fang party.

[Keith] It is ridiculously late (early) to drop by, but Keith Sommers isn't (doesn't seem) aware of that fact. He is outside the Bellamonte loft, and he has just pressed the buzzer with his thumb. His breath steams in the cold December air, and he is breathing heavily, as if he has just run a race with his heartbeat. Here's a hint: He has. He is not looking at the door, but rather, has turned so that he's regarding the street he came from with an air of mild interest. His profile is aristocratic, and the collar of his jacket is up: a rakish angle.

[Lukas] The Bellamonte Loft is, despite its name, not currently inhabited by any of the Bellamontes. Their houseguests might be in; two kinswomen of the Fangs, both French or close enough not really to matter. The youngest sibling is at the Brotherhood, however; the elder two are out.

Keith can hear irritable grumbling from the other side of the door. Lucille, much put-upon, cursing the hour, is throwing open the locks when a different voice -- lower, masculine -- interrupts her. The words are impossible to make out. A moment later, however, the door opens inward, and Lukas, apparently quite awake despite the hour, looks out at the Esteemed Cousin of his packmates.

Which, come to think of it, may as well be a descriptor for every Fang out there. They're all related, aren't they?

"Keith," says the Shadow Lord. "Something up?" And he steps back, opening the door wider.

[Keith] Keith did shine with (esteem him) potential that has been realized (life after life after life). It shaped who he was, and how he held himself, regardless of whether or not he thought it should, or even thought about it at all. There: the way he held his head. That was the way a (young) conqueror held his head. Someone to trust. Someone to follow. Someone to watch.

"Lukas," says the Silver Fang, who is very much a product of his family, who is very much just another notch on the family tree. His eyebrows lift (surprise, but not that much: what would be the point? He's packmate) and then he grins. His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Nothing except me." Note of disappointment? Yeah. "My apartment's far, so," he gestures expansively, stepping in, "thought I'd crash at Lady Katherine's."

He doesn't really sound like he's mocking her with that Lady stuff. "How are you doing?" You'd almost think he was courteous.

[Lukas] Even with five souls under its vaulted, glassy roof, the Loft is echoing and quiet at night. It was a warehouse in a past life; converted now the way so much of the city in this area has been converted, gentrified, made edgy and hip and expensive. Warehouses and factories have blossomed into nightclubs, spas, restaurants -- residences. This particular one is all concrete and stone and glass and bare wood, full of postmodern austerity.

Lukas thinks for a moment, counting in his head. Then, "Okay." There's a sort of offhand confidence in his casualness, very different from Fang hauteur. "I think there's one more guest room left. I doubt Kate would mind."

Lukas shuts the door after Keith is within. It's warm inside. This is not the Shadow Lord's home, but he is comfortable here: it is part of his territory. He follows or guides Keith in past the entryway, to the vast, empty spaces of the living area; the open-plan kitchen where ingredients for a roast turkey sandwich are laid out. Lettuce leaves, sliced tomatoes, sheaves of meat, alfalfa and toast line up, assembly-line-style, across polished granite. Bookending the sprawl: a bottle of beer, a bottle of dijon mustard.

"I was making a midnight snack," Lukas says. "Care for a bite?"

[Keith] Keith has yet to stay for more than ten minutes at the Bellamonte's loft, despite how comfortable he seems just dropping by at three am, so Lukas is definitely guiding the young ahroun. He's bright eyed, investigating the hall, balking for a moment in the doorway of the kitchen -- giving the ceiling lights the flicker of a worried glance. To hide this, he unbuttons his coat, and it's warm inside.

"I wouldn't want to be a bother," he says, amiably enough. It would never occur to Keith that his presence would put a single one of his family members out, however distantly related, however full their own house might be of other guests. But he wouldn't want to be a bother. "I could take the couch. Who else is staying tonight?"

Lukas says: care for a bite. Keith rubs his hands together (get the blood going). "Sure." He's always hungry. He'll give Lukas a covert look, a little sidelong, and this is where you can tell he acknowledges Lukas, for all he's a damned dirty shadowlord (blah blah blah blah), as higher-up-on-the-totem pole. He doesn't just dive at the food and start grabbing for himself and smacking together a sandwich that would make some people Fear the Size of his Mouth. He waits for a go-ahead, however physical, and then? Then he goes ahead. But not before.

