beginnings.

[Edward Bellamonte] ((Not it!))

[Sampson Musembi] (Might not be here! studying entomology! Will join if can!)

[Dying Light] ooc: 123-not-it-for-starting!

[Sampson Musembi] (Damon's it!)

[Lukas] (FINE.)

With a flash of light and a tremendous bang, the Moonbridge dumps the Traditionalists into the heart of the Caern of the Maelstrom!

Everyone is a little dazed from the trip.

[Dying Light] ( Oh, punk. (stalls) Okay. LOL. So we're now assuming everybody's there, huh? )

[Dying Light] ooc: also, brb! (switches names!)

[Lukas] (okay, due to puzzlement -- i think the way moonbridges work is, first you "call ahead" and tell the receiving end that XYZ are gonna show up. then XYZ show up. and then, if the guardians wanna be formal, they can come and challenge them and demand names, etc, but really all that should be already set up beforehand. i think moonbridges only open if both ends are okay with it.)
to Dying Light, Edward Bellamonte, Sampson Musembi

[Edward Bellamonte] "I still say they wouldn't have caught me for counting," mutters Edward who has a suit jacket over his arm. "I could have at least finished the deck, though I likely would have had to leave when the next shoe came in." He is, of course, somewhat irritated at having his fun interrupted.

[Sampson Musembi] "AIIIIIIAIAIAIIAIAAIIAIIII" So he's not all THAT Silent. Skinny Legs, his lupus form rahter that of a jackal-on-stilts, sails through the air and sprints in a tight circle around the pack, nipping at the collective asses where he can get away with it, then bounding away out of reach. Hopefully.

[Lukas] There's a cough -- then a groan.

In the stories, heroes always stepped off moonbridges shining and charged with power, godlike. In reality, most people end up in a heap, uncertain of which was was up, their minds mildly frazzled by the incredible speeds and distances they've traveled.

Slowly, someone sits up out of the jumbled heap. It turns out to be Lukas, holding his head gingerly.

Eventually, he collects his wits enough to speak -- squinting at the Silver Fang. "Have you lost your mind, Ed? You played that game a week ago. We're in Chicago now. Like we'd agreed. Remember?"

The yipping Strider, he simply ignores. For now.

[Dylan] The caern isn't silent; how could it be, when Maelstrom is its heart? The caern isn't silent. But it's as near silent as a caern with Maelstrom as its heart can be and this is the thing that Dylan notices.

Her questioning eyes have narrowed and the narrow sliver of them has swept across their surroundings. Has rested on the wyrmpole. Dylan is too conscious of her place to make any sudden movements toward that which she wants to study, but her eyes stay for a second, there, at the pole, and there, and also there, until returning to the back of Edward's head.

Dylan is standing behind him and Lukas, and her gaze slides from Edward's head to Lukas' shoulder, then down to Skinny Legs' dust devil cycle. She swats automatically at his muzzle when it comes too close to certain assets which should remain unnipped. "I'll use your legs as toothpicks," she says, equanimously. Then, "Hmm. It feels as if my voice should echo." Her gaze has gone back to the back of Edward's head, again. To his hand, the way he holds his jacket over one shoulder.

Then back to Lukas. Then back to Edward. Waitful. Watchful.

[Edward Bellamonte] "Oh, right. Chicago," he says with an exaggerated sneer, and one can practically hear upper class snobbery dripping from his tone - it's not that Chicago doesn't have its rich, of course, but simply that it doesn't have the same sort of rich to which Edward is accustomed. At least that he knows of. And when Skinny Legs comes nipping, Edward gives his own ass a little extra wiggle, teasing, and a grin breaks across is boyish (sometimes called baby)face.

"Right! Well, we've some things to do then, yes? Introductions to make and elbows to rub and all that. Someone did find out when the next opera is playing, I hope, and where the high stakes games are."

[Sampson Musembi] HAH! Skinny Legs releases his spirit wolf skin and the weaker, more wiley guise of humanity retakes him.
He grins at Dylan, his duty discharged. The man still has skinny legs and in fact the majority of his body is leg. The suit of sorts he wears, whatever one of his packmates has said should fit in, hangs on him, loose.
Then he yelps, and points a finger at the alpha, accusing him as his teeth shudder. "You said! Chicago was more SOUTH! You said! South was more WARM! This place is NOT warm! Where! Are! We?"

[Lukas] In the distance: moving shadows in the barren landscape. Guardians, perhaps? Watching, observing. The hair on Lukas' neck prickles at the sense -- imagined or otherwise -- of unseen eyes, watching.

His mind more or less pieced together now, the Shadow Lord gets to his feet. He is tall, of course, and broadshouldered, of course. His eyes are singularly frigid. He studies the landscape for a moment; then, almost casually, he cuffs Sampson on the ear hard enough to send the spindly man staggering sideways.

"Enough. Show some respect to your alpha. I doubt we're truly alone." Restlessly, the glacial eyes roam the quiet landscape. His words are meant for Edward, "I made the arrangements before we left. Our introductions have been forwarded to the Grand Elder, and accepted. The Warder informed me of the appropriate chiminage -- a sacrifice to the Totem -- and gave me the address of a few kin and kin establishments where we can settle down, get our bearings. This one," he passes the Fang a slip of paper, "looked particularly promising."

((Insert, y'know, TBD-details about michelle's kin establishment))

"But perhaps we should see about chiminage first," he finishes.

[Dylan] "If our introductions have been accepted, I see no reason to delay," Dylan offers. Dylan is never shy of offering an opinion and she watches Sampson reel then pick himself up again. Her eyes leave him as soon as he's righted himself, drawn again, irrevocably, irrepressibly, in the direction of the sound.

[Sampson Musembi] Stagger left--ow--, then realign right. Sampson settles down with familiarity, falling in line to one side of Dylan and Edward. Lukas is more than enough alone to cover the right flank of their alpha. The Kenyan nods helpfully at nothing at all, peering around at the nightscape for the faces he knows must be there. Lukas and Edward will decide what is needed, and when Dylan's guard is down-- someday-- Sampson will pick on her. Again.

[Edward Bellamonte] "Quite likely," he says with a grin and a shoulder nudge for his beta (Why [always, dear Gaia!] so serious?) on the side holding the jacket - even having just fallen off a moonbridge, even somewhat disheveled, the somewhat average looking (oh, but for that grin) but very well bred Fang is somehow dapper. "Hmm. I suspect this totem has seen enough blood spilled - that's not traditional, it's just cliched. Too bad that horrid waitress isn't here, I'd sacrifice her."

Regardless, he is leading the way, pondering - when he gets to the maw, where he must drop something, it's a card (the ace of spades, if anyone looks) that he pulls from his pocket and drops in. Very few know the significance of that card (or the pack from whence it came) to Edward, and he isn't likely to tell - even in the pack, only his sister(s) and possibly Lukas know. Regardless, there's his chiminage given - the card goes, of course, with some Gnosis, some of Edward's Self.

[Lukas] A bubble of humor escapes Lukas. A rare, surprisingly personable grin flashes white in the darkness. "She really was pretty bad, wasn't she? Though you can't really blame her for running skittish, after what Spindle-legs there did."

He grows quiet as they mount the hill to the seat of Maelstrom. The pack gathers at the edge -- those not online tonight presumably there, only quiet -- and Lukas has the good grace to allow both Bellamontes to perform their chiminages before him. Then he too steps to the edge, opening his overcoat to remove his wallet. Strips out all the cash. Folds it over once and tosses the whole of it into the whirling spirit. His face is expressionless as he watches it disappear.

