you are not my brother.

[Administrator] Sampson Musembi, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Administrator] Armstrong, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Administrator] Lukas Wyrmbreaker, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Administrator] Serafine Marceau, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Administrator] Serafine Marceau has switched to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Administrator] Serafine Marceau, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Sampson Musembi] The jangle of metal on metal heralds the approach of the Silent Strider. The Not-So-Silent Strider.
Appropriate, with his public relations work.
The metal which clangs a little is from a new assortment of medals around his neck, half the spring marathon season passing rapidly. He gives a little hop over the sofa until he takes up the ENTIRE thing, his legs dangling off the end like some overgrown slouchy teen.
And smiles, white teeth in a dark dark Nandi face.
Of course, he's in Lukas's spot. Where ELSE would the pack ragabash be?

[Administrator] Serafine Marceau has switched to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Administrator] Serafine Marceau, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Administrator] Serafine Marceau has left Caern & Surrounding Territories

[Administrator] Caleb Delacourt-Alden, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] Caleb for his part is seated in any place that was open, one ankle propped on the opposing knee while his hands rested lightly on his thighs. His black overcoat was thrown over the back of the chair, while green eyes drifted almost lazily this way and that while he continued to scan the room and those within.

To an end-table next to him sat a glass filled with fine cognac, the bottle beside it. The glass was half-full, but his eyes were still clear.

[Armstrong] Mrena wandered out of her room at some halfway decent hour, recently showered and recently laundered. She no longer smelled like paint, which was a plus. Her jeans were worn out, her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and for her part Mrena just seemed...

Comfortable.

The theurge wandered into the living room and seemed fairly intent on making sure her scarf wasn't too horribly messy. Bright red. Good to see she still wore it from time-to-time. For the most part, it gave her something to toy with from time to time. Mrena came in, stared at Sampson for a moment. "Sampson, sit up."

[Administrator] AnneMarie Hoch, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Administrator] liar, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[AnneMarie Hoch] ((I find it very disconcerting that every time I log in, Liar logs in right after. I'm beginning to wonder if they're trying to tell me something... :) )

[Sampson Musembi] (I just figured out just now that Veracity loggs in as Liar as a joke. Never connected it before)

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] ( That's just V. Don't mind her - she has a thing for short-haired blond women that don't talk back and can beat up mst men. )

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (....i JUST got that joke too.)

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] It's raining outside. Lukas doesn't enter the conventional way. He comes in from the entrance on the roof, descending down the stairs from there to the third floor, and from there to the second.

He's panting a little, as though he'd run some way -- though certainly not in this form. There's rainwater dripping from his hair and his face is wet, but his clothes are utterly dry. Even the cuffs of his jeans are the color they should be; his overcoat, which is, at closer inspection, made of a lighter material than his winter coat, is unspeckled with rain. He unbuttons it as he comes into the common room, slipping it off his shoulders and tossing it over the back of an available armchair.

There's a certain electricity that crackles about him. His presence charges the room in some undefinable way: it's like rage, but not quite. He comes straight to Caleb's cognac and, since there are no extra glasses, picks it up and swigs from the bottle.

His eyes are sharp; they flick the room. "Where's Sam?"

[liar] [*cracking up*]

[*Jamie is also cracking up*]

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] "I have not seen him," Caleb said to Lukas after the Ahroun confiscates his bottle of cognac. Yes, he definitely should have had the waitress bring more glasses, but then in such company as he was it was likely that only he and Lukas could appreciate such a vintage. Mrena had no head for alcohol, and Sampson might very well consider it to be some tastey girly drink.

[Sampson Musembi] "Why settle for a Sam, when you can have a Sampson? That is, lets see.. one, two three, four! Four extra letters! AH AH AH AH AH!"
Yeah, they have Sesame Street in Kenya, apparently.

The opportunity for a joke is done, and so Sampson sits up to take notice of Lukas's attitude, rage, something. There is something. He calls them, somehow, brings them, maybe his auspice or maybe just the inner hero, uniquely him.

Attention!
OR maybe Lukas just has a wild hair up his well-dressed ass.
His hair stands on end in anticipation, ears pricked, so to speak.

[Armstrong] "He's probably still out patrolling," she replied.

She stopped and looked at Lukas. Her moon was high in the sky, and it was raining. Not-so-secretly, she was hoping for a storm. Hoping for a downpour and lightning and thunder and Thunder and all things that came with this kind of weather.

She paused. She took a moment to survey those gathered. The theurge nodded to herself, just an affirmation of correct count, and then looked back to Lukas. And waited.

[liar] [*just saw Ken's comment* Whaaat? Jamie's not blon-- nevermind...]

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] ( Don't you dare corrupt my big sister any further, V. :P )

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] The news doesn't please Lukas. That's clear enough, though he says nothing else. Another gulp of cognac, and then he sets the bottle back down, coming around the coffee table to his usual spot.

If Sampson is still there, he gets more or less moved aside: a hand on the scruff of the neck lifting and then depositing him a few inches to the side. It's not at all brutal. It's gentle, but inexorably firm, like a wolf with a cub. And then the Ahroun sits down, unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling his sleeves up to the elbow.

"I just came back from an audience with the Talons. Kate's gone and she's not coming back anytime soon. Some sort of goddamn Umbral quest on behalf of the Talons, too important and mysterious for details. We may as well assume Dyl's been called off on the same task, and has anyone seen Ed recently?"

It's a rhetorical question. He doesn't wait for an answer.

"For the foreseeable future, we are a pack of four." A glance at Caleb. "Possibly five. Which is the first thing we need to discuss tonight. Are we accepting Caleb?"

Right in front of the man. Humans would never do this; they would consider it rude. Lukas is not human, and he would consider it rude, somehow, to discuss it behind Caleb's back -- without giving the Theurge a chance to face both his supporters and his detractors, and argue his own place.

[Armstrong] Are we accepting Caleb?
"Yes."

Simple as that.
Next question.

[Sampson Musembi] "Accepting Caleb."
The raggie sizes up the theurge, the Fang theurge. "Who knows of his honor, and dishonor? Talons of Horus are demanding of us, at all times. "

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "I haven't had much time with him, but this is what stands out to me:

"One. He backed me up when a trio of Spirals cornered me. We were nearly strangers to each other, and he had no obligation to help other than his honor and his duty as a warrior of Gaia. He helped me. He was nearly killed in the process, but we were victorious. I may not have been, myself.

"Two. When his previous packmate Erick was killed by the lupus, Andrew, he proved himself honorable and, perhaps more importantly, neither reckless nor hasty."

A pause.

"If we take Caleb into the pack, the matter of Erick will likely fall to our shoulders as well. Come next moot, when Caleb seeks a reckoning, we'll have to back him. That's something to consider."

And lastly, "As for his dishonor -- I don't think any of us here know anything of it. Caleb?" Perhaps unexpected, this. "Why don't you tell us yourself? What was your greatest dishonor?"

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] He really expected no less of Mrena - the two of them had already discussed this, where they each would stand as the pack's theurges. He sat, coolly eyeing Sampson and Lukas in a weighing and measuring sort of manner. The sort of stare you would expect from a Silver Fang theurge, regardless of the present situation.

Mrena accepts him, and Sampson questions his honor, and then gives a short lecture on a Silver Fang totem in regards to a Silver Fang. "I have taught Mrena to blend sword with theurge-craft," he said quietly but in a manner that would bring attention to himself, "with no gain for myself. I have more-or-less saved your beta from ambush by three Black Spiral Dancers, with no thought of the peril for myself." Eyes swinging to Lukas - the Ahroun and Theurge knew well that things may of came out quite differently had he not shown up.

Returning his Falcon's Eyes to Sampson, he arched a cool eyebrow a trifle. "At the last moot, I admitted to my short-comings and made up for them."

Then, Lukas asks for his greatest dishonor. "My greatest dishonor," he began as if tasting the words. "When I had my First Change, it was in the swamps of Louisiana. A place that I considered more my home than any mansion house or estate that we Silver Fangs possess. During this time I was attacked by a creature - I was but a young boy, perhaps eleven or twelve years old. I thought I knew the swamps as you all might know your own back-yards. I thought wrong.

"There I was attacked by a creature, as I have said. This creature was something out of legend, out of myth. Something that I had thought did not exist on the face of this earth. A crocodillian beast became part-Dragon and part dinosaur. In the blood-rage of frenzy I fought this beast recklessly, until the aid of my father and his pack came to the rescue. Gregor Alden de Morres, Kingsword, Athro Ahroun of Falcon, alpha is my father.

