as a pack.

[Wyrmbreaker] In the heart of the Caern, umbralside, just down the slope from the seat of Maelstrom, Wyrmbreaker kneels in the sandy soil. The Shadow Lord is homid-shaped, stripped to the waist, sweating despite the chill. His back is a smooth taut curve. He's bent almost down to the ground, his attention trained on some painstakingly fine handiwork, indistinct from a distance.

The sky immediately over him is choked with thunderheads.

As one nears, one can see that arrayed around him are two rows of concentric black feathers, very large, the sort you find on mountain ravens. Each is carefully weighted to the earth with a stone. He holds one in his hand, an exacto knife in the other, and he's slowly, delicately carving script onto the hollow shaft.

Of the feathers, the ones to his right are so inscribed. The ones to his left are still unmarked.

[Sinclair] She's tending a shrine to Cockroach. It is, like giving trophies to Maelstrom rather than the Wyrmpole, both chiminage and sacrifice, penance and honor. It's cold out here, cold enough that the girl with the slight SoCal accent is wearing socks that go up to the knee underneath her jeans, the cuffs folded up above a pair of old black Vans. Cold enough that she's wearing a fleece-lined hoodie over a t-shirt over a thermal shirt with a pair of fingerless gloves that go up to the elbow underneath that hoodie. Mitten-tops flap over the backs of her hands, ready to be pulled over her fingertips as soon as she's done. Her hood is up. Her breath steams.

She has brought Cockroach many shiny things, and many sticky things. There is a metal bowl filled with half-eaten candy bars, the wrappers still rustling in the breeze. There is a windchime made of sticks of RAM, hung from a mirror. There is a box, the interior dark and the entry indiscernable, a nest built inside.

She licks a bit of chocolate off her thumb and gets up, brushing off her knees. She's been avoiding this place like the plague. She's been staying out of the Brotherhood for awhile. She is vaguely ashamed of herself. Vaguely, though; it's still too easy to make up excuses, to blame someone or something else. So when she walks to Wyrmbreaker, her back is straight. Her shoulders are squared. She is pulling the mittens over the cutoff fingers of her gloves, containing her hands so they stay warm down to the fingertips.

"Whatcha doin'?"

[Kate] Truth's Meridian was a somber figure when she appeared, her body cloaked in a calf-length winter coat, the outer layer entirely white save for a collar and cuffs of a darker shade of cream. Her fingers were gloved against the cold and her fair hair hidden from view beneath a knitted cap, the brim drawn low over her features.

Katherine's legs were all but hidden by a pair of black leather boots that drew to the young woman's knee, and covering her bare legs a pair of sheer white tights completed the outfit. As always she was the picture of outfitted elegance, her beauty the sort that suggested she was out of reach for any save those with the forbearance to see past her obvious wealth.

And for many, her apparent disdain of any save those nearest to her.

She approaches Wyrmbreaker and, as she nears him, Warcry, as she joins him quietly, without any trace of pomp or fanfare. Indeed, the Half Moon's pale eyes were shadowed by dark circles beneath them, her features seeming drawn and stark against all that white.

She looked like a Garou with much weighing on her mind, and for much of any conversation that passes -- she merely looks on with a faintly preoccupied stare.

[Wyrmbreaker] "I'm making talens," Lukas replies, his tone flat with concentration. It's only when he finishes what he's doing --

and if they look closely, they can see he's carving glyphs into the feather-shaft, a pristine row of miniscule little glyphs singing praise to Grandfather Thunder

-- and set the feather aside, carefully weighted down, that he looks up at the two females that have since joined him.

"Storm Feathers," he elaborates. "They call down a storm when activated, provided there's at least some cloud-cover." By way of explanation, "Perun blesses us particularly when we fight under his banner."

A pause. He looks at the two of them for a moment. Then, "You both look like you've got something on your mind."

[Sinclair] She does. But she crosses her arms over her chest, then unfolds them and puts her hands in her hoodie pockets instead, looking at Katherine first.

[Kate] Katherine's eyes readjust as her Alpha speaks, and she looks first to Sinclair to judge whether or not the other female wished to speak first before she merely nods her head once, signaling that she did, indeed, have much weighing on her mind.

