consumption.

[Consumption] Ground rules!
1: Post in Alphabetical order, please! It helps me keep track of whose turn it is to post
2: Please limit posts to 7 minutes in length when we are not in combat. There are a lot of you guys, I want you all to be able to get things done quickly.
3: When we are in combat, please limit declares to 3 minutes in length. This is, also, so that all can get out at a decent hour.
4: Don't roll until I ask you to roll! The reason behind this is that I'll be writing your recap while you are in combat.
5: Don't die. If you die, I will personally come to your house, eat all of your food, and make fun of your living room decor.
5: I have a hard time keeping up with group chats. In the event that I DO miss your question, feel free to IM me. I am usually much better about answering an IM than I am a group chat question.

There is a thirty minute gateway in this scene. If the people who are supposed to be here are not in scene by 8:00, the doors close. Sorry, loves!

Enjoy, lovelies! And thank you for joining! *heart-sunshine!*

[Consumption] This sort of place was... exclusive.

It was the kind of place where the door man judged people with the eyes of a critic. He looked at those who entered the nightclub as though he were at a grocery store. In the end, that's all these places were- meat markets. Where people were bought and sold by the pound.

["I thought I saw something interesting," she said. It was offhanded. The music continued. She repositioned herself, shifting her weight and taking a drink of the gin and tonic she had since forgotten that she was still holding in her hand. "That something interesting, however, happens to be attached to something peroxide-soaked," again, her tone seemed distracted. She couldn't have just been checking some person out. "I wonder how many people come in and out of this place a night."
"Hundreds," he replied, "maybe a thousand. What was so interesting?"
"It's all so structured and... it's really quite interesting. It's like it doesn't matter who is there, just so long as someone is playing their roles it goes on... but they make it look so easy... Or have they all just practiced this to the point of second nature?"
He laughs under his breath -- "Always so clinical. Sometimes I don't know which of you is colder." Was he being unkind? She could take the truth; she's a big girl.]

When they get inside, through one way or another, it is like any other club. With low lighting and loud music and bass that was more tribal, rhythms more primal than they realized. All set over pseudo-posh remixes of dance songs no one cared to remember the names of. This club was the flavor-of-the-week, to be tossed aside when it was used up and no longer 'the place'.

It was large, with vaulted ceilings and two-tiered balcony. More accurately, it appeared to be a balcony and a "press box". It was, more than likely, the club's main office. The decor was done up in red and violet. When the lights in this place came on, it would more than likely be horrific to look at, but something about its current color combination sounded awful. There was some shiny, garish, slick garland at the top of the curtains that separated booths from the dance floor. The tiebacks looked ivory and sharp- a lawsuit waiting to happen.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is where we open our scene, with grinding bodies and suggestive tones and people on the dance floor, chasing blue dolphins.

[Covered Sky] However she got in, whatever stroke of luck or slip of judgment that had the doorman allowing this tall young woman with unruly black hair and a dangerous--what had that woman said last night?... 'beautiful'?--aura off of the ice-slicked sidewalk and into the den, does not matter now that the chill is off of her spine and her attention is focused elsewhere.

Places like this are teeming with corruption, with vice, with cracks in the psychic armor of hundreds of humans so easily taken over. This city is filled with bars and clubs, all of them offering up a thrill and a threat that can be otherwise found in darkened lots and back alleys without the fear of public exposure.

The woman is above the average height for a human female of either American or Southeast Asian origin, over 5'7" in black hiking boots, her slim legs wrapped in dark denim and her torso bearing a dark gray A-shirt and nothing else. Her hair is down and frazzled from the dryness of the air around them and a lack of attention; there is an electric tension in her form, a ferocity that keeps most people from coming too close or attempting to work their magic on the lone woman. There is a drink in her hand, but is is ignored in favor of eying the crowd. She stands at the bar without leaning on it, her attention cast out like a net over the grinding, undulating throng on the dance floor.

Her back is to the wall. It wouldn't do to have it anywhere else.

[Genevre de Provence] Genevre was one who had little problems getting into such places. She could be found herself sitting at one of the couches on the teir overlooking the dancefloor. After recent events, she needed a good night out. Of course, the last time she went to a nightclub, she met someone who got her in serious trouble.

Thinking of that, she just smiled. SHe was trouble no matter. An attractive woman, all the way from Paris, in a dress of red silk that slinked over her curves like paint. Her nails tapped on the table with the music as she sipped on her Mojito, and watched the crowd below. Her purse on the table, near her hand for quick access.

[Leaves-No-Trace] Getting into places like this wasn't easy. However, getting into places like this got a whole lot easier if you happened to be a ne'er-do-well with a lopsided grin named Edwin Morr.

And while he had his... admirable and fetching qualities, it was not these that enabled the sly grinning No Moon entrance into this most exclusive club. Or would, assuming he was worth his salt at the trade to which he plied his hands. Doormen tended to focus on people waiting in nice, orderly lines. Given that Edwin neither felt the need or desire to do so, he was nonetheless far harder for them to deal with.

He crept like a wraith through the darkness, making his way around the building a time before deciding on the direct route. While waiting in line, as they were letting in a larger group, a slight shove of the guy waiting in line ahead of him was enough to draw the attention of both bouncers on the shoved man as he barreled into them. Then, entering neatly upon the heels of the group that had just gone into the club, no one seemed the wiser to his entrance.

At least he looked the part... He wore a pair of blue jeans that were absent the cookie cutter look so prominent on the outside, yet of a shade within these environs that was entirely too common. His shirts, a long sleeved shirt of soft black cotton, and a gray v-neck tee shirt underneath, blended neatly in the flashing lights of the dance floor and bar.

And for once, he wasn't even wearing the baseball cap. Still... To say he was without all of his standard trade tricks was another matter entirely.

Upon reaching the dance floor area on the first level, the sly grinning No Moon takes a moment to enjoy the view; there were beautiful women here. Why not? Then, after having taken the time to smell the roses, he begins moving through the building proper, considering entrances, exits, and general layout.

It was only prudent.

[Liadan Whelan] On an ordinary day, Lee doesn't look like the kind of woman who frequents night clubs. Then again, Lee doesn't look like the kind of woman who does half the things she does. She looks too quiet, too bookish, too much like the stereotype of the reclusive geek. Even now, there are more than a few hints of what should be a quiet nature. Her vibrant red hair is down, framing a pale face made up for once. She's wearing a long-sleeved blue top that exposes her shoulders and clings to her figure, snug fitting jeans and a pair of Chuck Taylor's.

When the night started, Lee was with people. Mostly models, clients, contacts. They've since departed, leaving the redhead alone at the bar. She sits on one of the tall stools, a bottle in hand as she looks out over the dance floor. She has no bag, no coat, no other gear. One can only assume it was all left at a coat room.

[Warcry] Sinclair is in the middle of the throng. She's not unrecognizable, she's not unattractive, she's not even so plain that an unwary eye passes over her without pause. But there is a horde of people in this club, and she is lost in them. Most of those in her immediate surrounding area are giving her a bit more of a wide berth than they dare give anyone else, than they would dare give at any other club tonight when it's this packed. But she doesn't lash out when jostled.

Tonight is her moon. Sinclair garners as much attention as she repels tonight, the epitome of the proverbial flame, where mortals are the moths. There's a feather knotted into her hair, some of the threads stripped and the black gloss of it painted with white symbols. Her clothes are black, and hard to see down in the crowd, and don't really matter much anyway. Something about her seems to glow, seems to writhe even when she's still, makes her seem like the wildest, strongest thing out there.

And she may very well be.

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas leans on the balcony railing, watching the crowd below. Once upon a time he came to places like this with Edward Bellamonte, and Edward would gamble and Lukas would try to keep up, at least for a while. Then for a while he came to places like this looking for release -- looking for women strongwilled enough to withstand him, or, contrarily, weakwilled enough to succumb.

Now he comes here largely because it's a way of remembering the past. He likes the beat and the bass and the bodies churning in an anonymous ocean of flesh. He likes it because it reminds him of Boston, of New York City, and

of his mate.

He can feel his packmate(s) out there tonight. Sinclair burns bright as a brand in his mind. The Bellamontes, somewhere, glistening beacons of breeding. Theron, steadfast; Caleb, remote. If he closes his eyes, he'd be able to pinpoint them -- which direction, how far. He doesn't. He blinks once, slowly, and takes a drink from the tumbler in his hand. People typically don't come to clubs to drink scotch neat, but Lukas does.

[Edward Bellamonte] (Today I feel . . .)
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4

[Edward Bellamonte] Lukas can, in fact, feel one of those Bellamonte beacons coming through the door - it's not even eight yet, still early for his gambling, smiling, always laughing friend. But things are different now, so very much so. Edward is shut down, reserved, in a way that Lukas has never witnessed in the years the two men have known each other, in a way that's foreign to friend and sisters both. He lacks in trust and would, in fact, be a recluse if duty didn't call him out of the loft every now and then, if there weren't some obligation or another to make him shave and go through the motions of wanting to be a part of things around him.