Figures: only a Shadow Lord would try to bribe a totem with cold hard cash.

[Sampson Musembi] Sampson blinks rather like the Owl of his tribe, standing, thinking. "i.. Hm. Arm cuff from boar's horn? It is talen, but.. I can get more. Earring? Ahh no. So small a thing, and is very new. Not part of me. Something personal. AH! I know!"
Without further discussion, the man shoves both hands into his pants, rooting around, twisting a bit here and there, front and back, until he pulls out...
a sort of.. thong-like contraption with bits of fur and beads and ahh.. other crafted work on what there is of the front of the loincloth. "I will miss this. And it has been part of me one way or the other. Maelstrom! Spirit of this Caern! Nandi Son of Owl! From the Dark side of the moon, and I do mean Dark! Skinny Legs of Pack (INSERT NAME HERE) gives you honor from the earth and forests of my land! All Gaia is Gaia!"
The loincloth hits the water with a plop! Both the new change of ahh clothing and gnosis disappears into the totem.

[Sampson Musembi] (ok I think they might have a record for oddest things to feed Maelstrom. )
to Dylan, Edward Bellamonte, Lukas

[Dylan] The playing card, Katherine's chiminage; the wallet, the loin-cloth.
These things disappear almost immediately.

Maelstrom is awful and awesome in the older meanings of the words. A great and terrible thing. A great and terrible beauty. The pack's galliard wonders whether the local garou give Maelstrom the bodies of those who have bodies that are recovered, whether Maelstrom would be pleased by such a gift - the scarred and mangled remains of those who didn't survive.

Ever since the sacrifices began, Dylan's hand has been, white-knuckled, clenched around something she wears around her neck on a black chord. Do it, Dying Light, Dylan tells herself. You will be dying here anyway. Better to Maelstrom than to anything else. Better to Maelstrom than. Dylan's knuckles go still whiter - bones aren't that white; bones are yellower - and then she pulls the chord until it snaps.

She tosses it in, the thing around the chord and the chord, throws it as far, as straight and true as she possibly can, that it will land as close to the massive whirlpool's heart as possible.

She has nothing to say. That is, in and of itself, truly remarkable.

[Edward Bellamonte] "Well, there's that." This as an arm snakes out around Dylan's shoulders; he jokes, he plays, he teases, but he is nothing if not loyal and ever concerned about his packmates. "So! This place is too quiet - I like noise and lights and sounds. Shall we?"

There'd been reverence, of course, and now there's its opposite - goodness knows, Edward is rarely (surface) serious for long.

[Edward Bellamonte] ((Gah! Sorry.))
to Dylan, Lukas, Sampson Musembi

[Lukas] A pause -- then Lukas flips his wallet shut and puts it away, thinner now. He rebuttons his overcoat over it. Sampson was right about one thing. Chicago's winters are very, very cold. And while others might be bolder, might go about challenging the elements with bared flesh, Lukas is nothing if not practical. His trousers are thick-woven wool; he likely has thermal underwear on under it. His coat falls past his knees, and the collar is turned up. A scarf is tucked into the collar to seal out the last of the wind.

"A little warmth would be nice, too," he comments, following Edward down the hill. The ground is hardfrozen and icy, treacherous, but his steps are sure. He glances back once to make certain the rest of the pack were keeping up. "Did you have something in mind?"

[Dylan] "That was your cue, Sampson," Dylan says. Edward's arm hauled her away from the edge; she'd been reluctant to leave it. He'd have felt that, even though she didn't show it - not too much, anyway. Still, she gave her alpha a horrified, sidelong sort've glance at the affectionate gesture. "You know, to fart or something. Can't expect Edward to do somethin' like that. Dignity, and all." The joke wasn't one of her best, but she was shoving her hands deep in her pockets, exhaling. "Let's go somewhere with spirits. The kind you imbibe."

[Sampson Musembi] "Ahh important matters have distracted me, Dylan."Sampson wiggles his hips around a little till things fall where they should. "Drafty below. I hope my wives take flight for Chicago soon! My wives are very warm!" He bundles the heavy coat more firmly around his tropic-born self and follows beside Dylan.

[Lukas] "I think there's a steakhouse 'bout a quarter-mile away." Google. It has its uses, even for the traditional.

[Edward Bellamonte] "Ugh . . . spirits for the plebeians, then, perhaps a card game? Tell me, though, we can go somewhere real, not one of those chain places." And then there's Lukas, and Edwards lips twist into a brief pout of displeasure - were they not accustomed to such things, this would likely make those he's with want to give him nearly anything to bring back the grin. But as it is, it likely has Sampson wanting to throw a snowball or something. "Or . . . not. Steakhouse it is, I suppose."

[Dylan] (( And now I ask... Do we leave the caern to the other pack (LOL) and log into another room for the steakhouse or keep playing here or? ))
to Edward Bellamonte, Lukas, Sampson Musembi

[Lukas] Somewhere real, Edward complains, and Lukas snorts. "You don't trust me at all. One of these days I'll book us a reservation at the nearest Sizzler's, see how you like it then." They're at the edge of the bawn -- Lukas pulls aside the chainlink fence and stands aside while the pack files through.

[Lukas] (i suggest for the sake of laziness that we just stay in this room and put in our tags that we're in a steakhouse near the caern! and the modernists can come bother us there :D)
to Belinda Perry, Dylan, Edward Bellamonte, Sampson Musembi, Soledad Gutierrez

[Sampson Musembi] (Yes!)
to Belinda Perry, Dylan, Edward Bellamonte, Lukas, Soledad Gutierrez

[Edward Bellamonte] ((I actually need to duck out of IC - I can still be in and out in AIM, but things to do and so forth, and they should probably be done before midnight, or something. *plays at responsibility* But! I'll probably be around tomorrow.))
to Dylan, Lukas, Sampson Musembi

[Dylan] "Did I ever tell you the story of Black Jack Davie? He had multiple wives. And he was a gambler. His story should be educational for at least two of us," Dylan says, after a sidelong look for Sampson and then another for Edward. Dylan is an excellent purveyor of expressive looks.

[Sampson Musembi] (m. Ok fine. yeah i need to to. test to take! Sorry!)
to Belinda Perry, Dylan, Edward Bellamonte, Lukas, Soledad Gutierrez

[Soledad Gutierrez] (( Hold on! I'm trying to squeeze in a post before y'all actually hit the restaurant! ))
to Belinda Perry, Dylan, Edward Bellamonte, Lukas, Sampson Musembi

[Dylan] (( Maybe the 'fangs can split off after some atypical reveling at cheap steakhouse and we can just forward this scene a few hours, when our chars are drunker? LOL. ... And ... I guess Sampson goes with 'em? (LOL) Damon? ))
to Edward Bellamonte, Lukas, Sampson Musembi

[Lukas] (aw, okay. later guys! since we're getting ambushed, how bout we say the people that are leaving and/or are not here have gone on to eat? so it's just dyl and lukas.)
to Belinda Perry, Dylan, Edward Bellamonte, Sampson Musembi, Soledad Gutierrez

[Dylan] (( s'all good w/ me. ))

[Lukas] (or that works too. i think sol wants to meet @ the bawn though, so there's no guessing about whether or not the other party are garou. i'ma post something fast forwarding a few hours and then bringing the action back to the bawn!)
to Belinda Perry, Dylan, Edward Bellamonte, Sampson Musembi, Soledad Gutierrez

[Edward Bellamonte] ((Aww, man, we're getting ambushed? I can hang out for a little while, I suppose. Don't hate on me for the slow, though!))
to Belinda Perry, Dylan, Lukas, Sampson Musembi, Soledad Gutierrez

[Sampson Musembi] (Shit. ok. will wait. *LOL*)
to Belinda Perry, Dylan, Edward Bellamonte, Lukas, Soledad Gutierrez

[Lukas] And so they go. To a steakhouse. And eat. And drink. And get a little tipsy. And maybe more than a little tipsy. And some of the pack leave to sleep it off in motels and hotels and what have you, since no one was able to find the speakeasy tonight -- and the rest return to the caern.

