god of sandwiches.

[Connor] There is a definate chill in the air, though the night sky isn't exactly clear. Connor's breath rises in misty plumes from his mouth and nose as he walks the darkned streets. He can feel the pull of the moon on his blood, his moon tonight, and he catches glimpses of it as the clouds shift their sluggish grey forms lazily around in the black. Looks like snow again, he thinks to himself glumly. Its not that he dislikes snow either, on the contrary, the kid in him still feels a thrill of happiness when those big white flakes begin to fall. But there's been alot of snow since he got here and he isn't used to it. Snow wasn't this common back in Ireland.

Before he can stop himself, he's thinking about Galway again. It had been three years now since he was last home. Little Fion, his beloved niece, would be fifteen now. He wonders if she was still in school, if she still wanted to be a vet when she grew up and if she would ever forgive him for leaving like he did. A pang of shame strikes his chest like a spear, hanging heavy there. I'm sorry, Fi. I just couldn't take being there anymore. Everywhere I looked I saw Dad and Finn and all the others we lost that night. It just wasn't home anymore. But he knew her reason for being angry with him wouldn't bethat he'd left but that he hadn't taken her with him.

And why hadn't he?

Sure she was young then, had education to finish but those were all excuses really. The real reason was darker and ran deeper. How could he ever explain to her that the real reason was that every time he looked into those big hazel eyes he saw Finn staring back at him? Safer never to go home, to stay away from blame and accusation and shirk his heritage. But that was a grim thought too. How could he never go back to the place he grew up? He was torn.

Connor walks on, wrapped in his own grim thoughts.

[Moira Murray] Winter continues to hold its clutch on the city proper, painting the world in a blanket of white. Snow covers the sidewalks, it crunches under boots and covers one's hair and shoulders in small flakes. It is cold enough to see your breath, trailing out of the mouth or nose in a white plume. They are individuals walking out in the cold - alone and lost - a young tale-singer of the Stag's Blood churning over the dark, grim thoughts of his past as the call of his moon pulls at the inner fires of his soul, Luna tugging quietly on his rage, making him anxious.

She is a young woman, dark of hair and blue of the eyes like the dark indigo depths of a lake. Something in her those eyes speaks of a connection to Gaia - the Earth mother - that she shares with the Garou. She is a kin - born of two tribes - claimed by one yet conflicted with the passions of the other. Her blood runs hot one moment and cold as the snow around her the next. She sees the wolf, feels his presence before he can sense the powerful, luscious draw of her breeding that teases the beast within.

Moira leaned against the wooden alcove built into a storefront. The dull warm glow of lights halo around her as she peers up at the sky, lost in her own thoughts. Her eyes pull downward, swimming over the tall brooding figure of the Fianna she has come to know recently. The tiniest of smiles curl at the corners of her mouth, positively impish as the dark-haired kin bent down, scooped up snow off a windowsill to pack it into a tight ball and flings it out into the night to strike against some part of Connor.

[Connor] A snowball glances Connor's shoulder, a shard of icy shrapnel flying straight across his bare neck and ending his sombre train of thought very effectively. A shudder of cold vibrates through his frame and he looks for his attacker, expecting to see a group of school kids. Instead his gaze finds Moira. She's been on his mind alot too of late, more so than any single woman has for a long time. He hasn't even noticed how unusual that is for him.

He feels a smile spread across his face of its own accord, acting entirely without orders from his brain. It's one of the reasons he enjoys her company. Just looking at her seems to make him smile. As he meets her captivating gaze, he feels a pang of lust. It's the Rage, he assures himself. The beast within isn't just about fighting. He pushes the feeling away, not even sure why he's doing so and even less sure why he's hoping Moira didn't see it in his eyes.

"We've got to stop bumpin into each other like this," he says, his lilting Irish accent adding something musical to plain speech. His smile suggests that his statement is the opposite of his desire.

[Moira Murray] He'll notice the way dark eyelashes lay shut over her eyes, hiding them in a coy manner. Her head tilting down slightly to cause the fall of wavy black hair across her eyes. She lifts a hand up, sweeping leather-clad fingers across her brow to tuck bangs away behind one ear. It isn't quite a submissive gesture, but close enough. If he draws closer Connor can take in the flush that creeps across pale cheeks.

