don't try.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] It's a little after 10am, Wednesday.

The spirits lead Mrena about half a mile out of the heart of the city, just off club row. This part of the city may transform into a roaring over-21 playground by night, but by day it's nondescript, almost industrial: an area of cracked streets and concrete big-block buildings, ex-warehouses that disguise in their grey innards the latest and hottest nightspots.

Eventually the Theurge homes in on a Holiday Inn on a fairly busy streetcorner, kitty-corner from a gas station, next door to a greek fast food joint. The inn is clean but a little shabby, three or four stories total; it seems to be home mostly to families on vacation on a budget, or possibly clubbers who drove in from the suburbs and found themselves too fucking wasted to drive all the way back.

The Questing Stone isn't much more precise than that, but the girl at the front desk is eager enough to help once Mrena switches on the Persuasion. There's a Mr. Kvasnicka checked into room 306: upstairs and on the right when you get out of the elevator. When Mrena gets there, the door is shut, a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from the knob. The hallway is quiet, and it smells vaguely of cleaning solutions.

[Mrena Armstrong] She didn't know where Dylan was. She hadn't known where Dylan was for months, and she had done nothing.
She didn't know where Edward was. She had tried tracking him down a few times, only to have a few words and trust that things would have been okay. She had been wrong each time.
She didn't know where Katherine was. Truth be told, the last time Mrena had seen Katherine they had been in battle. She waited weeks before trying to determine anything. And she had done nothing.

This, in her mind, was no different. It could have been the beginning of many things, the end of something; Mrena wasn't sure. And the fact that she wasn't sure, that she didn't know where Lukas was seemed...

It wasn't like him to disappear. And given the pack's previous track record, she could not sit idly by and not know.

So there she stood outside of his door; the petite theurge knocked on the door. Three short, hard knocks. This time, it wasn't her usual rhythm. it was deceptively tall; the moon was full. She should have known better than to do this on a full moon.

That being said, the theurge- clad in jeans and a pull over- was at the door. And she would not take no for an answer. She expected the worst.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] There is absolutely no response to the first three knocks.

He's been up all night again. He's been up all night every night for nearly a week, and every night he ravages the fuck out of his body with alcohol, with substances, with sex, with bone-crushing bass and mind-numbing volume.

He's only been asleep for an hour and a half at this point. He's only starting to sink deep into slumber, and three knocks don't being to scratch the surface of his exhaustion.

Or six.
Or nine.

But when Mrena starts knocking rapid-fire, ceaselessly, hard enough to shake the flimsy door in its frame, Lukas stirs toward consciousness. He drags toward consciousness, unwillingly, until finally he rolls onto his back, snarls at the ceiling, and swings his legs out of bed.

Mrena can hear the thump all the way outside.

He knows who it is before he even goes to the door. It's his packmate; he can feel her outside. He looks around the room. Empty takeout boxes on the tiny coffee table by the window, between the two threadbare armchairs. Last night's clothes thrown atop the dresser. He hunkers over at the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands, scrubbing. Then he gets up, snatches his boxer briefs off the ground, and steps into them.

Mrena's just starting to knock again when the door flies open under her knuckles.

Lukas looks like he's been sleeping. His hair is tousled and there's stubble on his jaw, but other than that, he looks ... all right. He looks good, even. He doesn't look wasted. He doesn't look like he's wasting away. He looks strong, irritated at the disruption, annoyed. His shoulders fill up the doorframe, and he leans against the left side.

There's half a joint between his teeth. He strikes the match against the wallpaper and lights up.

"You're Alpha." He puffs a plume of grey-blue smoke to the right, and then those glacial eyes lock onto Mrena's. "Congratulations. Now leave me the fuck alone."

[Mrena Armstrong] Her knocking was ceaseless. Mrena pounded on the door, waited until she was almost sick of doing so, until her patience started to wear thin, until she was all but willing to enter the room by whatever means necessary.

Hearing a thump from the other side of the room made it perfectly fine. It was, at the very least, something of an indication that Lukas was alive and functioning, or functioning well enough-

[The door opened, all but snatched open and his eyes were too intense and less-than-pleased to be looking at anyone. Much less her. Mrena didn't know why; admittedly, she might not care if she did know why]-

Functioning well enough to be strong, annoyed, and irritated. The moon was full, his prensece was oppressive. He damned near took up the entire doorway, and made her acutely aware that she was barely over five feet tall. Made her aware that she weighed half as much as he did.