So. Fast forward a few hours: the bawn, not far from the heart of the caern, in the grave of hallowed heroes. Lukas wanted to visit, to get a sense of the bloody history of their new home. He walks amongst the graves, his balance just a little off-kilter, the remnants of the bottle of scotch they'd had with dinner in his hand, crouching down now and then to read one gravestone or another.

The rest of the pack -- those still out -- are nearby, doubtless. Possibly bored with this morbid turn of events.

[Soledad Gutierrez] Soledad and Belinda were on the side of the chain link fence opposite of the Caern, apart from Maelstrom, but not necessarily out of the shelter of the Bawn and the shield it offered against the prying eyes and ears of humanity. While Belinda would be a new face, Edward (and possibly Lukas, depending on the timeline), would recognize the wirey Mexican girl that walked along the outside of the chainlink fence.

Her hair, a little past shoulder length, black and a little oily, fell to frame her face and sheild her ears from the cold. She was bundled in a heavy black leather jacket, with a scarf around her neck, as well as sturdy jeans that were tucked into boots. Belinda walked beside her, and a murmered conversation was occuring between the two women. However, upon recognizing the figure of the Ragabash Silver Fang on the inside of the fence, the Uktena fell quiet and her steps slowed.

She said nothing, did not confront the pack leader. Not yet, at least. For now she just watched with gears whirring fast behind her dark eyes.

[Edward Bellamonte] "Come on, Lukas, the dead can wait until morning. I'm freezing off bits that could be important, some day." This is said with good humor, of course - Edward is nearly always in good humor - and yes, that's all rich, playboy arrogance, if lighter and younger than it could be. He has a baby face and a boyish charm, this Silver Fang Ragabash, for all that his looks are somewhere around average, and his breeding is a beacon that could be seen for miles - not that his beta is much different in that respect.

[Dylan] ooc: WAIT WAIT WAIT. (LOL) should we ignore lukas' post and just go with soledad's as an action-starter? c'mon, guys. (stern) we can do this!

[Belinda Perry] [.... ]

[Soledad Gutierrez] (( This could be once you guys get back! It's cool! ))

[Edward Bellamonte] ((That's what I was figuring, really - that it was, in fact, after they got back.))

[Lukas] (LOL, LET'S JUST GO WITH SOLEDAD'S POST. that's FINE. MOVING ON NOW.)

[Belinda Perry] Dressed in a warm overcoat, shielded from the cold, Belinda was walking with a quiet clip of low slung heels. She pauses the conversation as her pack-mates attention drifts over to the other voices, and she follows the others glance through the chain links to the figures beyond. Her bold red hair is glossy, clipped back from her face with a large comb adorned with tiny soft feathers. Its a minor, textured detail but it accessorizes with the rest of her. She's certainly not another street rat, something to walk out of a high end jazz bar in an era gone before the years she was birthed.

The scent of her cigarette lingers from the smoke trail by her hand and drifts from painted lips. She's watching from the distance, half shielded by the others form. She's not particularly tall, average, 5.6", and of pale skin. "Is there a problem?" Her voice is low, accented by Louisiana origins.

[Soledad Gutierrez] (( Note, the bar skirmish that occured about three years ago between Oscar and Ed, Sol would'a been there in the background, you figure Lukas would have as well? ))
to Lukas

[Dylan] "You can go back, Edward," Dylan says, gentle-voiced. "We don't want you freezing off any important bits." The line's so deadpan it's quite difficult to tell if she's joking or being dead serious, considering. Dylan is crouched, as well, with her hands tucked under her armpits, her breath vapor-clouds -- ghosts of warmth. Her cheeks are flushed as red as a doll's and her eyes are as bright as stars, and she is, quite clearly, a little bit tipsy. Even with that, she's noticed the two women standing on the other side of the chainlink fence, and she stands up slowly. Too slowly. Too carefully. That's the drunk in her. "Hey, locals," she says, with a tip of her chin to indicate the women, away and across the gravesite, away and across the caern.

[Lukas] Edward -- his back to the fence -- is all good humor and good charm, as always. But when his Beta turns to flick some meaningless little retort back at him, he abruptly stills. His eyes cast beyond the Silver Fang. He's seen the women beyond the fence, seen their intent, unfriendly stares. It makes his face close up.

Slowly, without hurry, he straightens up. Every joint loose. He tugs the knot on his scarf apart, lets the halves hang from his shoulders.

A quiet word, but one that will call the pack to alertness: "Company."

[Lukas] (i don't think he was there, but he heard about it afterward. so he wouldn't recognize them by sight alone.)
to Soledad Gutierrez

[Sampson Musembi] Sampson studies the caern surroundings as they approach the fence, turns his head sharply at the sight of the women. He is quiet here by the graves, solemn in the company of spirits. A theurge would be useful about now. The first contact is for Edward to make, and so Skinny Legs pretends to calmness.
Its a stretch.

[Lukas] (OK folks, this is apparently how we're gonna play it:

Ed, Katherine, Oscar and Soledad know each other on sight and have some bad history. The rest of us probably know OF the bad history, and would link the faces to the names immediately if told.)
to Dylan, Edward Bellamonte, Sampson Musembi

[Soledad Gutierrez] The pack (from what she can see, that's what they must be) took notice of her and Belinda, and at this point Sol stopped walking completely. Her right hand drew itself from the pocket of her jacket, exposed the fact that it was sheathed in a thick gray-brown-white woolen mitten, with the flap that would normally cover the fingers pulled back and buttoned to the back of her hand, making the glove 'fingerless' for the moment. Her hand came to rest on top of the chain link fence, and the other remained in her pocket.

Dark eyes flickered toward the red-haired woman beside her, the woman was just a little shorter than her, Soledad stood at a surprisingly tall and willowy 5'8" for her Hispanic heritage, suggesting something else must be mixed in there as well, along with certain features of her face as well. She then returned her gaze to the pack as they drew themselves to a more organized attention.

To answer her question, "Not yet," rumbled from the younger girl's mouth in a low alto voice, flavored with only the slightest hint of a Mexican accent, hardly recognizable if you weren't looking for it.

[Soledad Gutierrez] (( 'Kay! ))
to Lukas

[Edward Bellamonte] "Well, someone's been drilling holes in the back of my head for five minutes now," he says with a shrug - which is to say, of course, that he'd noticed, but had figured if it were important, whoever it was would come speak to him. He is, after all, the brash lordling, the prince, and it's with him that audiences should be sought. Now, with an eyebrow raised - but no less friendly (in his prince amongst men way) for all that, he turns to face the fence, the larger part of his pack at his back, to assess the two women. "Hello," he says, enunciating carefully - he is not drunk, drinks to excess rarely at best and seldom out and about, and rarer still does he do so when out and about - in case either of them doesn't speak English, perhaps, or just in case they don't speak upper class. "It's a pleasure."

