brotherhood.

[Administrator] Kemp Oates, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)

[Administrator] Wyrmbreaker, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)

[Administrator] Hector, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)

[Kemp Oates] Weather was suppose to turn and he wasn't looking forward to that. At the moment he was sitting on the old dock, watching as the shadows grew and took some of the edge off of the old ships here. Rumor had it that some of the ships were haunted and he figured his kind hadn't beem much good at dispelling such myths. More than likely, they had added to it.

It was above freezing, but he could feel the change on the wind as it shifted from the south, soon it would be bellowing out of the North, bringing a winter cold front with it.

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas is out walking. He does this more often than one might think; sometimes purposefully, going from one place to another, looking for something, hunting. And then, sometimes: aimlessly, moving for the sake of motion, walking for the sake of having the excuse to be alone, and think.

Today it may have been the latter. He is dressed against the cold, which is not so terrible as it could be, and so the buttons of his overcoat are undone, his scarf draped and unknotted. His hands are in his pockets and his head is down. He's very nearly past the pier Kemp sits on when he notices him, abruptly, draw by the other's rage or pure breeding or presence. Lukas' head comes up. He smiles, and adjusts his course to rendezvous.

"Evening, Truth-in-Frenzy-rhya." It's colder out over the water, away from the sheltering structures of drydocks and shiphouses. He clasps the middle button on his coat by feel, half-consciously.

[Hector] Hector is bundled deep in the heart of seven plaid shirts, each of a different and virulent hue, ranging from cherry red to his favorite mustard yellow. The first five or so are buttoned, almost bursting at the seams, the outer couple hanging open. As such his corpulent frame looks even more massive, rotund, robbed of edges and some measure of flexibility; as he walks his arms hang at acute angles from his body, held aloft from his body by the mass of cloth. New gloves, industrial green and reinforced with bands of kevlar are pulled over his hamhocks, and a floppy, home knitted hat is jammed down over his big head, ear flaps hanging down to his jawline.

He's walking along the edge of the water, pausing occasionally to bend over, hands on knees, and stare down at something, nudge it with his boot before moving on. For awhile he stops and scoops up a measure of broken pieces of asphalt, which he throws hard into the black water beyond. Taking a small measure of satisfaction from the deep plonking noises they make.

[Kemp Oates] He had felt Lukas, perhaps by the same means as he was found, as the other had started passing. It was when he was addressed that he turned his head and looked up. It took a lot of confidence to remain seated in the presense of another Garou, an Ahroun.

"Hey. Pull up a seat if ya want."

He nodded at the dock then added.

"Ya have great manners and all, but ya don't need to use formal address with me in a place and situation like this. Kemp is fine. Hell, get called worse."

[Wyrmbreaker] "Thanks," he says, finding himself a seat atop one of the piles supporting the pier. He looks out at the water for a while, his dark hair blown back by the wind. Then, as Kemp speaks again, he turns back to him. Even wind-narrowed, in this fading dusk-light, and at this distance, Kemp can see the color of the Shadow Lord's eyes: an arresting, arctic blue, the color of ice floes and aurora borealis.

"Thanks again, but I keep to my courtesies as much for my own satisfaction and yours." He looks away again, over the land this time: the darkening continent stretching away into the west from this shore, which felt almost like the shore of an ocean sometimes. For a while it seems he would say no more on the subject. Then, a little abruptly, he adds, as though suddenly driven to explain: "It's a sort of ... self-respect, I think, to respect another. Not because someone forces you to bow and scrape, but because you choose to keep the common codes of honor your own ancestors set down."

-- then his idle attention finds an anchor; he's seen Hector, ungainly and angry, picking his way down the uneven shoreline. He lifts his chin, indicating with a nod. "Look, there's Hector."

[Hector] Hector's not hard to miss. Almost like a miasma, his rage blows from him with the wind, seeming to sour the air, to imbue it with a battery-acid tang. Luna hangs low and heavy in the air, the closest she's been to Earth in many long years, and the Caern and the area about it are bathed silver, tinctured with a metallic light that makes everything a phantasmagoria. Hector stalks through this moonscape with all the determined fury of an Ahroun on the edge, anger simmering and bubbling, roiling and rolling within his blood. He's drawing close, stalking around piles of rotting timber, pausing once to tip open a crate and peer inside.

[Kemp Oates] "Heh."

Whether about Hector or what Lukas said, was hard to interpet at first. A few breaths went by before he spoke again as he watched Hector and his exploring, throwing.

