on her Beta more than once, she brushes his shoulder as they enter the restaurant. "Come, Lukas. I shall drink you under the table tonight I think, oui?"

[Armstrong] It had been said that no one was supposed to outshine the bride on her wedding day. This being said, Katherine Bellamonte was not getting married, but she did become Mistress of the Challenge. To Mrena, this was a slightly more important occasion.

So now, they were out and about, spending time together and celebrating. And celebrating at a place that had both beer and pizza; it had never been expressed previously, but Mrena liked beer. And Mrena liked pizza. And, when she was in a large group of people with copious amounts of rage, who terrified the wait staff, she didn't have to try so hard to get alcohol.

Besides, drinking without packmates was pointless.

"Sampson, do you even know what's in pepperoni?" she asked.. then she paused, realizing of course that she did not know what was in it... nor did she really want to know what was in it. However, beer had to have been of gaia and, therefore, the questionable nature of pepperoni could be thought of later.

They did not discuss putting pineapple on a pizza.

"I love you dearly, Katherine, but my money's on Lukas for this one," she said. Mrena couldn't help but grin a little. "He's a little more in practice. You two might be able to go on for awhile though."

[Sam Modine] It's different.

But it's the same.

When their pack had formed fully, eight then a number one larger than they currently boast; it had been called an omen. A message from the world-mother that the Garou were still strong and that the spirits still heard their war cries. They are chosen champions of a flock of spirit birds, more powerful together than apart, and so while one or two may wander at any given time, the whole desires nothing more than to be...

Unbroken.

The waiter arrives, a pushcart in front of him, with three large stainless buckets of ice, bottles brown, green and clear of all varieties of yellowish brown to darkest black and labels of every design jut out from the ice inside them. They are quickly placed on the table and the man takes a step or two back, his hand giving a most awful tremor under the white cloth he'd used to pick up the ice. "And what will we be having this evening?" The balding man, his tiny mustache twitching above his mouth asks, his accent a well hidden chicago polish that never quite leaves many of the city's lifelong populace.

The Modi looks to each in turn, shedding his coat and placing it on the back of the chair to the right side of the one at the table's head. The lone Silver Fang gets a look at this point and the Modi moves to pull it out. "What sounds good?" His Rage etched tenor rings through the group of Garou milling about the restaurant. He addresses each of them in turn with his eyes, before finally taking a look to the center of the night's attention.

[Sampson Musembi] Do you even Know what is in pepperoni?
"Mrena! There are questions even one of my moon will never ask! Now." And he leans back from his place at the HEAD of the table...

He had burnt his rage off at the moot, and given his gnosis to the Maelstrom as well; always make room for the nice Fresh Gnosis from the engling in the Hunt. Somehow, its better. He had given and burnt and been renewed and gained more from the hunt-victory. This was the way, this was the circle path.

Sampson stares at Sam a moment, and hten laughs. "Triple Pepperoni! With! double jalapenos! Katherine will say if it is prepared perfectly or not!"

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine was unbuttoning her coat as the waiter appeared, wheeling a cart of drinks toward their table. Sampson, self declared head of the table was championing for the pizza and Sam was asking her as the revered guest of honor what sounded good.

The Philodox tugged her outer layers off and draped them over the back of her chair, tousling out her hair from its confining pinned state. "I shall put my trust in your tastes, Sam and say to you, pick something out for me." Her eyebrow rose in clear challenge. To Mrena then, as she sat herself down and folded her long limbs together beneath the table: "Oh, so little faith!"

[Sampson Musembi] Now, that was a sweet deferment. Sampson chortles, and slugs back a half beer, sets his foamy-sided glass down with a clack on the table.
"How... do you design a pizza! Fit! For a Katherine Bellamonte? Choose carefully Sam! The Mistress of Pizzas is watching you! NOT! To put any pressure on!"

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] The Beta is quiet tonight; but then, when is he not? Still, given the jovial mood of his packmates, one would think he would have more smiles for them, would join in their quips and their teases.

Katherine challenges him to a drinking game and he only smiles, a brief turn of his mouth up. Mrena puts herself in his corner and he casts her a brief glance, laughing under his breath.

"I'm sorry to say I forfeit the contest," he says, and, coming to the table himself, unbuttons his coat, strips off his scarf, undoes his outerwear.

And sits. And glances at the head of the table -- and frowns, though perhaps not for the reason Sampson might think. His response to the Ragabash's dubious choice of seats is simple, subdued: "Not really your seat, is that, Sampson?"

At the moot there had been a flash of undeniable satisfaction -- of accomplishment on behalf of his pack-sister -- when Katherine's claim was confirmed. After that, things had gone less well, and Lukas' affect and demeanor had steadily darkened.

Tonight, it would be hard to say he's managed to retrieve the earlier, celebratory mood completely. He listens to his pack, smiling now and then in brief, wry tilts of his mouth; says little.

[Ilari Martin] If he could tell from the sidewalk outside that the whole of Unbroken Circle was inside, more or less to themselves but for the waitstaff who could not flee with the speed of their customers, who is to say whether that would act as a deterrent for him or not when the whole reason he had gone out of the apartment in this state is because he and his roommate needed to eat, dammit.

They have a tendency to forget to do that sometimes, their different addictions being strange and difficult for the other to understand.

At any rate, Martin comes in like a force of nature all his own, wrenching the door open as though it had been giving him some resistance that he had not previously expected and whooshing in with a fluttering of his open if heavy pea coat behind him, dressed as though he has come from church, some sort of affair within the belly of such an establishment that falls into one of four categories: routine services, welcoming of an infant into the fold, joining two poor bastards together in matrimony, or prolonging the farewell to one departed.

He doesn't announce why he's dressed that way, though. He just strides up to the front counter, frowning when it comes to his attention that his arm hairs are standing straight up underneath his dress shirt sleeves, and he starts to drum on the counter while he waits for someone to tend to him.

That will last about fifteen seconds.