He said she was alpha. Congrads. Now leave him the fuck alone. She didn't flinch, she didn't even seem to register what he said because, at that moment... well, who cared what she was thinking.
Now leave me the fuck alone.
"How long do you plan on doing this?"

Funny. She didn't even know what this was.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] " 'This'?" He barks a laugh, unpleasant. "Until I'm finished."

Lukas doesn't smoke. He never smokes. But now he drags down another hit like a pro, rolling to the side to put his back to the wall. He gives her his profile now: the high-bridged nose, the powerful musculature of his torso. One day, if he lives that long, Lukas will be husky and huge, a Lord of the peaks and the crags, the furs of his enemies draped over his shoulders, a lightning storm in his eyes.

For now, there's still a savage leanness in him -- his skin is taut over his muscle with almost no spare; almost no intervening layer of body fat. Where his oblique cut into the crests of his hips, the bones ride close enough to the surface to be visible. The veins running over the crests of his biceps, down the stretch of his lower belly on either side of his abs are visible in the morning light. He hasn't bothered to close the drapes in the room.

The muscles of his arm and shoulder, his upper chest bunch when he brings the joint back to his mouth. Another hit.

"Why the fuck not, huh? Everyone else takes vacations without warning. At least I'm still on this side of the mirror."

[Mrena Armstrong] "Because this isn't like you," she said.

Oh, tact. Glorious, wonderful tact. SOmething she had learned over time, something she was still trying to master, and something that, sometimes, she had very little of. He would have none of it. And there, she stood- readable and curious.

He would be quite the specimen, someday. He would be terrifying, he would be awe-inspiring. Until then, he was who he was. And he was as much a twenty-something year old male as he was anything else. It was easy to forget that they were practically teenagers. It was easy to forget that, despite all things, there was cognitive and moral developments that were to be had.

"I wanted to be sure that nothing had happened," she said.

She had been worried. Of course, she would never say that.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "No." Moods shift as easily as a spring sky. He sounds almost musing now; distant and detached. "I suppose it's not like me."

Lukas closes his eyes to feel the drug take hold. His hand falls to his side. He leans his head back; he's leaning against the wall, his feet braced, arms relaxed, hanging. The joint is barely clinched between his fingertips. He exhales slowly, smoke rushing out of his nostrils.

And then he rolls his head to the side, his eyes reopening, narrowed. He frowns at her, as if puzzled and displeased to see her still there.

"Then again, what the hell would you really know about who and how I am? You live in your own goddamn head and in the Umbra. I don't think you even realize half the time that other individuals have something called free will. I'm not tied to the will of some Incarna. And sometimes, Mrena, believe it or not, I behave in ways that aren't fucking typical."

It's a lick of anger, irrational. He straightens up, assymmetrically -- one shoulder leaving the wall before the other. He reaches out to take the door.

"Tell the pack I'll be back when I'm ready. Until then, I'm fine."

[Mrena Armstrong] (a wailing and gnashing of teeth...)

[Mrena Armstrong] For the most part, she looked at him, and she listened. Because that was what she did. Her posture was straight and stark. Mrena didn't budge. There was no reason to do so; Lukas looked at her with quiet displeasure. And yet, he couldn't figure out why she was still standing there.

And then, there it was. He told her where she lived, what little world out in the middle of space that she existed on. And how... incredibly... fucked up her world was. And, she didn't flinch at that. She didn't let her hackles raise, but at that moment she was aware that the moon was full.

Full, bright, and oppressive. And while his rage was often too much for one to bear, she was... well, she was half as intense as he was. It was saying something. A quiet flare of something. Silvery eyes almost narrowed, and her jaw clenched.

Mrena Armstrong wasn't unfolding her arms any time soon. And she wasn't opening her mouth any time soon either. She inhaled slowly through her nose, and for what felt like an eternity to her, she just looked at Lukas.

"Is there anything else you'd like so say to me?"

Control. She had it, she held onto it like a god damned security blanket, and if she couldn't say something nice... Save it.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Yeah." He transfers the joint from his free hand to his mouth, clamped between his teeth. "Leave me the fuck alone."