"There are times when you learn more by seeming to show some desrespect. It also can give another view of yourself. It can force ya to learn control, to look behind the glaring sign being shoved in your face."

He lifted his chin, pointing towards Hector.

"That guy sure likes puke yella."

[Administrator] Hatchet, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)

[Wyrmbreaker] He turns back -- his grin is brief but it strips away the precocity of what and who he is; makes him look young. To a human he'd be barely more than a kid, college-aged. To the Garou, he's a warrior grown and fostered, tempered, ready to die.

"I think it's a little more acceptable for a Ragabash to push the boundaries for the sake of discovering something about others, or yourself." And, turning back to look in Hector's direction, he gives a little laugh. "Yeah." Then, raising his voice against the wind: "Hey! HEY HECTOR."

Anyone's guess why he does this. Everyone knows the Alphas of their packs do not get along. Everyone knows the two packs are not, shall we say, best friends forever. Truth is, whatever he may have said, perhaps this is the same thing Kemp speaks of: pushing the boundaries to observe the reaction. It's only that Kemp wields disrespect like a weapon; for Lukas, respect can be a shield.

[Kemp Oates] When Lukas called out, Kemp had to grin real big and wave his fingers towards Hector, calling out.

"Nice shirts man!"

Let the fireworks begin.

[Hector] Lukas' voice rings out over the asphalt, a brief bark that fails to echo, the sound drawn out and then drowned over the black waters of the great lake. A moment later Kemp follows suite, but Hector, not too far off at this point, doesn't react immediately, doesn't snap his head around; instead, he turns it slowly, face closed, eyes searching for just a moment before it locks onto the pair of them.

It's like they've caught the attention of a bear that was foraging in the brush, and now its reared up on its hind legs to appraise them. His body follows the direction of his gaze, turning so that he's facing them full on, arms hanging loose by his sides, chin lowered over his broad, short neck, so that it seems to almost touch his chest.

The Fianna stands still, seeming to almost sniff the air, and then, with quiet deliberation, he folds one fist into the other, and pops a series of knuckles, each going off like a squib. Does the same for the other, and then begins to stalk in their direction.

[Administrator] observer, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)

[Kemp Oates] "Ya know, he kind of looks like the Pilsbury Dough Boy, only the wrong color. I mean, look at how stuffed he is that get up and how his arms stick out like that. Now imagine the dough boy got baked too much and was pissed about it, cause they didn't have jam to cover up the burnt taste? And then blend him with that little gingerbread dude on Shrek? And, why lookie there, here he comes."

[Wyrmbreaker] (sorry bout delay!)

He watches him: Lukas, Hector. The Shadow Lord's pale eyes are keen enough; besides that, he takes the effort to watch, to focus on the mannerisms, the behaviorisms. And Hector is, in the end, not a creature of subtlety. The cracking of the knuckles could be seen as a threat, and Lukas notes that. The overstuffed Ahroun could be seen as a pillsbury dough boy's gargantuan, inbred cousin: Kemp notes that, and Lukas lets out a brief, startled spurt of amusement in spite of himself, more a grunt than a laugh.

Then Hector is upon them, and though Lukas does not stand, he faces him more fully. "Have you met Truth-in-Frenzy?" He nods at Kemp. "He's our elder, a Fostern Ragabash of the Get of Fenris. Truth-in-Frenzy-rhya, this is Hector [deedname], a Fianna of my auspice and rank."

[Hector] Hector comes to a stop before the pair of them, but his manner is tense; he's clearly not about to take a load off. Instead, he looks from one to the other, mouth pursed, brow beetled low over his eyes.

"Yeah, I run into this guy before," he says to Lukas, voice harsh. "He made cracks about my moma. Tried to rile me up, and did it good and proper too."

Looks at Kemp now, shrugging his shoulders in an irritable way, almost like a tic. "So you're a Fostern, eh? Truth-In-Frenzy. You apologize about what you said about my moma and maybe we can continue talking all civilized."

Something in his face, in the way he looks at Kemp, seems to indicate that he doesn't really want an apology. Or perhaps, he'd just be a little disappointed if he got one.

[Kemp Oates] Formal introductions, even ala secondhand, called for rising. He was doing just that despite the fact that Lukas had done what few ever could. He had surprised the fuck out of Kemp. The moon so bright and pregnant and here was an Ahroun who was more or less behaving as a combo warning bell/ Peace keeper. He rose and rose. He might be reed thin next to Hector's overstuffed state, but he was a tall drink of water.