[Armstrong] "(skip me, residents!)
to Katherine Bellamonte, liar, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, Sam Modine, Sampson Musembi, sunglasses

[Katherine Bellamonte] Of course she catches the glance, the subtle reminder to Sampson that it wasn't really his seat. For the sister there is a pang; an ache that rests heavy in her chest at the thought of that empty chair at the head of the table where her brother ought to have been -- celebrating her victory for a change. Not his own.

Had she not stood faithfully at his side enough to merit his presence?

Where was her brother, where was her Edward to smile across the table at her and toast their united victory? It is brief, the flash of pain that flickers across Katherine's features as Lukas speaks to Sampson but it is plain as day. It cannot be concealed from anyone who glanced her way.

[Sampson Musembi] Part of his job this no-moon, is to make them think. Make them reconsider. Part of the reason he chooses this point is that...he is the only ragabash present.
What he didnt mean to do was to cause pain, not tonight. Sampson rises, pats the nearest mate on the back and heads off to the bathroom.
When he returns, it is-- to a different chair.

[Sam Modine] Katherine challenges him to order for the group.
A fitting beginning for this motley group, perhaps.

"Give us two pepperoni, one with sausage and onions and the other with mushrooms and peppers

[Danicka Musil] Down the way but not quite around the corner is parked a silver convertible, the insignia on the hood meant to recall a white propeller against a blue sky. This is the car that I. Martin likely exited from before walking down the sidewalk to the pizza parlor. It's cold outside, the air hazy with moisture, the interior of the car soon invisible to anyone who is not leaning over and pressing their face to the tinted glass. The car is still running when he gets out, heating and drying the air inside as well as the woman in the driver's seat.

The woman in the driver's seat is responding to a text message that is making her smile fondly at the screen. And when her reply is sent, she turns off the car, takes the keys out of the ignition, and shoves them into her right pocket while her phone goes into her left. She checks the street and gets out, walks down the sidewalk, and pulls open the door to the restaurant with considerably less force than Martin did.

Her stomach is growling.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Let's get another meat-lover's too," Lukas interjects, and then folds up his menu and hands it over.

Sampson returns, not at the head of the table now. The chair stands conspicuously empty. Lukas doesn't even look at it if he can help it, but every time he does, his jaw draws tight.

"I actually got," Lukas adds, twisting in his chair to dig in his overcoat's deep pockets, "a bottle of Dom for Katherine. You want it now, Kate, or with the food?"

[Ilari Martin] The drumming of his fingers does not do a damned thing to detract from the fact that he would know that reaction in his body along a broad spectrum of consciousness and states of being altered therein. When he was mated he could claim that he could even claim to differentiate that source of danger and anxiety from the other sources of danger and anxiety but people used to tell him that he was full of shit.

Nowadays he gets near enough to a certain individual of a certain mood with a certain set of piercing blue eyes and it is rather akin to sitting in an empty room in the house back on Park Avenue and smelling her perfume when he was trying to work, only this doesn't make him strip the room and stop answering calls for days at a time.

Pulling himself back from his thoughts, he heads like some stupid moth to some stupid fucking flame, and grabs the doorframe with one hand to swing himself into view while waving at Mrena Armstrong, who he immediately recognizes, with the other.

Lukas is not ignored so much as it takes a moment for Martin's brain to drag up the entry it has for his face and name in the man's memory banks.

[Sampson Musembi] He pulls his beer closer, refills it, settles back into his seat. New Seat. Long ass legs reach far, far under the table and stick out some, the way he kinda sprawls, stretches them .

"Katherine! Drink it now! Like at that one club in Boston! With the table that wobbled so much! Oooh, maybe you Don't remmeber that one!" His grin is toothy.

[Armstrong] "Oh that everything Holy there is no fruit on the pizza," she said.

It was almost to herself, more than anything. Mrena was not a fan of fruit-on-pizza, it seemed immoral. She let her elbows rest on the table, looking over her pack for the time being. She was pleased, an outward contentment that was hard to really put a finger on. She was pleased becase Katherine was pleased, on some level. She was displeased because, well, Mrena could be displeased for whatever reason she wanted to be displeased, and if she was displeased she didn't show it.

She caught movement out of the corner of her eye, and the younger theurge turned to face the movement and found herself looking at the slightly taller figure. She wasn't sure how old Ilari was, and she didn't seem to dwell on it. The ethereal young lady turned and gave him a wave back. She was memorable. She was a combination of colors and textures and deceptive innocence that, in the right light, made her seem as though she may or may not be real.

Then? She looked at Sampson and just grinned. Ear to ear, Cheshire cat like glee.

[Katherine Bellamonte] The Philodox's expression as she palmed a bottle of beer between her hands brightened considerably as her pack-mate fetched a bottle from his overcoat's pockets. There was a pause -- Katherine's fell first upon the bottle in Lukas hands and then crept slowly up her Beta's face, a corner of her mouth quirked.

"Merci, Lukas." She stretches an arm across the table in an act of unusual affection -- at least between Beta and sister -- to set her hand against his for a brief moment. It is a gesture of appreciation and perhaps, upon closer inspection, something deeper too, much like the long held stare he had leveled at her during the course of the Moot. Katherine reclaims her hand, and her gaze darts to the others gathered at the table.

Sampson chimes in, and the Silver Fang leans back, her own expression one of mingled good humor and long held primness. "Very well, I will, however I have no idea what occasion you might be referring to, Sampson." She all but sniffs, her neck beginning to suspiciously redden.

Mrena turns to wave at someone, and her movement draws the eye of the blond across from her. Katherine turns her head, and her eyes meet those of the Silver Fang Kinfolk. It's there before she can fully repress it; the small smile at either corner of her mouth -- the testament to her pleasure at the sight of him when her mood was so generally elevated.

She merely looked at him for a moment, Katherine, before turning back to face her pack; the flush crawling toward her cheeks.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Don't mention it," he says. Since Sampson wants Katherine to drink it now, Lukas sets to removing the foil from the bottle. "Anyone have a corkscrew?"

He follows the glances to Ilari Martin. They've been introduced. They barely spoke. His mind was elsewhere, soon thereafter.