"A boy, frightened and in the war-skin, I was near death. My father ordered me to run against this impossible foe, and two of his pack was slain by this creature. My father, his beta, and one other survived. I ran - had I stayed, I might have helped defeat it. As it stood, it was not defeated." A deep inlet of breath, followed by a heavy exhale. "I ran as a coward would run, a small boy frightened by creatures out of nightmares."

Mrena knew part of this story; the reason for why he was wracked by nightmares every night and never slept well. Indeed, even now dark circles were around his eyes. "It was afterward that I learned what we faced was a Mokole, the great were-reptiles. Even knowing this, I was shamed for not standing with my father. You all may not consider this dishonorable, but I do. I ran from battle, even if I was a boy. All my life I had known what I was and what I would become, but even facing the Wyrm's horde and learning about them? Nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, could prepare any of you for facing something like that. Yet I knew I should stay and fight and die as Silver Fang. I ran."

A light shrug.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Caleb and Lukas have, in the past, briefly been brothers-in-arms. They have discussed sept politics and war over wine late at night; they have been on good terms.

There's no hint of that right now. The Shadow Lord's eyes are cold as ice, penetrating and unflinching.

"How do we know you won't run again when we need you most?"

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] Lukas' eyes were fell, icey and penetrating. Pale green eyes locked with the Shadow Lord Ahrouns, and likewise his do not flinch or falter. Never trust a Shadow Lord, my son, echoed in the recesses of his mind from the teachings of his tribe.

"Because I am not a frightened child hiding behind his father's shield when the trumpets of war sound," he stated firmly, directly. Caleb rose to his full height, turning his regal baring upon them all with head high. "I am Caleb Delacourt-Alden, the Count de Morres. Darkensky to the Nation of Garou, theurge of the Silver Fangs, Protector of the Tekakwitha Wood, mate and husband of Ana Eliza de Silva Salto. I am Keeper of the Land of the Sept of Maelstrom."

If Katherine were here, his next action would be directed towards her. Since she is not, it is directed to Lukas. His sword, that single-edged slightly-curved blade, the hilt long enough for two hands in Crinos or Homid alike, the quillions slightly curved and the crest of House Gleaming Eye set in the cross-piece, was drawn from his arm in one fluid motion - Mrena knew his skill with a blade - and was flipped over to offer the hilt to the Ahroun.

[Sampson Musembi] "I think you did gain something in teaching Mrena, and this I will explain in my auspice! I think you gained a little hubris! in thinking yourself more in authority than Mrena. I saw this! In your attitude towards her, uppity and lordly at her. About her. We garou teach each other things! It does not in itsself make a mentorship, or apprenticeship, or lend rank! Or allow for condescension!
I will ask that if you join us, you realize that we ALL are Talons, and that respect is the key to keeping to Talons of Horus Ban! To honoring Talons of Horus!
We fly wyld, but we fly Together!"

The lecture is over.
But there is one more question, in the way that Ragabash might ask several questions in one.
It's the same thing.
And its big.
"Caleb, do yo understand that you will not! while bonded to Talons of Horus, be able to kill Andrew for killing Erick? We may not seek to kill a Gaian Garou! This reckoning you will foreswear! Can you live with that? Some would not be able to do so, so you must Decide!"

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas looks at the sword for a moment; he doesn't take it yet. He waits to hear Caleb's answer to Sampson.

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] His eyes fell again on Sampson. This Silent Strider again sought to lecture a Silver Fang theurge on a Silver Fang totem. His lips compressed in a thin line. "Monsieur Musembi," he began, "when a teacher teaches, he is just that. The pupil must see the teacher as such, or he will not learn. However, I have respected Mrena in all things - of that she can attest to, I am sure." His eyes cut to the other theurge, briefly.

His eyes narrowed. "Killing the lupus is not my intent, Monsieur Musembi. Two wrongs do not make a right. I want justice for the murdered, not revenge."

[Administrator] Sam Modine, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Armstrong] Mrena, for her part, kept her mouth shut and listened. She weighed pros and cons, reflected, and waited to see where this was going to go. When the younger theurge had something to say, one could assume that she would say it. For now, she offered a slight nod

[Sampson Musembi] " I am from a far away country, Caleb! You would be unwise to assume me also an idiot." Sampson is relentless. "She may not have seen this condescension. I did. You owe her an apology which she may or may not choose to collect."
He leans back though, and nods to Lukas. No more objection. He's made his point.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Your pride is great, Caleb. It's getting close to hubris, and that's dangerous.

"There is a hierarchy in this pack, and you will not be at the head of it for some time -- if ever. You must realize that, and be willing to bend your neck to your betters.

"But if you can accept that, I add my voice to my packmates' in accepting you into this pack."

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] Caleb nods in acquiescence to the three, and seats himself falling silent for now.

[Administrator] Caleb Delacourt-Alden has left Caern & Surrounding Territories

[Sampson Musembi] "Alright then. So! Katherine is gone. The Queen abdicates due to absence. Lukas, that makes our beta our alpha!
Long live the King! SO!
Who will take mercy on him and challenge him for alpha? Or must I do so?"
The Raggie glowers around the pack, his threat actually kinda serious. Gaia help them all.

[Armstrong] She paused, then seemed to reflect. Katherine wasn't here. Katherine wasn't here, and Mrena had lots and lots of thinking to do. The theurge had been quiet for some time, had listened, and listened well. It was something she seemed to be pre-disposed to.

There was a beat of silence, and then?

"I challenge for pack Alpha."

No fanfare. Nothing glorious, nothing that was overdone. Just I challenge for pack Alpha.

[Sam Modine] Sam enters the way Lukas had minutes earlier, but it's well before that the three on the second floor of the brotherhood feel him pushing seven and a half feet tall and brimming with Rage into the physical world on the rooftop. He's soaked from the rain, and his bare chest is streaked with dirt and blood.

The Fenrir has been hunting.

As he floats to the stairs' landing they hear him in their thoughts, sorry I'm late to announce him just before they see him sprinting to the bathroom to clean up offering just a wave at the doorway for them at first. After few minutes of running water and an audible trip to his room he does reemerge though, pulling a t-shirt over his head and smiling like summer sun. "Hey. What'd I miss?"

[Sampson Musembi] Sampson yells at her. He does, though not with all his marathon boy lungs, this smaller yell, enough for emphasis and to make his raggie point.
It's kinda a point for a lot of them, and maybe a galliard should be their voice, but-- their galliard isn't really their's, anymore.
"IT'S ABOUT GODDAMN TIME!"

Sam had just entered. Caught some or none or all of what was said, in the last minutes. The Kenyan leggy man waves at his incoming packmate, grins "Adding Caleb to the Flight! Oh, and a coup. Same old! Same old."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas is clearly startled when Mrena speaks up in challenge. It's possible that out of his packmates, Mrena -- quiet, observant, and so much a ... little sister in his mind -- was the last he expected to strive for Alphaship.

"Sampson, catch Sam up."

His eyes don't leave Mrena. They're not angry, nor even surprised anymore; they're considering, perhaps a little undecided. After a moment or two of this regard the Ahroun lifts a foot, pushes the coffee table forward six inches or so, and then stands in the space between it and the sectional couch.

"As acting Alpha, I accept your challenge.

"You are a capable Theurge, Mrena, and since Katerina's departure you have greatly broadened your skills. Even so, you have shown no true ability to plan, to organize, to lead.

"You have not, to my knowledge -- not ever, not once -- shown any leadership in this pack. When this pack arrived in this city, it was I who laid the plan for our first two months. When Edward failed, it was I who pushed Kate to replace him. When Kate vanished, it was I who sought the reason behind it and called this meeting to discuss the matter. The Alpha has always led, and you have always followed. When the Alpha did not lead, I led -- and still you followed.

"This casts doubt on your ability to plan, to lead, to act when action is necessary.

"What you have done instead of lead, Mrena, is fail your pack at the first moot by failing to claim the position of the Keeper of the Land.

"This casts doubt on your ability to compete, to step up for the good and the glory of your pack.

"Worse, you have subsequently concealed from this pack the fact that another pack, the Goblins, has courted you for their pack. None of us knew of this until their Ragabash told me. Even then, you did not tell me until I asked you. Even now, I daresay you and I are the only ones who know of this bit of dirty business.