But when his eyes hit Soledad, they narrow just slightly - nostrils flare, useless in Homid, as if to catch some bit of scent, some clue. It takes him a while before, "Oh. You're that little girl from that bar - the Fianna's pet." Names, names, what were there . . . "Sunshine or something like that, yes?"

[Belinda Perry] Her brows raise and drop, in the classical well then expression. Nothing to be a bother about (for the moment), she figures and draws her free hand across her belly, beneath her breasts. Her hip cocks out just slight to the side and her other hand brings her cigarette up for a slow drag. The cherry of it glows orange for the length of her inhale and dies down in brightness as she drifts it away from her mouth to hold it down by her side.

She's taking the back seat, observing from her slight behind position. Older by a few years, reaching her mid twenties, at latest, still makes her the legal eldest but she doesn't seem to mind that Soledad is staring at the others, taking lead (perhaps). Her blue eyes are clear enough, even in the faint light, and are settled forward, sliding over each individual in turn.

"Did he just call you sunshine?" The mirth is evident in the low voice, in the way a half chuckle enters the English language. She's instantly bemused.

[Dylan] Dylan raises an eyebrow at Edward's assessment. Also, a furrow of exasperation appears between her eyebrows; her packmates know how Dylan is about names, about remembering them.

Her gaze splashes from Edward, to the women; to Lukas, to see what his reaction is, whether it's any more elaborate or he knows just wtf Fianna's pet means in context. It sure hasn't clicked for Dylan.

[Lukas] There are four of them, Edward's pack. In all, there are six; but tonight, right now, there are four. They had been relaxed, a little drunk, easy in one another's company, bantering -- but now, as one, they coalesce together, form on their alpha's flanks. They harden, even as the alpha's eyes harden, and they are all at once undeniably Garou, beasts, warriors of gaia.

To the Alpha's right looms the tallest and broadest of this small coterie: a stonefaced, ice-eyed young man, expensively but unostentatiously dressed. He shifts his weight slightly, redistributes it evenly. There is a bottle of whiskey in his hand, mostly finished. He takes a swig from it and then sets it down on the cold, icy earth.

Low, an undertone to his Alpha, "These the ones you told me about?" His eyes leave the women briefly, touch on Edward. "At the bar, in ... Boston, wherever it was?"

[Soledad Gutierrez] Sol had aged since Edward had last seen her. In her mid teens, she was much shorter than she was now, perhaps 5'3" at best, and her hair had been very long, very wavey, and was a dusky brown with natural blonde highlights streaked throughout it. Somewhere along the line since they last met Sol's hair had been cut, and either had darkened naturally or had been dyed black.

Her face was still very young, though, that certainly didn't change a bit. Her eyes were still dark and intense, her face oval and soft. Her somewhat heavy brows furrowed just slightly, and she tipped her rounded chin upward into the air when Edward and his pack approached, and Edward felt the need to make his smart-alecked comment. She couldn't recall his auspice, it wasn't importat, she just remembered him as That Silver Fang. She could definately take a guess, though.

"Something like that..." Sol didn't bother to correct him. He would call her what he wanted, it didn't matter what she had to say. The same applied to him. He may give her a name, a title, what have you, but she would still no doubt ignore that he had a name at all.

Her eyes skimmed over Lukas's face and figure when he spoke, then slid slowly from him to the other woman and man that kept company with the Fang from Boston.

[Sampson Musembi] The dark man is not precisely tall, no. He is just.. leggy. Mostly leg, and slender in the way many of his tribe are slender and built for sprinting. The light in his eyes is fierce, and proud, and ready, as the pack unites with hardly any movement. He is probably the most bundled of the bunch, with earmuffs, scarves-plural-, gloves, warm running shoes, and a heavy coat., none of which gives him enough bulk to be physically impressive.
The Kenyan is also young, barely a man by American standards, with no facial hair, and no hint of his tribe in the way the others in the pack drip a spiritual legacy.

[Edward Bellamonte] "I don't know the red-head, only saw the spic," he says with a shrug - it's a bad enough insult to a mortal, perhaps. Even though he doesn't put any particular weight behind it, one might imagine it's worse to a Garou. "The Fianna was the one who spoke about my sisters." Which is, of course, the reason for the enmity - Edward can take a lot. He doesn't much mind, really, what people say about him - if it's bad, goodness knows he can prove it wrong and if it's good, it's probably deserved or at least will be. What people say about his sisters, though . . .

Well, that's a different story.

His hair, a bit shaggy, is shaken out of his eyes; a dark, chestnut brown, it falls perfectly into place, into rich boy dishevelment. By now, the suit jacket has taken residence where it belongs, protecting Edward's arms and shoulders from the elements, but that is the only concession he makes for such - he is from colder climes, perhaps spent large amounts of time in them when he was younger. "Ah, well then - perhaps not so much a pleasure as auspicious." He's not going to pick a fight, it seems - but that certainly doesn't mean he relaxes.

[Belinda Perry] "Well?" She says to Soledad, drawing her gaze away and to the ground where she drops the cigarette, crushing it beneath the toe of a shoe designed from ballroom dance floors. They are practical, pretty, thicker soled for the outdoors. Its for steady balance and they match well with her jacket, pulled snug and concealing everything but the bottom half of her textured leggings.

Looking back up to her, to those beyond, "Shall we continue to stand here and let the skittish squirrels chitter amongst themselves, or will we be moving on?" Her arm has unfolded from her waist and she plucks a set of gloves from her pocket, unfolding them with a twist of her hand.

[Lukas] It's well below freezing tonight. The Garou gathered huff white steam into the air with every breath. The regard continues for some seconds more. Then, as though abruptly aware of the absurdity of staring silently through a chain link fence, Lukas glances briefly -- casually -- toward Dylan.

"Why don't you make the introductions for all of us, Dyl." Galliard and all. A beat, as he levels his glacial eyes on the women, "And invite them in."

There's a subtle maneuver there, for those who care to look. The right to invite could be -- could be -- read as a claim of ownership.

[Soledad Gutierrez] Sol's back teeth ground together just a little in response to the racial slur, but it didn't anger her nearly as much as it would others, or perhaps was expected to. She glanced toward Belinda when the Galliard spoke, and her eyes followed the glow of the cigarette cherry as it fell to the ground, then was extinguished beneath the Glass Walker's heel. A deep breath was taken in through her nostrils and exhaled through parted lips, and her shoulders rolled in a casual shrug. Sol could care less what they did or where they went, truth be told. She tended to keep an 'along for the ride' air about her, and this was a fine example of it.

Her gaze returned to the pack across the fence from them though, no comment was offered in response to Edward's mention of the meeting not being much of a pleasure, but she instead payed more mind to the taller man, and then to the woman he had glanced at. This 'Dill', as he called her, would be making introductions it seemed.

[Dylan] There is not so much as a drop -- not the faintest hint -- of purebreed to Dylan. Purebreed does not waft from her. Does not delineate her, the way it does Edward. The way it does Lukas. Does not transform her features into the distant echo of heroes long dead. No. Dylan is just a woman with flushed cheeks and remarkably steady eyes and a Fargo hat that does a good job of concealing the color of her hair. No sense of style, no immaculately tailored clothing, troubles her.

Her expression slants quizzical when Edward elaborates and then revelation dawns. The revelation is followed quickly by the sudden touch of humor, which she hides, by lowering her gaze to look at the toes of her boots. Should we be snapping our fingers? Dylan shifts, restlessly, restlessly, restlessly.