"Well now, that's something I can't do. Nope, that would be like saying standing out there having a pissy fit over a car that ya didn't care enough about to even hold in your temper in public, is all peachy and shit. Nope. Sorry man. When I see control, then I'll give ya an attaboy. But ain't gonna apologise for showing ya your own weakness, which is still eatin at ya, even now."

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas keeps quiet, off to the side. He watches, warily. The cynical might suppose he'd known about the prior momma incident, known this would be the result and planned it -- but the truth is Lukas is as surprised as anyone might be.

[Hector] Hector rolls his head around on his thick neck, some feat given how little neck there is for so much head. He hunches his shoulders, relaxes them, hunches them again. It's like he's having a slow motion fit, played out under the brilliant light of the moon, as if the rage is coagulating within him, and he's trying to keep the blood flowing, not let it strangle him from within. Something is building up within him, roaring up through his chest, scalding his throat and letting a conflagration loose in his head. Like an Kuwaiti oil well lit up on flame, the heat incandescent and visible in his eyes.

"Aint' gonna apologize." Said to himself. "Called my moma a whore." Another aside, said to an invisible audience. Eyes locked on the tall drink of water. The clothing about his frame suddenly seems inconsequential. As if a few shirts could contain him, restrain, prevent his feral nature from exploding to the forefront should he let slip the hounds of war. The air about him throbs with crude, untrammeled fury, flaring and raging like a sun going nova.

Voice lowering now, growing huskier, more of a growl. "Called my moma a whore." He's smiling now, teeth gleaming in the silver light, looking delighted at how this is going down. "I may be stupid, but I don't let nobody talk about my moma like that."

He's trembling now. "Challenge." It's all he says, all he gets out through his gritted teeth. "Challenge."

[Hatchet] Compared to the below-20 weather he was wandering around in the other night, the current temperature is downright balmy. Hatchet is coming from the direction of the Brotherhood, or one might guess, since there isn't a man among the three others that does not know he is living there. He has on a black hoodie, one of the items Belinda brought by in those bags of hers, one of the items that no one else in the pack other than Hector might fit without being swallowed.

His hands are shoved into the pockets of the 'other' pair of jeans he owns, the pair that is newer but still old, in better shape but still worn out and patched in places.

Now, he does not know that the newest member of his pack, Hector, is out by the docks asking to have the backside of his head smacked. He does not know that Edward's Beta Lukas, whom he cannot yet form an unenigmatic opinion of, is out there as well. He does not know that the sole 'local' he has met and had a grand old time getting to know is being 'challenged' by the wolf that may as well be his goddamn Omega.

He's just on a fucking walk. That is, until he gets close enough to see three semi-familiar figures standing several yards away. Rage is bristling in the air, because it is a full moon still and because Hector is trembling with anger, and that is when Hatchet lets out a heavy sigh.

He rolls his head back and looks at the moon, barely visible. "Why?" he says quietly, shaking his head a bit. "What did I ever do to you?" Though he might be talking to the sky god he does not believe in, or Luna, or to a spirit only he sees, it's entirely more likely he's just talking to himself. Hatchet drops his head. He keeps walking, this time more purposefully towards them.

[Wyrmbreaker] A quiet stirring from Lukas -- not motion in truth, but merely a shifting of his balance. A shifting in the weave and weft of his rage, which is as complex and fiery and potent tonight as a fine brandy. He draws half a breath as though he might speak, intercede; then he decides, or realizes, it is really and honestly not his place to open his yap.

So he keeps his mouth shut, and waits to see what the Fostern will do.

[Kemp Oates] "Think back to the exact words. I did not call your momma a whore. A Ho. A Ho spreads them for everyone. For free I do believe. Now, if I was to call your momma a Ho, I would of said she did it with her brother and his brother and everyone's brother. But noooooo, never said it. It was also meant to see how tight a cork ya got on yourself. Which is...."

He made a back and forth motion with his hand, rocking his head.

"From what I can tell so far, I've been challenging your brain from even since witnessing the tail end of your tissy fit? Now, if ya want your challenge, it's granted. But ya do realise I get to choose what it is?"

[Hector] Too late.

Somewhere in the midst of the fine distinctions between ho and and whore, between sleeping with brothers and whatnot, Hector stops listening.