It takes him a second to recognize the man. Then, a wry smile at Katherine. "Well, at least one of your tribesmen have come to congratulate you." Presuming someone's found him a corkscrew, the Ahroun starts cranking the screw into the cork.

[Sampson Musembi] "Oh! I will remedy your situation Katherine! I took photos for you! I would not wish you to miss the fun we ALL had! OH what a wonderful night! I took MANY photos!"

Corkscrew? "No, Lukas, I don't get screwed till morning. Mrena! You always have strange things in your purse! What tools do you have in there?" He reaches out a hand slowly, slinkily (yes it is TOO a word!) as if to paw through it himself, the better to goad her into doing it herself.

[Danicka Musil] "Marty, hey --" she's saying as she comes into the front door, expecting her roommate to be just inside, probably ordering. Instead she stops short, blinks as the door closes behind her. It doesn't take more than a turn or two of her head before she sees his frame standing in the doorway to a party room. She can't see who is in there, can't see over his head or around his shoulders, but she can hear hints of voices she finds familiar, and she hears a name.

That is all nothing, however, to the fact that she can feel the inhabitants of that room. It isn't that she knows instinctively what they are, or where they are. The room just seems like it's the biggest space in the restaurant, in the city, at the moment. And logically, if the doorway may as well be emitting the burning glare of a warhead going off, and if Martin is standing in that doorway when he should be ordering pizza...

He knows someone in there. And most of the people he knows that make a room feel oppressive are Garou. There's that. And the fact that she's heard three familiar names shouted out, now. Danicka exhales, pauses by the front door, and then heads over, patting the back of Martin's shoulder.

[Sam Modine] Katherine challenges him to order for the group.
A fitting beginning for this motley bunch, perhaps.

"Give us two pepperoni, one with sausage and onions and the other with mushrooms and peppers, do one with peperoni and extra jalapenos for the loud man on that end." Sam pauses to watch the mustachioed waiter scribble this down on the pad he's produced from his half apron, the sound of the pen making a furious scratching that perks the hackles of the Garou present. "And for her, get her roasted chicken and artichoke with extra cheese, pesto and some sliced tomato on top." He looks down to the woman of the hour once more, his hands still resting on the sides of her chair momentarily. To the waiter, absently, "All of them Depp Dish, that's all." He gets a single flick of the profile of Sam's hand, every bit a gesture from Edward and Lukas. A dismissive thing he might not even realize he's picked up.

"How did I do?" Still to Katherine now. His voice swelling with the pride of her accomplishment that has not died since the moment she stepped back into the pack during the cracking of the bone. Even as he had been denied his own position it had been there, that pride, that honor at being to the right hand of the woman who they've all come to honor. At being the queen's rook.

He moves to take his own seat now, reaching forward to grab something dark with a cream colored label. The top is easily removed with the help of a can opener that's easily set back into the bucket. He takes a long drink before he sets it back down in front of him again. Sam, tonight is notably not dressed in the usual leather-and-something-functional. Rather the coat over the back of his chair is his black wool, he's wearing his absolute nicest pair of slacks that while perhaps not acceptable in the streets of Milan will certainly do tonight. His shirt is collared, white with stripes of blue flanked by dull silver threads. He wears no tie, instead wearing a simple black rope necklace, a single rune carved into it that hangs barely visible just to the inside of his collar. A hand sweeps blonde hair from his face and he looks up to address the other full moon at the table.

"Luke." The tone isn't as chilly perhaps as his packmate would expect. They've barely spoken if at all in the last handful of days and the Fenrir certainly hasn't been forthcoming for company in that time. But it's a much more cordial, brotherly thing that hits the Shadow Lord's ears. "Cheer up, would you?" He half-bites his lower lip with his top teeth for just a moment and shakes his head at the other, slowly. "It's not about him tonight. Okay?" It's a quiet plea that, one perhaps not so much without an ire shared with the other but out of a desire to push it aside for things nobler.

At least for tonight.

[Armstrong] She gave Sampson the "one moment" finger and looked down at the messenger bag. The theurge started to look through her things, and while he reached across, the "one moment" finger, turned to the "don't touch my things" wave. Her attention, for the time being, seemed to be almost entirely on finding something in her bag.

[Ilari Martin] Were the size of the group somewhat smaller he might have teased her, might have asked her how it was that they were in Boston or that the table was wobbling, but as it stands Katherine's Beta is there and all of her packmates, all of whom could break him in half were he to decide to be disrespectful or rude.

So Martin hangs off of the doorframe, and when Katherine turns around to see him, a smile irking at her lips, a tired but not altogether inauthentic one grazing his, he doesn't say anything. Perhaps he feels for her, knows there to be a flush impending.

"What am I congratulating you for?" Martin asks, his voice taking on a campy, velvety quality though he does not waltz into the party room, as though he is a vampire who needs to be invited before he'll do so much as breathe hard enough to cast air into the room.

Danicka joins him a moment later, partially concealed by the bulk added by his clothing.

[Sampson Musembi] The kinfolk add to the ambiance in a certain way; no way, can it not be commented on. "Oh! Yet more Shiny Happy People!
And.. their Shadows! Congratulate Katherine, for she has earned a new office tonight!"
He pours another glass of beer, since not only is he not driving, he can in fact, get away with ie exploit outrageous behavior.
In fact, its a duty.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (...i've lost my mind. for some reason i thought he was opening a bottle of wine, not champagne. erase that bit about the corkscrew!)

Sam's attempt to mollify Lukas is met with a brief and unreadable glance. Then the Ahroun smiles, faintly but visibly.

"Don't worry, Sam. I'm very happy for Katherine." He finishes loosening the cork-cage and stands up, folding his napkin over the neck and mouth of the bottle.

If anyone was expecting a loud bang! and explosive fountains of champagne, they're disappointed. Lukas opens the bottle deftly, gently, and the soft pop! of the cork working free is almost inaudible. Before the bubbly starts to foam, he's tipped it deftly into the Philodox's glass: and in an establishment like this, it's probably a big plastic cup designed for water and fountain drinks.