This standing isn't sitting well with her, so: "My pleasure, Lukas," Dylan says, with a brief twist of her lips. The twist? Maybe a tad wry, at the echo of Edward found there. Then she raises her voice, and it is as strong, as steady and as remarkable as her eyes; a galliard's voice, well-used; a galliard's voice, well-practiced, lifted under a galliard's moon. It isn't friendly, but it isn't unfriendly, either. It's -- controlled -- the way an ahroun controls his strength when his temper hasn't the best of him. Controlled, the way a philodox controls his arguments, when his temper hasn't the best of him.

"Don't leave," she says, to Soledad and Belinda. "Stay; come in. This is," and she starts with Edward, because his introduction will take the most breath to say; Silver Fangs, with their long introductions. He's the alpha of their pack, a name she also knows, and also gives, although her player may still be completely clueless about it. Then she introduces Lukas, and then Sampson, and she follows it with her own introduction: "And I'm Dying Light, cliath of the glasswalker tribe, and galliard for [that pack name that she knows so well]."

ooc: sorry y'all, I ran to get my dinner. ha.

[Belinda Perry] The Glass Walker gives introductions and Belinda glances at each in turn. She's not all eyes for them, she's busy pulling on her gloves, fitting them to her fingers, between them and over them. By the time the others are finished, she's pressing her thumb to clip the soft leather in place, secured at her wrists. "How delightful." Her murmur is low enough that perhaps even Soledad misses it, its sarcasm stains the corner of her mouth, pressing it into a brief line. There's no rush for her to offer her own introductions or her pack mates. No desire, at all.

[Sampson Musembi] (is that all she does then is pull on her gloves and Not introduce herself or her pack mates?)

[Belinda Perry] [Yup.]

[Edward Bellamonte] "Tsk, tsk," Edward says, just loud enough to carry - his grin is infectious, tends to make people feel good and want to answer it in kind. Now faced with something like disappointment, or perhaps disapproval, instead of it, one wonders . . . well. First, it must be said - Edward is a warm person, a comfortable person. For all his upper class airs and clear breeding, there's something about him that feels almost like home, and most people feel it.

This is only one face of the Silver Fang Ragabash.

This disdain is a cool, dark thing - it's not heavy, but dismissive, and after the warmth about him it often comes as a shock, unexpected and unpleasant.

"Not a drop of manners between the two of them. As we were, then - not much point to a one sided conversation, is there?"

[Belinda Perry] [might want to give soledad a chance to reply though. She might introduce.]

[Lukas] Edward has already dismissed the pair; Lukas, however, remains where he is, rooted, his hands loosely clasped at this back: a creature of immense stillness, immense physical confidence. He turns his pale eyes on the second -- the smaller of the pair, but the one that his sixth sense told him was the higher-ranked. It's in the way they stand around each other, you see, just as one might read rank in the way he and Edward stand.

[Soledad Gutierrez] Soledad's attention remained primarily on the woman in the hat as she spoke. She knew of Edward the Silver Fang, but the Silent Strider and Shadow Lord were new to her, as was this Glass Walker. A small part of her mind puzzled over the reasons that a Shadow Lord was following a Silver Fang, but she said nothing. Merely ran her tongue blandly over semi-chapped lips and nodded in understanding as this 'Dill' woman, this 'Dying Light' finished.

She was a little slow to speak, glanced over to Belinda as she murmered her low sarcasm and adjusted her gloves, then opened her mouth to talk, but closed it again when the Silver Fang's voice lifted before she had a chance to rumble her own through the fence.

Instead, she grunted and removed her right hand from the fence, chosing to fold her arms across her chest, which was likely flat as a boy's, considering how the bulk of her leather jacket didn't rise in the bossom as most womens' would.

"Not a drop of manners between the three of us, then, Edward Silver Fang. Is it common habit for you to interrupt those you meet?"

[Edward Bellamonte] ((Sorry, lost track.))

[Soledad Gutierrez] (( S'fine. :) ))

[Belinda Perry] With a single step she's more in view, to better be able to look past the way Soledad now stands with her arms crossed which broadens the slender shoulders. She meets Lukas' look. There's nothing hostile in hers. Blue eyes are clear, intelligent but not filled with some challenging pressures or air. Her red lips, painted delicate on their curve, curls into a slow but closed mouth smile. A brow arches quick, a hiccup of a gesture that could be suggestive or amused. His chiseled and cold demeanor bothers her as little as the way the Fang dismisses them.

[Soledad Gutierrez] (( I'm gonna need to go to bed here real soon. Got work retardedly early in the morning. ))

[Sampson Musembi] His hand raises, as if to catch the introduction of Soledad.
None comes.
The nostrils of the Kenyan man flare, and now he speaks, his no-moon's grin widening to large enough to eat Elephant shit.
"Alpha Edward, You must not be insulted! that one of True Blood does not return such a generous and proper introduction. You must be generous yourself! for one who has no deeds to introduce!, no name! nothing to honor the great heritage she has been given. Perhaps in time, she will earn her name in wonderful renown, for my dark moon tells me only a cub would so fail in politeness.
No wait! Perhaps she speaks! No wait! she does not! Or does she? Life is short, for such long pauses!"

[Lukas] Lukas -- how shall we put it? -- smirks.

[Soledad Gutierrez] Once again, Soledad's eyes flicker toward Belinda, though this time the flicker is more of a slice. A cut through the air, restrained reprimanding that would be administered at a later time. Instead, though, she looked to Sampson as he spoke, clenched her teeth and gave her soft face a hardened, almost squared edge about her jaw in doing so, and waited until he was finished with his smart-assery.

Once that had passed, she spoke in that low alto of a voice that people almost needed to strain their ears to hear.

"I am [Insert Deed Name I haven't thought of Yet], Beta of the [Insert Undecided Pack Name]. Cliath Ahroun Uktena." Her head jerked to the side, gesturing to Belinda. "This is [Deed Name], also a member of [Pack Name]. Cliath Galliard Glass Walker." Again she glanced to Dylan. "A tiny something in common between us, it seems."

[Belinda Perry] "Oh, you see.." Looking a little confused now, obviously put-on, she gestures to Soledad with a wave of her gloved hand, showing a lazy animation to her movements the moment Sampson has spoken. "You must be confused, Sampson, wasn't it? I was under the impression your Alpha there, already knew us by deeds of before. A pity all your memories are so weak and fickle. First calling her sunshine and now, claiming ignorance of us... "

"Perhaps I, we, should be offended. A shame, no moon, that we're not. You'll need to try a little harder. Beyond the first grade impressionism of comic relief is my suggestion."

She's Belinda, Bloodlet Whisper, Perry. Cliath, Galliard of the Glass Walkers, or thats what Soledad claims.

[Lukas] With the introductions, Lukas' smirk subsumes, leaving his face smooth and expressionless again: a blank canvas, pure east europe, all sharp wide cheekbones and angular jaw. He listens carefully to both names. Then: "Where is your Alpha?"

[Soledad Gutierrez] And this time Sol's attention turns to Lukas. In the Alpha's absence, the Beta took over in public relations. It wasn't her strong point, not by a long shot, but it was what she was supposed to do. So manner did seem to be lacking, and that much was left all too obvious by how she responded.

"Where he pleases. I'm not his keeper."

[Edward Bellamonte] Where, indeed - though! Before we get quite that far, Soledad's question gets a smirk, a shrug. "Sometimes. When they take longer than is necessary for such a simple thing as introductions."