"True, we should stop meeting like this. Someone might get the wrong impressions." She says, her voice so very American to his Irish accent. His voice catches her attention, it brings her eyes to focus on him again, roaming over him. She may sense the desire in him, it is hard to say, Moira is good at reading people. She tears them open like books and devours them.

She tucks her arms behind her, continuing to lean against the alcove. "What has you out wandering around in the cold? Looking for a pub?"

[Connor] Connor finds himself stepping a littlecloser to her, his legs responding to a desire to be close to her without consulting the rest of his body. As snow flakes begin to fall again, dancing in the air between them, he takes her in, fills his eyes up with her. The shape of her face, every curve and angle. The colours of her skin, her hair, those beautiful eyes. He lets go a breath that he didn't realise he was holding.

"I'm not always after a pub yeh know," he says, with a smile. "I was just...walkin." The smile wavers slightly as something remains unsaid. He isn't about to tell her what he was thinking about. It's too grim. He's supposed to be the happy-go-lucky scoundrel. Its a part he plays so well he doesn't know where it ends and he begins anymore.

"And yerself? What brings yeh out into th'cold? Aside from tossin snowballs at innocent passers by o course."

[Moira Murray] "Lost for the moment." She replies, that small impish grin still worn at the corners of her mouth. Moira bent to run her hands along the windowsill again, gathering up more snow. She packs it tightly between gloved hands and steps out from the alcove she was hiding in. There was little to take in except the contours of her face. The slender curve of the jaw line, the way smooth skin pulls over tensing muscles, and the rise and fall of eyebrows as she quirks them up at him questioningly.

The rest of her curvature was hidden under the heavy layers of a black long pea coat, which came to the knee, closed up tightly to keep the cold air out. Snow boots pack down the snow as they make crunching noises, carrying the Fenrir closer to the Fianna as she comes up to his side. She rolls the snowball from one hand to the other.

"You could say I'm a displaced spirit at the moment. Unsure if I am coming or going, I have no direction and my path is clouded at the moment as I don't know what to do with myself." Her shoulders roll back underneath her coat, "I can see it's your moon. That must be tense for you, Fireblood. Perhaps, you were out hunting instead of walking and didn't realize it?"

[Connor] Connor considers this. It would be foolish of him to think that the moon hadn't had an effect on his mood. Perhaps that's why he couldn't shake the memories. He knew full well that if he thought on them long enough, anger would follow guilt. And anger was dangerous tonight.
"Maybe," is his playful answer. "And if I am huntin I'd say I've come across someone fun to chase." He catches her eye and smiles.

"I know what yeh mean though," he continues after a moment. "I'm so restless recently. Pent up and put out and just plain frustrated. The moon ain't helpin, yer right, but that's not th'whole o it. Truth be told, I dunno what's wrong wi'me." His smile is wavering again and there's something sorrowful in his gaze that would seem so strange to anyone who knows him. He feels he may be letting too much get away from him so he tries again to force the listless, grey feelings aside.

"Sorry, Moira," he says, smile seemingly back to normal. "I don't mean t'moan."

[Moira Murray] "Ye aren't moaning yet, wolf." She teases Connor, attempting to imitate his accent with little luck. Her head shakes as Moira takes a step towards him, brushing her shoulder against his arm, nudging him. It isn't likely she could push him off balance. He was taller and stronger than her, and so much more powerful.

It feels easy to open up to her, however, like it gave a sense that she might bear an attentive ear and be a good listener. She nods to the sidewalk, "Walk with me. We haven't had an opportunity to talk. I'd like to hear more about your adventures and what brings you to Chicago. I can only imagine that you've made sacrifice with the Maelstrom?"

[Rory o'Bryne] (sneaky redhead? dex+stealth+fox)
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 4, 4, 5, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Rory o'Bryne] (Oh come on! she's been PRACTICING!)
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 7)

[Rory o'Bryne] The earlier message over the Totemphone has her worried, and as such she's taken to the streets. It's what she does - walking, and doing her best to practice. It's not easy for one such as Rory to be sneaky, not with those blood-red curls, her pale skin- and her breeding.