[Lukas] Lukas takes up his station in front of the sandwich components. He's toasted two slices of bread, but there's a whole loaf in a bag nearby. Not many years separate the two men, and on the surface they could be just that: two guys slapping together some sammiches for a snack before retreating to the den to whale on each other in Mariokart.

But they're not. They're Garou; half-wolf; beasts. And Keith waits for go-ahead, and Lukas, casual and mild as he seems, does not hesitate to assemble his sandwich first before pushing each ingredient in turn over to the younger Ahroun.

"Kate and her sister each have a room, of course. Ed's back too. Have you met him? The eldest brother, Fostern and Ragabash." He tops his sandwich off with a spiral of mustard, then smooshes the top slice of bread down. "Then there's two houseguests staying indefinitely, both kin to your tribe. Eleanore, a friend of Ed's from France; and I think you've met Genevre."

The Shadow Lord's eyes are direct, a blue like ice, but for what it's worth -- not accusatory. He picks up his sandwich in one hand, knocks his beer back with the other, then uses the bottom of the bottle to point at the massive, double-doored, brushed-steel refrigerator.

"More beers in the fridge, if you want one."

[Keith] "Oh. Her." The tone: thoroughly unimpressed and thoroughly disgusted. There's only one Her on that list that would bring that sort've reaction from the teenager (young adult! He's gotten into clubs before! Lots've times!). However, he doesn't disparage her name, doesn't call her a bitch or even look over his shoulder like he's expecting her to come yammering out of a room with some crazy woman logic. He doesn't think about her, and that's just fine. And Lukas, well. He's a Shadow Lord. He may be packed with Katherine, but he's a Shadow Lord. He's outside the circle of trust. Pretty far outside, really. 'cause: Shadow Lord.

"And I met Edward for a brief moment," he says, shrugging -- all loose and limber, settled in his skin tonight. He rubs the back of his neck, popping bone. Ah. "He was wary; I surprised him." He looks misty eyed and vague.

Keith truly has slapped together the kind of sandwich that would make someone's eyes widen in horror as they tried to imagine just how, how, it was all going to fit. He'll snag a beer, then nod to Lukas to lead the way to -- well. Wherever it is Lukas is going to lead the way to.

The misty eyed and vague look lasts until they're seated, or standing, whereever. Then it dissipates, somewhat, to be replaced by more bright-eyed inquisition. "How'd you get to be where you are, Lukas?" To the point!

[Lukas] "Yeah," some measure of wry amusement -- and sympathy -- creeps into Lukas's tone, "her. She doesn't seem to come out of her lair much, though."

As it turns out, Lukas doesn't lead him anywhere. There are barstools on the other side of the island, which rises up to form a breakfast bar. Keith can find seating there if he wants. For his part, Lukas eats his sandwich standing, his balance easily set to one foot, and though he typically dresses and behaves as though he were born to money, born to the sort of environment that would never ever tolerate dinner at the kitchen counter, he has a careless ease to this.

More humor, quick, a grin. "Where I am?" he repeats. "What -- at the Bellamonte Loft? In Chicago? Or at the head of this pack?"

[Keith] She doesn't seem to come out of her lair much, though, Lukas says, and Keith smiles. He's got a charming smile: see? Charming, crooked, boyish arrogance: all there. "Probably for the best," Keith says. "I'm not really suited for entertaining the ladies tonight." Expansive, that. What does it mean? Don't even ask him. He doesn't know.

"And," this, right here: this is actually a serious side of Keith. He'd deny such a side existed, but it does. "Chicago. Head of this pack. Why this pack. That's the 'where you are' I'm curious about."

[Kate] There's something of a buzz across the totem-link for Lukas as he considers his answer to Keith Sommers' question of why are you here, now?, and the buzz seems to be issuing from the owner of the residence they were both now lounging within. It was common enough knowledge amongst Katherine's pack-mates that they had an open-ended invitation to use her home when-so-ever they deigned to -- she had plenty of space.

Or at least, she used to.
Her rooms were fast filling up, these days with the expansion of her tribe within the city.

Presently, the message comes across the totem-link is thus: It's Katherine, I have just met with the former Wyrmfoe of Chicago just returned known as sklora-Myrgen, Cliath Ahroun of my tribe and am bringing him to the Loft so that we may continue our discussion in a more private location. If any of you are in states of undress, now would be the moment to fix it if you are at the Loft. The bite of humor is evident, and yet beneath it is the ever-present knowledge that Katherine did not joke, she took her duties as elder impossibly seriously, of this, none could doubt.