Today, Edward is not that laughing, pleased-with-himself-and-life-and-the-world boy . . . but it's not as bad as it has been on some occasions of late. He's trying; he's dragged himself out to this place of so many others to choose from, to a place that reminds him of Boston, of New York City.

It doesn't take long to home in on his old friend. The dance floor is more or less ignored and Edward heads upstairs to take up a lean next to his Alpha, who had once been his Beta.

Things change. And they stay the same. "Hey." And he, too, watches.

[Consumption] Downstairs
Corruption. That's the sort of thing that runs amock on these sorts of places. Covered Sky knows these things, can deal with them accordingly, and for now she watches the area with whatever degree of interest she so desires. Several seats down sits a particular Fianna kinswoman whose name was whispered with praise. To her left, the Fianna and some athletic blonde in too-little clothing, to her right... a male who bore little mention.

Liadan Whelan, a little geeky, a little tall... her quiet nature is hinted at, rather than screaming out loud. she has no bag, no coat, no gear of any kind. It's just her and the bar and the pulsating dancefloor. Someone has the balls to sit down next to her. She's cute, really. An athletic woman with a short skirt and a bare midriff. She's a pretty thing without being too pretty.
"Hey," she offers, "can I buy you a drink?"

Her pupils are wide, it could be from the lighting, but it could be from something else, too.

Edwin can watch all of this, has found the entrances, the exits, watches as Sinclair moves in a way that is both beautiful and terrifying. She enthralls as much as she repels. She seems to glow. She is movement, she is inspiration, she is a Galliard. As though she needed dancing to prove that, Sinclair moves like it matters, and those who are near her simply can not look away. In the crowd, she can almost hear something, though it's hard to tell if it's the music or the sound of the others dancing with her.

The air is charged. It's a good night.


Balcony
"Why spend all your time up here alone?" is the herald of the male's arrival, he passes by Lukas, and the movement is intentional. He looks at him briefly, and skirts the edge in much the same way a mortal wold. There is a tinge of something in the air, electric and fresh. It is neither here nor there.

The male looks at Genevre, and he is all charm. All bright, sharp smiles that beckon for a woman to forget what was bothering her. It rings true of temptation, but then again, everything in this place does.

"Come out here often?" Idle chat, rapore building. That jazz.

What Lukas sees from his vantage point is familiar. Feels like Boston, tastes like New York, beats like the ebb and flow of the tides. People move, it's almost elegant, sometimes. Edward comes up the stairs to join him, and is treated to a similar view. Just another night in the club.

[Liadan Whelan] [percept + alert]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 5, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 8) Re-rolls: 1

[Warcry] [perception + alertness + waxing gibbous moon]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 4, 4, 5, 10 (Success x 1 at target 7)

[Covered Sky] [Alertness+Perception]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 4, 6, 6, 8 (Failure at target 8)

[Leaves-No-Trace] ((Perception + Alertness, diff = 8))
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 4, 6, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 8)

[Wyrmbreaker]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 8, 8, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Warcry] [intelligence + streetwise + moon]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 5, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Leaves-No-Trace] ((Wits + Streetwise + Fox, diff = 7))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 5, 6, 6, 10 (Success x 1 at target 7)

[Liadan Whelan] [int + streetwise]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 6, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Consumption] "You wanna hit? First one's free," they hear the pusher say. it's hard to tell where he is in the crowd, but it's close enough that, when catching the tones, he can be heard.
"I don't know," replies the lamb, "I don't really do that shit. Who knows what they put in it"
"It ain't blue dolphin, sweety, this is better."
"... okay."

Down the hatch it goes.
to Leaves-No-Trace, Liadan Whelan, Warcry

[Consumption] You wanna hit? the pusher said.

First one's free, the pusher said.

It always is.

Ecstasy. It comes in all color so the rainbow, from a pale, boring white to vibrant limes and playful blues and pinks. All with cute names and cuter pictures- Adam, Adidas, alligator red- butterfly, blue dolphin, bacardi bat green.

This ain't blue dolphin, sweety, the pusher said.

This is better better, the pusher said.

As far as club drugs go, ecstasy is considered harmless. It's just a pill that makes you feel good, makes you want to touch, to be close, that makes every sensation count like it's supposed to be. And that's what it is- it's a rush, a high, a pleasure undaunted and unmeasured. Ecstasy is life the way it is supposed to be. Everything, everything more significant. It doesn't matter if it's cut with meth or heroin or coke, it's harmless.

Just don't grind your teeth.
Just don't get dehydrated.

You wanna hit?

First one's free.

It always is.

"...okay."

Down the hatch it goes. Sinclair gets a feeling, however, that this little pill sure-as-shit ain't ecstasy. The air is charged. Something doesn't feel right. She knows how a deal goes down, and she knows that, the way this "deal" is going, this guy's being a little too free with his product for it to be the real deal.

Cut it with heroin. Cut it with meth. Cut it with rat poison for all someone cares, because it's not ecstasy. It's better.
to Warcry

[Warcry] ...Guys?
to Edward Bellamonte, Wyrmbreaker

[Wyrmbreaker] A stirring on the totemphone -- and a stirring on the balcony, the Ahroun rising up from his lean to brace his hands on the balcony rail.

Yeah. Up on the balcony. Something the matter?
to Edward Bellamonte, Warcry

[Genevre de Provence] Genevre looks up at the male now before her. A sip of her drink taken, and a smile is given. She manages to shift on the couch just a bit to allow him to join her on the couch. Her French accent ringing through the air. "Non, it's mon first time 'ere."

[Leaves-No-Trace] Edwin blinks, his lopsided grin turning a touch dark as he watches the exchange before him. Then, with a wry chuckle, he makes his way toward the bar and takes an empty space nearby. Waiting for the bartender to take his order, the stormy blue eyes are turned toward the dance floor with a measure of amused curiosity.

Then, once the bartender arrives to take his order, Edwin's mid range drawl floats low over the loud dance music to the bartender.

"Jack'n'Coke. Hold th'Coke."

A couple bills are placed on the bar... Enough to cover the drink, and enough tip not to be bugged about a silly thing like drivers' licenses, Edwin waits for his drink and returns to watching the crowd.

[Warcry] The Galliard sounds uncertain in their minds... as uncertain as she ever does, which is never very much but moreso these days than when Lukas first met her. When she's answered, it somehow makes finding her in the crowd easier. That feather, which Lukas knows to be a talen. The glint of her piercings. The sheer shine of her down there, the way she always looks when it's her moon.

There's some deals going down not far from me. I just got a bad feeling about it, like ...that's not just fuckin' E, y'know? Seems a little too hot for the guy's hands.

A beat. She's a big girl. But:

You want me to do anything about it?
to Edward Bellamonte, Wyrmbreaker

[Liadan Whelan] She can't tell where it's coming from, but she hears it. Lee glances around her immediate area once, idly, not really trying to find the source of a particular conversation. She doesn't feel any particularly strong incliniations one way or the other about it. Lee didn't stay in one school long enough to join any anti-drug clubs, and while drug abuse is fairly common in her line of work, she doesn't care what people are on, so long as they aren't on it on her time.

It might be considered odd that the tall redhead wouldn't jump to her feet and hunt down those engaged in conversation. She crept through a basement to free captured kinfolk. When she found herself in the twelfth century, about to face an oncoming army, she ran to shield a boy she had never met before. She has defended people and protected others with no apparent gain for herself. But whoever is being pushed to buy something on the first floor is beneath her ability to care or feel concerned.

Her eyes instead are drawn to the blonde who has come to sit beside her. When asked if a drink can be bought for her, Lee raises the bottle she already has in hand, smiling a little.

"Thanks, but I'm covered." Dark eyes sweep over the athletic figure, the bared mid-riff, all of it, before sliding back up to the pretty face, appraising. "Do you want something?"

[Warcry] The Galliard may be one of the most sober people down in that crowd of dancers. Those who have spent any time with her at all may easily guess that she doesn't need alcohol or drugs as much as she needs self-control when the moon is waxing. She's dancing, and nothing else.

Almost nothing. When she hears something, she ignores it at first, then cocks her head to listen. Her dancing slows. She never loses the rhythm, follows the beat, but her attention is ...well, present now, where before it had been lost in the mass consciousness of the music. She looks up, past the heads of the humans, looks at the balcony. Likely she can't actually see what's covered in shadow, but her eyes don't stay pinned on the two Fosterns for more than a moment anyway.

She looks back down, but doesn't go anywhere. She keeps her eyes and ears on the pusher and his little lamb, but doesn't make a move yet.

[Wyrmbreaker] There's a sense of consideration across the totemlink. Then: I haven't seen anything, but you have. I trust your judgment more than my assumptions.