His eyes don't quite glaze over as rage takes him by the throat, but they come close. With a roar, a curdled cry, he simply rushes at Kemp, hands outstretched to grab him and tear him apart.

[Hector] ((No need to roll any die. I've not submitted a sheet for Hector, and even if I had, I bet Kemp could hand him his ass with both arms tied behind his back. Let's just rp it out.))
to Hatchet, Kemp Oates, observer, Wyrmbreaker

[Kemp Oates] And Kemp did exactly what he did before, he moved to step aside with the rush. Moved to make sure he was positioned in front of the water for the next move. Actually shaking his head.

"In battle such courage would be admired. Fuck, I would sing ya a song of glory if ya kept your head on, that is."

[Hatchet] Hatchet does not walk terribly fast to get up to the docks. He is not in a rush, here, nor terribly concerned for Hector's safety. He keeps his hands in his pockets, the words of the other Garou being lost to the wind. His stride is long-legged and rolling, as though he was made for it or has conditioned his body to walking for unforseeable distances. Which, in reality, is exactly what he has done. Hatchet walks a lot. Hatchet is sometimes mistaken for a far-removed Silent Strider when he shows up at a sept with that gait, with his messages, with his warnings.

He does, however, quicken that step of his when Hector lunges at Kemp. It's not a decision to do so, just a reaction, as though he is drawn towards the violence. He does not hear what Kemp says after he side-steps. He just slows his feet down again when they finally hit the planks of the dock, and -- since the higher-ranked Garou is 'busy' at the moment -- he gives Lukas a nod before looking back at his packmate and the Wyrmfoe.

[Kemp Oates] ((Works for me man, whatever you want to do. ))
to Hatchet, Hector, observer, Wyrmbreaker

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas is dead silent now, his jaw tightening. He watches Hector rush fruitlessly past the Ragabash, and sees how the Ragabash, this time, positions himself with the water at his back. Hatchet approaches, and Lukas knows this, recognizes the Fianna Half-Moon, but his attention is riveted to the action. Strange; you'd think he'd be gleeful to see this, but he's only grim and tense.

[Hector] It's easy to sidestep a charging attacker. Momentum prevents them from reacting in time unless they have supernatural reflexes. Which Hector might have in another form, or frame of mind, but right now? He simply roars past Hector, arms grasping nothing, staggering to a stop, spinning around to glare at the Ragabash.

It's almost pitifully classic. Enraged Cliath Ahroun losing his head to the wiser Ragabash.

Hector doesn't roar a second time. Simply pounds the boards, comes right at him again. Pure, unadulterated rage clouding his mind like some overpowering drug. Drowning out the ceremonies of combat, the wisdom gained through experience.

[Kemp Oates] This time he waited till the last moment of the charge to drop to the boards. Long legs jutting out and just high enough for a good trip, knowing the waters were back there. Course, if Hector hit the beach first...damned good thing he was thick skulled.

[Hatchet] It's not almost. It is pretty pitiful. And Hatchet's interest lies in the fact that his packmate is about to humiliate himself. Yet Hatchet does not stop him, does not shout for Hector to stop, does not raise his voice in leadership or Rage to curtail the behavior of a stupidly hot-tempered Ahroun of his own tribe. He strides across the planks, his nod unreturned, as though just waiting to see what happens.

It isn't, of course, like Kemp can't handle someone like Hector.

[Hector] Hector comes at him like a dumptruck on nitro. The boards rattle and shake, and then Kemp drops lithe as a snake, leg extended, last second trip. But Hector's got some savvy, not much right now, but enough to expect another move along these lines. So with a roar of frustration he leaps, throws himself off the end of the pier, preferring to take the jump into the darkness beyond than fall head over heels. It's an ungainly attempt at flight, arms flailing, his fury leaving an afterburn in the air, almost like a flash from a camera unexpectedly taken in the darkness.

But then he's gone, swallowed up by the night, falling heavily onto the sand below with a thud.

[Kemp Oates] "Awfuckme."

He rose, looking down into the dark as he cocked his head to listen.

"Dude! Ya ok?"

Calling out into the dark as he listened.

[Hatchet] Swoop. Fall. Crash.

It takes visible effort for Hatchet not to laugh. One corner of his mouth tugs outward, a momentary smirk, but then he's just shaking his head and walking to the end of the dock, coming up alongside Kemp and peering down, as well. He takes his hands out of his pockets and plants them on his knees, leaning over.

The amusement was there. But that doesn't mean he doesn't care, and his eyes are serious now. "His mama again?" he asks Kemp, somewhat idly.