She tries though. Tonight she's tried to contain her curls under a dark knit cap, her her clothing - one of two whole outfits - is dark, under a tattered winter coat that's too thin to really be warm. Her pack is on her back, slender fingers, pale and cold, wrapped around the straps as she sneaks along the sidewalk, moving from shadow to shadow doing her best not to attract any notice at all...

[Connor] Connor's smile becomes instantly more full and genuine as she tries to imitate the accent. There's something about this woman that puts him at ease. The guilt, the Rage, the memories, they're not gone but they're far more manageable.

He walks alongside her, enjoying the sound of their boots crunching on the snow. The flakes continue to waltz their way downwards and, under the streetlights, walking with Moira, Connor feels like this might be some kind of fairytale.

"Aye," he says. "I gave up a belt that my little niece made fer me. Only thing I had t'remind me o her. But I wasn't carryin anythin else that was precious n I hear somethin nasty happens if yer sacrifice is rejected. Since I don't fancy being chewed up n spat out by an angry spectral whirlygig, I had t'part wi'it."

[Danicka Musil] It takes a particular kind of personality to get excited about sandwiches. And yet: excited would be a good word for how Danicka sounded when she called Lukas this evening and told him that he had to come get dinner with her. Not Asian Fusion or French Vietnamese but sandwiches. She'd assured him that the meat was juicy and the chips handmade and met him there, quite happily pointing out the assortment of available meats and sauces available and explaining the mix-and-match menu to him.

As one by one, people filtered out of the sandwich shop the darker it got, the brighter the moon outside seemed. By the time she was halfway through her turkey, bacon, and avocado wrap, they were almost the only people left in the sandwich shop, which is about to close.

Which is why they're walking out onto the sidewalk several yards from Moira and Connor. Danicka's hair is down, and gleaming. With the moon waning from the full it has a silvery cast on top of the gold. In this light her eyes don't look blue as they do in the sun, don't look venomous, but verdant. The green turns deep, like heavy leaves to be pushed out of your way as you go further into the woods. The jungle. Her. She's dressed well, though not extravagantly for this part of town. It may only be jeans and heels and a sweater underneath a cropped coat, but each of those pieces likely cost in the range of two hundred dollars. She's folding herself into a longer wool coat as she exits the sandwich shop, offering Lukas a piece of mint gum.

"...and try and tell me that wasn't like the god of sandwiches touching your tongue."

[Moira Murray] "Spectral whirlygig?" She has never heard it described as such, hasn't really heard much about it at all. Laughter erupts as she studies him. "I don't think I have ever heard it called that. What does it look like... this spectral whirlygig."

Pleasant company made for a nice evening, the cold air circulating around them, the emotional distress and lack of sleep that's been gnawing at her all week seems washed aside for now. The company of the Fianna, the Irish lit in his voice, is comforting. It reminds her of things she misses dearly, most of which being her mother's people. It was one of the reasons why she keeps a close friendship with Sandman as she does. "Do you miss your family?"

[Rory o'Bryne] She sees Moira up ahead, with someone she doesn't know, and ducks behind a corner to watch her for a long moment. Then, with a shy little grin, and sneaky soft footsteps, she starts to stalk after the pretty Fenrir that was nice to her...

...and when she's closed the distance, she remains a pace or two behind, and then, with a shy little smile... touches Moira's back.

"BOO!"

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas had a sliced sirloin-and-bleu-cheese sandwich. And a half, actually. Danicka did most of the talking over dinner; he was too busy eating. Now, exiting the shop, button his overcoat with one hand, a doggy bag (and all jokes there have been done and done), in the other.

"There is no god of sandwiches," he replies, smiling and amused partypooper that he is, "but yes, that was quite good."

They're dressed similarly in that both wear denim and wool, coats over thin sweaters. Danicka has two coats, however; Lukas has a thermal undershirt and his own body heat, raging beneath the just-past-full moon. When his buttons are buttoned he takes Danicka's hand in his gloved own; looks up and down the street to get his bearings.

"You know, I was just here the other day," he says. "I was going to buy replacements for that ... thing of yours I broke. I managed to run into not one but two Fangs standing outside the shop." Pause. "That was really embarrassing."

Across the street, a Fianna is sneaking up on a Fenrir. Lukas stops to watch the show.