While the kin make up their mind whether to step in or not, Lukas fills all the glasses 'round the table, his own last. For what it's worth, he pours two extra glasses: one for each kin.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Lukas shoots the Silver Fang seated across from him a wry glance and she furrows her brows toward him as if silently communicating her disapproval of his teasing tone -- but then, such was the camaraderie of pack-mates that she could not truly harbor ill will for long, especially when, like the pack's Ragabash, they bellowed their congratulations to her to the entire world.

Or, at the very least, one pizza parlor.

Martin addresses her, and she twists back to face him proper, and behind him the lingering form of another she knows well enough. "Oh, I have been accepted as the new Mistress of Challenges for the Sept. We are just having a small celebration." There was, despite her colored cheeks, and evident embarrassment about his sudden arrival a great deal of very real pride in her voice.

"Please come and join us." Katherine rose, her hands bracing the back of her chair. "I think you know most all of my pack now. Lukas, Mrena, this is Sampson, you know Sam of course." A brief hesitation, before she sweeps on. "Dylan and Edward could not be with us."

[Danicka Musil] Her face appears at Martin's shoulder, around the side of his arm, as she pokes her head in to see who is present. Her eyebrows flick up at the champagne being poured, then go to Katherine. She bursts into a bright smile. "Congratulations, Katherine," she chimes in.

And if there is any hesitation, any moment where she thought it might be better to just turn on her heel and go back to her car, that moment took place out of sight, behind a wall more literal than the ones she's ever built. If there are hard feelings between Danicka and anyone present, they aren't evidenced by that smile, or her cheerful pretense that she has much investment in Katherine's new post.

[Sampson Musembi] Sampson is Not entirely all that civil of a civilized person. Certainly, his form of culture is not the sort to really appreciate a fine champagne. The man takes his glass, Raises it, and once the toast is made,
JUST gulps the liquid the fuck down, just like beer. GONE!

[Sampson Musembi] (sampson will be around, will scarf pizza, but i gotta go to bed! NIGHT!)

[Ilari Martin] With the news, coming as it does not from any of the packmates seated around the table but from the new Mistress of the Challenges herself, Martin's demeanor almost immediately lifts, and theatrically so. He releases the doorway to stand up straight, and he gives her a smile far more lively than the previous one.

"That is call for celebration," he tells her, and remains standing in the doorway not because he is frightened but because he is not planning on sitting down to eat with the pack. Not when he knows damned well that he is drunk off of his ass and higher than a kite, when Danicka had to help him into the car on the way over and then had had difficulty keeping up with him on the trip down the sidewalk.

The man is not slurring his words, does not reek of booze to anyone but those standing immediately close. For all they know he's just in one of those moods that the unhinged and demented tend to inhabit quite frequently.

"And if that young man over there [it has to be Sampson] is setting the bar for Unbroken Circle's rate of consumption tonight," he says, likely to no one but just as likely to Danicka, "I should hope that you have the wherewithal to steer me toward the door this very moment lest I attempt to keep up, my dear, for I have had far too much already this evening."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas finishes pouring. Sets the bottle down. Picks up his glass.

"Are you two going to sit down?" Ilari just said a whole lot of 'no,' but perhaps Lukas stopped listening after the first sentence or so. "Or were you planning to hover in the doorway all night?"

And he follows that up with a smile, but let's admit it: Sam is right. Lukas is not cheered-up at all tonight.

[Sam Modine] "Is this a joke?"

His face is impassive as the beaks of a thousand raptors call across the link both spirit and psychic. Sam simply sits and drinks again, making no apologies for taking the beer down past halfway on the second tip up. His eyebrows raise high up ont his forehead in an expression that is not anticipatory of humor but of supurisingly subtle distaste as he looks only at his packmates for the time being. In a moent or two though he does set down his beer and turn toward the door ifonly for a second or two.

Long enough to greet the visitors.

"Hello, Mr Martin." With a smile that does seem a bit smolemn but doesn't hint at insincerity. "Nice to see you again." The first bottle his finished, he pivots and takes another, this a clearish lite pilsner in a dark bottle, obviously domestic.

Make that visitor.

Now you're just drinking because it keeps you from having to talk, Sam.

[Armstrong] There were people and they were talking. Katherine's kinsman came in, and while he didn't smell horribly of booze, nor was he falling all over himself immediately, he did have her attention. Sampson shotgunned the champagne, and Mrena found herself tracing over the top of the cup idly and just observing people in their natural habitats.

"Well," she said. The theurge didn't drink just yet. Instead, she decided to look at it for color and texture. And it looked like it had a lovely, lovely texture. "We've got champagne, I am fairly certain that this is the part where we start making long-winded speeches about Katherine."

A pause, then she looked at the Shadow Lord kin (which probably took a little leaning and repositioning.) there was a smile, a little wave, all polite. One would have never guessed that she had ever been less-than-a-perfect-lady to Danicka. Hell if I know, came a reply to Sam.

"And, Mister Martin, assuming you still remember your first name and can find vital bits of anatomy with both your hands, you should be good for the most part."

[Katherine Bellamonte] The Silver Fang's eyes blinked once, slow and lazy like a cat awakening from a nap and she scrutinized her Kinsman with that same unwavering attention he had experienced from her once or twice already. "Have the Kinfolk all been drinking during their Moot, then?"

She smiles as she says it, but there is the taste of chastisement dwelling in the edges of her voice as she accepts a glass of champagne and congratulations from Danicka, edging out from behind Martin. There is perhaps a touch more warmth in the smile the woman receives, a quieter voiced -- "Thank you," -- of appreciation. You could not deny Katherine her charm this evening, nor her elegance, she was, even standing inside a pizza parlor with a plastic wine glass, somehow still the spokesperson for refinement.

Mrena speaks of speeches, and Katherine's gentle laughter erupts, she shakes her head, abruptly. "Oh no, I am not going to listen to any more of Sampson's recollections."