Ed, let's get closer to Sinclair and back her up if she goes in.
to Edward Bellamonte, Warcry

[Edward Bellamonte] to Wyrmbreaker (And now also to you)
Sounds like a good idea to me, is Edward's answer. Edward the peacemaker, Edward the listen-and-find-out-more....er. Sinclair doesn't know him (at all) well, but Lukas does. That's something new. Want company?
to Warcry

[Wyrmbreaker] Above, the Ahroun straightens up from his cross-forearmed lean against the balcony balustrade. He picks up his drink and heads for the stairs down.

[Consumption] [don't mind this roll... dooobeeeeedoooooo...]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 7, 7, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 8) [WP]

[Edward Bellamonte] As does the Ragabash, nearly in time. Except he hadn't gotten a drink yet.

[Liadan Whelan] [WP]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 3, 4, 4, 5, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Genevre de Provence]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 7, 7, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Wyrmbreaker]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 5, 8, 10, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Covered Sky] [BOOZE]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 6, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Leaves-No-Trace] ((Willpower))
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 2, 6, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Consumption] Downstairs
Do you want something?
"I want you to come dance with me," she tells Liadan, "does that count?"

Edwin orders a jack and coke... sans coke, and the drink is given to him soon enough. Those who have taken them to their lips notice something, a tingle, a sensation that is strange... the look at the drinks, and though they know they are actually just alcohol, something doesn't feel right. Something has a srange tinge and an aftertaste... something that feels like exhaust fumes on their tongues.

Something that leaves their fingertips feeling oily. Something that feels... odd.

Covered Sky knows these places are ripe with corruption. She knows many things. Edward and Lukas are headed down the stairs, Sinclair is not the eye of a hurricane, but its heart. The music pulses and beats. The little blonde lamb moves with the beat, adn her eyes widen, pupils wide and she, along with half a dozen other club goers, seem content to stare at the lights and taste sunshine.

The woman, the athletic brunette, grins like the devil at Liadan Whelan, and aye if the devil does not take a pleasing shape. Her eyes travel down the bar to those gathered. She starts to walk away, and as she walks she addresses all of them.

"You should come dance, too, all of you. Clubbing isn't a spectator sport."

Balcony
"You know... you should come dance with me," he tells her, "there's no fun to be had sitting here drinking."

He starts to stand, and he offers her a hand, "I don't think I can stand being so stationary for too long... c'mon... I'm Devon."

[Covered Sky] The Philodox stands at the bar, watching but noticing nothing; nothing but the faint hint of breeding that comes from down the bar, nothing but the sweat and strain of bodies moving on the floor in front of her, nothing but the beat of the music and the flirtation going on mere feet from her. It isn't until a crowd of bodies moves away from the bar that she is able to pinpoint the pure blood as coursing through the veins of the redhead, and when the athletic brunette entreats the lot of them to come dance, the black-haired female just raises her eyebrows and scoffs.

Yet she doesn't take her eyes off of the brunette. Her nostrils flare, once, and then she sets down her drink, her interest suddenly piqued.

[Genevre de Provence] Genevre looks at her drink a moment, the thought of 'Figures, it is watered down cheap shit' going through her mind. "I suppose you are right, non?" She doesn't bother to finish her drink. Her appetite not sated by the cheap shit. She took the man's hand and rose from the couch. "Genevre." She smiled softly as she gave her name. "And I zink I could manage 1 dance wiz you."

[Edward Bellamonte] Edward is quiet. He always has been, really - this is nothing new.
He's quiet and he watches, listens, and reads people the better to find out what's going on and where. So at Lukas' side and still sans drink (because he doesn't start drinking when shit might be going down; that would be foolish), he moves towards Sinclair on the dance floor.

Next to his packmates, he is nothing (special) to look at. He is, but for the Rage far outweighed by an Ahroun and a Galliard, Just a Guy. No one pays him any notice, which is a good thing. It means that, while they're running off at the mouth, Edward can learn all kinds of things. Needless to say, he's listening closely for any hint as to what it is that's going on as he and Lukas cut through the crowd to join Sinclair.

[Leaves-No-Trace] Edwin blinks at the liquor, his blue eyed gaze narrowing as his smile grows a touch unpleasant. The filmy, oily aftertaste put him on guard; as a man who frequently consumed Jack Daniels' whiskey, he was accustomed to what it should and should not taste like.

Idly, he begins considering the inside of his glass, running a finger inside it, rubbing the bit of leftover liquor within between a thumb and forefinger curiously.

His mid range drawl again carries to the bartender.

"Whutever dat was... 'Tweren't Jack... Or ruther, 'tweren't Jack only.

Whut say ya tells me whut I jes' drank..."

Then, he's being invited to dance... A lopsided grin grows upon the No Moon's lips, as he shakes his head slightly in dissent.

"Mebbe after bit, doll... Reckon I'll let th'purty folk start th'show."

[Liadan Whelan] Lee has a bottle of beer in hand. It's simple, it's not what female's are generally known for ordering at places like this, but it's generally safer. It's easier to stay sober when no one can see how empty the drink is. It's harder to slip something into a bottle of Budweiser.

That doesn't make it impossible.

Lee takes her first sip of the evening, and it tingles strangely in her mouth. It tastes funny in the aftertaste, not quite right. She looks at the bottle, sets it down on the bar with a heavy clunk.

And quickly forgets about it.

The cute athletic girl wants to dance, so Lee rises to her feet. In her flat canvas shoes, she doesn't stand out as easily as she normally would. In the dim light, strobes going off over the dance floor, the striking color of her hair doesn't draw attention. Tonight, Lee blends in with the crowd, no different than any other ordinary mortal, even though she's more on the tall side. The only thing that makes her stand out, that draws eyes to her, is the hint of breeding, that vague sense that marks her as something special to the Nation.

she grins, and she follows the woman out onto the dance floor.

[Warcry] There is a part of Sinclair that is not, never was, human. Not 'only' human, not 'just' human... never really human to begin with. For a homid-born Garou, especially one of a tribe closer to humanity than any other, Sinclair lacks whatever quality it is that makes someone belong in a school, a workplace, a family of human beings. That, or whatever else is in her is so strong, so vicious, so alien to humanity that it burns through it, consumes it, destroys everything but the faintest traces of someone who -- but for a trick of genetics and spirit -- would have grown up to be a

programmer. Coach. Singer. Teacher. Investment banker. Writer.

Who could have been anything, with her brain and her drive and her parents' support. Instead she is this: pierced, tattooed, savage, moon-touched, violent. She is not an animal. She is more dangerous than any half-sentient creature found in the wild. She is a Garou, and so it is not some part of her but her body and mind and soul entire that chants quietly alongside her heartbeat

my pack is coming my pack is coming mypackiscomingmypackiscoming

and says it with an unfettered delight, a hungry straining at a self-imposed leash. Maybe it's the moon. Maybe it's because it's the day after Christmas and she does remember what that day used to mean to her. When Lukas and Edward get there, their Rage cutting a swath through the crowd and creating a pocket of space when it collides with Sinclair's, she all but jumps on the Ragabash, some of her hair sticking to her skin with sweat and the feather dangling and her surreal, opaque blue eyes finding Lukas's more searing ones.

All she does is nod in the right direction, indicating: There.

[Wyrmbreaker] The two Fosterns of the pack -- and two of the three founders of the pack -- have joined Sinclair now. The Galliard jumps on the Ragabash, letting go nearly in the same breath. Lukas, a step or two behind, turns his head simultaneously to look in the direct indicated.

They form a triangle on the dance floor, a core of strength and unity. Around them, the human tide laps and churns, always staying an arm's reach or more away. In a club as packed as this one, that's a huge berth.

[Consumption] [don't mind me again! dooobeee dooo doooooooo!)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 6, 6, 6, 7, 7, 9 (Success x 2 at target 8) [WP]

[Covered Sky] [Primal-Urge+Perception]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 5, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Edward Bellamonte]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 3, 6, 6 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Liadan Whelan] [percept + intuit]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 7, 9, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Warcry] [perception + primal urge + moon]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 10 (Failure at target 6)

[Leaves-No-Trace] ((Perception + Primal Urge, diff = 6))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 5, 5, 6, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Genevre de Provence] ((Perception))
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 4, 5 (Failure at target 6)

[Consumption] Bartender: WTF mate?
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 4, 5, 10, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Wyrmbreaker] P/A!
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 4, 7, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Wyrmbreaker] P/U!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 5, 8 (Failure at target 6)

[Wyrmbreaker] SHADOW LORDS DON'T FAIL!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 5, 6, 7 (Failure at target 7)

[Warcry] [retry]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 4, 6, 9 (Botch x 1 at target 76)

[Consumption] They all start the transition down the stairs, and soon enough Genevre and Devon are heading their way to the dance floor. They all, in some form or fashion, are headed that way. Covered Sky notices that the drink is strange, follows instincts and stares at the athletic brunette who is more-than-content to tempt them out to the dance loor.