[Connor] "I'd say it was difficult to describe but I'm sure a word-smith like misself can find a way," Connor chuckled.

"Let's see. It's like water at it's wildest, water with a will. It churns in endless spirals of raw force but there's mystery as well as power in there. Yeh can't see t'the bottom o Maelstrom. Who knows if there is a bottom or what's down there if there is one? Some ancient consciousness? A mind o a Wyld thing? Who knows, but I hear tell that Maelstrom never speaks. Yeh have t'judge it's meanings by the churnins o its waters. It's a spirit without a voice but it knows yeh and it knows what's precious t'yeh. There's somethin a little scary about that if yeh ask me."

Moira asked then about his family and for a moment, Connor saw the memories again, the images of the dead as fresh in his mind as though they were right in front of him. Then a little red-haired creature turned up behind them and said 'BOO!', saving him, or so he hoped, from the embarressment of Moira seeing his face at that moment.

"Aye," he said, almost whispering to himself. "I do miss them."

[Danicka Musil] Hearing laughter, Danicka glances down the sidewalk, catching sight of Moira -- who she has met, if only once -- and Connor, who she has seen passing through the common room, also only once. A woman with flaming red hair shows up to go Boo! at them, and Danicka struggles to tell if she's ever seen her before. She's buttoning up her coat with one hand, purse slung over one arm and hanging from her elbow. Danicka has no leftovers from dinner.

"No god that you know of," she says archly, "and you don't know everything, obviously. 'No god of sandwiches,'" she repeats with a tracery of patient exasperation. "Really."

As soon as her hand is free it's taken from her again, but she doesn't jerk back from the touch of his leather-covered hand on her own bare one. She glances away from Moira and Connor when Lukas speaks again, her much smaller hand disappearing as his grip eclipses it. Her eyebrows flick upward. "That thing of mine," she says mildly, then smiles -- lips together -- to repress a laugh. "Oh, you don't have to do that. I have a couple others.

"Beyond that, you don't want to know some of the things I'd find around the Sokolov's. You probably should have asked the Fangs for recommendations. Do you mind if we head that way?" she asks, without missing a beat, nodding towards Moira. "I have to ask her something about the Coalition."

[Katherine] Anyone who knew Katherine Bellamonte well might have on occasion, when she believed she was not being observed or was quite by herself, noticed that the Half Moon had adopted a particular little smile that seemed to linger on her lips for minutes at a time and only faded away when she was snapped back to attention -- or questioned about it, which most often, had blood rushing to her cheeks and a curt denial that it was any of their business at all why she was smiling.

A woman had to have some secrets, after all.

Not that it was terribly difficult for her pack-mates to deduce that there was a direct correlation between the length of time one William Talbot the Third had been in the city and the appearance of said secretive smile. Tonight, at present, appears to be one of the occasions when the Silver Fang believes she is unobserved enough that she can moon along the side-walk, smiling to herself and stopping occasionally to peer into store-front windows.

Katherine stops before one right now, but seems more impressed with the reflection staring back at her than whatever clothing the Mannequin is modeling.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Well, one was Kate, and the other was her newest headache," one has to wonder if that's how Lukas thinks of all kin in general: headaches, "so I doubt it would've been appropriate. Or even useful."

He shakes his head. "Nope," he doesn't mind. In fact, he's first to step into the street, looking over his shoulder to check for traffic on the treelined, shoplined street.

[Moira Murray] For the amusement of others - there will be a show. Rory sneaks up on the unsuspecting kin, who has had a trying week and the last thing Moira would desire is to have an impish red-haired creature like Rory leaping out behind and yelling "Boo!".

The Fenrir is caught by surprise, her eyes widening, eyebrows arching high to disappear under the sweep of black bangs as she lets out a shriek. She jolts into Connor's path like a skittish colt, twirling and spinning on the balls of her feet as she uses the Galliard as a shield, skirting in front of him and grabbing a hold of his arm.

She looks behind her frantically, starting to scowl at Rory once she realizes what has happened. The snowball still held in her left hand, she throws it at the little vixen with no real aim. "Rory!" She hisses out.

[Danicka Musil] "Oh, well. Not terribly useful, at least in the first case. Is the 'newest headache' Genevre or another?"