Minutes later, Keith and Lukas can hear the automatic door of the garage opening, and two voices, one decidedly Katherine's, and another lower, masculine conversing as doors slam shut. "....I am not suggesting, of course, that he is without some credence of honor, but for the Nephew of a King to behave as such toward his own relation does speak badly, you must agree."

[Lukas] Lukas gives Keith a curious look over the kitchen counter. Then he takes another bite of his sandwich; the last. All that's left are crumbs, which he sweeps off the counter into the palm of his hand, and then into the sink.

"Let me ask you a question in return, first," he replies. "Are you asking out of curiosity, or because you want to join this pack?"

-- and then the door to the garage opens, admitting one Katherine Bellamonte, former Wyrmfoe in tow. Lukas doesn't have to hear beyond nephew of a king to know which subject was currently under discussion there.

[Keith] "Well." He's even, in this. Even-handed, even steady. "I don't know what the pack's purpose is, so," Keith replies, after a pause. The pause was for Katherine and her male visitor. The sound of the garage door, of voices and of hot gossip. "So I'm asking because I'm interested in you."

He puts his monster sandwich down. He opens his mouth to holler something -- and remembers just in time that there might be sleeping people in some of those rooms Lukas was mentioning. Sleeping people that he probably doesn't want to wake up! So he catches himself, laaast second, and exhales, grinning at Lukas: an odd mixture of unrepentence, self-mockery and repentence.

[sklora-Myrgen] sklora-Myrgen descends from the car, pushing the passenger door closed quietly, exerting enough force to cause the lock mechanism to engage, and little more. Then, as she rounds the front of her vehicle and moves to the entry door, he falls in step, a pace behind, hands linking behind his back. She continues to regale him with an account of Fons' behavior, but he witholds comment, even when she actively solicits an opinion.

Instead, he enters her loft, moving quietly, his slender frame self contained, his mien distant, as if he were trailing threads from the Gauntlet, had brought some measure of the Umbra across with him, so that he remained liminal, even beneath the glare of electric lights. His face is harsh with the purity of his breeding, such that most humans might find his prominent cheekbones, wide, thin lipped mouth and strangely canted eyes disconcerting, alien, whereas Garou, Silver Fangs especially, would be struck by the force of his heritage, the eras echoing down the passage of time, the haunting grace that is not his, but inherited, bestowed, by an inheritance centuries old.

Clad only in a strangely cut tunic of soft, elegant gray cloth that is held at the waist with a broad leather belt, and navy jeans so dark they might as well be black, he enters the main area behind Kate, and turns his pale irised eyes to examine the two men within the kitchen.

His gaze is distant, as if he sees through them, his irises the palest of blues, faded as if by overexposure to the moon, and there is within them the natural confidence of those born privileged, born to wealth and power such that there need be no acknowledgment of such boons. He does not speak, not yet, but rather allows his gaze to go from Lukas to Keith, to whom, recognizing his common blood, he inclines his head, perfectly flaxen blond hair falling smoothly about his face like two curtains of near white.

[Kate] She is almost the over-excited child the evening before Christmas in contrast to her silent companion as they flit down the hall from the garage entry and step into the kitchen arch proper. Katherine herself knows with an instinct born from years lived within the Loft and the connection to her Alpha where she shall discover him and -- ah, Savage Dawn -- if she is startled by the discovery of the Full Moon standing in her kitchen, she conceals it with little more than a brief rise of her fair brows across at him.

"Good evening, Gentleman," she says with a Queen-to-be's dignity, and a vixen's small teasing smile. "May I introduce a returning member of my tribe to the city. This is sklora-Myrgen, another Cliath Ahroun such as you are, Savage Dawn." Kate's eyes tick to Lukas, she steps to one side for the men to shake hands, or whatever they desire.

"sklora-yuf, may I present my Alpha, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, Fostern Ahroun of the Shadow Lords."

[Lukas] The answer doesn't seem to offend Lukas. If anything, the Shadow Lord seems pleased by the younger Ahroun's candor. "I ask," he says, "because some of the questions you ask are things I would speak more of to a prospective packmate than to a friendly stranger."