Edin declines in favor of speaking to the bartender. He is a scrawny sort, the kind who looks like he might blow over in a strong wind. He looks at Edwin, then at his glass. He looks like he's in college, the clueless type, really.

"Oh, gross," he says as he looks at the glass, "do you want a refund? Or... oh man."

He takes a second to get a second glass and makes sure to really rinse it out, "that looked nasty."

The bartender pauses, and looks at the glass again. He seems uneasy, he pours another glass of jack.

"Try that?"

Liadan goes to the dancefloor, and the athletic brunette shoots her a wink. She moves with grace and poise. She dances. It's not so much graceful as it is eroitc; the beat demands it. She and the Lamb move closer, they are attracted, but the brunette continues to beckon Liadan forth.

The more the merrier. Sometimes, three isn't a crowd.

Sometimes, three is a party.

[Covered Sky] Whether it's the gleaming of the strobe lights against the surface of her drink or the sheen of whatever is coating the inside of the glass, Park notices the amber film clinging to the surface of the vessel like some sort of thick sweat. Her eyes pull away from the athletic brunette to examine the drink more closely, and then she's looking over towards the exchange between Edwin and the bartender.

She turns around, her back going to the crowd, and walks over to join the other Lord.

"Mine's got stuff in it, too," she tells the bartender, thrusting the barely-touched drink across the lacquered wood for his inspection, clearly uncaring as to how he's going to react to the Rage pouring off of her like heat from a furnace.

And then she feels something behind her. Around her. Around them. A seam is torn, a barrier is being breached. The woman with the set jaw and the intense black eyes whips around, her hair flying like a weapon to resettle behind her, and then she asks Edwin, "You feel that?"

[Edward Bellamonte] The Galliard all but jumps on him and a split second too late, after she's moved on (as if he's forgotten that such things should, perhaps, be reciprocal), his arm comes up to wrap around air or . . . play it off as a smirking wave, or something. She nods, and his eyes follow the path her head indicates.

He's [I bet you look good] on the dance floor, but he doesn't dance. It's strange, really - he's certainly not a good dancer, but prior to his return, Edward's enthusiasm for nearly everything was all but overwhelming. He reveled in everything that is and was, gloried in it. Now, more than half the time, it seems like he's holding everything, everyone, at arms' length.

".....something's coming," he says, perhaps needlessly, and proceeds to go very, very still, to the point where it's difficult to see if he's breathing.

And then, it's difficult to see him at all.

Every good fight needs a scout, after all, and Ed's (generally) pretty good at that job. Once it's achieved, this invisibility, Ed's . . . well, doing something that no one can see.

(Dex+Stealth for Blissful Ignorance!)
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 5, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 7)

[Genevre de Provence] Genevre continues to hold Devon's hand as he leads her to the dance floor.

[Leaves-No-Trace] The bartender puts another glass before Edwin, and he nods but makes no move toward it. Instead, Edwin wipes off his fingers on a napkin, trying to get the oily substance off of them, and then dips the same two fingers in the new glass, rubbing them together. Whatever that was... Maybe it was too much detergent in the dishwasher. Maybe it was something else.

But he'd be damned if he was drinking another drop of whatever it was. Even if there was perfectly good Jack in the glass to dilute or kill it.

Instead, his gaze moves to the dance floor, and as the lopsided grin widens and grows more menacing, he begins wiping his fingers off again on another napkin by the bar. His eyes move to where Covered Sky stood slightly further down the bar, asking if he felt it. He nods, his step carrying him closer to her.

He speaks only when he's close enough that nobody else can hear him over the cacophony.

"Whutever comes through... Kill't."

And with that, Edwin's hand moves to the unbuttoned sleeve of his shirt... Grasping at something that from the outline visible to Covered Sky alone appears to be a handle. With a sigh, he adds, almost regretfully...

"Why's it dat all th'best parties seem ta end up like dis..."

[Liadan Whelan] Lee has barely set foot upon the dancefloor, has not yet lost herself to the crowd of writhing bodies, when she feels something wrong. She's not a spiritual person, has no stronger a connection to the universe and the forces that affect it than the mortals around her. The only thing special about her is her connection by blood, by some preternatural link to a shifting breed.

But she feels something amiss.

She notices something about the dancers on the floor, and she looks up, to a press box above their heads.

Lee didn't come here with anyone but mortals, she has no one around her to turn to, no one's sleeve to pluck and ask Did you feel that?

She stops at the edge of the dancefloor, hesitant to join in lest she find herself part of something she can't escape. The tall redhead doesn't intend to stick around and see what's up. She skirts the floor, headed for the coat check.

[Warcry] To say that Sinclair is bewildered when Edward says something cryptic and vanishes is an overstatement. Mostly, she's irritated. She doesn't say a word, but looks up at her Alpha, annoyance darkening her eyes.

[Warcry] Would you like to share with the rest of the class, -rhya?
to Edward Bellamonte, Wyrmbreaker

[Wyrmbreaker] What do you see, Ed?

Lukas turns to face the direction Edward disappeared in, his feet bracing a little wider than shoulderwidth, hands loose and readied at his sides.

[Edward Bellamonte] Of course. When I have something to share other than what I said. It's wry, and even mentally chuffed with something that should be amusement. But Ed's amusement is a hard won thing, these days, and the wry chuff is just that. I don't see anything yet, just felt it. I'm trying to find who did the calling.
to Warcry, Wyrmbreaker

[Edward Bellamonte] (Per+Invest)
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 7, 7, 9 (Success x 3 at target 7) [WP]

[Consumption] Bar people.

"Dude," the bartender says when he looks at Covered Sky's glass, and he is genuinely confused, "what the fuck is with this place?"

He stops to check her glass, too, and moves to get her another glass... only to find that it too seems dirty. He looks them over, and the bartended, probably still in college, looks disgusted.

"They don't pay me enough for this shit... look, this is unacceptable, ma'am, I'm sorry, do you want to go talk to the manager?" he looks at them, then at the redhead who was leaving. He was confused, but one couldn't say that they blamed him. Whatever it was that was felt, he seemed to feel it to. The bartender shook his head and started to head for his exit.

"They don't pay me enough for this shit, man, fuckin' temp agencies."

Such was the life of Jake Forstrom. Couldn't catch a break. Couldn't hide from the Nation. Couldn't do anything more than be an unwitting pawn. Such was his birthright. But he stops, and he looks back at Covered Sky and Leaves No Trace. He tosses them a set of keys. He's not sure what's going on, but the Shadow Lords look like they might have some wicked things in mind, and he might not be worth much, but Mama Forstrom didn't raise no fools.

"If you wanna talk to the managers, those are the keys. I dunno want's goin' on out there, but this feels like a big ol' load a bullshit and I ain't gettin' stabbed over some dirty glasses."

And he was out.

Dance Floor


They dance. And it becomes more than that.

It starts out as it always does. Kissing and brushing of slightly clad bodies. They are beautiful, the writhing, sensuous mass ont he dance floor. A man runs his hand down the well-toned abdomen of a woman on the dance floor. Down and downward still across a bare belly to a short skirt. The man's hand pulls up, but the woman with the athletic frame is too busy kissing some short, plucky blonde to her side- the lamb. They are locked at the lips, kissing and nipping at one another. The athletic woman's hand goes to the blonde's cheek andmoves into her short, straight hair.

The blonde gasps in ecstasy as another figure- a twenty-soemthing Italian man- the 'pusher' as Sinclair remembers him- moves behind the blonde. His hands go over small breasts, under her shirt as he kneeds the tender flesh. It's a pile of people, hands moving over one another, and it starts at these four.

They dance.

They Dance.

It's a second before the first man reaches back from touching the woman in the short skirt, taking another woman by the wrist and kissing her. She's a bottled redhead, and it's soon enough easy because her date is joining her. This is a fantasy for him, really. The redhead looks at the athletic female, who half presses her to the ground. One would normally be afraid of being trampled in a place like this.

Normally, one would be horrified by a complete stranger shoving your head between the legs of another woman, but the redhead didn't mind. It all just felt too good, riding the waves of ecstasy and Ecstasy [Not Ecstasy, this is better] until it became a writhing mass of pleasure.

["Truth is, Armstrong, I don't think anyone comes here looking to find a mate for life. Or even for the next month. It's a meat market. Humans come here to find someone to take home for the night, or maybe just to drag into the bathrooms. And I confess," and he sits up, "it's an impulse I can understand. It's quick and easy. It means nothing. No strings, no complications. No liabilities, no deadweight. Nothing to make you vulnerable after the fact."]

Her boyfriend was content to push into the woman his girlfriend was currently... enjoying, and it began as such. The bodies became a pulsating mass of body heat. The athletic brunette moans in complete pleasure, her lips part and she grinds back against the man behind her. Her eyes flicker to Liadan again, then to the redhead between her thighs.The look is come-hither, but she is again interested in the crowd with her.