[Danicka Musil] She'd had nothing to drink at the small, secondary 'moot' for Kinfolk, and little to eat. Her stomach is still growling, begging for pizza even though she seems like the type who would come to a pizza parlor and ask for the salad. She knows what she wants on said pizza, as well, and given that it might be the largest meal she has all week she would very much like to get to it soon. She's probably the type who likes a veggie pizza, too, when she does deign to eat one.

Martin is still in the doorway, which means that unless she shoulders her way in, Danicka is still in the doorway as well. She's too well-bred for that, not solely in terms of her very blood but in her upbringing. Her hand is still on Martin's shoulder, as though she needs as many senses as possible focused on the man just in case he should waver, as though she wants to make sure she has at least two fingers on him in case he falls. The doorframe is holding him up for now, but god only knows when he'll decide to try entering the room via a flourishing tango.

Then again, considering his behavior so far in these people's company, it may simply seem that she has her hand on one shoulderblade because she wants to have her hand there. Or because her last run-in with anyone in this room left her with a purple and black bruise across her face and blood drying on her lip. She looks fine, now, utterly untouched. There isn't even the red spot on her mouth that Katherine saw at the coffee shop.

"Yes, Martin, and that's why you need a pizza," she says patiently to him, aside. "Did you order already?"

She looks inside the room after saying this, giving a wave of her hand that comes after Mrena's but seems meant for the whole room. Something flickers in her eyes at what Mrena says, but it's gone a half-second later. If anyone in here has been less than a gentleman, less than a lady, overbearing or frightening or injurious, it's gone. It's over. It's done. Or Danicka is done with it.

"Martin," she says with amusement, though her voice and eyes are directed to Katherine, "had his way with the libations. I am driving. As for recollections...I knew you when you were a teenager, and could be convinced to share." Beat. "For a slice of meat-lover's."

[Katherine Bellamonte] "Oh," she chides,"Danicka you would not be so cruel. Though perhaps it is fortunate the only one who could truly know my sins is not here at present." Though she can smile, and her voice loses none of it's airy lightness there is a quelling of her glow at mention of her brother. It strikes her as some low-burning sting, lacerating her contentment, sapping her frivolity as surely as the moon and Edward did Lukas'.

[Ilari Martin] Funny, how a touch of logorrhea will have nearly everyone in the room addressing a person just as soon as a soon can be nudged in edgewise.

Lukas asked if they are going to sit down, or if they were planning on hovering in the doorway all night, and while Martin opens his mouth to counter "We--" he is cut off at the knees by the lovely woman standing beside him and his attention is snared by Sam.

Sam. Martin's jaws clench as he looks at him, sitting there with his domestic beer and the air of settlement that comes with knowing he has a physical prowess that not only matches but exceeds any he comes into contact with, and then the kid informs him that it is nice to see him again.

A laugh, just one, quiet, leaves his throat, and whatever he might have said to Sam is cut off by Danicka reminding him that that's why he needs to eat and asking if he's ordered. "No. I assumed that the blank space behind the front counter meant that the server was hiding rather than invisible and so I struck out in search of the invisibility, and voilà."

Assuming he can remember his first name and vital bits of anatomy with both his hands he should be good.

The doorframe suddenly becomes a resting post that he holds onto, his hand up over his head and the length of him on the wood, and just waggles his eyebrows at the young Lord Theurge rather than responding with words. Eyes, pupils shot to Hell, slide to watch Danicka as she speak but keep drifting.

[Ilari Martin] (Jesus, am I drunk too? "... in search of the hiding place...)

[Armstrong] (brb, residential Issues)
to Danicka Musil, Ilari Martin, Katherine Bellamonte, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, Sam Modine

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] And Lukas sets his glass of champagne down with a click. He leans over the table, planting his hands on its surface.

"Martin. Dani&+269;ka." He speaks slowly, quietly, his eyes fixed on the two kin that are still standing in the doorway, bantering with each other, or Mrena, or Katherine, or whoever the fuck and Lukas doesn't fucking care. "Listen to me carefully, because clearly, you've both failed to catch the hint.

"This is a private party. And if you wish to join us in the celebrations, then fine. You're kin to our tribes, and we'll have you. Get in. Sit down. Shut up.

"Otherwise, kindly stop loitering in my doorway, get the fuck out of my sight, and let me drink a toast to my packmate in peace."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (oh and, in case there's any question about it? that's VERY UNCHARACTERISTICALLY rude for lukas)
to Armstrong, Katherine Bellamonte, Sam Modine

[Danicka Musil] "Sins?" Danicka is saying to Katherine, eyebrows lifting. Her mouth is half-opened, as though she's about to toss some idle quip back to the other 'high-born' woman, though one is obviously born higher than the other, but Lukas speaks.

He finishes, and her eyes go from blue-eyed Shadow Lord to brown-eyed Silver Fang. Her hand is unseen by the Garou in the room but presses slightly on Martin. That's all the communication she gives him before looking back inside, to Katherine most specifically. "Congratulations again," she says with a soft smile, and then inclines her head to the two of her own tribe. Mrena. Lukas. She doesn't meet either of their eyes.

"Goodnight," she says, to no one in particular, turning to go back. Not to the counter; to the car.

[Sam Modine] Mr. Martin as Sam's taken to calling him doesn't seem to appreciate the greeting quite so much as the Fenrir might have hoped. As he begins to sip the new beer though Lukas speaks up. Something about his tone strikes a chord that's only wrong to his ears and his attention at least for a few seconds rests on the Beta of his pack.

Almost unconsciously his hand slides to rest on Katherine's wrist, three long fingers in the open paw almost completely covering the top of her forearm. It's a gesture to hold her back, but not one to keep her in some sort of check. He looks only with a small amount of care for the man born to royalty only to flaunt it drunkenly in such displays as the one he's currently performing.

And he won't look at Danicka.

"Harsh." Sam hides a smile in the bottle and drains again half the contents, roundabout before setting it back on the table. His eyes pinching in a grimace of over imbibing but to fight instead his own satisfaction.