Then there is the rest, and his brow raises at this burlesque dancer of a Glass Walker Galliard before dropping back down to its natural position. When he answers Belinda, it comes as easily, naturally as anything before it - there is no hint of defense, nor any of offense - it simply is. "Ah, see, I said I didn't know you, in fact, Miss Perry, and that I had seen your Beta. Regardless, you would both do well to learn something of how to speak to your elders." Because he is, in fact - in rank, if not necessarily in age.

[Lukas] (in the interest of time, i'm just gonna start posting whenever i'm ready. just ping me if you want me to hold off)

A faint sound in the back of his mouth, a click of his tongue. "No need to get defensive. It was only a question." The ice-strewn eyes skate over the pair again, then back to Soledad. "Your pack is here to stay, then? Or only passing through?"

[Sampson Musembi] A twist of his face, as if he's tasted something foul. "Gaillard Dylan! Wordsmith! Did That woman just insult the traditional introduction? For I think she has. Or is The Way no longer that one pack is introduced! and the other responds in kind? Is the way now! that one pack will introduce! and the other is excused if just ONE! of the first pack has knowledge of the other? Or perhaps, these two women are excused of the garou traditions, because! they are Special!"

[Soledad Gutierrez] (( And it's bedtime. How shall I slide out of here? ))

[Edward Bellamonte] ((Me too, as I've been pretty useless here and it's now after midnight, heh.))

[Lukas] (ANSWER MY QUESTION FIRST! then flounce off, you rude woman, you.)

[Soledad Gutierrez] (( I MISSED IT. :( ))

[Belinda Perry] "Are you admitting that a little Cliath's mere words have ruffled your peacock feathers, Monsieur Bellamonte?" She retorts with her quiet little air. Belinda is, could be, as stuffy and as infuriating as any Silver Fang. Except, well, she's no breeding in her whatsoever. Nor, would it seem, that she cares.

A glance to Sampson, "I'd also suggest some Q-tips."

She turns her gaze to Lukas and the nearby Dylan. Listening.

[Soledad Gutierrez] Sol's gaze had been face hopping ever since the groups collided. It went from Lukas to Ed to Sampson to Lukas again. Her two front teeth pressed into her lower lip for a moment while she thought about his question. It appeared as though she had not quite decided on that point just yet. This time, though, she did not glance to Belinda. She didn't need the Galliard's help answering this.

The response did come, though it was a few seconds later than what one would want it to be. "We've yet to decide on that point, it seems."

[Soledad Gutierrez] (( So. Pause? Assumed ruffled departure of ways? Something? ))

[Sampson Musembi] (Defers to alpha and beta... )

[Belinda Perry] [I think parting? Bel and Sol can drift off to do whatever they were off to do in their oh so purposeful manner.]

[Lukas] "Well." His eyes fix on Soledad. "Welcome to Chicago."

(i'm staying, if anyone wants to keep playing! and thanks for the RP, those of you who are leaving :D i think this is gonna be a blast)

[Dylan] Dylan's eyebrows quiver (surprise?) when Belinda is revealed as another glasswalker galliard. But Chicago has never wanted for glasswalkers. And she's never met an Uktena before, so Soledad intrigues her; would intrigue her were it not for the shared bad blood between her and some members of Dylan's pack.

And Dylan also wrinkles her nose when Sampson, making his point, crosses her human name with her garou auspices. It's like -- coffee and orange juice in one glass. Disgusting. "The traditions haven't changed," she says, calmly, "And I hope that a day never dawns where garou stop telling each other their names; stop telling each other what they have done, and where they have come, and what they will do to further the war." Her mouth crooks, quiet. To Belinda, "Another galliard is well-met, regardless. I look forward to hearing what you have to say, when you're in a temper to say it."

[Soledad Gutierrez] (( We'll have Bel and Sol wander off, gruff no doubt, but Sol would be mindful enough to thank them for the offer to stay but decline. Then they'll be off in a dash. ))

[Sampson Musembi] (No sorry, Blast is retired, but thaanks! gonna go study fr REAL now since you gamer addicts STOLE ME from my BUG STUDY)

[Soledad Gutierrez] (( Night then! *Scamper* ))

[Lukas] (night!)

[Belinda Perry] To Dylan, Belinda would give a smile. There's nothing smug about it. It's pleasant. She inclines her head in a genteel nod as they were about to depart, "I'm sure it will be a delight. Have a good evening, Miss."

[Sampson Musembi] (nigth all!)

[Belinda Perry] [Off for an hour or so, will be back later if anyone else is on. Thanks for the scene!]

[Edward Bellamonte] "Ugh. Seriously, when did basic etiquette stop being a requirement for one to be allowed out of the house? And now, please, let's go inside somewhere." And whether or not his packmates follow - after all that, he figures they will, or at least won't be too long about it - Edward is off to do just that.

[Dylan] "You must begin as you mean to continue," Dylan says, not-so-cryptically. "I'm going back to the graves, Edward-rhya; I'll be along." He assumes they were going to follow him, but Dylan has scruples; she doesn't let him assume, and drift off regardless. Soledad and Belinda aren't an immediate threat; she doesn't think there'll be any more've a pissing contest if Edward goes on his way alone.

[Lukas] "I'll be with you in a bit." Bending, Lukas picks the mostly-finished bottle of scotch up again. "See you, Ed."

After the Alpha departs, Lukas exhales a short breath -- something like humor -- and offers Dylan a wry smile. He seems about to say something. Then he finds he has nothing to say; no words, really, for the encounter just now. Except, perhaps: buzzkill. So he offers her the bottle instead, and then moves past her to brush the snow off the nearest headstone.

[Hatchet] (...Steakhouse? I thought I read that somewhere. Or are you guys BREAKING UP?)
to Dylan, Edward Bellamonte, Lukas

[Edward Bellamonte] ((Thanks for the scene!))

[Dylan] (( Hee. We came back from the steakhouse. We're now at the hallowed heroes place. ))

[Edward Bellamonte] ((I? Am going to go to bed, it's nearly 1am and I have a kid to get to school in the morning. But . . . yeah, what Jess said.))
to Dylan, Hatchet, Lukas

[Dylan] Edward disappears; Dylan wanders to another grave, to read the deeds engraven there. When Lukas offers her the bottle, she takes it; regards it; takes a pull, then offers it back. "We should make snow angels for the dead," she says, fueled by whisky. "Think they'd like that?"

[Dylan] ooc: or fueled by scotch; whatever.

[Lukas] Solemnly, the Lord regards his packmate. He gives her suggestion consideration, or the semblance of such, for the space of a few seconds. Then, "No." The very corners of his mouth curl up, like paper singed by fire. "I doubt it."

She passes the bottle back. He tilts it back, drinks deeply. What fluid remains sloshes against the bottom as he lowers the bottle and caps it. Kicking the snow off a fallen branch -- no, wait, it's not a branch, merely a chunk of broken concrete -- he takes a seat, the bottle held in his gloved hands, propped against his thigh.

"You could sing something," he suggests. "Or recite a poem. Howl."

[Hatchet] His oldest and his next-to-newest packmate have got to be around here somewhere. He's sure of it. That, ostensibly, is what brings Oscar tromping up towards the Graves. He is muttering to himself, at least mentally, about what the Hell he was thinking letting himself end up in a pack with four females. All at the same time. Spends half his time running after them for some reason or another, that's what it is. And they wonder why he drinks so much.

Well, not really. He's a Fianna. It's unlikely anyone wonders why he drinks so much. It is also quite likely he has something drinkable and alcoholic somewhere on him at the moment, but that's beside the point. What else do you do when you're amongst the dead?