Genevre finds that Devon isn't dancing anymore. She finds that he doesn't move towards the mass of people reveling in debauched pleasures. Instead, she finds that he is holding her hand a bit too tightly.

It's hard to tell if the gesture is protective or possessive. He does not pursue, though he does not stop it either.

Others are pulled in, though. People get up from their booths, leaving confused dates and make out partners to join the mass. Some beautiful, too beautiful. Others, showing odd signs of deformity. They add on to one another, until there are ten bodies- young and old, beautiful and grotesque-

Fucking.

It goes on like this for a moment, the nameless bottled redhead tries to pull her face back from the athletic woman tasted like honeyed sulfur, and she tried to pull back, finding that her head couldn't quite be pulled away. Liadan could have sworn that the athletic woman looked at her briefly... she could have sworn that the woman winked at her as the bottled redhead panics. She had very little give. She pulled back with a pained grunt, but found that there was no room to do so. She pulls back a third time, and the sound of vertebrae snapping is heard. Instead of a moan of ecstasy, there is one of terror.

Her neck, now elongated several inches, is more visible. The skin has stretched, but she can not move. dark brown eyes look up helplessly in terror as she finds she can not move.

She places her hand on the athletic female's thighs, only to shove and find her hands were stuck, too. Like it was flypaper.

Her boyfriend tries to pull out of the woman, only to find himself stuck. Slowly, whatever skin they have pressing feels more like liquid, when one pulls back, it looks as though there is too much honey on them, though it does little good. They stick soon enough.

Where lips met, there is soon little distinction between faces, figures fused at the mouth, eyesockets drooping as figures push in terror. The humans, who had little idea of the game they had been playing, were duped.

The too beautiful and the grotesque seem pleased, fuck with wreckless abandon until they, too, can not move in the mass. Human and fomor fat move like glue. It bonds the people together. There is muffled, brainless screams and screeches of terror.

Bones snap and reform, or, rather, begin to reform.

It has begun.

Upstairs

Edward follows where his instincts take him. He is a ragabash, and he is well-suited for this job. When he follows his instincts, follows his sense of reason, Edward finds himself headed up the stairs, he is not swayed by the sound of screaming and agony below him. Instead, he follows where he believes he should go. He heads up the staircase. The humans, the ones that are notin the know, the ones that are not taking part in this disgusting ritual, are running.

No one cares that he is headed up that spiral staircase.

Up the stairs, there is an office with the door ajar, and what he sees catches his attention. There is a small figure- he might be fifteen, sixteen at best. With greasy hair and eyes that burned like hatred. He wanted to prove himself, and he was more than willing to do so. Blood on his mouth, on his hands, he smiles something triumphant and looks at the larger, stronger male for something akin to praise.

He is prompty backhanded by the flaxen, scarred man.

His head snaps around and his eyes fall upon the dead body. He sneers at it.

"Took you long enough," the flaxen haired man said.
"It's hard," the younger male replies, "do you have any idea how fucking difficult it is to pull anything through in the city, much less-"
"I don't have time for your excuses, whelp. If you are half of what I was promised, then you can gloat... don't think someone can't just fuck and make more of you little shits. Mules are a dime a dozen, don't forget that."

The younger male growled, but instead looked... injured. his pride wounded. His place, reminded.

[Edward Bellamonte] Come upstairs, comes with a strength that Lukas hasn't heard from Edward since Boston. Grab anyone you know, any of ours, and get off the dance floor.
to Warcry, Wyrmbreaker

[Covered Sky] Hearing in a place like this is next to impossible. Low tones, loud speech, she can pick up; certain ranges, certain pitches, are lost under the thudding of the bass and the jostling of the crowd. Behind her, the bartender is apologizing profusely, is bitching about his placement, and Park doesn't seem to pay him much mind. She's straining to hear Edwin as he anchors his voice so as not to have it drift too far.

The No Moon reaches inside his shirt, and then keys are tossed across the bar.

Park sharply looks back, then snatches up the keys and calls to the bartender, "Get outta here!"

She indicates the stairs with a sharp jerk of her head, starts to stalk that way, and then a sound that is discernible even under all the heavy music, even with the strobe lights making observation difficult: screams.

Keys in her hand, something bloody awful going on mere feet away, Park's eyes lift skyward not in plea for divine intervention but to gauge what's at the top of the stairs. When she looks back at the dance floor, soft disgust marks her soft features.

"What the fuck?" she shouts to Edwin.

[Warcry] Around the time someone shrieks, and around the time things start to go to hell, Sinclair hears something in her mind that has her looking up, finding the direction to the stairs like a canine scenting a squirrel. She does not bother to grab Lukas's hand. She starts for the edge of the dancefloor quickly, dodging bodies and even jumping over a couple. If she did not move so very, very much like a beast of prey, one might compare her grace to that of a gazelle.

As she's on her way, though, she sees -- smells -- feels something in the crowd. Irish. A hand, stronger than a drunk asshole who thinks she was flirting, latches onto Lee's wrist. "Get off the floor!" she says, and pulls Liadan with her as she heads for the stairs. If Lee resists, Sinclair lets go.

[Wyrmbreaker] As three become two, Lukas instinctively and thoughtlessly moves, pivoting on an invisible axis until his back is to Sinclair's. The Ahroun's head turns left, right, watching with growing disbelief and revulsion as people start fucking

and fusing

on the dance floor. Edward's voice comes through clear and urgent in his mind, and Lukas cups his hands to his mouth and shouts -- no; doesn't shout; shouting wouldn't even be heard in this place. Bellows three names with all his might:

"EDWIN. LIADAN. GENEVRE."

Then he hikes a thumb toward the staircase. The message is clear: going up.

[Leaves-No-Trace] At first, Edwin can't help but stare and grin in wry amusement at the morass of people getting busy on the dance floor... His head shaking slightly as people get stuck in whatever the glue was that was gathering them all in a pile. Then, as things really go South, Edwin's grin turns to Gillian, and after a wink, he speaks in an almost amused tone... One that hints at some macabre joke nobody knows but him.

"See whut I mean? Later, doll..."

She wasn't even paying attention, her head only just swivelling toward the clink of keys as Edwin spoke. Then, he grins that lopsided grin and fades from view, disappearing utterly into the shadows while her head is turned away.

Assuming it worked as it should, she would ask her question to thin air.

((Dex + Stealth + Fox, diff = 6, stealth specialized))
Dice Rolled:[ 10 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 6, 6, 6, 7, 7, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1

[Genevre de Provence] Gen was having a wonderful time dancing with Devon til it began. Devon stopped dancing, and when Gen noticed, she stopped as well, taking his hand and trying to get his attention. When he started to squeeze her hand, she looked over at what was going on. ANd a chill ran through her body. She pulled on Devon, trying to pull him away. "Mon ami, we need to go, now!" If he didn't respond, she tried to pull her hand free.

Then she hears Lukas's voice. Why is she not surprised? Seemed like everywhere she went, one of the Unbroken was around. But at this moment, she wasn't complaining. Right now, she just wanted her purse, and what was inside as she tried to pull away from Devon. ((Not sure if he's gonna let her go))

[Edward Bellamonte] Bottom of the spiral stairs. People coming down. Abrupt, and the feeling of a brother enRaged.
to Warcry, Wyrmbreaker

[Liadan Whelan] It's not long before Lee finds she's happy to have stayed off the dance floor. At first, when people began to converge on the athletic brunette, something stirred within the kinswoman. There was a moment when she wanted to join in the mass, become part of something greater than hersel, belong somewhere.

But the floor had too much the feeling of ritual. There was a tang in the air, not just of sex and alcohol and deviancy, but of sacrifice. Something was wrong and suddenly all the redhead wanted was to get away.

The brunette tries to catch her eye as she rushes off, but Lee continues on. That's when she starts to hear the change. Moans of pleasure change to cries of horror. She glances at the crowd on the floor as she pushes through those rushing to join them, and sees horror upon horror.

And then a hand clamps onto her wrist. Instinctively, Lee tries to twist free and finds herself released. That's when her name is bellowed across the floor, along with two others she doesn't recognize. Lee doesn't recognize the voice, but she does recognize the tall figure beckoning for her and others to go upstairs.

For one moment, one fraction of a fraction of a second, Lee's eyes flick to the exits, to the otuside, to twenty-five degree weather and snow and a flight instinct that wants to overpower her.

She barely looks at the door before she pivots and heads for the stairs.

[Wyrmbreaker] Don't try to take them yourself, is the immediate response, crackling down the totemlines like lightning. We're on our way up. Stay hidden and ambush when I say.
to Edward Bellamonte, Warcry

[Genevre de Provence] When Devon lets go, and seeing the gesture from Lukas, she heads upstairs, which is good, her purse is there.