[Ilari Martin] Lukas gives them two choices, neither of which is inherently better or worse than the other. At least, not under normal circumstances. Right now, the moon is swollen overhead and making the tension and potential turmoil in the room very high, and Danicka cannot tolerate being in the presence of a number of Garou normally and Martin is simply too fucked up to do anything other than go where he is supposed to go, or where he thinks he wants to go.

So with not a soul having a clue what he might want, all they have to go on is what he has to be hearing: Lukas' doorway, Lukas' sight, Lukas' packmate.

Nothing else is said. Martin just turns on his heel and gets the fuck out of Lukas's sight.

[Armstrong] There was a language spoken with eye contact, or the lack thereof.

Sam will not look at Danicka; Danicka will meet neither Lukas' nor Mrena's eyes. This had less to do with color and more with content; what Lukas' just said had a great deal of weight. Of meaning unspoken. This said a lot, given that his actual words held a great deal of content.

Harsh, Sam said. Necessary, Mrena replied. Across the totem link, the message came clearly.

Aside from that, posture was unchanged, gaze remained even, though it did turn to Lukas briefly. And, as that she was not a creature blessed with a great deal of empathy, brows raised briefly before falling back to their position. She turned and watched the kin leave.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Harsh, says one, fighting, rather unsuccessfully, to hide his satisfaction. Necessary, says another, flat and uninflected as ever.

And for his part? Lukas snorts at them both. Or at them all. He's suddenly sick of them both, sick of them all, sick of their petty rivalries and shortsighted issues, sick of them sitting around the table happy and content and drinking their beers and celebrating their one little success while their alpha is utterly absent and the greater part of their plans have just gone. to. shit.

His rage rises in him like a whirlwind in a wildfire. He's still standing. He raises his glass of champagne high, sweeps the table with a glance, and then aims it squarely at Katherine.

"To Katherine," Lukas says, baring his teeth in a grin. "The only one of us that managed to get anything at all right this entire fucking moot."

And he tosses his champagne down. Slams his glass down. Picks his coat up. His back is to the wall; to get out from behind the table, he has to squeeze by the conspicuously empty chair at the head of the table. Only, he doesn't. He does better than that. He picks the chair up by its back, onehanded, and sends it crashing against the far wall. A side stile cracks. A back stretcher post pops loose entirely. In the wake of the destruction Lukas is perfectly contained, perfectly fucking calm, as he walks out of the private suite.

[Danicka Musil] The comments on Lukas's ultimatum to the two Kinfolk are verbal but unheard. The signals they give -- glances, twitches, half-hidden smiles -- are evident but unseen. What do they know about a missing Galliard, an absent Alpha (brother, leader)? What do they know about the moods of Ahrouns?

(One of them knows quite a lot about that, actually.)

Danicka's hand drops from Martin, going to her sides. The idea of pizza was a good one; they both wanted pizza and sometimes it's a dream come true to hear Martin wanting something so calorie-laden. They can order one. They can order Chinese food. They can stop by that Greek place on the way back to North Kingsbury, where everything seems infused with the scent if not the taste of lemons.

Her stomach growls again as they leave the parlor, one after the other, back out to the sidewalk where the streetlights hit them more cleanly than the moonlight. She is shaking when she reaches her hand into her pocket to wrap her hand around her keys, tightening her grip on them til the metal teeth dig into her palm, invigorate her skin, bring her back. Her hands are not shaking when she presses the button to unlock the doors and turn off the alarm. She hasn't said anything to Martin, doesn't say anything as they're walking down the sidewalk.

But she finally mutters, as she goes around the back of the car towards the driver's side: "Fucking full moons."

It's unclear, obviously, which she means.

[Danicka Musil] [Correction: ...going to her side]

[Sam Modine] "Get your ass back here and apologize."

The hammer of a dead god.

He's not asking. The moon is too big and the room is too small. To whom he means isn't inherently obvious Save for the look he gives Katherine right before he too stands up, but does not bother to grab a coat. There is no beating a cold night could give him he hasn't put himself through this week. Outside of prying eyes, away from the rest of them. Perhaps they felt it, the sublime satisfaction he took in every recieved fist. The articulation he made in a language of pain. In dusty basements, in smoky rooms with chicken-wire cages. Maybe they felt the clarity he did when he'd bested them, each and all the city had to offer. A wordless, unmandated and brutal punishment self administered and to an end of nothing further than temporary escape.

"Lukas Wyrmbreaker."

The heart of the hammer.

Rarely has Sam ever addressed him so properly, so respectfully sounded out every sound of every syllable. The voice over the totemphone is the righteous anger of a tribal totem not even his own. A single falcon protecting it's nest. He's giving chase through the restuarant. "If you won't stay Lukas." A hand reaches out, long and bony to catch the collar of the Ahroun's jacket. Sam's voice now ringing out in the physical, all a wash of white hot Rage barely simmering under the flesh. His hand pulls the other around to face him, eye to eye, man to man. Beast to snarling beast.

"At least give me a word before you go."

The heart of the pack.

[Armstrong] And she knew that grin. All teeth and a distinct lack of mirth.

She looked at him stand, watched him go, and then took a drink of champagne. Detached as ever. He gave his toast, maybe not backhanded and maybe not hollow. It did not hold the same meaning as the words he was actually saying; Mrena was not in tune with the emotions of others, but she wasn't stupid by any means.

The chair hit, breaking in a way that was indicative of both the chair's design and the force. She was not a particularly empathetic person, but she knew symbolism. Whether it was meant or not, whether it was realized or not, the chair at the head of the table was vacant, and then it was broken. Maybe Mrena read too much into it, but the words were spoken so very, very clearly.

She took a drink of champagne. And waited.

She stood soon, not bothering to reclaim her coat, and White Eyes followed him after a moment or so. She intended on coming back.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] The second Sam's hand touches him, Lukas lashes out. He shoves Sam back, an open-handed push to the chest, nothing held back.

Afterward, a beat of silence.

Then, deadly soft: "Are you challenging me, Sam?" And another beat. "Again?"