[Hector] A massive hand, clothed in green glove, snaps around the base of Kemp's ankle as he steps to the edge. It's almost out of a cheap horror movie, the sudden appearance, fingers clamping around the Ragabash's ankle like rings of steel. With a grunt, Hector gives as hard a yank as he can manage.

[Kemp Oates] He grunted with barely time to glance at Hatchet and call out.

"YEP!"

He had expected this and it was a look of utter pleasure on his face as he went over the side feet first into the dark, letting his weight and Hector pull him over.

[Hector] It's dark here, below and beside the pier, the sand corrugated iron folds, made compact and unforgiving by the waves, which crash and hiss and give but five yards on which to stand. Thick poles of wood, whorled and snarled by time and abuse rise in a thicket of support beams, holding the pier up above them. Trash, bourn by the waves, litters the surf's edge, mixed with the wrack and flotsam of all water edges.

Hector is still in homid, but seems more beast than man. He staggers back as Kemp comes down, regains his balance on the sand, and growls, low and threatening in his throat. Thick support beams rise about him, and he seems like some primeavel beast emerging from the Black Forest, from the shadows and gloom.

For all that he's a Cliath, poor with words and lacking in smarts, he is an Ahroun, and Luna hangs low and full in the sky above. He is a warrior of the Fianna, and passion and fury run doubled in his blood. And here, tonight, they are being given full vent. Growling, head low, he stares at Kemp. And begins to move forwards, warily this time.

[Wyrmbreaker] First one goes over -- then the other. Lukas almost winces. Hatchet steps to the edge, smirking, and Lukas looks at him with something akin to amazement. "This doesn't bother you?"

[Kemp Oates] For his part, he was Fenrir and nothing, no matter his moon, gave him more pleasure than a challenge. He grinned as he rolled to his feet and faced off with Hector in the dark.

"Fuckme, now that was a good move. I expected it, but it's like one of those things ya think, oh yeah this is going to happen, then it does and makes ya scream and shit. Well not litterally scream and shit..shit...well shit, ya know what I mean. Now, I'd say, come to poppa about right now."

He made a motion with his hands, balanced on his toes.

"But betcha ya'd take that one wrong too. Which I'll have ya know, I could so take to other places and am refraining from. Fuck, at least ya knew your momma!"

[Hatchet] This time Hatchet can't help it. He laughs. Not when the hand grabs Kemp, not when Kemp yells Yep! before going over, but when the Ragabash has been yanked out of sight he all but falls on his ass laughing. It bursts out of him delightfully and joyfully, and is surprisingly light in pitch considering the fact that his speaking voice is rather low. He stumbles back from the edge snickering, though he can feel the wave of Rage coming up from below.

Lukas speaks, and Hatchet is already in the process of turning around to look at him, his fair eyes alight with mirth. "What?" he says, rather mildly, though with enough underlying seriousness to point to the wisdom he has earned recognition for. "An experienced Ragabash --" he is going on, as Kemp's voice filters up to them, "teaching a headstrong Ahroun a lesson?"

Hatchet walks over, sitting down a few inches from Lukas, and shrugs. "It's the way. If Hector learns from it, they both deserve honor. If Hector does not, then Kemp has still done his job." He looks forward, rather than at the Shadow Lord, his eyes darkening a bit. "He has to learn control in the face of mockery one way or another. I certainly don't mind the help in teaching him."

[Hector] Hector's watching Kemp with care now. Not listening to his words, but rather watching hips, shoulders, the spread of his stance. Eyes flickering up and down, touching on vital spots. Emerging from the poles and beams that shoulder the pier, out onto the iron hued sand. Arms held out before him like a wrestler moving into clinch, boots finding sure purchase with each step. Almost in a crouch, but more hunched than anything else. Closer and closer, until, with the expected snap of movement, he launches himself forward and throws an uppercut with all the power of his body behind it right at Kemp's breadbasket.

[Kemp Oates] This time he let it hit. Let the full punch come at him, only lurching up enough with a curve of his shoulders and body to absorb some of the blow as it forced his breath from him in a grunt. Bringing both hands down in a double-handed, hand over fist move for the back of Hector's lowered head. This was going to get messy and fuck if this was the only set of clothes he had.