[Liadan Whelan] [+6]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 10

[Warcry] [+7]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1

[Covered Sky] [+6]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 6

[Wyrmbreaker] [Homid: +18]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1 (Botch x 1 at target 6)

[Leaves-No-Trace] ((+7))
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 6

[Genevre de Provence] 5
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 6

[Consumption] Devon: 7 + 1d10
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2

[Consumption] WTFBBQ: +4
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 5, 8, 8, 10

[Consumption]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9

[Consumption] Theurge upstairs: +5
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1

[Consumption] Mr. Impatient: +16
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9

[Edward Bellamonte] (+5)
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1

[Consumption] Mr. Impatient: 16 + 9 = 25
Wyrmbreaker: 18 + 1 = 19
Liadan: 6 + 10 = 16
leaves No Trace: 7 + 6 = 13
WTFBBQ: 4 + 9 = 13
Covered Sky: 6 + 6 = 12
Genevre: 5 + 6 = 11
Devon: 7 + 2 = 9
Warcry: 7+ 1 = 8
Theurge Upstairs: 5 + 1 = 6
Edward: 5 + 1 = 6

[Consumption] If you're on the third floor, all posts will be PMed to you. Thanks a million!

[Warcry] [Reflexive: -1WP (resist pain)
1. Getting upstairs
2 Rage -- held]

[Consumption] Devon: -1 rage: snapshift crinos, -1 WP resist pain
1a: bite giant blob
1b: claw giant blob
r1: claw it again

[Genevre de Provence] 1) Running upstairs to get gun from purse

[Covered Sky] [Reflexive: -1 WP (look, this character doesn't wait until she gets hurt to activate Resist Pain!)

1: Upstairs!
R1: Holding.]

[Consumption] WTFBBQ: actions!
1a: grab Devon
1b: squish.

[Leaves-No-Trace] ((Base action: Follow everybody else upstairs (and discreetly so)))

[Edward Bellamonte] Impulsive Ragabash says MEET YOUR DOOM AT MY PACKMATE'S CLAWS and reaches to toss nearest bad guy down stairs. (From the wayback machine.)

[Consumption] Theurge
action!: reflexive: back to breed form! (yay crinos!)
1: try and toss Ed would the plate glass window

[Liadan Whelan] [whatever actions it takes to get to the second floor bar and make a couple molotov cocktails, to be lit and tossed down onto the dancefloor on second round.]

[Wyrmbreaker] 1WP - Resist Pain
Reflexive totemphone: Goddammit Ed, I told you to ambush one. Get back down here!
Reflexive talk: "Flank and attack my target!"

1Gn - Bloody Bandage
1a. Shift to Hispo (or as close as possible) +WP
b. True Fear guy that Ed doesn't toss down
c. Chomp guy that Ed tosses down

[Warcry] [Re-Declare
-1WP (Resist Pain)
-1R (Hispo)
1a. Flank guy that gets tossed down
1b. Bite him
R1. Bite him again!]

[Consumption] (scale of 1 to 10, how smart is Mr. Impatient?)
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 10

[Covered Sky] [REEEEEMIIIIIX
Reflexive: -1 WP (RP), -1 Rage (Hispo).
1: Flank bad guy who gets tossed.
R1: Bite him!]

[Consumption] actions: -1 rage for crinos
1a: Go shut and lock the door.
1b: claw Edward.
1c: bite him for good measure.
(spending 2 rage to be held and declared later)

[Consumption] [don't need to roll to shut a door. It's just a door.]

[Consumption] claw: -4.
dex3+crinos1+brawl3= 7 - 4 = 3, diff 6
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 6, 6 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Consumption] Damage: str3+crinos4+1= 8, diff 6
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 6, 6, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Edward Bellamonte] (Soooooooooooak)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 5, 5 (Failure at target 6)

[Consumption] Bite? Dex3+crinos1+brawl3= 7 - 5 = 2, diff 5
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 1, 2 (Botch x 1 at target 5)

[Consumption] Damage: oww!
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 6, 7, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Consumption] Soak: OWW!
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 4, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Wyrmbreaker] Moar reflexive yelling:
"Door's shut and locked! Edwin, get up here!"

1a. Shifting hispo! -3, +WP
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 1, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6) [WP]

[Wyrmbreaker] Good 'nuff. b: climbing.
c: held til door is open again.

[Liadan Whelan] [int + science (zomg it wasn't a wasted dot!)]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 4, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 5) [WP]

[Leaves-No-Trace] ((Changed action:
Reflexives: 1 Rage for snap-shift to Crinos
Base action: Run up to third floor
R1: Open Seal on 3rd floor door))

[Consumption] WTF: grapple! str+athletics (that's what I'm calling it) -2: str8+athletics0= 8 - 2 = 6
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 5, 5, 6, 6, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Consumption] Squish!
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 4, 4, 4, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Consumption] devon: soak?
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 5, 7, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Consumption] Devon action: new action, try and break free of grapple
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 6, 8, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 3 at target 7)

[Consumption] Devon: actions done until rage, sorry loves!

[Warcry] [1a. Climbing up
1b. Held til door is open]

[Edward Bellamonte] (Changed actions.
1a) Don't get pushed out a window.
1b) Open the damned door.)

[Consumption] Theurge kiddo: I'm trying to heeeelp yoooooou: shove!
dex2+crinos1+brawl2 = 5, diff 6
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 7, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) [WP]

[Edward Bellamonte] Eww, fuck off, mule. Don't touch me.
Dex2+Crinos1+Dodge2=5-2(split)=3
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 6, 6, 8 (Success x 4 at target 6) [WP]

[Consumption] Damage (if he gets 3, he's out the window): str3+crinos4
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 4, 4, 6, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Consumption] (falling (bashing))
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Edward Bellamonte] (Soaky-soaky)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 5, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Leaves-No-Trace] ((Open sez me.

Gnosis, diff = 7 [wp spent]))
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 4, 4, 5, 8 (Success x 2 at target 7) [WP]

[Wyrmbreaker] Totemphone: Fuck! Edward, get back up!

1c. Since still in f'ing Glabro -- grapple Theurge for Sinclair to chomp. +1diff for changing actions.

[Wyrmbreaker] (Str+2(Glabro)+Brawl+Totem - 5(split))
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 5, 5, 6, 6, 6, 7, 7 (Success x 1 at target 7)

[Edward Bellamonte] Oof. The mental impression of wind being knocked out of a packmate by a three story fall, and then, I'm okay.
to Warcry, Wyrmbreaker

[Warcry] [1b. Changing to bite guy who did not get tossed down.
Dex + 2 (Hispo) + Brawl + 3 (Perun) -3 (split) // diff -2 (partially immobilized target), +1 (changing actions)]
Dice Rolled:[ 10 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 4, 4, 4, 4, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 5 at target 4)

[Warcry] [forgot one. waxing gibbous moon.]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1 (Botch x 1 at target 4)

[Warcry] [damage. str + 2 + 3]
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7, 7, 7, 8, 8 (Success x 6 at target 6)

[Consumption] Theurge: Oww, my spleen!
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 5, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Consumption] rage actions!
Mr. Impatient: Worthy prey...
r1: bite Lukas -2 (oww)
r2: bite sinclair -2 (oww)
(all at a +1 diff, because it was held)

[Consumption] r1: Bite Lukas! dex3+crinos1+brawl3= 7 - 2 (oww!) = 5, diff 5 +1
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6) [WP]

[Consumption] Damage: str3+crinos4+3 = 10
Dice Rolled:[ 10 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 5, 5, 7, 7, 7, 7, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Wyrmbreaker] (Glabro soak!)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 6, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Warcry] [R1. Dex + 2 (Hispo) + Brawl + 3 (Perun) + 1 (moon)// -2 (immobilization) +1 (changed action, sort of)]
Dice Rolled:[ 14 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 3, 3, 4, 4, 4, 5, 6, 7, 7, 9, 9, 10, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 12 at target 4) Re-rolls: 4

[Warcry] [Damage. Str + 3 (Hispo) + 2 (Hispo Bite) + 11 oh my fucking god]
Dice Rolled:[ 19 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 3, 3, 3, 3, 4, 4, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 9, 9, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 7 at target 6)

[Consumption] OWW QUIT HURTING MEEE!
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 4, 8, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Consumption] Rageback: I love life!
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 8)

[Consumption] Devon rage action: claw the blob! dex4+crinos1+brawl3= 8
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 5, 5, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

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

[Consumption] blob: soak
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 4, 9, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Consumption] Mr. Impatient: biting Sinclair the Barbarian
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 4, 6 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Consumption] damage!
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 4, 6, 6, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Warcry] [Soak]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 4, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Consumption] The flaxen haired man looks at Edward, and with grace and speed only offered to those of a higher rank. He shuts the door, locks it, and claws at Edward. It tears into his flesh, leaving his innards splayed. When he bites, it does little good. Instead, it damned near breaks his own jaw. Wyrmbreaker shifts to hispo, but instead finds himself at a detour in glabro. He climbs the stairs, organizes troops while he waits.