Two more Silver Fangs have entered the immediate vicinity. Lukas and Keith face one another over the kitchen island. Keith has an enormous sandwich in hand. Lukas has finished his. Bread, lettuce, tomatoes, alfalfa and turkey are still laid out on the counter, along with condiments.

It's a moment before Lukas turns to face his packmate and her new tribesmate; long enough for him to conclude, "We'll finish this a little later, Savage Dawn."

Then he turns. In the warmth of the Loft, Lukas is down to a single layer: a delicately knit silk sweater, the material heavy, draping, a metallic grey that's a shade or two above black. His breeding is starkly different from the rest that all but permeates this room: theirs is brilliant, cool, elegant. His is dark, heavy, foreboding, night to their noontide.

He shares one feature with the newcomer, though: eyes as pale as ice. They scrutinize the Fang now, curious and astute.

"Sklora-Myrgen," when he speaks, there's a sort of low, warm courtesy in his tone -- unexpected, perhaps, from a Lord to a Fang, "welcome back to Chicago."

[Keith] Keith stood courteously (and, yes: grace. Not just fluidity of motion.) when Kate and her visitor entered the kitchen. For Katherine, he had a smile -- a boy's smile, open, honest, mischievous, aw, shucks, this is okay isn't it ma'am. "I came for your food, Katherine," he says, honestly enough. Lukas says: we'll continue this later, Savage Dawn. Look at that: now it's all garou names. And Keith's gaze flicks back to the Shadow Lord.

sklora-Myrgen nods, and so does Keith. There are plenty of differences between the Silver Fang ahrouns, the way they hold themselves, the way they interact with the world around them -- or seem to. And plenty of similarities. Let some other bard recount them some other time.

"I'm glad to meet you, sklora-Myrgen," is what he says, gravely -- even seriously. He must still have some 'serious' left over from his answer to Lukas. Because hey: He is. Although he's also calculating: sklora-Myrgren. Just what country is that name from? Probably not France, at least.

[sklora-Myrgen] sklora-Myrgen drifts forward, carried by an invisible tidal wash that deposits him a few yards past the kitchen, from where he slowly turns, surveying the immediate environs of the loft, before settling his pale, flash burn eyes on the pair of men. His attention slips from Keith to the Shadow Lord, who is identified as the Alpha of this Silver Fang pack.

Lukas speaks with surprising cordiality, warmth even, and it is not that sklora-Myrgen is cold, but rather simply distant. As if he were looking at the Shadow Lord from across the gulf of a precipace, seeking to make out details from where he stands. He steps forward then, a gliding step that is pushed off from the rear, and into the kitchen proper.

"Wyrmbreaker-rhya," he says, and his voice is soft, quiet, almost melancholy. "That Truth's Meridian follows your lead is a testament to your character. I thank you for your welcome." His words spoken, he looks at the Shadow Lord Alpha for a few beats longer, his eyes penetrating, seeming to not see into Lukas so much as through him, to some invisible vanishing point all of his own devising.

Turning then, he regards Keith, and to his he inclines his head once more, eyes narrowing with partial amusement, mouth thinning into an approximation of a smile. "I have walked with Walks in Strife, Savage Dawn. I have seen first hand the havok he could wreak, witting and unwitting, on the plans of foes and friends alike. It was an honor then, and an honor now, to gaze upon one of his blood and see that his line still stands true. Know that I am John Edward Willims Gray the third, sklora-Myrgen, Cion of the Morn, of House Wyrmfoe, that I hail from the Veridian Fulgour and stand now to inherit the title of Erl King from my father, Iaphion-Triffin, deceased now these past few months."

He pauses, and passes his hand before his face. "Or years, perhaps." The moment passes, and his hand drops. His eyes glitter anew. "A sincere pleasure to make your acquaintance, brother."

[Kate] Katherine wanders close, she has no fear within her own home, and flops over a piece of bread, a slice of meat, lifting a brow at the pair. "Did I interrupt some terribly secretive boy's meeting, then? Hm." She moves to pour herself a glass of chilled water, adding a few ice cubes to the mix, and leans against one stainless steel counter, glass in hand.

She sips from it quietly as the men greet one another, as John Edward reiterates his Fangly list of titles and inheritances with a small smile playing at the corner of her lip. "The hour grows late, gentleman, if either of you are in need of a place to spend the evening, know you are welcome to whatever I have available. I believe there is at least one guest room upstairs free, or else I am told the sofa is tolerable soft."