He sees shapes. Not a brightly-topped Belinda shape or a familiar Soledad shape, but ...oh great Goddess, it's something male. Oscar comes closer. He's on the tall side, a couple of inches over six feet, wearing jeans and boots and a big wool coat that doesn't give one much of an idea of what he looks like underneath it. He is fair-haired, tan-skinned despite the cloudy sky, and his eyes are gray. He does not wait to be noticed, but speaks up immediately.

"Either of you seen a little Mexican and a less-little redhead around here?" he asks, laying one hand out in the air to indicate Sol's height and his other to indicate Bel's.

[Dylan] "So very true, Lukas. Ahem. This is an old story," Dylan says, in response. "Do you want to know how I know it's old?" There's a beat; she waits for it. Waits for a response from a ghost, or some indication from Lukas that he's listening.

"Ha! I'll tell you. Because I heard it from Sings of Stones, galliard of the Fianna tribe, who heard it from Ghost Eye, theurge of the Get of Fenris, who heard it from a fish fished out of Lake Michigan. Now just why in the heck would a fish who'd just been fished out of a lake give any sort've story of worth at all to the garou who did the fishing? Was it just 'cause Ghost Eye was a theurge? Oh, no. No, no, NO. Ghost Eye was more than a theurge. Ghost Eye was a theurge with manners," a wry smile, and a muted sparkle in the eyes -- that's the theme of th enight, right? "And he'd given all due thanks to the spirit of the fish once it'd been fished out, and because it had been so long, so very long, since one of its brethren had been honored before they'd been consumed, the fish spirit had given up a story."

And Dylan holds out her hand, tacit request for more alcohol. And she'd say more, after she got it, had Hatchet not appeared just then and asked them a question. She cants her head, wolfish, and regards Hatchet, and she nods, but lets Lukas field the question.

[Lukas] Immediately, even before the newcomer speaks, Lukas is watching him: casual, but alert. That's his job, after all. The Ahroun. The protector. The beta, who looks after the pack, takes care of the minor concerns to free the alpha for the more important things.

All that.

However, when the man asks of the two recently-departed, his attention sharpens somewhat. He regards the other thoughtfully; he lets Dylan -- or would have let Dylan field the question, had Dylan's silence not spoken for her.

So he passes the bottle to Dylan, instead. The gesture is smooth; he does not need to look to know where his packmate's hand is.

"Yeah." The young man seated on the broken concrete is a hulking shape in his heavy overcoat, his gloves and scarf -- some Boris or Sasha or Miklos or Jiri straight out of the slavic principalities. When he speaks, though, his accent is uninterestingly american, without even a hint of his undeniable ancestry. "They just left, actually. You're with them?"

[Hatchet] Oscar is...well, amongst Cliaths and younger generations of Garou, he's kind of old. It's not just the hair on his jaw and upper lip that differentiate him; with the right genes, a fourteen-year-old can grow what Oscar has on his face. It's the look in his eyes and the scars on his hands, the scar on the right side of his neck that looks like someone once tried to slit his throat. It's even the tiny scar on his left eyebrow, barely discernable unless you're looking close and see the cut that almost bisected his brow. That one, actually, happened a long time before he ever Changed, but it's still there.

He drops his hands and rubs them together twice before putting them in the pockets of his coat. "Well, I suppose you could say they're with me, as much as I'm with them," he says, sounding idle with his answer and looking around -- not at the air, where there will be nothing for him now, but at the ground, where there may be tracks. "They say where they were headed, by chance?" Not that they said where they were going in the first place, he adds to himself.

[Dylan] "They didn't say very much at all," Dylan replies. "They were on the other side of the fence," she adds, jerking her thumb that-a-way. Hatchet is tall; Dylan considers standing. After a moment's consideration, she does stand. As she stands, she watches the newcomer garou through the mostly empty bottle of scotch. She is taking in Oscar's scars; she is taking in Oscar's age. She's taking it all in. "Care to introduce yourself?"

[Lukas] Lukas' turn to listen -- he remains where he is, seated on the jagged block of concrete, his hands empty now. The pair are of similar age, early twenties, thereabout, but indefinably different. Perhaps it's that Dylan stands, whereas Lukas does not feel the need; perhaps it's the particular tone of their voices, or the way they move, or some subtle interplay of responsibility between them --

It is clear, nonetheless, that they are packmates; and that the young man ranks higher than his companion.

[Lukas] (btw, don't wait for me to post -- i'll post whenever i have something to say, and i'll yell if i need you guys to hold up for me :D)

[Belinda Perry] [I am back! Diff timezones blow. *grin* Had to pick up the kids and feed them. It's only 5.30pm here.]
to Dylan, Hatchet, Lukas

[Hatchet] "Buried Hatchet," he says, his shoulders relaxed. "Philodox of the Fianna, Fostern Alpha of [Weasel's Happy Bunch]." He looks between Dylan and Lukas, neither one getting the majority of his attention as yet, when he knows nothing about them. "And you?"

[Hatchet] ((Sorry about the wait; multi-tasking.)
to Belinda Perry, Dylan, Lukas

[Dylan] His name - or, rather, his position in context of the earlier conversation between his packmates and hers - means something to Dylan. The something makes her gaze sharpen; makes her eyebrows both rise up and then the corners of her mouth pull downward. Buried Hatchet? The name strikes her as ironic; perhaps it's something to strive for. Perhaps he's got his own story; perhaps it doesn't matter.

"This is [and full introduction for Lukas, blah blah pack name because she totally knows all this information blah blah blah]. And I'm Dying Light. Cliath Galliard of the Glass Walkers."

[Lukas] Lukas' mouth twists -- it's a curious expression, somewhere between grimace and smile.

He does not stand, but he does draw himself straighter. "I am Lukas Wyrmbreaker," and he pronounces it the right way, Lukasch, and all at once there is no doubt that this man's first language was not, after all, English, "cliath Shadow Lord, Beta to Edward [Ed's Garou name here!]. I believe the two of you have met. This is my packmate, Dylan Dying-Light of the Glass Walkers, also cliath."

[Dylan] ooc: Hee, if it looks like Lukas is gonna talk, Dylan'll shut up, so you can disregard my post.

[Dylan] ooc: ...well, the talking part of it.

[Belinda Perry] Ask and ye shall receive.

... well not quite. It was probably more of a self serving reason that the pert blossom was heading back this way, but that was neither here nor there and was not anyone's business but her own. At first she is a orange firefly hovering through the air, slowly moving in their direction in a strange, and very slow, zig-sag motion. It is, of course, her cigarette that she's smoking, moving it from mouth to side as she wanders in the vague direction the others had been previously found.

Then she's the 5.6" length, that included the three-quarter inch ballroom heel, dressed in her textured leggings and the overcoat that was pulled snug around a vague womanly shape (we say vague because it's winter and thin clothes really done bode well for a woman's lovely assets, certain things can freeze to the core and its not at all pleasant, mind), buttoned at the side of her waist down towards her hip in a bygone era wrap-style. The high collar keeps her neck warm and the soft leather of her gloves keeps chill from her fingers.

She's pausing (just out of earshot?), cigarette balanced between her fingers as she re-clasps that dyed job hair, quite marvelous really in its glossy coat, at the base of her neck. The fine cover of feathers, tiny, just the wispy bits really, cling to both her hair and the clip beneath. As always, its as if she has all the time in the world, unhurried and precise in her mannerisms.