Edwin runs up the stairs, snapping to crinos and covering quite a bit of distance... but not before the door shuts. Meanwhile, Park starts to make her way up the stairs, but something stops her, she looks at her companions and a horrible realization dawns on her: there is a hole ripped through the gauntlet. Anything could slip through, and she pushes herself through to the other side to deal with the problem accordingly.

Sinclair climbs to the door, prowls and waits poised and ready. It is her moon, and Sinclair is a predator.

Inside, the theurge who started this mess and Edward Bellamonte come to blows. The theurge looks between the ahroun with murder in his eyes and the Silver Fang... he was a moment of something akin to compassion, to regret... from one fallen from grace, to one who lives in its birthright, the theurge shoves the ragabash, hard enough that glass shatters and he topples out the window.

the door unlocks and opens thanks to the second ragabash outside. the Unbroken and the alpha of the boogeymen burst through the door. The fostern ahroun grips the whelp while Sinclair lunges for him. The first bite is enough to make him lose his guts, intestines springing forth. They are so in tune, the ahroun in his near-man form doesn't even notice the Spiral bite at him, nor does Sinclair allow the pain of a grazing blow deny her the satisfaction of ripping the crescent moon apart.

Straight up the middle. He falls, twitches, but does not stay dead.

Simply unmoving.

The commotion has left the ahroun's back completely undefended. What a poor tactical choice.

[Consumption] Mr. Impatient: 4 agg
Theurge: rage back, incapp
Sinclair: 1 agg

[Consumption] Mr. Impatient:
Wyrmbreaker:
leaves No Trace:
Warcry:

Declare in reverse!

[Warcry] [1a. Bite Mr Impatient]

[Leaves-No-Trace] ((
Reflexives: Laugh in crinos after Mr. Impatient gets sneak attacked from behind.
Base Action: Split action (2)
Split (1/2): Sneak behind Mr. Impatient
Split (2/2): Claw Mr. Impatient
Rage: Claw Mr. Impatient
))

[Leaves-No-Trace] ((Reflexives should include 1 rage spent))

[Wyrmbreaker] 1R --> Let's get to Hispo already.

1a.
b.
c.
d. Chomp Mr. Impatient!

[Consumption]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4

[Consumption] Mr. Impatient: -1 gnosis for a BB (+4 HP)
1a: bite Lukas!
1b: bite Sinclair
1c: Claw Lukas, too *is clueless about Edwin)

[Consumption] (amend: calling it a two way split, same actions still apply, however, no 1c)

[Consumption] action
1a: dex3+crinos1+brawl 3 - 2 = 5, diff 5
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 3, 9 (Success x 1 at target 5)

[Consumption] Damage

[Consumption]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 6, 6, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Wyrmbreaker] (soak!)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Consumption] bite Sinclair!
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 4, 9, 9 (Success x 2 at target 5) [WP]

[Consumption] damage
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 5, 6, 9 (Failure at target 6)

[Wyrmbreaker] a. chomp -4!
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 5)

[Wyrmbreaker] +3!
Dice Rolled:[ 12 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 2, 4, 5, 5, 5, 6, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Consumption] soak!
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 4, 7, 9, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Wyrmbreaker] b. -5!
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 2, 3, 4, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 1 at target 5) Re-rolls: 1

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

[Consumption] OWW!
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 5, 8, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Wyrmbreaker] c. -6!
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 7, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 5) Re-rolls: 1

[Wyrmbreaker] +4!
Dice Rolled:[ 13 d10 ] 1, 4, 4, 5, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 9, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 7 at target 6)

[Consumption] STOP HURTING MEEE
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 3, 6, 6 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Consumption] I love life!
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 5, 5, 5, 5, 7 (Failure at target 8) [WP]

[Wyrmbreaker] d. -- Down the stairs we go!

"When we get down there, attack my target. Edwin, stay behind the enemy if you can. Sinclair, on the flank."

Totemphone: Edwin, where the fuck are you?
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 2, 4, 8 (Failure at target 5)

[Wyrmbreaker] (good thing i didn't need to bite again. *LOL*)

[Wyrmbreaker] (*coughs* obviously, totemphone should be "Edward", not "Edwin.")

[Leaves-No-Trace] ((*cackle* I figured he was muttering it to himself and the roll was to figure out where Edwin is.))

[Consumption] These were the best laid plans. The Fostern squares off with another, though it is a common occurence on either side, they were simpl overwhelmed by numbers, by those with the strength of a totem at their backs. It was strength and teamwork that allowed these sorts of things to occur. It is a moment that has no great trumpeting, there is no fanfare, their is nothing epic about this.

One fostern stands with the other, and does not realize when to run, does not realize when he's outclassed.

Does not back down. He never did.

[It was a moment of cowardice that drove Jacob Washington to the Wyrm. He remembered standing with his pack, he remembers standing proud, and being there and looking as though he should be a shining example to them. It was simple, a join-or-die sort of situation, and Jacob Washington remembered looking at them, at their faces so filled with hope.

Cliaths were impressionable like that.

He remembers looking at them, all scrawny and dirty and flecked and fatigued from battle they had lost. He remembers looking in their faces, at a Skald with high cheekbones and impeccable breeding. He remembers she would not break, he remembers her growling at him. He remembers a Glass walker who was missing an eye, who looked at him as though he had the answers. He remembers the metis theurge who looked at him with broken heart searching for answers.

"Better to reign in Hell," he told them. All of them died that day, except for Jacob Washington. The Skald was the last to go; his fondest memory of walking the spiral was hearing her scream, but not for mercy, but in rage. He wished for her strenghth.

It never came.

In his moment of cowardice, his weakness forever repaying. He would not be remembered as a hero in the eyes of Gaia...

but he would be remembered as a hero in the eyes of the Wyrm. as one who stood against three garou and was willing to die for the cause like he should have so many years before]

Blood spills, crashes to the floor, leaves a flaxen haired man, eyes vacant and the smell of filth and regret in the room. The battle, here, is won, while another rages downstairs.

[Warcry] [Taking Round 2 action to get downstairs.]

[Edward Bellamonte] Here! It's the closest to old-Edward he's sounded, this night - since things started. Which is odd, because he hates the fighting. He always has. Still, it sings through him and brings a sort of energy and release that nothing else does.
to Warcry, Wyrmbreaker

[Consumption] Liadan drops a bomb, but it falls on the philodox, and instead chars their ally on mistake. The second hit, however, does not miss and she, instead throws it and it hits her target. The blob groans in obvious agony, and what happens is interesting. It starts to melt, as though it were made of cheap plastic. The creature flails its various arms, and vomits on the Silver Fang.

It does not injure him, though it is a rather disgusting scent. The blob then throws itself outward upon the Child of Gaia, barely catching his hind leg and pinning him. The monstrosity does not move, which leaves Genevre with a good target. The first bullet makes contact, but it does little good. The body simply Genevre shoots, but the bullet is simply absorbed by the blob. She shoots again, but the same happens.It simply absorbs the lead.

The Child of Gaia squares off beside the Silver Fang, one bites but the creature does not react. They try the same, and blow after blow fails to do any damage. They regroup, are ready to attack again but find their attacks do little good.

In the end, chemistry prevails. In the end, it is Jack Daniels and determination that causes the creature to screach, four its dozens of melting eyes to roll back, and it collapses. It is without note that the creature dies, begins to fall and finally melt away from its twisted bones.

The creature- once a bottled redhead, a lamb, a pusher, an athletic brunette who sold herself for beauty, an ambitious boyfriend and more- melts like fetid icecream.

The too-loud music drowned out the screams. The only things that are left standing are the Gaians, a mess to clean up, and a hand full of unwitting, lost-looking kin who watch in horror and fascination as it all unfolds.

[Liadan Whelan] Though her first thought was to flee, to leave this place with its disgusting mutated fomor with or without her coat and bag, Lee followed the unspoken command of the Shadow Lord Ahroun and headed upstairs after the others. While people shifted, became wolves or simply oversized in Glabro, crowding the stairs leading up to the third level, Lee had other ideas. She ran to the bar, grabbed up whatever bottles she could, along with napkins and a discarded lighter, and took up a position at the railing overlooking the dance floor.

Her first attempt was a disaster. She misjudged her aim, and the bottle went flying not into the undulating mass of flesh and sex but into the fur of the unknown Garou. There was no time for shouted apologies, however. Lee readied the second makeshift molotov cocktail and let it fly with much better results.

Time blurs as it slows and speeds up at the same time. In the moment, it lasts forever as Genevre takes aim beside her, as the wolves below swipe at the monster with fang and claw. And yet all too soon the thing is dead, Lee's final flaming bottle of cheap tequila having found it's mark.

The redhead leans heavily against the railing, closes her eyes, and focuses on breathing. Dark eyes snap open, and she turns to take in the fight behind her, which has ended. Lee turns again to look down at the melted mess on the dancefloor. Slowly, she heads for the stairs leading down.