"Two nights ago my sister was to meet the Strider Kinfolk Gina McClaren at a cafe in Lake View. When she arrived, she found Gina attempting to leave, somewhat distressed. It turned out she had exchanged words with Winter's Covenant, the Alpha of a new pack bonded under Merlin." She kept her voice low, as if she was disinclined to allow it to rise above a soft murmur. Upon closer inspection however, it was evident the female was extending a sincere amount of effort to keep her voice even.

She was angry, her eyes spoke it if her voice did not.

"Winter's Covenant prevented Gina's departure, stating she had been rude to her, and this is when Gabriella arrived. Words were exchanged in the heat of the moment I was informed, and Winter's Covenant struck Gabriella." There's a beat, Katherine's eyes narrowed against the evening light. A pulse beat at the base of her throat. "From what I was able to glean from the Strider Kin in the aftermath, Winter's Covenant did not stop striking my sister, and her pack-mate soon joined her and held my sister while his Alpha beat on her."

The Philodox meets Lukas' gaze.

"Bones to Dust-yuf and Dances on Fire-yuf soon arrived, and attempted to put a stop to the beating. The two then turned their attentions on the Garou." Katherine's carefully modulated voice trembled then, a true element of her feeling seeping through. "My sister was close to death when she was finally carried away."

[Kate] (make that Dances on Fire-rhya!)

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas sits back on his heels as Kate begins to speak. The Ahroun cannot speak to spirits; cannot make his will and wish known to them so easily as a theurge can. When he leans back like that, they can see that he's painted himself in glyphs instead, blood and mud and ink, communicating through a sort of raw language of the body. Storm-glyphs yawn across his chest. Summons and calls spiral down his arms. And across the ridged musculature of his abdomen, and over his ribs, the names of Thunder's servants crawl in row after row of script.

He listens quietly, frowning, as Kate speaks. His chest rises and falls evenly; he doesn't snort his disdain or disgust or short. When she's done his frown is deeper than it was, but he doesn't speak immediately.

When he does, his voice is gentle, but perhaps not what Kate wants to hear:

"And what would you have me do about it?"

[Sinclair] Pulling her hand out of her pocket, Sinclair raises one bemittened hand. She looks like a rather average young woman, maybe on the verge of graduation. She's not wearing any makeup tonight, and the soft clarity of her pale eyes is unencumbered by eyeliner or shadow. With wisps of pale blonde hair hanging in her face, sticking out from her hood, she looks young, innocent, and entirely unlike the female who has torn apart so many Garou in a show of brutal dominance. Her piercings and tattoos can't be seen, nor can the scar tissue across her back be traced. She looks... normal.

She waves her fingers, mitten flapping. When she has Kate's attention, she puts her hand back in her pocket. "I was mean to Gabbie, too. And it wasn't you who did anything about it. Dietrich came pissing in the wind over it, instead. She's your sister, why d'you keep letting unrelated Ahrouns deal with the problem?"

[Kate] Her answer is, perhaps, not what he expects.

"Nothing." She looks away from him, toward the graves of the fallen. "As I intend not to raise even a cry of outrage. I have learned my lesson once. I cannot beat them in terms of physical strength. I am not their match." She turns something of a rueful smile back both Sinclair and Lukas' way. "I would tell you this only so you know it, as others in the Sept begin to know it too from others lips. When the time comes, I will make their actions known."

Sinclair speaks, and Katherine listens to what she has to say. "I was not aware of any transgression you had made toward my sister, Warcry, and as I said, I do not tell Lukas out of hope he will act my hero." She digs her gloved hands into her coat pockets. "I have been shamed, beaten down, and proven weak by those of my own blood. My only way of resisting is to use the one thing I possess in greater measures than they.

Wisdom."

[Wyrmbreaker] Something about what Kate says, or how she says it, makes Lukas grimace faintly. He sets down the exacto knife and rubs a hand over his face, leaving behind some residue of dirt, some specks of sand.

"You're not an Ahroun, Kate. You're not a particularly combat-adept Philodox. The last, what, three times you stood in combat challenge, you were pounded into the dirt. But if you want the respect of your peers, not to mention the blessings of our totem, you'll have to find a way to win.

"Use the Law. Use your wits. Use the support of your tribe or your pack or your friends, but for the love of god, stop trying to win by force.

"As for Gabbie -- I'm very sorry to hear that happened. I am. But this is one battle you need to fight, yourself, and win. You can't call yourself a tribal elder if you can't defend your own kin."