She doesn't seem offended. She's Kin. She's a kinswoman, moreover. She may very well be a headache to Lukas, her city's tribal elder, her guardian, her mate. As far as the Nation is concerned now she has no other Garou relations with a proper claim on her; she belongs entirely to Wyrmbreaker, which makes her indiscretions his headaches. Her flaws, her problems his trouble to deal with or beat out of her.

Not tonight, though, it seems: they look simply lovely, the two of them. She's light, her coat heather-gray with shiny black buttons, her hair pale, her purse yellow-dyed leather. He's dark, from head to toe: even his skin is on the swarthy side. Their eyes are the difference, the spot of white in the black and the spot of black in the white, as though they were a common Eastern symbol of balance. Lukas's are brilliant blue, crystalline, heavenly. Danicka's are dark tonight, murky, of earth.

But they are a pretty pair, the two of them. In her heels she is at the 'perfect' height to complement his physical size. Their clothes are nice, their gait graceful, and so on, and so forth, a veritable portrait. They walk along, Lukas leading Danicka onto the road all gentlemanly and protective and her stepping lightly down from the curb as though this is only natural, this automatic-seeming chauvinism to their interactions.

They cross, and walk along, as Moira tosses a snowball at Rory. "Moira!" Danicka calls out, when they're closer, having no conception that Kate is nearby, though Lukas can't miss her. "Hello," she adds, smiling.

[Rory O'Bryne] Moira SHRIEKS and Rory's eyes widen and she takes a step back, almost as startled by Moira's reaction as she is her own success at startling the Fenrir. She ducks her head, wrapping and then ducks the thrown snowball with that same little shy grin.

"Hi."

Rory's shyness paints over her cheeks in a blush, as she scuffs her toe in the snow. It's an odd thing to see, really, with the amount of rage that she carries, that burns so brightly and so close to her skin. Her submission obvious, even as the grin lingers. "Sorry..." for scaring her, obviously. "Practicing."

Single words are easier.

[Connor] It happens fast to Connor's eyes. One minute, Moira's beside him, the next, he's a human shield. Connor looks at the red-haired girl for any hint of recognition but comes to the conclusion he hasn't met her before. It's natural to assume that this is another of his tribe though so perhaps he should introduce himself. Just before he does, however, yet more people are arriving. A pretty blonde creature on the arm of what could only be a Shadow Lord. His movements are reserved and graceful, calculated to expend no more than the minimal effort required for the task. His eyes are a closed book absorbing everyone else's stories. Connor keeps his face as plain as possible. He's never at ease around Shadow Lords.

He decides to withold his introduction for now and let Moira do the talking, since she seems to know these people.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] As they near the small gathering across the street, Lukas slows subtly, allowing Danicka to go ahead of him. She's first up on the curb, handed up before he releases her, the Ahroun a step behind.

Lukas is unmistakeably Shadow Lord. His blood is thick with Thunder; the bones of his face harsh and defined, his eyes brilliant. Both of them are, in fact, unmistakeably Shadow Lord, though only the male of the pair is stereotypically so. Danicka, as it has been said, is bright: brightly dressed, brightly blonde, and her loveliness is very nearly soft.

Lukas's head turns, though, as he nears the others. His profile is alert, cut against the night and the darkened storefronts across the way, briefly searching. When he spots the blonde Fang smiling into a storewindow, he snorts a faint laugh himself, then turns his attention back to those before him.

Looking for toys yourself, Kate?

"Moira. Rory." He pauses on Connor. "And who's this?"

[Moira Murray] Moira suddenly feels like a deer caught in headlights. Her eyes still wide, eyebrows raised high as they slide to side, first taking in Rory's submission demeanor and then to the voice that calls out to her in greeting. She turns, keeping Connor behind her as if she were the shield and not him. He is likely to tower over the Fenrir. Her gloved hand still on his arm, squeezes it slightly, fingers digging into a jacket sleeve.

Tension rolls through her body for a moment, Moira straightens up, bowing her head to Danicka. "Ms. Musil!" She says, the corners of her mouth tilting up to be all smiles and cheeriness. "I didn't notice you just now. How are you doing?"