[Armstrong] "It is unwise," she said, "To start anything here."

She exhaled. Her packmates weren't going to listen, and at that moment it was unwise to get between them. Mrena did it anyway, and her body posture said, very clearly, how bad of an idea she know standing between two ahrouns was.

"It has become evident that our pack is out of order. And that order needs to be restored before we can expect any largescale degree of success."

[Sam Modine] "I didn't the first time." He frowns. The blow had sent one of his feet back to nimbly catch him on bent toes. Years of high level athletics and years since of incredibly rigorous martial training have instilled in him a preternatural equilibrium. He is not an easy man to take off his feet.

The look on his face is more than simple anger, though there is definitely some of that there. But he's so easy to see through one can plainly see the disappointment etched across the downturned corners of his lips. "Mrena get out of the way." It's calm. It's even.

It's a second from snapping.

"I wanted you to come back and talk because i don't think you're being very clearheaded about this right now." His jaw stretches forward as though he's now saying something he never wanted to. "But if it's fight you want, sure. I'll challenge you right now, we'll take it outside. Then we'll come back in and talk like men." He shrugs.

Ball's in your court.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] To Sam:

"Until you issue a proper challenge and win, I am the Beta of this pack. And you will respect that, or get your ass beat down again." He gives the Modi another shove, hard, in the direction of his chair. "Now sit."

A direct command.

Sam's accomplished one thing, though. Lukas is not leaving anymore, though god knows they might wish he would soon enough. He comes back instead. He pushes aside the plate and silverware at the end of the table where Ed's chair used to be, and then, as he had done when he ordered the kin to get in or get out, he sets his hands on the table.

"Now then," he begins, silky soft, "Let's talk about all the things we have to celebrate, Katherine's success notwithstanding.

"First. Two months in this fucking city and Mrena couldn't stand up to claim the role of a glorified gardener for the Caern. Sure, you don't know the spirits well enough, you haven't got the experience, all that, but that's an excuse, Mrena. TWO MONTHS you've had. And now that Cajun fuckhole of a Fang Theurge has the role."

With the words that are coming out of him, he should be raving and ranting, redfaced, swigging down hard liquor, swaying on his feet. But he's not. He's perfectly steady, standing with his balance even between his feet, his face stony, voice soft. The only thing furious about him is his eyes -- glittering like ice.

"Second. Next we have Sam here, who decided the best way to mend his broken heart was to challenge for Truthcatcher long before he was ready. You didn't even have the Gift, Sam. And why not? Because this past month, instead of going about learning it, you've been hanging yourself over my kin.

"Third. Then we have Dylan, who was slated to take both Galliard positions for herself. Where is she? Huh? Does any one know? Was she even at the moot? Has this woman simply vanished? I've seen her almost as infrequently as I've seen Ed.

"Oh, but wait." It's possible none of them, none, have ever seen Lukas like this: jeering, sardonic, full of venom and vitriol. "Ed. I'm saving the best for last. Last, and certainly not least, we have the incredible Edward Bellamonte, who couldn't even be fucked to make an appearance tonight. Whose beloved face, in fact, I've seen all of twice in the last two months. Once on the street, when he told me he's been thinking and it's no big deal that this pack's been left to flounder. And once in the moot tonight, when he stood up, opened his big, fucking, mouth, and proceeded to make jackasses of us all.

"Now. I'd say 'out of order' is the unstatement of the fucking century.

"This is what we're going to do. I am going to find Dylan and figure out what the fuck is going on with her. Mrena is going to work her ass off, learn the spirits and the rites and whatever the fuck else she needs to do, and challenge for Keeper of the Land in a month. Sam is going to stay the fuck away from Shadow Lord kin from here on out, and in one month, Sam is not going to challenge a Fostern Philodox for a philodox position. That's lost to us.

"And lastly. Katherine Bellamonte is going to challenge her useless brother for Alpha. If she doesn't, the Circle breaks, and I leave. And let me assure you. Unlike Edward, I hold to my ultimatums."

The Shadow Lord straightens up. There isn't a trace of the smiling young man who trades off-color jokes with them in the middle of the night. His face is carved from stone, cruel. He stares the gathered for a moment, one by one, and last his attention comes onto Sam.

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] ( Got room for someone else? )

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (sure, but i think we might be pausing after sam and mrena post (need jacqui's input and her power's out))

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] ( I'll post, then, and wait. )

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (they're in a pizza place, in a privateish room)

[Armstrong] "It is an excuse. My not standing up at that moment was just because I was feeling insecure and weak and ignorant," she said. Those words had slightly more venom than normal. He poked at her, and it took a second for her to regain composure; that was all it took. "I know that idiot's weaknesses, I know his soft spots, I know where his loyalties lie and right now he has just enough rope to hang himself with. He has a month to make a right and lovely mess, which means that we have a month to make an honorable name for ourselves and then swoop in like the saviors we are and fix the mess that we made this moot-"

She stopped, she inhaled, and whether she meant it or not, she exhaled and spoke again. The theurge seemed resigned in avoiding a tirade.

"I won't disappoint again."

[Sam Modine] Sam does sit.

He leans back, draws his arms across his chest and stares down the Beta of the pack-

No. It is an ideal that Sam bonded himself to. Lukas is the second in command of that ideal right now. And so he gets the benefit of the fair skinned counterpart's attention if only that. "Are you done?" When he's finished. "Because I don't so much mind you going on at length, I just wish you were right when you did it." His palm rises up, fingers splayed in Lukas' direction. Sam isn't a dumb man, quiet usually? Sure. Perhaps a little awkward socially from time to time? Definitely. But he can manage to be roused into speaking with no small amount of vigor when he has to. His points tick off on his fingers one by one disappearing until it drops to an accusatory index point at the end.