"I wouldn't have brought up again if you hadn't strove for Alphaship. But as you do, I find this casts doubt on your fidelity, your trustworthiness and your honesty. This I find ... painful in a packmate, but unacceptable in an Alpha."

A brief silence follows. His words were blunt. They were brutal, and harsh, and quite merciless: no quarter given, no softness in the Ahroun's eyes. They are Shadow Lords, after all.

"So here is my challenge to you," Lukas concludes. "Answer these charges against you -- with words, and more importantly, with actions. Prove to me, and to this pack, that you are a worthy leader. Prove to us you would make a better Alpha than I, or whomever else might rise to take hold of the reins.

"This challenge will likely not conclude tonight. It will go on as long as it needs to. Because I would rather see this pack Alphaless than see an unworthy leader rise to the position again."

[Sam Modine] "Great." Dryly. Sam's smile fades down to a dangerous smirk as his eyes cast over the assembled. The Caleb situation is put silently aside for more pressing concerns as he fully does catch up to speed.

"Reflects worse on Milo and his pack of mongrels than it does her." Sam shrugs and continues listening after he adds this though, waiting to speak until the very end.

And he keeps waiting after that, too. But this isn't a measured silence to allow Lukas his time to speak, this is the formulation of words into sentences. When finally the thoughts come to their boil and begin to leave vocally he doesn't stammer or half-start but states rather simply. "I'd like to challenge for Alpha." Mrena's given a look, sidelong that's capped with the tug of one corner of his mouth to reveal three or four little sharp ivories. It's only slightly apologetic, and partly gamesmanly but it's not without some feeling behind it.

"Until Kate comes back, I mean."

[Sampson Musembi] Sampson STARES at Lukas, ascerbic, weighing.
But comments will wait.

"Oh, and details. We are the pack now! The others, who have not been here well. They have their own duties which take them away. You know, quests and... things."

There. That part, was somber. Well, as somber as he gets. The loss of members, for whatever reason, is a hard thing.

Ok enough waiting. The no moon pipes up, as Unsilent as....as... as the Talons themselves. "Acting Alpha! What is this, a boardroom meeting! Do you or do you not have a tail? You are alpha! or you are not alpha! You ARE alpha, Lukas, until we unseat you! or you die! or you go on an Umbral Quest! Don't even ask about the retirement package!
And Sam! What is this, when Kate comes back? Does the Litany not apply to her? Is her precious Silver Fang blood too good for a proper challenge? Since when does an alpha stand as a place holder for another alpha?"

Not much moon in the sky tonight, is there?

He snorts, and stretches his legs out. Coups are thirsty work.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Sampson's outburst triggers something in Lukas, who has until now stood solid and apparently imperturbable.

That's a lie. That's an act: a careful mask of calm that slips, now, as the Ahroun suddenly snaps his teeth in Sampson's direction -- a hollow, inhuman clak of ivory. The threat is utterly, unmistakably clear.

"Very well, Ragabash." Nearly torn in two or not, Sampson has accomplished his purpose -- and Lukas knows it. "I am Alpha. As Alpha I extend terms of challenge to White-Eyes.

"As Alpha, I say to Mjollnir's Heart: the way things stand now, I will never accept you as Alpha. You are impetuous, disrespectful, immature and reckless. You're a loose cannon, not an Alpha. If you take control of this pack, Sam, you will run it into the ground.

"If, when the challenge with Mrena is finished, you wish to press your challenge again, perhaps things will have changed. If that is so, Mrena or I will consider your challenge then."

[Sam Modine]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 6, 6, 7, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 7)

[Sam Modine] "Since always." He frowns. "She has the right of kingship, and the respect her blood affords her. Watch your tongue. You're talking about stepping on the traditions and the foundations the pack is built on." The Modi's brow furrows and his rage bristles as he lowers a disappointed look the way of the new moon.

"And furthermo--" Lukas begins to speak and Sam's eyes go blank for a moment, his teeth close and display themselves to the room as a whole. The muscles under his t-shirt flex and his hands grip themselves down into fists. "That's crap, and you know it." The mood in the room has shifted, the Rage is at the forefront, even under the crescent moon and it threatens to suffocate them if it doesn't find some release.

"You're not Alpha, Katherine is until someone changes that. Absentee or not you don't just get to step in and claim what isn't yours." His fingers relax again, uncurling at his side and he heaves out a breath. "And you don't get to brush me off that easily." His voice never rises in volume through this, his face never leaves the placid calm they'll recognize as him going into something of a control-mode. He doesn't let it slip but the closeness to that razor's edge was palpable only a moment ago and the last thing any of them needs is misdirected violence distracting them from the point.

"I'm strong, I'm smart and I'm capable, Luke." The last words are low and demanding and his eyes never leave those of the Wyrmbreaker. If nothing else Sam is demanding his attention, if just for a moment before he takes a carefu step backwards and leans against the wall, allowing Mrena to continue.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (sorry folks, B&N is about to close. back in ~30!)

[Sampson Musembi] Sampson snorts, shakes his head.

"Oh?I didn't know we could only have a Silver Fang as Alpha. Or is it just Bellamontes? Katerina? Dylan? Where are they, Sam? Why are you challenging for Alpha to Lukas in one breath, and then saying Katherine is still alpha in the next?
You can't have it both ways!
She is gone, Sam. For now!
Know this, though. If you win a challenge for it, only to hold it for another, I will move on.
I will not follow an alpha who follows her own path, his path, and leaves us behind indefinitely!
Enough of that! How can we be a pack if we are not together??"

[Armstrong] There was no quarter given, no softness in his eyes, and she would not have expected any less. In fact, she would have been outright appalled if he did. That, of course, was not the thought in question. They were discussing her leadership capabilities, the fact that she had never really shown any until now.

And for her? There was nothing. There was no sign of fault, no contempt, no flaw. Just confidence. And despite having all of her flaws, and all of her faults and failings laid in front of her, Mrena was not afraid of them.

Nor was she afraid of answering for her mistakes.

“Alright,” she said.

And with that? She started from the top.

“You have said that I have not shown leadership in this pack. In some ways, I can see where you would believe this. I wasn’t pushing Katherine to take the helm, just like I wasn’t pushing Edward. But I took initiative in ways that others did not. While we were pushing for control of sept positions, I was building our reputation. I was working to get our name out there and to keep it pristine, so that way when we did take positions, we weren’t seen as impetuous upstarts. I was building contacts that would be vital to this pack’s survival and ability to flourish, I was building favors, so that way when our back was against the wall we wouldn’t be in someone’s pocket should we need assistance. We were a pack of eight when we came here, and I have been consistently planning what we were going to do should that fact change and should our dynamics change.

“I took action before action became necessary. And I will continue to do so.”

And there? She was ready to continue as necessary.

[Administrator] Lukas Wyrmbreaker, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (i'm REALLY sorry guys -- I shoulda done this long ago, but I was getting kicked outta the bookstore and didn't read carefully)

Sam gets to: You're not Alpha-- and Lukas interrupts him, deadly soft.

"What did you say?"

[Sam Modine] "You heard me."

He's stopped in the middle of that small graceful step that would've had him quietly watching the room and instead stiffens straight up at the threat in his packmate's voice. If he had hackles they'd just have risen. Instead his shoulders straighten and the light blonde hairs on his forearms stand striaght at attention, rising in adrenaline goosepimples across the surface.

"You can adjudicate a claim for her position, even challenge at it yourself. But you're not going to step in and claim the greatest share of our work with a fiat. You've got no right." He pauses swallows in a dryinging mouth. "Not by the litany."

[Sampson Musembi] Ascerbic. Sampson stands and begins walking to the door, where he turns and waits, a skinny elongated meat shield for the unwary persons below.
Just in case.
Ahrouns can get pissy when mad.
"We should have held out for a philodox to add to the pack! One who was actually born in the right moon! No offense, Caleb."

[Administrator] liar has left Caern & Surrounding Territories

[Administrator] Buried Hatchet, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (okay, i think inits are in order!)

[Sam Modine] 7+

[Sam Modine]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 8

[Buried Hatchet] 7
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2

[Buried Hatchet] We should have held out for a --

Hatchet comes around the corner. He's not there because he's heard growling or snarling or things getting knocked over. He hasn't been in the hallway listening to the Circle talk amongst themselves. He's coming around the corner and into the common room on his way to get a new book from the shelf.