[Kate] "I am aware of what I am and what I am not." She snaps, her temper fraying by the moment. Her eyes darken and her Rage surges before she calms herself. She had spent the better part of the last two days calming a hysterical Kinfolk, her mother, whose timing could not have been worse, and tending to a badly wounded ego.

A gloved hand rises, and touches her bridge of her nose.

"Merde," she curses softly and her blue eyes open. "I am weary, Lukas and I apologize. I am not impartial in this, and I long for it. If I wish to find support, I will need the wisdom of other Half Moons."

[Sinclair] Sinclair listens to Lukas and Kate, who have known each other a lot longer than she's known just about anyone, and keeps her mouth shut during part of their exchange before she speaks up again. She directs her attention to Kate. And she is, as ever, blunt. It's not because she can't express herself. It's because she doesn't ever seem to want to couch what she has to say, or soften it.

"Your sister's kind of an uppity little shit, Kate. I mean, I'm not... really all that keen on hearing that a werewolf held her down so another one could beat on her, that's insane, but she's pissed me off before by being mouthy and disrespectful. And the girl knows -- well, she knew that time -- that she was talking to a fucking werewolf."

She holds up both hands. "Now, I'm not saying it was cool of me to yank her hair back like that, but if you're wanting to defend your kin, you might want to start by teaching her to either be more careful or, I don't know, learn to take and give a beating, herself.

"But doing nothing and biding your time sounds like a stupid plan, not a wise one. You want word to get around more than it already has that your sister is trouble and you can't stand up for her?" She pauses for a moment, as though distracted by something, and then

she belches, utters a token "'Scuse me," and continues on.

"Look, I'm not trying to jump on your case here, just... what's your point in this conversation? Gabbie pissed off some more Garou and this time they fought extra-extra-extra-unfair? Call a tribunal. Have your tribe judge them as a whole. Get the Philodox Elder in on it if you need to. Deal with your sister."

[Wyrmbreaker] Kate's flash of temper breaks on Wyrmbreaker's calm. The Ahroun's rage does not rise in response, but his eyes are level and unflinching, and it's only when Kate's hand shades her eyes that his relent.

When she finishes, his eyes flick to Sinclair, then back to Kate.

"Find support amongst your auspice," he says; that he's essentially agreeing with the Galliard's opinion doesn't need to be said. "Or your tribe. Or go to Judgment of Sterling Silver-yuf for adjudication. But do something. The sooner the better.

"Kate, everything that we are demands that we must be able to protect what is ours. If you can't do that," there's an echo of this in what he said to Marrick, to Boy, "then someone will take what is yours from you. And it will be to your shame, not theirs."

[Kate] Bizarrely, Sinclair's words bring a schism of amusement to the Half Moon's otherwise wan face. It is perhaps the only indication that she finds some degree of truth in the Glass Walker's pronouncement of her younger sister. The reaction fades as the woman talks on, and gives her own unique flavor of guidance.

It is only when Lukas notes that if she cannot protect what is hers, it will be taken from her that there is a true spark of her former self evident in the anger that constricts her face, masks it before utter cold fury. "If any attempted to take her from me, it would be over my ruined corpse."

A beat, she looks between her pack-mate and her future pack-mate.

"I am thankful for your guidance on this matter." She cedes somewhat stiffly. "I shall seek out Sterling Silver-yuf directly."

[Sinclair] "It would be over your ruined corpse, Kate."

Sinclair speaks flatly, and without pulling the punch. But, for once, there's no rancor in it. This is what passes for concern with the Galliard, what passes for gentleness when there are others watching. Neither of them know about the smaller things, the quieter things, the things she does when nobody can see what's going on, that bespeak a much softer heart than Sinclair is willing to allow the world entry to.

"You're a Philodox, but that doesn't mean you're not a warrior. If you ever want to learn how to keep your ruined corpse from chilling on the ground while someone else takes your sister, your protectorate, and everything else away from you, I'll help teach you."

She gives the other female an upward nod. "Though I also offer that because the way I hear it, Perun doesn't like failure in challenges much."

[Wyrmbreaker] Wyrmbreaker, who has sat on his heels with his back in an easy slouch this entire time, straightens knee and waist joints, stretches subtly. Resettles. To Kate's stiff courtesy, he frowns faintly and shakes his head.