"The kin thing? You started. Not me, Lukas, no matter how many challenges you make up, no matter how many times you try and say I did something wrong," His face turns to abject disappointment. "I wasn't the one who decided to play peeping tom on his packmate." He moves on incredibly quickly from the point. "In regards to my challenge. Would you like to try learning one of Mrena's gifts inside of the next month? One of Sampson's? It's not easy task to do what Katherine does, but I'm close Lukas, and not only that? I can beat that Fostern and I will. Because I answer to a pack Alpha, not to his second." The last comes out disgusted, almost a mirror held up to the Lord's face.

"And so far as I'm concerned? You don't get to tell any of us anything. You didn't challenge for a god damned thing. What about the Wyrmfoe? Why couldn't you lead the revel? Leave if you want. The circle doesn't break without you. You dragged me halfway across the country so you could play power games Lukas. The least you could do? Is be honest about it. That's your weakness."


Sam pauses, heavy. "Not ours."

((Spending 1 WP to activate inspiration. Before paragraph 1))

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] It was one of the seldom-warmer nights in Chicago, especially for February - which is to say slightly below freezing. A pizza parlor was not a common place to find Caleb, but nor was it an uncommon thing that no matter the birth or upbringing one was always hungry. The jingle of a bell and a creep of chill announced him as he stepped inside, light-green eyes sweeping around.

Tonight Caleb wore a crisp white button-down shirt one might typically find being worn beneath a suit, the collar starched and stiff. It was tucked into a pair of black slacks, the bottom hems of the legs brushing gently over Armani shoes. His belt, hidden by the black suade three-quarters overcoat he wore, was fashioned to resemble the Silver Fang glyph. He wore dark green leather gloves, which were pulled off casually and slipped into an inner pocket.

Voices, low-pitched but carrying as little more than whisper form an adjoining room that was semi-private, reached the theurge's ears. A glance in that direction, and no more, as he stepped to the counter to order a large pizza with sausage, pepperoni, and extra cheese. Did he want cheesey-bread? Why, fuck yes he wanted cheesey-bread.

[lukas]
Mrena's self-beratement is summarily dismissed with a shake of his head: already in the past. Lukas' attention doesn't even waver from Katherine --

Until, of course, Sam runs his mouth again.

Because I answer to a pack Alpha, not to his second, says the Get. And so far as I'm concerned? You don't get to tell any of us anything.

Lukas turns his cold, cold eyes on the Fenrir. There's a flame in the blue, burning like ice.

"There is a hierarchy in this pack, Sam," he says, softly. "And there is a difference between testing your betters and disrespecting them. If I ever hear such blatant insubordination from you again, I'll break you in two and run you out of this pack.

"That's your final warning, Mjollnir's Heart. You are out of control, and you are very close to the end of my tolerance."

[sampson]
Lukas blasts them all; all that is except Sampson, whose body posture puffs in his usual comic way, clearly a statement-- clearly, Utterly Blameless which is in and of itself, a joke.

"Ahh, Lukas, have all failed you, truly? Or has Edward failed Us, and in his absence of leadership, we fly Poorly? Bite, rake, the next target instead?
You?
Each Other?

My brathas, in sadness I say! It is Katherine's place now to settle disputes, especially between us, is it not?; Mine to point out flaws, to question, Mrena's to see to our spirits, our souls; It is for any of us to challenge our alpha and beta--with Respect-- and this is not a bad moment for such things! But after that fight, is it not for us to Honor our brathas and the Spirit we serve?

I must point out that! In septs all over the world! What I have seen! Usually! In absence of Alpha-- it is Beta who leads. Unless... someone dethrones him." And isn't the 'him' ambiguous, there?

The Ragabash speaks generally, to them all, careful of his words around humans, careful to say nothing untoward where humans can hear, waiting as he must-
until the end, where, as his eyes reach Lukas, a certain intensity grows.
A certain emphasis.
For in the absence of Alpha Edward, Lukas, who is Beta, becomes...

well... DUH!

[katherine]
Katherine had been silent up until this point.

When Lukas had lost his temper (perhaps his mind as well, she was not unconvinced of it with the full pregnancy of the moon above) and snarled at the Kinfolk to sit down or get out she had not reacted as much as she had endured. She, perhaps of them all, was the least surprised by his outburst. She had felt it coming, in degrees, like the preclude to a storm, since before the Moot. Perhaps it was unjust of her to allow things to have transpired so far, or perhaps she had been waiting, all along, for the moment to arrive when she could strike and it would not have been her own doing.

Her hand was being forced.
You want it.

Her Beta was outright challenging her.
You're glad for it.

Her pride was on the line.
This is your destiny.

"Enough." She sets her champagne on the table, firmly and if anyone tries to speak over her, the Philodox snaps her fingers in their direction. She would not be interfered with, not now. Katherine turns her pale eyes on Lukas, and they would be fools not to see the match for the blue fire in his gaze in the blond Silver Fang's eye. "This is not the way a pack behaves. You make fools of us all." The heels of Katherine's shoes clicked as she walked to and fro, a hand tucked behind her back, the other flat to her thigh. She pivoted, and her eyes shifted from one pack member to another.

"Here is what I propose: I will speak with Edward, I will speak with him and I alone." She looks at no other but Lukas. "I love my brother, and I would defy any to contradict me on this point but I am also a warrior for Gaia, and for this Sept and I will not be the subject of laughter and derision. If we do not have the respect of our peers in this Nation we have nothing. Edward will hear reason. He, as well as any of us knows that we cannot afford to be perceived as weak."

A beat, Katherine's eyes ticked to Sam.

"Or impetuous in our anger."

To Mrena. "We will learn what we must, and we will be a pack like no other, because I am Katherine Bellamonte and I refuse to be remembered as a warrior who did not sacrifice what she must for the sake of the war."

[lukas]
And just like that, Lukas stabilizes. He calms so fast and so completely that one must wonder how much of that fury was true, and how much a calculated risk.

She'll talk to Edward, she says. Lukas picks up the bottle of champagne and pours himself a second glass. Then, raising that, he looks directly at the Philodox. He leaves her no choice -- pushes the decision onto her, just as he knows she knows he would, and just as she knows he knows she wants him to.

Quietly, and without love, but with a certain steely promise, a fealty:

"To the Alpha."