Seeing -- smelling, sensing, hearing -- tensions, he doesn't stop. He just glances at the gathered, and keeps on walking over to the bookshelf.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] No further response -- Wyrmbreaker slips his skin and, with a short, coughing roar of a bark, goes for Mjollnir.

(8+)
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 5 (Failure at target 6)

[Armstrong] "Rhya, we have a question about the litany if you have a moment."

Which, oddly enough, came out sounding more like We need to talk to a Philodox. Though, for her part, she seemed ready for damned near anything, but wasn't jumping into the fray.

(5+1d10)
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 6

[Buried Hatchet] [Moving to Mrena.]

[Armstrong] [activating persuasion]

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (1 wp --> resist pain
1 rage --> hispo shift
3 rage --> actions

split on first action:
1a. spur claws
b. bite
2, 3, 4. bites)

[Sam Modine] Spending: 1 WP 3 Rage
Activating Resist Pain
Shifting To Crinos
2 Rage Actions

1a. Falling Touch (Lukas)
1b. Claw
1r. Dodge
2r. Dodge
1r.

[Sam Modine] [Falling Touch]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 3, 5, 8, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (changing action 1a to getting back up -- no roll.)

[Armstrong] (persuasion! charisma+subterfuge)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Armstrong] (aaaand on with the convincing. Charisma+leadership [Ohfuck! Be a leader, already!])
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 5, 5 (Success x 2 at target 5) [WP]

[Administrator] Serafine Marceau, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Buried Hatchet] 'The Road' was good. Haunting. Poignant. Hatchet slides it back onto the bookshelf as two Ahrouns collide in the middle of the common room and is about to start scanning the other titles when Mrena says Rhya. He straightens, looks over at her, looks at the combatants, and then walks over to Mrena, one eyebrow cocked.

If anything, he looks amused.

[Sam Modine] [Claw diff6//Brawl]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 2, 2, 3, 3, 3, 7, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6) Re-rolls: 3

[Sam Modine] [Damage]
Dice Rolled:[ 10 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (soak)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 3, 5, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (4 agg. changing 1b to spur claws. +1 diff, -3 dice.)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 4, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 7)

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (damage, 7+2+2)
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 2, 2, 2, 3, 5, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Sampson Musembi] Sampson pulls out a notepad from a pocket. The notepad is not large, but where he intends to stick it Will get noticed.
He has a pen too, and when the surge comes, he waits, guarding, but in the moment when the fur and blood rises, and its a SMALL BRIEF Moment, Sampson begins scribbling.
Fast.
He's good at fast.

[Sam Modine] [Soak]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 3, 5, 7, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Armstrong] "When the Alpha is away, the Beta acts as Alpha, correct? And if the period of time is extended, the beta is, essentially, alpha. And the beta justified and correct in doing this by virtue of the position and rank in the pack, right?"

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (rage 1 -- bite)
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 4, 4, 5, 7, 9 (Success x 2 at target 5)

[Sam Modine] [Dodge]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 3, 6, 7, 8, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (rage 2 -- bite)
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 6, 7, 7, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 5)

[Sam Modine] [Dodge diff 8 (forgot last time)]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 2, 2, 5, 7, 8, 10 (Failure at target 8) Re-rolls: 1

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (damage, 7+2+3)
Dice Rolled:[ 12 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 2, 4, 6, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Sam Modine] [Soak]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 5, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (and last rage action)
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 3, 4, 4, 6, 7, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 5 at target 5)

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (damage, 7+2+4)
Dice Rolled:[ 13 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 4, 6, 6, 6, 6, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 9 at target 6)

[Sam Modine] [Soak, hail!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 6, 7, 8, 8, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Buried Hatchet] It's somewhat absurd.

Sam and Lukas are going to bloody each other on this floor...again. And while they do that, their Ragabash is scribbling. The Truthcatcher and Alpha of another pack is going to have a chat with their Theurge about the Litany.

Hatchet tips his head to the side as he listens to Mrena. The two of them don't interact often. Usually they see one another in the bathroom, flossing. They both floss with something like religious dedication. That isn't the only thing they have in common: each has pale, ghost-gray eyes. Mrena's are very nearly white, lending to what the Garou -- and Hatchet -- call her. His seem to change with his mood, with the phase of the moon. But right now? They look almost identical to her own.

He looks down at her, though. He's kind of tall. She's not. If he had to guess he would say she's maybe eighty pounds. But he's not good at guessing that sort of thing. When she finishes her question, he blinks. "Well...some of that depends on the pack. And there are some septs that have additional laws to the litany governing how packs are run."

His gaze flicks to the two Ahrouns, then back to her. "Maybe you could be more specific."

[Armstrong] There was a pause, and then there was a pile of bloodied Fenrir on the floor.

It was absurd, in some ways, that these two were standing about, having a normal conversation and her packmates were dealing with issues of who was entitled to what. Instead of looking up at Hatchet, which seemed to take an eternity, she took a step back and looked at him. She didn't have to crane her neck to see him, and it put space between the two of them.

Space was respect. She was giving him space.

"Well, we were having a dispute, but it seems to have resolved itself," she said.

[Sampson Musembi] Sampson's dark hand waves over the wall, starts sticking sticky note pad notes on the wall. He has decent arms, for a raggie, for a runner.
Whap Whap whap!
THERE!

Those who wish may read.

[AnneMarie Hoch] One thing has always been said about AnneMarie - and always will be said. She follows orders, follows them immediate, and follows them well. As long as they are from her Alpha, of course. Such things have not changed in her time away (...Though just before she left...no. Water under the bridge, he said. She must accept that as well.) and that is what leads her to the Brotherhood of Thieves.

She has been told that the new Garou often gather upstairs, but she does not simply barge in. It is not her way, after all. So it is to the bar, first, where she settles to sit, smoothing denim over her thigh as legs cross, then straightening the blouse under her leather jacket with an absent tug. She reaches briefly into her pocket, and seconds later her whiteboard lands on the bartop before her gently. A quick pass of the felt tip black pen, and when the bartender turns her way, she shows it to him. She wipes it clean with a bar napkin, then, before setting the requested cash on the worn smooth wood in exchange for the bottle of beer slid her way.

That's about the time the Elephants began to Dance Upstairs - or so it sounded by the thud of bodies on the floor. And she was under orders...

A slender shoulder lifts in a shrug, as if she had finally made some decision within her self. Once her beer has found it's way to her hand, she lifts her chin in thanks to the bartender, and makes her way through the kitchen, and up the stairs.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Downstairs: a cozy bakery/bar/restaurant.
Upstairs: bloody chaos.

--

This isn't the first time the Ahrouns of the Circle have clashed in this city. In this room. In this vicious, bloody manner.

It's over in the space of a single breath. Three seconds, no more or less. Mjollnir has the edge -- he seems to merely touch Wyrmbreaker, and sends the black Hispo sprawling. In the next heartbeat Wyrmbreaker rolls back on his feet, four big paws scrabbling for purchase. The bite he takes is deep, but not devastating; the retaliation is a vicious swipe that leaves his claws embedded in Mjollnir's hide.

After that, it's hard to see what happens. There's fur -- and teeth -- flashing, glaring eyes -- the savage snapping of lupine jaws. When it's over the common room is an abattoir. There's blood everywhere. The air stinks of rage and adrenaline.

There's a low-frequency rumbling in the room, at the very edge of hearing, unnerving. It takes some time to trace its source back to Wyrmbreaker.

The black hispo's hackles are still up, a ridge of fur along his back. His tail is high, but held straight out, bristled -- his legs are stiff when he stands over his savaged packmate and his teeth are bared. His body language is clear dominance.

"The night after Truth's Meridian took the Office of the Challenge, I gave you your first warning against insubordination," Wyrmbreaker's snarl is soft as velvet. "This is your very last."

[Sampson Musembi] For those who choose to come inspect the post its, the words are written in a reasonably neat hand, or rather they are legible, which is nice of him.
"HARD AND FAST RULE +1!!
NO FIGHTING in the BROTHERHOOD!"

The next note:
"UNLESS YOU REALLY REALLY WANT TO !"

And the next:
"AND CANNOT WALK THREE BLOCKS ON FOUR LEGS TO THE CAERN! "

[Sampson Musembi] He will wait until any in the room has read it, before tearing down and destorying the last note.
His point will be made by then.