[Lukas] Totemphone, somewhere in the middle of Sklora-Myrgen's words to his tribesman:

This was the Wyrmfoe? Are you kidding me? Was he ...like this before?
to Kate

[Kate] Kate's amusement is evident, she laughs with her Alpha, and yet attempts to retain an ounce of chiding.

I have no idea, Lukas. I know only the story he has told me of his former position here, before he was called away. He came upon me at the Caern making reparations to Falcon for this moon cycle.
to Lukas

[Lukas] Ahrouns are, by and large, creatures of blood and bone and rage: visceral and immediate in a way that no human and few Garou, even, ever are.

Lukas is an Ahroun. He is courteous, and controlled, and thoughtful: but he is an Ahroun. Where he walks, the air bleeds rage. The room fills with it, electric and crackling. Every breath drawn in his presence is touched with it, and everything he does -- every motion, every movement, every act, every glance -- is given a certain sharp primality and immediacy by it. It's as though he burns brighter, is more real, than anything else in a given room.

Keith is much the same. His presence is unmistakable. There's fire in his eyes.

Then there's Sklora-Myrgen, whose birth and history speaks of the same, shared moon; whose presence and demeanor is wholly remote, wholly eldritch, wholly alien. Lukas watches him as he speaks, watches him afterward as well. He's puzzled. He wonders:

What the hell happened to him?

And then he puts it aside. There are two bottles of beer on the counter; one of them belongs to Lukas, and he picks it up now, draining it.

"No. Keith was just asking me why we're here in Chicago. And why I'm here, specifically, in a pack with two Fangs." There's quiet humor, and a certain fondness, in the way he smiles -- crookedly -- at Katherine. "Since you're so utterly insufferable, and all."

He rinses the empty bottle out, sets it on the counter for Lucille. And then he ties a knot to seal the bread in its bag.

"I'm taking off," he says. "Getting near my bedtime."

[Keith] "Walking Strife," he says, after a beat. With a smile, crinkle-eyed, and his expressive eyebrows raised. "He's my favourite ancestor," he says, and it's still gravely, with just a shaaaaaade of self-something.

Keith does this easily. Not like breathing. Breathing might take effort, depending on one's physical health. He's had his ribs crushed in; he's had one lung clawed from his body. He couldn't breathe easily then. So: breathing? That's tricky. But this? This lineage recitation? He could be dead, and he'd still take to it -- he'd still do it this easily. It's in the training, and it's in the blood. To whit: he totally introduces himself more completely, although nowhere near the full scpiel. Just his House, just his Lodge. His other name. That's fine.

But somewhere in that, he started to stare at Katherine. Lukas excuses himself, and Keith is still staring at Katherine. His nostrils flare, and his eyes are troubled, confused, and he -- he's already standing.

"What happened to you?"

[sklora-Myrgen] sklora-Myrgen takes a step back, turns, and walks slowly around the large living room, absorbed now in examining its space, but pausing occasionally to stare blankly at nothing, brow marred by a frown, eyes grown unfocused. Hands link behind his back again, and in his minds eye the room seems to fill with smoke, with ink grown wiry and diffuse as if dropped in water. He passes a hand before his eyes, closes them, stands still. He'll stand quietly in the back, self contained, worn out and passive, until someone either shows him to the door or a bed or a couch, upon which he will lie down and go immediately and completely to sleep, to sleep sixteen hours without moving, barely breathing, the sleep of the comatose, the exhausted, the dead.

[Kate] Lukas excuses himself -- after calling her insufferable -- and it must be almost amazing for the other Silver Fang present to watch their current elder not only accept this, but laugh at it with a delight silver tinkling akin to bells, or chimes. "Oh yes, and you are equally so! Goodnight, then." She farewells him, and her pale eye turns on Keith, who is staring at her as if she had developed a third eye upon her forehead.

She supposed, for many of their kind, she had, this moon cycle.

"I made a deal with a most powerful spirit, Savage Dawn, to placate it and save my fellow Garou more confusion at its hands. It has an ounce of my purity for a cycle of the moon, and in exchange I have some knowledge of how to aid Gaia, and lessen her suffering."

[Lukas] (bedtime for me, too! night folks. thanks for the play!)

[Kate] [Night mister! Thanks for playing!]