Moira tilts her head up to glance at Connor and then back to Lukas, "A cousin from Galway, Ireland, this is Connor..." pausing because she doesn't ever remember getting his last name. "Lukas Wyrmbreaker, Connor Fireblood."

[Rory O'Bryne] Lukas and Danicka arrive as well, and Rory shrinks back a step to find a wall to place her back against. She offers Lukas a shy smile, but her eyes never quite reach any higher than somewhere around his collar bone. She chews her lower lip, nervously, as she peek up through those curls to look over Connor - obviously one of her own tribe.

She falls quiet though, clearly of the belief her betters are talking.

[Katherine] Katherine flushes, and her reflection does the same, its eyes searching out and focusing on the collection of folk somewhat further down and across the street from her.

I do not need toys, Lukas, that is why I have Kinfolk, do not you know?

Her humor is dark, yet there does not seem to be an overabundance of spite contained within it; more resolved mirth. That she cannot escape the continuing stream of complaints, tearful confessions and other collective strife that seem to go hand in hand with each new addition to her tribe in the city.

Well, almost every addition.

She turns now; dressed in a black overcoat for once, her long legs encased in dark gray slacks and begins to move toward the small gathering; her mere presence another splash of Rage and breeding to add to the collective already gathered on the street. Like Ms Musil, Katherine Bellamonte was fair; her eyes were a very pale shade of blue, her hair golden blond and full of waves; and her bone structure enough to turn a lesser woman sallow with irritation.

Her blood cried out of Kings and Queens gone past, of true bred warriors fallen to the cause; of French vineyards and the height of the European Silver Fang Courts.

[Danicka Musil] There's no way that Connor or Rory, at least, could mistake Danicka for anything but a Lord. It's not simply in her association with Lukas, drenched in their breeding and their... Look. She has coloring that doesn't normally go with the mental image of a Shadow Lord, her cheeks pink in the cold and her features soft and warm and a bit round except where her jawline tapers almost to a point.

But her breeding. Even that is markedly different from the norm: high mountains, deep chasms, darkness, fierce winds presaging storm. Not Danicka. It's there, but in the background, as though she and her ancestors lived in the valleys that those mountains overlooked, grew vineyards in the fields protected by the wolves that slaughtered bloodsuckers when and where they could. The collar of her cropped coat peeks out from under the collar of her overcoat: red, like some stubborn and eager flower pushing out from ash-covered remains of snow, demanding springtime before the rest of the earth cries out for it.

She is tense. Her smile is tight, because Connor and Rory are unfamiliar and yet their Rage still presses hard against her. No matter that Lukas is there: he is lumped in with them, in a way.

Dangerous.

Not safe.

The moon is waning but it's still so swollen, up there.

"Wonderful, actually, thank you," she says, smiling at Moira, both of her hands to herself again. She waits for her to introduce the two Garou, if they haven't already met, and then seems to separate herself from the two males -- and Rory, really -- as though they are the wives of preachers and elders at a church and have their own conversations to have while the Big Men -- or in this case, Big Bad Wolves -- talk like grown-ups. It doesn't seem to gall her to do so.

She seems unaware that Lukas's head turns. At least: she doesn't look that way, herself.

"I was preparing to call another meeting for interested and signed-up parties to discuss leadership and membership details. I was wondering if you'd accept a nomination for leading the support team."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Connor." Lukas's eyes are clear as ice, cool and pale, meeting the other wolf's levelly. "I'm Lukáš, Full Moon of Thunder. That," he nods across the street, "is my packmate Katherine Truth's Meridian, Half Moon of Falcon. And this is my mate, Dani&+269;ka Musil." There are strange consonants in the names Lukas mentions, soft and sussurant. Not English. "New to the city?"

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (still at work, guys, though leaving in about 20! so don't wait for me.)

[Connor] As the fair-haired Shadow Lord kin begins to talk to Moira about something to do with memberships and nominations (his interest slides off their conversation like water off of a particularly oiley duck), Connor finds himself still face to face with Lukas Wyrmbreaker. It's a strong name, to be sure, but Connor can't help but suspect deceit in it. By no means was the man a stripling, he declares himself as an Ahroun and Connor believes him, but Connor has been raised by his father to believe that everything Shadow Lords did and said was carefully measured and weighed for the purpose of power.