[Sam Modine] A few large chunks of Sam Modine are missing. Disconcerting enough, one would think except that the cadaver in the center of the bloodbath he open eyes and an angry expression. "Always with that stupid, stupid bumblebee trick." He's growling as he slowly makes his shift down to the near-man form on the floor. The thing that should be by all right dead is continuing the conversation.

"That's so lame."

He coughs and spits something red and unappetizing out onto the floor, clearing and wiping his mouth though injury has kept him on the floor he is able to sit up just enough to turn and face the Fianna. "Tell him acting Alpha doesn't mean Alpha. He's being a tool." It's at this point he turns back to the monster whose jaws drips with pieces of his own organs. "This is the second time you've attacked me unprovoked." This time though the sinking thing right behind the words is that this time he'd taken a shot himself. This time he hadn't simply laid down and let the other man try and best him.

He's beaten and there's no lack of surprise in his voice at this.

"I told you then what I'm telling you now. I serve a purpose, I serve a pack. I'm not being insubordinate--" He pauses again to wipe the muck from huge, distended features. "I'm being loyal to my calling and I will not let you run that off the tracks." the final part is shouted as best he can, though it's a hoarse thing and he coughs once as he lies back down to look at the ceiling above.

Didn't even hurt.

[Armstrong] She looked at her packmates, and to the rest of the outside world, she seemed absolutely silent.

[Administrator] Sampson Musembi has left Caern & Surrounding Territories

[Buried Hatchet] Of course it's resolved itself. Hatchet looks from the petite Shadow Lord and over to Lukas, wearing Sam's blood, and Sam, who is currently worn by the floor. He lifts a hand and rubs his index finger's knuckle against his nose to scratch it. His pale eyebrows tug together as he surveys the scene. He lived here the last time this happened, too. He remembers the length of time it took the stench of blood to leave the room, and the tension amongst the Kin residing in the Brotherhood that lingered for weeks afterward.

He's aware of Sampson slapping post-it notes up, but doesn't yet look over to read them. He becomes aware only after Lukas finishes snarling of footsteps trodding up the stairs towards them. Mostly, though, he's aware of Wyrmbreaker and Mjollnir's Heart. Whatever he says about each of them publically, or in jest, or to his own packmate, Hatchet doesn't talk much about what he really thinks...of anyone, really. Each of the men, who share a moon and a pack, has a particular image in his mind, a certain voice in his thoughts, and a certain degree of respect and maybe even comraderie from the Fostern.

That's how he knew that Armstrong was talking to him, earlier. He's the only one in the room any of them might call Rhya.

After a few seconds, he looks at the notes that Sampson posted and chuckles. He's still chuckling when Sam opens his mouth, but the grin on his bearded face fades rapidly as he's addressed. Tell him, Sam says, and Hatchet cocks his head to the side as though inquisitive. He's being a tool, Sam says, and Hatchet's eyes glimmer faintly.

And then he walks over, bare feet unhesitantly stepping into the blood that's on the floor. He slowly lowers himself into a crouch next to the Fenrir, his expression clearing, his head still canted to the side. Every movement is animalistic. They're all much better at pretending to be human than he is, yet he doesn't have the confusion of a lupus-born. He's fully homid, born in this skin, but he doesn't seem to remember that most of the time.

When he speaks, his eyes look like silver, but his voice is a warm, patient baritone: a sigh of words. His forearms rest on his knees, his hands dangling limply between his legs. Sam's blood clings to the soles of his feet.

"I take it that Katherine has gone away, too," he says, without malice, without -- surprisingly -- even mockery. Hatchet doesn't wait for a nod, or an affirmative. He's noticed the absence. He doesn't point that out. "With her gone, your pack has no one to look to. With her gone, you and your packmates have no one to challenge for the right to leadership. Any of you, therefore, may step up and claim that right, and any others who dispute it may challenge for that then.

"Unless," he goes on, talking to Sam as though they are the only two people in the room, "the Alpha has a designated second in command, a Beta. If the Alpha has, then when the Alpha is away, or unconscious, or simply...gone...then the Beta is in charge of leading and guiding the pack. You, and anyone else in the Circle, may either accept the Beta's leadership, challenge them for their position, or choose not to follow them."

He blinks once, rapidly. "If you cannot lead, or follow, then you may stop whining and sniveling like a goddamn human child and get the fuck out of the way."

Hatchet rises to his feet again.

[AnneMarie Hoch] Before she clears the top of the stairs, the scent of blood is thick and heavy in her nostrils. Nostrils flair, and a brow quirks slightly as she comes on the scene above. She does not get too close, just looks over the scene quietly, pale eyes capturing every detail as she listens.

She lifts her beer to her lips and takes a slow sip, before her arm falls to let the bottle hang from her fingers at her side. In her other hand, her whiteboard and pen, tucked agianst her palm, as her thumb hooks unto the pocket of her jeans.

She is - unsurprisingly for any who would know her - silent.

[Administrator] peek, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Administrator] peek has left Caern & Surrounding Territories

[Serafine Marceau] Outside of the Brotherhood, a stranger stood, gazing uncertainly at the door. From the outside, it looked a bit...dubious. But then again...this whole area seemed a bit dubious to Serafine. Still, if she wanted to stay in Chicago, she was just going to have to get used to it. Adaptation is key to survival, they say. And what better way to learn than to jump into the midst of things?

Call her many things, but never call her a coward. Taking a breath, Serafine stepped forward and opened the door, making her way inside the building. Once inside, she paused a moment just to get her bearings, blue-green eyes shifting slowly over the room to take in the layout. She seemed a quiet, delicate thing, but more aloof than nervous. Finally she moved forward, heading towards the bar, where she plunked her slim frame down gracefully into a seat as she pondered a drink.

"I'll have a beer, please... whatever is on tap." She had never tried an American beer, so this seemed as good a choice as any. Her voice was cool and polite, with a teasing of a French accent underlying the words.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] When Sam shouts at him, the black Hispo snaps his teeth at the Modi. He'd done this earlier, in homid -- the gesture was strange and feral, out of place.

Here, with blood and spittle dripping from his jaws, it cannot be more fitting.

"This is your final warning."

This is all the response Wyrmbreaker gives: a repetition, flat and non-negotiable. He backs away from the Modi, and then people are speaking -- one into his mind, the other into his ears, and the words go in but they don't sink in; he'll take them out later to examine, little by little, to turn them over in his mind and sniff them and study them until they made sense again.

Later.

For now, Wyrmbreaker shifts toward his homid form slowly, little by little. Annemarie appears. The Ahroun's eyes -- blue, pale, and utterly savage -- go immediately to her, the stranger. He bares his teeth; the whole room can see how long they are, how red-stained and deadly, and then they're shrinking, and the snarl is turning to a rictus, a sneer, fades away.

He's homid again. He doesn't bother to wipe his face off.

Don't heal him at all this time. This is totemic, directed at Mrena, as though Sam and everyone else didn't even exist and they were on a private line. He grabs his overcoat off the back of the couch. It's splattered in blood; the hem, which had trailed on the floor, is soaking it up, a blacker shade of black. I'm going to take a shower. Then we can continue the discussion. I'd like to hear what you have to say to my terms.

[Buried Hatchet] Lukas shifts down, picks up his coat. Hatchet's tone of voice returns from those last seven words he spoke, losing their edge. His eyes remain on Sam.

"Wyrmbreaker, I'd like a private word with you."

[Sam Modine] "Yeah." It's quiet, rumbling and whispered back to the red haired creature directly above him. "She's...yeah." He chokes on the uncertainty of it and his eyes close down. Welling just at the corners for a moment before he composes with multiple deep breaths and looks back at the wolf man who's still screaming threats.

"You make me sick sometimes Lukas."

Any newcomers or people leaving aren't really garnering any attention from him yet, he's still a little.... he's not moving anytime soon. "You know, you don't have to listen to him, Mrena." He does not call her White-Eyes, he uses her name, like he seems to with almost everyone. There are times when it's striking how deep the marks of his upbringing go. In these moments the remarkable dichotomy between man and animal makes an uneasy passion play in the body of young-ish Modi. The man who would always do what is right and the animal wanting nothing more than what is necessary.

[Serafine Marceau] It was lucky that she had not walked in only moments ago. That certainly would have been an...interesting first impression. She heard the sounds of movement and muffled voices upstairs, but for now, remained where she was. Instead, she smiled politely to the kinfolk bartender and paid for her drink. Delicate fingers traced their way along the smooth, cold glass as she gazed into the amber depths, momentarily thoughtful. Then she lifted it to her lips and took a sip. It was decent enough.