[Mrena Armstrong] "Tend to your weaknesses, Lukas. Take as long as you need," she said. And words slipped out with quiet, disillusioned venom. The theurge took a step back, and she didn't glare. She didn't bark, she didn't so much as indicate that she was angry. "I'll make it sound like you're doing something important if the pack asks."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (throat-grab! (aka grapple))

[Mrena Armstrong] (ack! Move!)

[Mrena Armstrong]

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] The response is instantaneous. The Ahroun's left hand flashes out. He grabs the Theurge by the throat, lifts her clear off the ground, slams her into the adjacent wall.

They're face to face now, eye to eye. Rage is seething under his skin.

"I don't need you to lie for me." Soft, soft as velvet. "And I'm not so weak that I won't break you in half if you ever say such a thing again."

[Mrena Armstrong] She was in the air, and for a moment she was struggling for air, and for a moment she was suddenly reminded of what it was like to be a cub. To be outclassed; this was becomiung a familiar feeling. Twice that she's hit a wall in as many days; Lukas wasn't breaking her ribs though. At least, not yet.

I don't need you to lie for me.
"Then you admit that this isn't important," she said. They were eye to eye and she didn't waver. He had the edge; lifting Mrena off the ground wasn't difficult by any means. It was a moment like this that it was made clear exactly how light she was and exactly how slender her neck was. "Because if it was important, I wouldn't be lying."

He stared her in the eye and she did not want to back down, but her back was against the wall. his hand was around her throat, and his moon was in the air; White Eyes knew better than when to push. But, as it seemed, she did it anyway sometimes. And at that moment, her voice was soft enough that it was only meant for his ears.

"And if breaking me in half brings you clarity then by all means..."

She might muse, later, that this was a rather fucked up notion, because she was completely sincere in that ... offer?

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas's face is a scarce three, four inches away, and even in homid, there's nothing human about him right now. His eyes are glittering, hard as diamonds. His teeth are bared, and the joint forgotten between them has nearly been bitten in two at the base.

A sheaf of ash collapses off the tip when he cocks his head to the side -- a tiny gesture, carnivorous. He studies her for a moment, his eyes clicking over her face, refracting the morning light in shards and slices.

And then he laughs in her face.

"Don't even try to twist my words around, Mrena." Laughter, and definitely not the laughing-with-her kind of laughter, roughens the edges of his words. "Don't try to push my buttons. Don't try to play me. I don't need your help. I just need you to leave me be."

He lets her down. And then, unceremoniously, he gives her a hard shove out. Unless she jams her foot in it, the door slams in her face a second later.

[Mrena Armstrong] They were close enough together that she could practically taste that joint. And, at the moment, senses didn't quite synch up. It was odd how Rage had a scent, how disdain had a texture; from that position, it was easy to feel her muscles tense, and how for a split second she forgot to breathe out.

Her jaw was clenched. The theurge exhaled.

He laughed in her face and she didn't even snarl at him. There was only a stony expression and a gleam in her eyes that seemed to suit his expression more than hers. Sharp and almost lethal- more silver than grey. She might analyze this later-

Or she might not. Whatever it was, who really cared. He lets her down, feet finally touching the ground. He had to drop her a foot; it was hard to maintain composure when you are dropped almost one fifth of your height. White Eyes inhaled slowly, she was regaining composure when she got shoved out the door.

He slammed it in her face a second later, before she could get a word in.

For the moment, she just stood at the door, staring with her muscles tense, with rage crackling in the air, tension had a flavor. A texture, a smell, and it hung to her too-soft hair, making it almost crackle like static. Silvery eyes glared into the door, and her fists were clenched at her sides.

The theurge inhaled slowly, chest raising slowly, lungs filling to bursting and at that moment she couldn't force air out.

She clenched her fists tighter, tight enough that the little crescent moon marks were etched into her palms, almost breaking the skin. Tight enough that her knuckles ached. And if she were empathetic, she would see this as desperation. She would see Lukas' behavior much differently.

But she wasn't empathetic. The theurge tried to draw more air into her lungs, but found no room, found the air almost suffocating. She turned, slowly, and then started to make her way down the hall. She was not storming off. She was not running, she wasn't screaming, she wasn't breaking things.

Mrena exhaled, and left. And who knew what else the theurge left behind.