"You're my packmate," is all he says to that. Then he turns to Sinclair, an eyebrow raised. Apparently it's her turn.

[Sinclair] Her turn. Sinclair takes a breath as she takes her eyes off of Kate and makes sure her hands are firmly in her hoodie pockets. "Did you hear about the battle in the woods a little while ago? There was this broken-down hospital, some hillbilly fomori, a Nurse Ratchet wannabe..." she cocks her head, remembering. "Anyway.

"Brother of the Lost, Requiem for the Lost, Spin Doctor, Laughs in the Face of Death and I were all out there with Gut Song when we got attacked. When the battle was over, I turned to them all and said we should not go forward without an established leader. As the Alpha of the only pack with more than one member present and representative of my tribe, I asked for their submission. Gut Song initially refused and began offering 'suggestions', but when the others all gave their assent I asked him again if he would submit."

She is wry when she says: "He refused." Less wry: "So I dominated him."

Given how she 'dominated' Kate the last time the three of them stood here, and given how she 'dominated' other members of her tribe for primacy within it and given how she 'dominated' Dietrich when he brought a challenge of grievance before her, one can easily imagine, even without the next words she says, what she did to the Skald.

"Joey used talens I gave her to heal him, and I warned him that he could leave, submit, or die. One would be breaking the Litany, as we were hunting the Wyrm. He followed, but when I directed him to an enemy in battle, he ignored the order. After the fomori were all killed, there was so much cleanup to be done and so many of us wounded that I did not turn on him then."

She frowns, looking uncomfortable now, less in the midst of a story and more aware of those around her... and the Ahroun in front of her. "When I got back and started thinking about it, I started wishing I had either never made the threat or just killed him as soon as the battle was over. I've been avoiding you, and avoiding being bound to you, because I didn't want to come into your pack with this hanging over my head. I am not sure if I should take this to Judgement of Sterling Silver-rhya, who I suspect will not be okay with a death match, or ...what."

Sinclair pauses, then frowns deeper. "I'll be honest. In all truth, I believe he and his arrogance put anyone who fights alongside him at risk unless he has decided to lick their boots. If he will not accept leadership nor take it with strength, I think he's a danger to the Nation. But he has been beaten to a pulp again and again and has not been humbled. He has been punished with the Voice of the Jackal and has not been humbled. I do not think punishment is going to change him, and at war, there is no time to teach a stiff-necked Garou obedience in gentler, slower ways."

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas's responses are nonverbal. When she asks if he's heard about the battle, he shakes his head. Whatever he's heard is so trivial as to not matter. She expounds. He listens. She gets to so I dominated him and Lukas breathes a rather ironic laugh out.

She goes on. He begins to frown. She finishes, and he's quiet for some time.

"I was always taught," he says after a pause, "that if you make a promise you have to keep it, or no one will ever believe you again. So by that law, if you spoke it, you have to keep it. But then there's this to consider. Is he really utterly worthless to the Nation? Is his arrogance so great, or your honor so important, that you'd sacrifice whatever worth he has left in this war to it?

"I'm not going to make any decisions for you. If you decide to challenge him to a fight to the death, I won't bar you from the pack. As your Alpha I'll shoulder whatever share of shame might come if you win, and if his packmates come after you for it we'll stand by you. If you lose, I won't intervene to save you.

"But if I were you, I'd let him kill himself against the Wyrm and let his death accomplish something."

A pause. Then he flicks a glance at the Silver Fang. "What do you think, Kate?"

[Wyrmbreaker] (hm, jacqui just went AFK. let's go on.)

[Page from MyKill] I just created a Kinfolk. His name is Connor Forsythe. let me know what you think.

[Sinclair] Sinclair does not wait to hear what Kate thinks. Not because what Kate thinks doesn't matter; because Kate is taking too long for the impulsive Glass Walker to wait for her to finish pondering.

"See, that's what I was taught, too. Even if I mostly taught it to myself. I said it, I should do it. And frankly, what I've seen of him in a fight is that he mostly dodges or tries to block attacks against him. Which... seriously? From a Fenrir?"

She shakes her head, her expression boggled. "I'm concerned about my honor, sure, but mosty... nnngh."

Stopping there, she balls up her fists and presses them against her temples. "He's so fucking stupid, it makes my head explode."