After a few minutes, she turned slightly in her seat, eyes drifting about the room again...and eventually towards the stairs that led up to the second floor. Curiosity killed the cat. Er... wolf. But still... she could not help wondering. Had she been in lupus, her ears would have twitched. Finally, she abandoned her half-empty glass and hopped down to the floor, moving with a slow, lanky gait towards and then up those stairs.

When she reached the top, she was hit by the scent and sight of fresh blood, and this...stopped her in her tracks. Eyebrows went up just slightly as she took in the mess, then she glanced at the others present before instinctively ducking her head. "I apologize...I did not mean to interrupt."

[AnneMarie Hoch] She does not shy from Lucas' gaze, but rather meets it head on. He bares his teeth, and she merely arches a brow, slightly. A tilt of her head - barely imperceptible - and the barest lift of her chin is her only reply, her only matter of hello.

She lifts her beer to her lips again and takes a drink, before it returns to her side. Pale eyes drop to the Fenrir on the floor, the one talking to him, and slide around to Mrena, and back to Lucas as he grabs his coat.

Still, she says nothing. Funny how that works.

[Buried Hatchet] [Hey, the rest of us in here are in an AIM chat while we're doing this scene. If you want in just send me your SN and you can chatter with us if you like.]
to Serafine Marceau

[Serafine Marceau] (Why thank you. :) Unfortunately I don't have AIM on this computer..and I think I probably forgot my old sn anyway. Haven't used it in years. Is AIM how you guys normally talk in PM?)
to Buried Hatchet

[Buried Hatchet] [Usually! Pretty much everyone I RP with on Chicago is on a buddy list somewhere. There are times when the OOC room gets a lot of use but nottt lately.]
to Serafine Marceau

[Armstrong] She nodded a little to Lukas; he was off to go take a shower. And, for her part, the theurge seemed content to listen for the time being. She made her way over to Sam; she was surveying the damages. If nothing else, she was crtical on a level. Or, even, appreciative.

Mrena sat down next to Sam; she didn't touch him. She didn't care if she got bloody, either. Those pants had been through Hell. That scarf has had things bound to it before; the ensemble was part of her very being. Mrena chose her clothing for a reason.

And when she spoke to the Fenrir, her words were for him only, but spoken none the less out loud. "I choose to listen... you'll be fine," she said. He would be fine, because he was strong, because he was Fenrir. And, for now, she was quiet.

[Serafine Marceau] (Ahh, I see. :) Well perhaps I'll have to see about downloading it again and getting a new SN, for next time.)
to Buried Hatchet

[Buried Hatchet] [w00t!]
to Serafine Marceau

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] There's a pulse of rage from Lukas, sharp and acrid. It's there; then it's gone. He draws a slow breath.

If you don't want to listen to me, Sam, no one's forcing you to remain in this pack. But if you want to stay, you will obey your superiors.

A flick of a glance toward Serafine, then. Yet another newcomer. Just great. "You're not interrupting," mutters the bloody, monstrous thing that is Lukas.

And then, to Hatchet: a moment's consideration, then a simple nod. "I need to get a change of clothes anyway. You mind talking on the way?"

[Buried Hatchet] Downstairs, the Kinfolk in the kitchen watch Serafine as she passes through from the dining room and goes to the stairs. They eye her warily, trade glances, but do not stop her. Something about her makes them pause. There are only two of them, after all, and one of her, and thin as the moon overhead may be, more Rage in her veins than they want to try and overcome. She may not be a friend, she's not known to any of them, but what is a Kin to a Garou, to block their path and ask them Wot's tha passwerd, thar?

Upstairs, Hatchet huffs out a slight breath as Sam informs Lukas that he makes him sick, informs Mrena that she doesn't have to follow him. There's a flicker of his own Rage, licking outward like flames when normally his is a pulse, but he doesn't intervene further with the Fenrir. He looks up, and over, at AnneMarie, and then Serafine. He steps out of Mrena's way and turns to look finally at Lukas.

His head swings in the direction of the hallway in agreement, and he heads that way. He pauses, however, as he steps past the pool of Sam's blood. Looking down, Hatchet blinks. "Oh, fuck my ass," he snaps, and takes off his shirt to stop and use it to wipe the majority of the goo off. The t-shirt is black. The scars on the man's arms and torso are considerable, especially the large explosion around his solar plexus that has a smaller twin in the middle of his back. Something done gone impale him once upon a time. He rubs the t-shirt between his toes, shakes his head, and walks gingerly after the Shadow Lord, trying not to track blood everywhere.

He may be the only one who cares.

[Sam Modine] "Totem's gonna love that."

He growls it out and raises the edge of his upper lip in a snarl. "I'm not the one who attacks instead of facing an honorable challenge." He doesn't use the psychic connection, there is no message transported on the wings of birds of prey. "You're stuck with me," He turns the snarl into the spreading of lips and the revelation of teeth that is a smile but that is no less malicious that the expression that birthed it. "I'll still be here when you're dead and gone."

"And who...." He's exasperated, craning his neck backwards to look at the door. "Why are there new people gawking?"

[AnneMarie Hoch] Why are there new people gawking? It's a legitimate question, all things told, though it seems rather retorical. It is, after all, an open room, a common room, in a place known to house more than one pack, and declared the Sweden of Claimed Territory.

That is to say, Neutral.

AnneMarie glances at the other newcomer, and lifts her chin slightly, before she steps to the side to find a nice stretch of wall to stand before, still watching, silently. Why are they 'gawkin' as it were? Quite possibly because there is a Fenrir bleeding in the center of the floor. It does tend to capture the occasional glance or two. She does not interfere, of course. She simply watches.

[Serafine Marceau] Serafine did not much care to be out of the loop. It was an unpleasant state of being, but for now she held her questions. One had to be careful, walking alone into a new situation... having to determine her place amongst those present. Still, there was much one could tell from body language and behavior. AnneMarie, for instance... did not receive direct eye contact. Neither did Hatchet. The others...she still wasn't sure about. As Lukas acknowledged her, she raised her eyes to look at him, then nodded gently.

Stepping out of the way of those who were leaving, she then glanced towards Sam. Her eyes glimmered like the sea struck by moonlight. "Why are you fighting in a restaurant?" She seemed... not exactly amused, but contemplative. "Not the best way to keep...strangers from gawking." Now she did curl the corner of her mouth just slightly. "If you wish to be alone, however... I will leave." And she gave a little nod of understanding. "I howled my introduction not long ago, but I imagine it has not gotten around yet." And of course, if anyone needed further proof of her alien status...they need only hear the sounds of Paris in her voice.

The moment was left open, waiting to see if they desired her to relay further information, or if a hasty exit was perhaps the better solution.

[Armstrong] "Sam," she said. At that moment, the rather petite theurge was trying to gauge his weight, how to get him to his room. "What do Pain and the Talons of Horus have in common?"

There was a pause, and then she spoke. And she spoke, and she spoke clearly and she spoke the way a theurge should. "They are both spirits of respect. And of honor. And if you do not learn from the wounds and circumstances-"

And he just kept talking. So, being the kind of woman that she was, and that she was as young as she was, the theurge put a finger to his lips. The gesture was something small, and it would have hopefully gotten the point across.

"Your anger will not serve you without direction. And I won't heal you because I will not engineer a weak packmate. And I will not allow you to be complacent. Listen to what you are saying. The things you say in haste can not be taken back, and the damage will linger long after you have said them."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas has turned to leave the room. He hasn't emerged unscathed, but torn flesh is hidden beneath fabric and denim now, and there's so much blood everywhere that it's hard to see which is his and which is Sam's. And really, in the grand scheme of things, Lukas wouldn't have drawn a line. There is no difference between your blood and the blood of your brother.

That's what he would've said until ten seconds ago.

Then Sam is opening his mouth. Again. And speaking. Again. And it's the last line that does it, really: I'll still be here when you're dead and gone.

Lukas stops dead. There's a flicker of an expression that goes over his face, but everyone's behind him at this point, and no one's there to see it. When he turns around he's only faintly frowning; perhaps it's incredulity.

"You are not my brother, Sam."

He's not angry at all. He's very quiet, a sort of desolated muteness; and perhaps a little surprised to hear his own voice.

"My brother would never wish me dead before him."