[Hatchet] He makes no secret of who he is, or what is rank is, or the fact that he is looking for two little lost girls that are supposedly 'with him'. Oscar does not use his mortal name, the one he went by most often during that time a few years ago when he was in Boston. The man has gotten around, which may have something to do with his lack of identifying accent telling anyone where he might be from originally.

I believe the two of you have met.

Oscar does not suddenly go dark and dour. He brightens, keen interest and maybe even delight erupting across his features. "Of course, Edward. It's been a stupidly long time. How is old Edward?"

[Dylan] ooc: and I'll brb, y'all.

[Lukas] Lukas does not seem to share his enthusiasm. "Old Edward," he says, crisply, "is still angry."

There's a little bit of whiskey left in the bottle. Perhaps now would be the time to share a loving cup, all that. However, the night's cold, and Lukas' belly could use a little warming. He quaffs the last of it when he gets it back from Dylan, sets the empty bottle between his feet, against the snowdusted concrete.

"Let's cut the pleasantries, shall we? I don't like you insulting my packmate or the kin of my pack any more than my Alpha did, but there are more important things at stake here. Such as the war on the wyrm. Such as a caern in dire need of leadership. What's a few drunken words between friends? So long as you know of our intentions here in Chicago -- and stay out of our way -- I think we'll get along just fine." A beat. "Rhya."

[Hatchet] Now, if there is one thing that can be said of a great many Half-Moons littering Gaia's face at the moment, or any given moment, they can listen. Not all of them, mind, just as not all Ragabashes have senses of humor and not all Galliards can sing. Buried Hatchet, as he called himself, can listen. He's actually remarkably good at listening, even.

Had he not Changed, maybe he would have gone to college, grown up like a big boy, and would currently be in graduate school so that he could wear khakis and charge people money to listen to them. But that isn't what happened, and that isn't what's going to happen, and it's rather unlikely that the rest of his personality would have been suited to such a life.

However: the man can listen. To Shadow Lords and Glass Walkers and packmates and non-packmates alike, those of his rank or below it, and most certainly above it. He listens attentively, instead of giving Lukasch a sneer or a smirk. If there is a glint of amusement in his eyes, well...that could just be the moonlight coming off the snow. There is a great deal of it tonight, both moonlight and snow.

And when Lukas Wyrmbreaker is done, tacking on an honorific the way one might leave a penny as a tip for a server at a restaurant, the man with the peacemaking name nods. "Great. ...Now, they didn't say where they were going, but did you happen to see which way they headed?"

[Belinda Perry] Hair fixed, she tosses her cigarette down and squishes it beneath her toe before venturing forth and towards the trio. Some part of her is pleased that Oscar is here. It makes things a lot easier. Having the Alpha around always did, for this particular Garou. But she's not yet to smile, even if her eyes shine that touch bit brighter in the Fianna's presence.

She watches the way Lukas and Dylan position themselves and the way their bodies speak when directed at her Alpha. Its such subtle glances in her sweep that such a thing is ordinary, unnoticed. She's a practiced eye (and muse) when it comes to body language. The Garou abuse it, its natural in them, their need to dominate and to find a pecking order. None needn't hear the words to understand the contempt in Lukas' smirk, after all.

Her approach is steady in a lingering sort of way. Belinda wasn't here to interrupt but, instead, to join her Alpha.

[Lukas] Lukas regards Buried-Hatchet in a cool, level silence, his pale eyes taking the measure of the other -- his reaction, his face, everything about him -- for some time. Then he raises his chin a little in indication: a spot beyond Hatchet's shoulder, behind him. "There's one of them now."

[Lukas] (btw, Jess had to go deal with RL issues -- don't wait on her)
to Belinda Perry, Hatchet

[Hatchet] It could be the smell of cigarette smoke, or the product that keeps Belinda's hair quite that color, or some other sense, but he is turning his head just as Lukas is raising his chin. One doesn't quite happen before the other, and it's hard to say if Oscar is reacting to the gesture or reacting to some other preternatural awareness. The truth is that it has been a long time for Oscar, a long time amongst humans, and he is an adaptable sort. You cover, so that mortals don't ask how you knew what was coming or how you survived.

Unfortunately, with Oscar, it is somewhat difficult to mistake his temper for something mundane. The man has been in this for longer than he likes to think about, and it wears on him. It also shows. Lukas has not pricked at his Rage, and in fact he has that part of himself under rather steady control, but it's there, as it is in all of them, lurking under the surface. It makes his fluid motion, that turn of his head, seem threatening.

Well. It would seem threatening, if he weren't surrounded by fuzzy death machines much like himself. They're barely even going to notice.

"Loo-kash," he says with overemphasis, glancing back after catching sight of Belinda and noting that she is headed right for them, "you are a saint. And that may be true, I think there's a Saint Lucas. Lukas. Lucian." He shrugs. "Something."

[Lukas] Quick -- a smile crosses his face like a shadow over the moon; genuine; surprising for its charm. Then it's gone. "There was a Saint Luke. But I'm afraid the resemblance ends there."

On his feet now: slowly, easily, a great amount of strength and power encased in quite impeccably cut clothing. Money; a carnivorous taste for the fine things in life. "Oh -- " as he's turning away, he turns back, as though it had just occurred to him. "We called ahead, tried to suss things out. The Guardians gave us a list of some kinfolk and kin establishments. Places to grab a bite or a shower, lay a weary head." He checks his pockets and comes out with a list, printed, not handwritten. This he holds out to Oscar, the paper grey in the dimness, his gloves fingers pitch-black. "I thought the [insert name of speakeasy] sounded particularly promising, if you're on the lookout for something similar."

[Belinda Perry] Reaching the gathered, staying a few paces behind Oscar, she's a clear view of Lukas and Dylan. Her gaze trails after the paper that is offered to Hatchet. It's probably the same place that Soledad and herself and discovered in this brief period of time from here to there, but she'd not confident enough in that to be saying it aloud. And especially not before this other pack. Soledad had already (tried) to berate her out of earshot, she needn't not another lecture tonight.

She's awfully silent for a Galliard.

[Hatchet] It's already been laid out on the table that Old Edward does not like Buried Hatchet, and there was not just a small amount of condescension in Hatchet's overenthusiastic reaction to meeting Lukas and hearing he was mixed in with the Bellamonte lot. Oscar has either mis-pronounced or lightly mocked Lukas's name, it was hard to tell. Lukas has sneered an honorific.

Yet.

He gives information, though this is probably due to his inability or unwillingness to see Oscar and his lot as a threat to the proposal that Edward and the Fangs and whoever else is under their banner to take over leadership here. That doesn't make too much difference to Oscar, at least not on the surface. He takes the paper, and glances at it before looking back at Lukas with a lifted eyebrow in question of whether it is his to keep or his to memorize before it self-destructs.

With a nod, or whatever, from the younger man, Oscar folds the paper up and slips it into the back pocket of his jeans, rucking up his coat to do so before letting it drop down again. "You may be canonized yet, Wyrmbreaker. Don't you give up hope, now."

[Lukas] He does not smile much, this one. This time the set of his mouth only suggests pleasantry and politeness. "Goodnight."

The Ahroun and the Galliard depart; the Philodox and the Galliard remain -- in the snow, amongst the monuments to the dead.

[Lukas] (thanks for the RP, folks!! i think i should head toward bed. hopefully i'll catch you guys tmrw!)
to Belinda Perry, Hatchet

[Belinda Perry] "Goodnight." She watches the other two wander off, leaving her with Oscar. The Walker turns to the Alpha after a long moment, studying the side of his features - or what she could see of them, and his back profile.