As Connor meets the eyes of Lukas Wyrmbreaker he finds nothing readable there and that's a sure sign of someone with something to hide.

"Nice t'meet yeh," he says to the Lord. Connor feels pretty uncomfortable about this whole situation but for the fact that Moira is still holding on to his arm. There's something nice about that...

"Aye," he answers. "Just arrived a few days ago."

[Moira Murray] There isn't much now that Moira can do for Connor except let him continue to make his own introductions to Katherine and Lukas. She steps to the side, keeping the Fiann in her peripheral as Danicka moves off to the side, separating them from the Garou.

"The support team..." she muses over this, thoughtfully, "I had almost forgotten about the coalition with so much going on of late." She nods her head, "I will be interested in the nomination."

[Rory O'Bryne] She scuffs her toe along the snow snow on the walk again, her hands gripping the straps of her pack tightly. She's nervous, that much is clear, and her fingers ache for something to do, something to fix, something to work at, something to keep busy. She doesn't grasp anything yet though, just twists the ragged straps of her pack instead.

She just listens, as they make their introductions, and then... softly and quickly, for Connor's benefit. "Tongue-Twister. Fianna Mull Foon."

She doesn't seem to notice the mistake.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Rory is one of Stag's," Lukas nods to the Ahroun currently trying to make herself invisible. "If you haven't found your way to the Caern yet, she can probably take you. You'll want to present yourself to the alpha of your Tribe, too. His name is Buried Hatchet, and he lives in room one at the Brotherhood of Thieves."

Of course Connor doesn't trust Lukas. The tall Ahroun all but breathes of strength, of Thunder, of rank and alphaship. His packmate, he said, is a Silver Fang. There must be a sordid story there, and if Connor had been in the city a few months earlier, he might've heard speculation on just what.

That speculation has since ended. Quite suddenly. Maybe that in and of itself is cause for suspicion.

[Danicka Musil] This makes Danicka smile both suddenly and brightly. "Oh, wonderful." She doesn't appear bothered that Moira forgot about the Coalition, or nearly so: the meeting was nearly a month ago. "I wouldn't want to suggest it and find out in the meeting that you're not interested. And I suppose I could have called, but we don't really know one another and it seemed something worth asking you in person."

Her pleasure is as evident as a cat's purr. She smiles again. "I haven't considered nominations for other leaders, personally, but hopefully others will be just as willing to step in."

[Katherine] The aforementioned Half Moon of Falcon is near to them now, near enough, at any rate that she hears her name spoken by her Alpha in introduction and so is smiling, hands in her pockets when she comes to a stop; fair hair gently cast about her neck by the frozen breeze.

"Bonsoir," she greets the group with her pretty french affectation, and then: "How lovely to meet another of Stag's." Her eyes cast about and discover the Kinswoman, they both receive a cant of her head. "Ladies," she murmurs.

[Katherine] [Kinswomen, even. Plural. Carry on.]

[Connor] Connor looks at Rory again. The poor red-haired creature seemed to be trying to disappear into herself. Tongue-Twister was a name Connor couldget behind. Especially when it was presented to him with a side-order of Spoonerism.

"Nice t'meet yeh, Tongue-Twister," he says giving her a little wink. It's not the flirty kind of wink that he would give Moira, but more the kind of wink an adult gives to reassure a child that everything is going to be OK.

"I've been t'see Maelstrom already," Connor says to Lukas. "But I've yet t'meet Buried Hatchet. Must be tryin him at th'wrong time o day o somethin. I'm sure I'll cach up to him soon enough, mind. Thanks fer yer advice." Connor's tone is respectful and polite but not warm. The whole time he remains standing before the ShadowLord, he feels as though he is being weighed up, judged and, perhaps in some secret way, made fun off.

He was happier when it was just him and Moira. Now all these people have arrived he feels cramped and
crowded and the pull of the moon isn't helping...

"Nice t'meet yeh," he says to the Fang, and he's beginning to feel as though he's overusing the phrase.

[Moira Murray] "Only time will tell, Ms. Musil," Moira answers. She doesn't appear concerned that they hadn't kept in touch, seeming to nod her head in agreement "It is alright, if you hadn't called. I have been busy with some things as of late and -" a pause, rolling her shoulders up in a small shrug.