He thinks of the beginning, a sudden flash of a memory: the pack at its beginning, just Ed and Kate and Lukas, three Cliaths, eastern seaboard, not a fucking care in the world. Some battle somewhere, a victory, the details unimportant now, and Samuel Modine, Mjollnir's Thunder, very young, barely out of his Fostering, a lone Modi without a pack.

And Lukas, approaching him: I liked how you handled yourself back there.
And Sam, soft-spoken and sheepish, almost shy: Thanks.
And Lukas: I'm actually here for someone else. Edward Bellamonte. I want you to meet him.

That was the beginning, the pack coming together. To Lukas, right at this moment, this feels very much like the end: things falling apart.

"You are no brother of mine."

Lukas turns his back. He leaves the room.

[AnneMarie Hoch] A brow arches slightly as she turns her head to watch Lukas's exit, to hear his final words before he leaves the room. She watches the doorway that briefly housed him a moment, then two. She then studies Serafine for a moment before simply lifting her beer to drain the rest of the contents. She holds the now empty bottle between her fingers, as she braces her whiteboard against her palm, and seems to contemplate writing something - then perhaps changes her mind, as the board and pen are tucked into the pocket of her jacket.

She instead tucks it away and - with another glance at the Fenrir still laying in a pool of his own blood, next to a white-eyed girl that is likely a packmate, urging that he listen to reason - she moves again. This time, she is retracing her steps. If any look her way, there is a brief chin up gesture that serves as both hello and goodbye, of sorts.

Interesting, this common room.
It won't be the last they see of her.

[Armstrong] She inhaled, slowly, and then looked at the newcomers. This ached. this did more than ache, it stung, it hurt, it bled worse than any injury she could incur. And the theurge inhaled, and said something to the Fenrir that seemed to definitely be meant for his ears only. And damned if she wouldn't let that facade crack in front of strangers, and damned if she wasn't trying to keep it together in the face of adversity.

And damned if she wasn't trying everything she knew to do to keep this pack together.

After those words, she stood up and started to gather the Fenrir up into a state of presentable, or at the very least, movable. "Either of you ladies care to help me move him?"
(and remember that "Convince someone of something" roll? Here it is)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 10, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6) [WP]

[Buried Hatchet] He has to remind himself that this isn't his pack.

Normally that wouldn't be a problem. He'd be gone by now. Probably somewhere around Virginia, picking up Sarah again. Shouldering their bags and kicking the dust of this city off their heels. They'd be at the coast, maybe. This wasn't going to be his sept, but now it is. But Sam, and Lukas, and Mrena...they're not his pack. They never were.

Dead and gone, says one of them.

He keeps his head down for now as he wipes blood off his feet, and he tells himself several times that whatever respect or care he may have for them, whatever odd fondness he may have for them due to past experiences or lingering feeling or shared routines, they are not his. They do not belong to him. He is not responsible for them, not outside of those times when his counsel as a Half-Moon is sought. He counts backwards from twenty in another language without thinking, falling back on a habit from a very, very long time ago and not even seeming to notice his own silent meditation.

Respect, says another one of them. Honor.

Listen.

Hatchet looks at Serafine as she speaks, AnneMarie as she...doesn't. When he speaks, it's to the more vocal of the newcomers. "This isn't just a restaurant, it's our den. Most of the time, the Kinfolk downstairs keep strangers from coming up here." His eyes shift, move to take in both of the women. "If you'll wait just a few minutes..."

Brother, says the last of the present three, and Hatchet stops mid-sentence. AnneMarie leaves, and he shrugs. She won't wait, and he doesn't hold that against her. He's not keen on this room at the moment, himself. He balls up the t-shirt in his hand and follows Lukas out of the room.

[AnneMarie Hoch] She is convincing, this small woman, but there is something else in the Modi who has already started to move past and down the stairs.

The whiteboard makes a brief reappearance. A quickly scrawled line, the writing neat and easily readable as she shows them to Mrena, before she swipes them away across her thigh, and continues out the door.

The statement?

-[He is Fenrir, with a scratch. Let him walk, let him learn.]-

And the Modi takes her leave.

[Administrator] AnneMarie Hoch has left Caern & Surrounding Territories

[Serafine Marceau] She watched quietly as, one by one, the others made their exit. She was in the midst of contemplating just such a thing herself, in fact, when the white eyed girl's plea drew her attention back to the room. She gazes at Mrena, eyebrows arching meaningfully, as if to say 'do I look like I'd be of much help?' True, her training over the past year has resulted in a new tone to her barely-there musculature, but let's face it... she would never win any weight-lifting contests.

Nonetheless, it was hard for her to turn away from someone in need of help...and even harder when that someone was being so...convincing. With a soft sigh, the young cliath walked forward, pushing up the sleeves of her black sweater. Inwardly, she wished she'd worn something a bit less expensive.

[Sam Modine] "What's he talking about?" This to Mrena, his attention broken from the new people in the room who are again non-entities. "What'd I-?" His head turns back to the Garou leaving the room again as though his packmate were some kind of pet to be put outside and not people bonded through their very essences. "I didn't wish death on you you big-! GAH!" He runs out of words, running on empty. Again back to meet eyes with the theurge.

"Why'd he start? I didn't do anything." Someone else approaches and is kept back by the flailing of one arm, bloodied and oversized. "No. He winces at the suddenness of his own movement. "Sorry, I just...don't touch me. I don't um, I don't know you." His eyes cast down and away from her when he speaks, surveying the damage to his own body while the blonde hair obscures his face.

"The whole thing is FUBAR, Mrena." Strong language couched in acronym, indiscernibly from some of those manners or from the ease to which the thing fit mnemonically into his vocabulary. he's quiet for a long, long time after that.

"I made her leave...." He whispers it tohimself as the crook of one arm passes over his face and settles over his eyes as though he can simply shut the world off if he shuts it out.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] For a moment, Lukas had forgotten Hatchet was going to follow him. Because he was going to get a change of clothes, and then wash all the gore off of himself, and --

right. Hatchet wanted to talk. Lukas doesn't turn; he gets his room door open and, since it isn't mounted with a self-closing mechanism, simply pushes it open all the way and leaves it there.

He doesn't put his overcoat down. He gets a towel out of his closet, uses it to swaddle up a t-shirt, underwear, drawstring pants. While he's doing this, he waits for Hatchet to broach whatever topic he meant to. If the Fostern doesn't, he eventually turns to face him -- bloody overcoat in one hand, clean clothes in the other, himself in the middle: a fucking horror movie on legs.

"What was it you wanted to discuss, Rhya?"

[Buried Hatchet] Hatchet's feet have flecks of Fenrir blood drying on their soles, into the cracks of his skin, against the callouses -- which are many and mighty. He just stands in the doorway, his own bloodied t-shirt in one long-fingered hand.

"...What's going on with the Circle, Lukas?" he asks, quietly, since they're not far from the common room door.

[Serafine Marceau] His objections do not offend. After all... she would have done the same thing. Instead, she simply offers the other girl a small, apologetic smile and steps back. The moment is private, and she understands tact. If no one watches, her exit will be missed, for she has a knack for swift and silent retreats. Something learned from her childhood.

And then, down the stairs she goes, and out the door. It is very late, and the jet lag is still hitting her. Time she went back to her hotel room for some much-needed rest.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (see you 'round! hope we get to interact w/ you more next time.)
to Armstrong, Buried Hatchet, Sam Modine, Serafine Marceau

[Serafine Marceau] (Goodnight everyone! Thanks for breaking me in. ^_-)
to Armstrong, Buried Hatchet, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, Sam Modine

[Armstrong] (night! thank you so much for playing, next time Mrena will interact more!)
to Buried Hatchet, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, Sam Modine, Serafine Marceau

[Buried Hatchet] [Ack! I was going to have Hatchet come talk to her after Lukas!]
to Armstrong, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, Sam Modine, Serafine Marceau

[Serafine Marceau] (Eep, sorry about that. :/ It's about an hour past my bed time, so to be continued? She's curious, so she'll be back around soon.)
to Armstrong, Buried Hatchet, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, Sam Modine

[Buried Hatchet] [That is really too bad. If you see me online on Chicago and don't have AIM, log into the OOC room with 'V' or 'Veracity' in your tag and maybe we can grab a scene!]
to Serafine Marceau

[Serafine Marceau] (Will do :))
to Buried Hatchet

[Administrator] Serafine Marceau has left Caern & Surrounding Territories

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] The blood on his face -- mostly around his mouth, sheeting down his neck like some sort of lurid warpaint -- makes his expression a little harder to decipher. He's frowning, and the frown increases for a moment. Then he smooths it away consciously.