[Kate] The Half Moon is curiously silent after her opinion is asked, but she chimes in after a weighted pause. "I too have fought alongside Gut Song, and I too asked for his submission to my higher station than his during combat." She speaks carefully, still thinking as she forms each word.

"He was resistant, but he did not prevent our successful rescue of two Kinfolk who had been captured by the Weaver and he then assisted me in destroyed the remaining enemies. In short - I believe that his death would be denying Gaia a capable warrior."

She flicks her eyes to Sinclair, brows lifted.

"What of this new Jarl that replaces Silence-rhya? Perhaps Gut Song-yuf will only truly be put in his place by his own."

[Wyrmbreaker] "The new Fenrir 'Jarl'," Lukas replies, wry, "is a rash, reckless Cliath who stands out in my mind primarily for being to driven to distraction by Agnessa Malikoff. Anyway, that's his future packmate. My bet is he'll defend Gut-Song.

"In any case, my point stands. If you're sure he has no worth whatsoever, then go ahead and keep your word. But I'm not so sure of that. And between honor and pragmatism, I'd choose the latter."

[Sinclair] She goes on thumping her fists against the sides of her head a little longer while her 'future' packmates talk, a slow bump of knit-covered knuckles against knit-covered head, thoughtful and deliberate as any head-thumping can be.

"Personally I think it takes more to submit to someone out of your tribe when the situation calls for it," she mutters, in response to Kate's suggestion, "so I will neither be shocked nor impressed if he shows his throat and tucks his tail between his legs for another Fenrir. It's going up against the Wyrm with anyone else that's the concern, at least for me."

She drops her hands, her aggravation spiking obviously and rather strongly. This is like swallowing rocks. She almost snarls it. "I'll let it go."

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas laughs under his breath. "Well," he says, "I wouldn't be that lenient either."

[Sinclair] "Yeah, because beating the shit out of him -- again -- is going to be so useful and such a good use of my energy," Sinclair retorts. "He doesn't respond to punishment rites, either."

[Wyrmbreaker] "It's not just about him," Lukas points out. He picks up his exacto knife again as he speaks, lifts another feather from the array before him. As he begins to inscribe, he continues, "It's about everyone else who saw him disobey you.

"If they remember what you said, then right now you look untrustworthy to them. Or worse, weak. But if you call him out, beat him down and then let him live, not for mercy but for the war, then you come out looking wise and strong, and not to be trifled with. And the next time you need to take command, they'll fall in that much quicker."

[Kate] "A Garou who does not possess the wisdom to know when to submit, especially in the midst of battle is a danger to us all." Katherine adds quietly. "A good and capable Ahroun he may be but if his insolence cannot be tamed than he is as good as a dead weight to any he leads out to fight.

Or fights with."

[Kate] (Er, make that Galliard. Yeah. *coughs*)

[Sinclair] When Sinclair cocks her head in response to that, her hands having fallen back to her sides, the illusion that she is a normal young woman is suddenly and tightly broken. She can never pretend, to the degree that Lukas and Kate are capable of, that she's a human being. The snarling, tensing reaction that domesticated animals have to all Garou is manifested tenfold when they're faced with Sinclair. Dogs either howl and snap their jaws or piss themselves, curling into terrified balls, and that's just one species.

Humankind, even Kin, feel nervous around her. Their skin crawls. Chills go up their spines if she happens to be behind them. Instincts older even than the Impergium scream inside reptile brains, alerting even the most self-controlled mortal to serious danger. It doesn't matter what phase the moon is in. It doesn't matter if her Rage is burnt out or riding high. It doesn't matter if Sinclair is angry or happy or hungry or turned on or sad or drunk or anything of the sort: something about her beats like heartbeat, like a train's wheels thundering on the track:

Hunter. Predator. Killer.

Sometimes when she moves like that, head tipped, eyes glinting, even other Garou see it. Feel it. One has to wonder just how comfortable she actually is wearing a skin that has no claws, no fangs, no fur. One has to think that, and realize what she's learned to do with that body, how vicious she can be without talon and tooth, and then who and what she is, why she is the way she is, begins to make a lot more sense.

She is staring at Lukas as he starts to carve glyphs into the next feather. She watches his hands as he's speaking, instead of his face. She continues watching even as Kate speaks. Her response is rather lowly spoken.