[Hector] Hector is missing many things. But one thing he's got is mass. Muscle roped and layered over heavy bone, all encased in a forgiving sheath of fat. Built like a trucker, Kemp's blow jolts his head down and to the side, his teeth clacking, biting the tip off his tongue and filling his mouth with coppery blood. For a moment his vision blurs, head rings, but that doesn't stop his momentum. The uppercut folds into a full on tackle, arms swooping around Kemp's lean frame, bearing him down onto the sand, all of Hector piling down ontop of him.

[Wyrmbreaker] "He's toying with your packmate." Lukas does not crowd to the edge to watch the action. His earlier attention, perhaps, had been more out of concern that one would murder the other. "He's controlling the fight; anyone can see that Hector hasn't done anything Kemp didn't let him do. Your packmate's outmatched and he's too stubborn to concede. He's being humiliated."

[Kemp Oates] There was no easy way out of this. He could beat the fuck out of this strong headed Ahroun or he could let the guy beat the fuck out of him. He had to bet a good knock down dragout was something this guy could swallow better than a total beat down. Then again....they hit the sand. Grunting and scrambling as they rolled and he kicked those long ass legs to propel ass over head towards the water with Hector with him. His hope was to get his feet in Hector's gut and flip him over into the water, but if he had to take a dive too, oh well, just another night in paradise.

[Hatchet] Hatchet is listening. Hatchet is not, however, watching. He was tugged up here by Rage, and it is still pulling on him. If he goes to watch 'the action', as it were, he might lose control of himself and jump in when it is not necessary. That would not be at all okay.

He turns then and looks at Lukas, his gaze level. It would not be surprising if, looking at his eyes in that moment, the old proverb about still waters came to mind. There is so much there, so much of it hidden, while the surface remains seemingly placid. He blinks once, slowly, and then he gives three simple nods.

"Yes. He is."

The way he says this, there can be no doubt that Hatchet knows full well, and is accepting, that his packmate's stubbornness and following humiliation is also -- to a certain extent -- his own. Hector is being toyed with, taunted, humiliated...and it reflects on the entire pack. Hatchet knows.

"And what happens if I step in now and intervene?" he asks, though, without it being rhetorical. He is asking not for a canned answer but for Lukas's perspective. Lukas is, after all, of a different tribe, different auspice, different rank, different world entirely.

[Hector] Head ringing from the fierce blow Kemp had double-handed down on his noggin, Hector doesn't have the presence of mind to curtail his momentum. They're hitting the sand, and some part of the Ahroun is savagely satisfied with that. Get the Ragabash on his back, pin him down, and them maul him to pieces. If he can't duck and dodge his way out, then--

But the momentum doesn't stop. Instead of pounding down onto the ground, he finds himself moving, flipping as feet press hard into his iron gut, and then the ground is gone, wrenched out of view, molded into the spinning darkness, and he lets out a second roar, disoriented, furious.

Which ends in a splash. The water's not deep enough for him to sink from view, but enough that he gets drenched in its icy embrace. Rigid pain flares through him, but that's not what stops him from surging back up. It's the water, the freezing embrace, the shock that sluices his rage away, cracks open enough room in his head to allow some thought in. He lies still, the lake water dark about him, and then sits up, shakes his head viciously, whipping water out of his hair. His knitted hat was lost somewhere. Breathing deeply, heaving, he stares out over the surface of the lake, at a distant boat, and then wipes water from his face with the blade of his hand.

[Kemp Oates] He rose, his backside wet from the sand and bits of it sticking like icing in his hair. Rose and stepped into the water with one hand outstretched.

"Come on before I catch a cold in my balls. Ya done alright kid. Ya got muscle in your body and time will bring the rest."

Mentally mumbling. Or not.

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas shakes his head -- "You can't step in now and intervene." They're agreed on that point, at least. "But you could call your Ahroun off -- " no, wait, the noise has stopped, " -- could have, anyway. Well; it seems they're done."

[Hatchet] "What would be the point of that?" Hatchet says good-naturedly, smiling a little bit and still looking at Lukas. "If he were in danger of killing, or -- more likely -- being killed, I would stop it."

He pauses there, watching Lukas thoughtfully, then turns his head again to look forward with a strange tension in his features for a second.

[Hector] This is where the difference between man and Garou becomes apparent. A man, some violent, pig-headed trucker, might spurn the offered hand out of pride, might take recourse in wounded dignity and refuse to submit. Were Hector all human, he might indeed slap the hand away, rouse himself from the water and stalk off, muttering into the dark.