"I think you can surmise that it's nothing good," he replies. "So I have to ask you, Rhya: would you discuss unpleasant, private pack matters with me? Because if not, then I think you understand why I won't discuss this with you."

[Buried Hatchet] His eyebrows lift slightly. "Private? Drag him to your bedroom next time, then, Wyrmbreaker." Beat. "A lot of us eat in there."

Hatchet doesn't pause for very long, then. "White Eyes asked for my interpretation of the Litany concerning this. I have a vague idea why, now...but I'm not asking out of curiosity."

[Armstrong] "We say things when our blood is boiling that we don't mean... and we hear things that are not said. You're both wounded, it will heal. But you have to tend to the injury... possibly when it is not so fresh."

She was helping him up, and if he'd let her, Mrena would try and get Sam to his room. She was supportive, or as supportive as someone of her size could be.

"You need to rest though. Won't heal if you don't."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] It's more of an effort to keep a grip on his temper when his rage is piqued, his willpower drained, his bloody side torn open, and his goddamn pack falling apart. It's more obvious tonight to Hatchet than ever before just how much of Lukas's calm and courtesy is a product of irongripped control.

He was not born levelheaded and imperturbable, a freak amongst Ahrouns. Such creatures don't exist.

After a hard silence, he draws and releases a short breath, tries to see sense. "It seemed more important at the moment to settle the matter immediately. However; point taken."

Another moment to consider, his pale eyes on the Fostern.

Then, abruptly, "Katherine, Ed and Dylan have all gone into the Umbra on a quest. The totem demanded it. With Katherine gone, I stand as Alpha. White-Eyes challenged the claim, as is her right. If she successfully fulfills my terms of challenge, I will gladly accept her leadership.

"On the other hand, Mjollnir's Heart had a different idea of who stands as Alpha when the Alpha can no longer fulfill her duty. We disagreed. It escalated."

[Sam Modine] "I never said anything..." He's remarkably calm for a man with some half eaten organs visible to anyone who might be watching. "He hates me, Mrena. He hates me and I never did anything to him." His arm still covers his face as again she's waved off, stopping his words that grow thick even against his thick glabro tongue. "No, my legs don't work, I'll just fall asleep and then I'd be a man again." beat. "And I don't want to mess up the bed, Jenny's got enough on her plate lately."

When his arm does return to his side there on the floor his face is wet. His larger than human eyes are puffy and reddened. He rolls his head a few degrees on the floor to look up at her directly but only for a second. He recoils again to stare at the television's black reflection of the room, no longer showing her his face.

"I don't know what to apologize for..." He trails off at this and simply lies motionless there on the floor.

[Buried Hatchet] "So..." Hatchet says slowly, leaning against the doorframe of Lukas's room. He's relaxed, almost languid, but he doesn't seem like he's getting comfortable. Oh, Lukas knows when he's getting comfortable. There was a night over the winter when he walked in, helped himself to Lukas's bed, and flopped there while Katherine and Mrena and Lukas shared the plate of food he'd brought up.

This isn't Hatchet getting cozy.

"...it's just the three of you right now, then?" he goes on, without a drop of arrogance there. His pack is three, total. His pack is two, as it stands. He hasn't even seen Soledad for awhile now. Weasel's Gang has always been quite a bit different than the Unbroken Circle. Hatchet isn't asking this to judge; he's asking to clarify. Hard to keep track -- or count -- of that many Garou.

His brows pull together. "So if Ed's not the Alpha anymore and Katherine's in the Umbra and Sam's decided you're a --" he lifts one hand, makes air quotes with two fingers, "-- tool that he and Mrena don't have to listen to..."

Hatchet drops his hand, and he winces, shakes his head. "Thank you. That answers my question." He steps away from the doorframe. "If you need me to oversee a challenge in Katherine's absence, you know where to find me," he adds, and turns to go back to his room. Or, rather, to the showers. He's still got Modi-goo on his feet.

[Armstrong] "He doesn't hate you," she assured him. "If he hated you, he wouldn't have gotten as worked up as he did."

One couldn't ignore her logic, because... well, it seemed to be distinctly her own. The theurge sat herself back down next to the Fenrir, amidst the blood and guts and fur and tissue damage and didn't blink at it. Mrena wiped her hands off on her scarf.

"you can't stay out here, though. We can't keep you in the common room, it's the common room," again, with that infallible logic.

"We don't have to figure everything out right now, but it will get worked out. And quickly. Just... try and think of how he would look at things."

a pause.

"The whole "I'm going to outlive you" thing might be a good way to start..."

[Sam Modine] "But I will...." Sam looks at her utterly confused. "Nothing can kill me if I hit it back.... I mean you saw us there. I took one shot and almost had him down, if I'd taken two he'd be healed up and grumpy right now. I'm gonna outlive him. It's not a slight, I mean i don't wish him dead."

He props himself up on his elbows. "I told you, I'm not moving and then I told you why. Is it a tribal thing?" he asks. "The not-listening, I mean."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Five. For now." No pride here, either. Just a correction of a fact. "There's also Sampson, and Caleb's joining us."

Lukas is silent, then. Hatchet is thinking aloud; he doesn't add anything. When the Fostern is finished, and offers what he does, Lukas nods once.

"Thank you, Rhya. But I would very much prefer to keep this inside the pack." A moment of thought. "It's pack business," he explains, as if that explained it all.

[Buried Hatchet] He snaps his fingers over his shoulder. Five. Right. He can't fucking count. If this bothers him, the muscles in his back don't reveal it. Never was good at math.

Used to be good at some other things, though.

Hatchet wanders off again. He glances in the common room again but frowns; the two unknown females are gone. He shrugs it off and goes back towards the bathrooms in the middle of the floor. Fenrir goo. Even their blood is stubborn.

[Armstrong] "No, but the infallible amazing logic thing is. So, one way or another we have to find some place other than here that you can bleed, even if I have to put you on a tarp and drag you there myself," she said. And she was almost joking, the grin met her eyes and everything.

Then? Not so much, and she sighed.

"You're thinking like Sam, not like Lukas. Think like Lukas, and you'll understand what you need to apologize for, or where you stand right now."

[Sam Modine] "Once again. No." There's no part of him that's kidding.

On the other he thinks for a second. "He lies sometimes and he attacks his own packmates, beats on the kinfolk and thinks of himself as honorable in doing it. I don't really want to think like that kind of person, I'd much rather think like me."

[Armstrong] "You slapped Danicka," she stated. "You're calling the kettle black."

She looked at him for a moment, and she kept her mouth shut for now. The theurge took the edge of her scarf and cleaned off his face as best she could. It was almost a compulsion, a quiet gesture while she organized her thoughts. The theurge then wrapped it back around her neck and stood up. She was a mess.

"I'm giving you advice on the grounds of reconciliation. I'm no Child of Gaia. You can take my advice or leave it," she said. Stated, and then stood up. Funny how she could be so composed. Maybe, it was something that was bred into them. "But I sincerely hope that you take it."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas is headed for the bathrooms too. He waits, though. He gives it a good two minutes or so, until Hatchet is either finished or in a shower stall, and therefore out of awkward conversational range.

Then he goes to the showers himself, tossing his bloodied overcoat in the laundry room along the way.

[Sam Modine] "That was an accident. I mean I l-" He freezes and finishes differently. "That was the worst thing I've ever done and the only time. I left the state because I feel so bad about that." His head hangs pretty low even at mentioning this, his voice isn't nearly as steady as it was earlier when he'd made the simple observation that had thrown the room into rather sudden violence and had him expending Rage to defend himself.

"God can we have one conversation where she doesn't get brought up? We're over it, or I am at least." He continues ponderously, biting back something that would only be mean about Mrena not giving advice so much as puzzles that take so long the wisdom contained within has generally outlived it's usefulness by the time the solver has finished and instead continues with his previous thought. "Maybe he didn't..."

[Armstrong] "Goodnight, Sam," she said. "I'm going to change clothes, take a shower, and talk more about this challenge."

Somehow, he had known her not to be a candid creature. Mrena did not seem the type to speak openly about much of anything, or be direct about too much, or think in anything other than puzzles. But she was, after all, a theurge. And one that lived and breathed her moon.

The one that hung overhead. All crescent-shaped and fading into nothingness.

What more could he expect?