She looks to Katherine, "Evening, Ms. Bellamonte." The greeting returned to the Silver Fang as her own attention was being drawn away towards Connor and Rory. She adjusts the long pea coat around herself, tucking her hands into the pockets.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas nods mutely to the thank-you, sliding his hands into his pocket, dropping back a pace to stand alongside his packmate.

Who he bumps, lightly and playfully, with the outside of his elbow. Conversation, however, is unheard: So what was that cat-in-cream smile all about?

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] [folks, i'm headed home! i might not be back for 1+ hrs, cuz i gotta stop for food. so don't wait for me! if you guys leave, Lukas will leave either with his packmate(s) or Danicka.]

[Moira Murray] [I'm on my way out the door actually. Getting pretty tired here.]

[Rory O'Bryne] Connor winks at her, and she does something that's rare on any other Full Moon, on many other garou - she blushes, bright, and ducks her head again. She lifts her hand, and tucks her hair into her cap, trying to keep the curls contained.

"You too. Huried Batchet is at the Brotherhood late, tome simes." Helpful - though she doesn't hear her mistakes to correct them, so it takes a bit of deciphering. "Room one."

[Danicka Musil] Now she turns her head smoothly to look at Kate, one corner of her mouth turning up slightly. It isn't quite a smile. Nor a sudden flare of tension. She just nods to the other blonde. "Dobrý ve&+269;er," she returns calmly.

Her next smile is more of a true attempt, before she turns her attention back to Moira, away from the sight of Lukas and Kate's easy physical closeness with each other. Away from the Garou, in general, and all the things they are that she and Moira are not.

Her eyebrows flick a bit. "As are well all, I suppose," she says, a trifle meaninglessly, and then just nods. "I'll see you at the meeting, then, if you're able to make it. If not I'll accept my own nomination for you on your behalf."

A wry, amused smile. She looks at Lukas, waiting for a break in conversation to tell him: "I'm headed home, milá&+269;ku." There's no explanation there, no need for one -- apparently. She is not quite asking permission, though she does wait as though needing to be dismissed before leaving the Garou to their conversations. She is not quite inviting him, either, though there's a wealth to be said in the word 'home' itself.

Whatever he does -- nod his assent, excuse himself, shrug -- Danicka says a few quiet goodbyes to the others, including: "We should have coffee soon," to Katherine, before heading down the sidewalk towards her car.

[Katherine] His pack-mate's smile evaporates and she composes herself, ducking her chin and looking to the ground; sifting snow with the toe of her boot. I had no cat-in-cream smile, I have no idea what you mean. A beat, she glances at Lukas, brows furiously drawn together; a telling blush creeping over her cheeks.

She scowls at him: I was simply thinking about my last meeting with Mister Talbot.

[Katherine] After Danicka, Katherine's face opens into another smile: "I will call you, we should."

[Connor] Connors mood eases as Lukas steps back but he still feels uncomfortable amidst these people he doesn't know. What makes it worse is that he knows he's normally better than this with people. He should have them laughing and buying him drinks by now. And there's still the moon, its inflated silver shape hanging between the clouds. How long has it been since he had a good punch-up? Stop thinkin about it n let's get out of here.

"Thank yeh kindly, Tongue-Twister," he says, putting on his jolly rogue act once more. "And it was lovely meetin the rest of yeh but it's time I was headin off. And I believe I was goin t'walk yeh home, Moira." He drops her a wink and wonders if it will get her into some kind of trouble. These lot seem a gossipy bunch. Ah well, it's done now.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas's eyes had only briefly brushed over Katherine's profile; for the most part, the easy contact of their minds is enough. Ha! he scoffs, that's what you think. The rest of the answer comes, then, and Lukas grows quieter in their minds, thoughtful. Don't fall too fast, Katherine, is all he says -- thinks -- before Danicka's address turns his head, and his attention.

He looks at her a moment, the woman he just had dinner with, and not rack of lamb or porterhouse steak, not lobster and scallop or French-Vietnamese fusion, but ... sandwiches. In a local joint blessed, apparently, by the god of such things.

And Lukas nods once. "Uvidíme se tam."


[okay, REALLY leaving now!]