[Liadan Whelan] [oops, change my alcohol to Jack Daniels]

[Edward Bellamonte] It seems like forever, the time it takes to fall from the third floor, and Ed has time to think that it would be funny, after everything he managed to live through for six months or more away from Chicago - his new home - and his sisters and his pack, if crashing to a cheap, probably fake parquet floor after being thrown by a filthy little metis was the last straw. He'd laugh, anyway, and hope someone, somewhere, did too.

But he doesn't die - he is hurt, bleeding, but nothing that won't heal. There will be no new scars made tonight, not by Spiral claws, not by fomor . . . appendages, whatever they may be. Once on his feet, he fights beside an unknown Garou to destroy the being with little effect until a well thrown brand hits its mark (after the first one singed his companion) and melts it down to bone. These things are always too slow and too fast all at once - time stops and speeds, and everything telescopes to one action, one moment, one need.

He stands, now, still in Crinos, still bleeding, and very much a beacon of everything that is (and should be) Silver Fang, looking at the remains of their foe.

"Whiskey," he decides, and whether he means to drink or for some other purpose until he comes back from behind the bar with two bottles, one from which he swigs (a somewhat clumsy, amusing thing in Crinos) and the other that gets added to the already licking, growing, consuming flames. It's one way to clean up a mess, at any rate, and as good as any other.

[Wyrmbreaker] By the time the three Garou from the third floor reach the first, all's said and done. Wyrmbreaker surveys the scene for a moment, then reverts to homid form in an eyeblink.

He's lost his outerwear. He stands in his underclothes, self-possessed for all that. Liadan doesn't go far, the crook of her elbow caught in Lukas's hand. He turns first to Edwin, though, thanking the Ragabash in low tones before turning to the kinswoman.

"Are you all right?"

[Warcry] Sinclair is hot on Lukas's heels when they head downstairs, one of them calling over the totemphone for their packmate and one as silent as the eye of a storm. Then the smell hits her and she rears back, a noise that would be a yelping bark in lupus issuing from her throat. In hispo it's more like a keening snarl, a sharply pitched growl of displeasure as her claws skitter on the surface of the second floor.

She chuffs out air through her nostrils and pads towards the edge to peer over at what is left of the mass of congealed bodies. Even in this form, massive and making the floor creak under her steps -- and the steps of Wyrmbreaker nearby -- her eyes are a pale blue that bring to mind things like robin's eggs, clothes for newborn boys, summer skies.

The fire reflects in them.

Her eyes are ethereal, yet there's all too carnal blood all over her muzzle and front, staining her dark fur to glossy, shining black and red. There is a reason why her pack no longer lets her fight alone. There is a reason why they don't get nervous when other Garou are irritated with her, but watch more carefully if they sense that Sinclair is on the verge of losing her temper. It hasn't happened in awhile.

She tore a Spiral in half upstairs, rended him so violently that even when his rage hauled him back to life, he could do no more than twitch. She stepped on his head as she bounded down the stairs again, kicked his skull behind her massive hindpaw. Bone snapped, crushed in on itself. She lingered no more on the sheer power of the bite than she did on the Spiral's last watching, hearing, immobile moments of life. In the heat of battle, at least, it seems she is not entirely aware of -- or concerned with -- just how fucking dangerous she is.

Can be.

She watches the fire for a moment. There's a wound on her ribs where one of the Dancers bit her. She doesn't seem to notice it even as it leaks blood, dripping onto the floor with every breath she takes.

A moment or two later she finally descends to the first floor. Her forepaws touch the ground and then leave it again as she flows back up into her birth form. She stands in a bra that's starting to get worn, pink on pink, and the pair of holey jeans she was wearing when she was dancing. Her hair is down, her chin and throat bloodstained, her feet bare. There's scarring on her back. There's ink on both biceps, on the back of her neck, there's metal in her ears and through the skin of one arm. She looks like a cannibal, with the flames flickering and reflecting off of her. She looks around, then over at Lukas.

"Where's Genevre?" she asks. She doesn't sound concerned.

[Edward Bellamonte] Smoke and stench rise and Edward sprinkles the last of the bottle in his left hand over the body before tossing it off to shatter somewhere - the extra time in not-his-birth-form is for the quicker healing time, of course, but it can't last that long. He's not wasting the perfectly good bottle of surprisingly fine whiskey he'd found behind the bar, after all.

"Fire and Rescue will be here soon," he says, as the smoke rises enough to set off the sprinklers and alarms, thankfully rinsing off some (if not nearly enough) of the bile that covers him. "We should go."

Then Sinclair asks about his kinswoman, and his mouth twists into something like a smirk (or a sneer); he is no more concerned than the Galliard, clearly, despite the blood of his tribe in her veins. "She was shooting? Or I think she was. Maybe she slipped out."

[Consumption] Devon finally shifts down, and in homid, he is not impressive. Fairly attractive, yes, but he is nothing compared to those he is around. No paragon of breeding, nothing to that would set him apart or make him seem like anything but what he was-

A philodox with a lot to prove. Who rode a difficult path because it was the honorable one. He's charred; his pants are bloodstained, but he isn't in terrible shape. He'll live.

He looks at those gathered, and the cliath opens his mouth to say something to the pack. He doesn't, however, because he notices something important out of the corner of his eye.

"Jodie," he breathes to himself, and the young man. Serves in the Light of Truth, turns, pursues half-started, half amazed kinfolk with intent and concern. He's talking about some woman. He moves to pursue- she's a short, rounded thing. With cherub cheeks and size eighteen pants. She comes to these places and sits with the purses. For once, he's thankful for this.

"Jodie!"

Whatever happens between the Children of Gaia stays there.

[Liadan Whelan] Líadan doesn't make it far when she reaches the first floor. A hand on her arm stays her escape, and she turns and looks at Lukas first as if he's just told her the sky is green. Then she blinks at the tall dark-haired man. She nods her head jerkily.

She has to shout over the volume of the music. "I'm fine, thank you." His rage is diminished from the battle, but Lee threw everythin she had into throwing those makeshift bombs at the mass on the dance floor. She's weary, and she is still haunted by her first meeting with this man. The sight of the wild Galliard, like an angel covered in blood and ink and metal, makes her tense. She just wants to get away, to her apartment and a bath, or to somewhere with a familiar face.

Lee starts to pull free of Lukas' hand on her arm. If released she just goes to find her things, her coat and her bag.

[Wyrmbreaker] "Ed," Lukas lets Liadan go to turn toward the Fang, "just a second."

And then the Shadow Lord crosses the distance to his packmate in two strides. His hand swings up; grasps Edward firmly behind the neck. Lukas is quite some inches taller than Edward. He neither uses this height advantage nor attempts to obliterate it by stooping. It is what it is. The Fosterns' eyes meet; they are silent for a long time.

At the end of it, Lukas's eyebrows rise, as though in question.

[Wyrmbreaker] Totemphone:

Edward, you're my brother and my oldest friend, and I love you. But when we are in battle, you will follow my orders like any other member of this pack. You will not break rank. You will ignore orders to do as you please. You will not recklessly endanger yourself, and by doing so, endanger us all.

I won't warn you again. Am I understood?
to cricket, Edward Bellamonte, Warcry

[Edward Bellamonte] Yessir. It's almost cheeky, almost amusing. It's so very, very close, but falls just barely short. Aside from that, there's no apology or explanation - it's acknowledgement, pure and simple.
to cricket, Warcry, Wyrmbreaker

[Warcry] Something about Ed's answer makes Sinclair frown, and deeply. There is an agonizing-looking bite wound on her side, still seeping blood. She uncrosses her arms and watches as Lukas lets go of Lee, giving the kinswoman a look, but... not surprisingly... she doesn't offer help getting home. The woman is not of her tribe, and Sinclair isn't sure who is in charge of the Fianna these days, and even if she were, she doubts the bespectacled female would want to go anywhere with her.

So she lets her go, and when she does, Sinclair shifts into lupus and sits out of the way of the flames while the Fosterns talk. She is staring at them, and her tail is motionless, her ears up.

[Edward Bellamonte] He did wait, and at the end, there's one simple nod - the only break in eye contact. (And yes, Lukas is some inches taller. At right around six feet, Edward is just a little above average height.) He is bruised and a claw has torn through flesh (but not as far as bone) at his left shoulder. He will be well enough, given a couple of days. As will Sinclair be, but with her worse injury, of course his eyes are drawn.

"We should go," he says again, and - unless there's more - does. With his packmates [where he should be].

[Wyrmbreaker] For a little longer, the Fosterns look at one another -- the Ahroun's eyes flicking between the Ragabash's, perceptive, incisive.

Then Lukas nods once, and his hand drops from behind Edward's neck, grips his shoulder briefly. Solidly. "Go on ahead. Tell Kate what happened here so she can check on her kinswoman."

He turns back to Liadan. "I'll let Hatchet know. Call yourself a cab, all right?"