But Hector is not man. He is Garou, part wolf, part human, a sublime and vicious blend of both. Despite his rage, despite his fury, there is within him that element of wolf that knows when it has been bested. That knows when it is time to submit. While the human part of his soul might yet rage, the lupine part reaches out and takes the offered hand, and though heaving Hector up may be no small feat, he allows Kemp to help him rise from the water.

[Kemp Oates] "Now hear this Hector of the Fianna."

He grunted, his solarplexis hurt from the hammer blow he took. Pulling Hector up to his feet in the water.

"I am Kemp Oates. Known to the Nation as Truth in Frenzy. I am born under the New Moon to the Tribe of the Great Fenris. At this time, I hold the rank of Fostern and am acting Wyrmfoe to the Sept. You have strength, strength we can sorely use. Now ya need a little tempering. I will share with you a little secret."

He watched Hector's face waiting to see if Hector was going to intro himself before he spoke again.

"There are 3 things sure to piss off someone else and it works on the Wyrm just as well, so heed this. One...Ya insult his prowess. Two...ya insinuate he is less than able in the sexual prowess department. And the number three thing to get the measure of someone is to say something about his momma. Fortunately for you, ya know better about your momma. They don't."

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas draws a quick breath to respond by instinct -- checks it. He is guarded, Lukas; careful almost to a fault. He shakes his head instead. "I suppose you have a point," he says.

He does get up now. The last of the twilight is long since gone. The water is black, the clouds above phosphorescent with reflected city light. He buttons his coat all the way against the wind, and steps to the edge, looking down at the Garou in the rocks and the water.

"At any rate," he adds, wry, "looks like Kemp-rhya's helping you teach a lesson after all, now."

[Administrator] Sam Modine, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)

[Sam Modine] Who, what, where?
to Hatchet, Hector, Kemp Oates, observer, Wyrmbreaker

[Wyrmbreaker] (caern-ish areas, docks, lukas and hatchet up on a pier, kemp and hector down in the water below, having just finished a fistfight.)

[Hatchet] Hatchet stays where he is. His eyes and head move after a moment though, following Lukas after he gets up. He looks at the other Garou checking on Kemp and Hector and he notes something about the slightly younger wolf that he has been suspecting and now seems to think is confirmed.

He smiles. "And that is why he is totally my new bestest best friend in the whole world of bestiness."

[Hector] Hector stands dripping in the lake's edge, knee deep in black water. His shirts hang in a sodden mess about him, all seven of them waterlogged. He ignores it. He doesn't make eye contact either, but rather looks at Kemp's chest, face set in concrete.

"I'm Hector Burnell, Fianna Ahroun, and a Cliath. Known as Meat Locker." It comes out in staccato bursts. The words rough with abiding tension.

When Kemp continues, he does look up, just once, and then looks back down again. When it's clear Kemp's finished speaking, he nods, once. It's not clear if he's understood, if he absorbed the wisdom being offered him. Odds are, it's not the first time somebody's tried to clue him in. The silence stretches out, almost becomes uncomfortable, and then he jolts up, remembering himself.

"Thank you, rhya," he says.

[Kemp Oates] He held out his arm, hand parallel to the water in offer. If the offer was accepted, he clasped forearms.

"I am honored to know you, Meat Locker of the Fianna."

He was solemn and formal as he added.

"The difference between you and them is to always give back what ya get Hector. Be a duck, let it slide off of ya and then fart it right back at them. You can not be made less if ya don't let yourself be taken."

He jerked his head, sand flying out.

"Come on, I need a hot drink and time to dry my fuckin shoes out."

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas makes a low sound, not quite a laugh. "Why do you do that?" he asks suddenly, a genuine question. "I mean -- that obvious, exaggerated, shit-eating friendliness." A pause. "That wasn't meant as an insult."

[Administrator] observer has left Caern & Adjoining Lands

[Sam Modine] The most striking thing that might touch Lukas about the new presence nearby isn't the recognition of a packmate who's shared of the same spiritual guides. It might not even be his Rage or to look at him, smell him, his breeding. No, it is in fact most likely-

what he's wearing.

Sam makes his way through the Caern's physical boundaries, out toward the water. The fenrir is what one may only describe and nined out A pair of slacks, a very, very stylish button up collared shirt, white with shimmering stripes of blue and gray running vertically up and down. The outfit is completed with a simple but incredibly refined grey jacket to match the rest. No leather jacket, no t-shirt, no jeans tonight. A bit of a departure for one of Fenris' Get and more for a son born under Luna's full countenance. The Shadow Lord may notice on the same glance however that the clothes, all of them-

are his own.