"He's a Galliard," she says flatly, her attention elsewhere for a moment longer, and then she turns to look at Kate. "Though the mistake just illuminates how good and capable he is not." She glances at the feathers, then at the ground. Her brows furrow together. "I wish Walks the Tracks-rhya hadn't died."

[Wyrmbreaker] The Ahroun's head is bent to his work now, which is meticulous, delicate, painstaking. He's back in the position they first saw him in: kneeling, not because it's comfortable but because it's respectful. Bent down almost to the ground so he can see, by the brilliant light of the full Umbral moon, the line upon line of tiny glyph he inscribes onto the feathers.

A tensions pulls across his shoulders and down his back. Then he says, quietly, "Yeah. Me too."

A silence. When he finishes with that feather and reaches for another he asks, "But why do you say that? Do you think he'll respond any better to an elder of his Auspice than he did to his betters in rank and dominance?"

[Sinclair] "Before she died, Sheridan called that Galliard moot. All of us were in agreement on two things: that we needed an Elder on the council and that Sheridan was best suited for it."

A beat, and a wry smirk to follow that fades quickly nonetheless. "All of us, of course, except for the obvious voice of dissent. Though to be honest, I don't know if he would fall in line to anyone but another member of his tribe. I have not seen him show due respect to anyone but other Fenrir, regardless of rank, regardless of whether or not they've bested him in one way or another."

She's quiet for a second. "So... that's not why I said it. I just... would've liked her as a packmate and as an elder. I think her advice in this would have been helpful. That's all."

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas lifts his head for a moment. Moonlight is inconstant and deceptive, even full as it is tonight. It flickers in his eyes, brings the faceted clarity to life one second and gives only the illusion of flat, cool paleness the next. The Ahroun studies Sinclair for the span of a few seconds, and then he nods.

"Yeah," again, "me too."

Bending his head to his task again, he nods briefly at the yet-uninscribed feathers to his left. "Come on," he says. "Help me. I'll show you how to make a Storm Feather."

[Sinclair] He knows already that Sinclair is a binder, that though she's not a Theurge she learned a long time ago how to tie a spirit for a short time into a physical object by way of glyph and ritual. He also knows that the pack she came to Chicago with was bound under a totem known for its prowess in battle and its hotheadedness -- two traits Sinclair still bears. He knows that Twister is considered wise for its changeability, not foolish, and he knows that Sinclair is still impulsive. Kate has called her out on it, just as she's let the Philodox know that she sees Kate's flaws just as clearly.

At the moment, Sinclair is supposedly the Elder of the Glass Walkers in Chicago. Her Tribe does not entirely support this. She is, under the nearly-full moon, spiritually a Lone Wolf, bound neither to a beast nor storm nor god. She is the most modern person standing here, capable of fixing cars, computers, large appliances, or tricking employees of Chicago's power companies into letting her in just enough to shut down a vast swath of the city, turning it so dark that people standing on the mile could see the stars for five. Whole. Minutes.

Not that more than a couple of them even though to look up.

She's beaten Ahrouns. She's fallen to them, too. She's destroyed creatures of the Wyrm in single bites. She's been tainted by the Wyrm itself, too. She has broken a pack, led a pack, been clever in battle, and has never died. She has pride in common with the two Garou she's talking with tonight, pride and practicality, pride and stinging failures, pride and strength.

She also has this: without a word, she gets on her knees and wiggles her fingers out of the mitten-flaps so she can work if need be. She does not look humbled, or aggravated, as she did when she accepted that she would have to withhold a promised deathblow. She looks alert, her eyes keenly intelligent, and focuses on the task -- the lesson -- at hand. She asks questions. She makes Lukas sit up straight so she can study the glyphs he drew on himself. She describes a thunderstorm she once saw the likes of which Chicago and Southern California could never imagine, their lands not flat enough, their expanses not open enough, the way it just went on and on, the way the entire world seemed momentarily caught up in its fury.

It's a story from when she was young, but she remembers how black the sky was, how the lightning seared itself into the darkness behind her closed eyes, how the long grass and the trees and the porch swings and potted plants all bent to the wind, bowed to its fury, how the lightning took out the power in three counties.

When the story is over, and the Storm Feathers made, they walk away, but they do not walk out of the Caern. They go to Bleeding Heart.

And leave as a pack.