He doesn't raise an arm in greeting, nor does he speed up, he's moving at a considerable steady pace already. But when he's close enough to the two of them he does speak. "Hey. Looked for you earlier." The other gets a hint of recognition, but he does not get a greeting.

[Hatchet] His smile grows a bit, but there's an odd bit of softness to it despite the fact that the moon is waning and reflects out of his eyes as though his pupils are made of the same dark water they wait near. It's the same as his gaze; there is more to it than mere amusement or the muscular curve of lips shifting into position. It is not wry, or condescending. It's almost as though he's pleased that Lukas is asking, for god knows what reason.

"But Lukas," he says rather mildly, and with apparent sincerity, "I do genuinely like Truth in Frenzy, and appreciate that he is teaching my packmate. I did not take what you said as an insult."

Which does not answer the 'why' question at all.

[Wyrmbreaker] "Do you genuinely like Edward, then? Because I know you genuinely dislike Katherine."

His packmate approaches, and the Unbroken Circle, aptly named as it is, has a sharper sense than most for packmates. Relies more than most on packmates. Is more completed and more powerful than most for the presence of packmates. Lukas hardly has to look to see which direction his packmate comes from, and who it is. He does, however, look -- twice -- when he sees what Sam is wearing.

There's a tiny tic of irritation on his face. It's plenty for Lukas. You'd think he'd care less about a pack-brother borrowing his clothes, rich wellbred bastard that he is, but evidently that's not the case.

He turns back, rather resolutely, as if he'd decided to deal with that travesty later.

[Hector] (sorry, assume hector stays quiet for the moment and go on without him)

[Kemp Oates] (( LOL! ))

He turned to start back up top to the dock. Showing a measure of trust with leaving Hector at his back, and also taking the lead as his rank demanded.

[Hatchet] Hatchet is watching Lukas. Not Sam's approach or looking at Sam's choice of clothing. He is watching the Beta, and so he catches the little facial tic. He does not burst into a grin at that but glances over his shoulder only when he sees it, looking at Sam. There is no apparent reason for him to be annoyed by the appearance of --

The wind changes, and Hatchet inhales deeply, and some kind of understanding flickers in his eyes. He smiles, this time fully amused, but looks back at Lukas again, not terribly concerned with the other Fenrir. He is still, after all, just passing time until Hector re-emerges from his tutoring session with Kemp.

"I think you know the answer to that, sweetheart," he says, his voice rather dry and almost droll.

[Sam Modine] He bites down on his lip. Eyes cast downward momentarily. "Luke. I left a note." There's something in his voice, not quite embarrassment and not quite shame, but it's most definitely not a positive response. "I was going to ask. I went to talk to Edward, and they wouldn't let me in."

He turns away toward the water then, watching as Kemp comes up, and barely keeping back a small short laugh at the soaking forms of the two men coming out of the water.

"I didn't have anything you know...suitable."

[Hector] Hector does indeed clasp arms, but fails to follow Kemp back onto the pier. Instead, he turns, and stares out over the waters. Face locked down and still, eyes black and flat like pools of crude oil. It's clear he listened to what Kemp had to say; but whether he truly listened is debatable.

[Administrator] Katerina Ashcrofte, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)

[Katerina Ashcrofte] ( Locations? )

[Sam Modine] ((Lukas Hatchet and Sam are on a pier in the Caern, Kemp and Hector are down below near the water)

[Wyrmbreaker] He knows the answer to that, Hatchet says. Lukas contemplates him a moment; then he shakes his head.

"Sometimes," he says, "I think you just don't give a damn about Edward, one way or another. It amuses you that he hates you so much. But I'm not sure you actually return the sentiment."

It must be strange to see the Beta of the aforementioned hateful Alpha conversing rather civilly with the also-aforementioned hated Alpha. Still, Lukas is neither startled nor guilty to be caught doing so. He turns to Sam as the Modi comes alongside him, his ice-blue eyes flickering once, and only once, over Sam's attire.

"Sam. Have you met Buried-Hatchet? He's the Fianna Alpha of Weasel's Gang, our elder. Buried Hatchet, this is my packmate, Mjollnir's Heart, same moon and rank, Fenrir." There's nothing stilted or forced about his courtesy. It comes as easily and as reflexively as breathing to him.

"And, they wouldn't let you in where?" Lukas is puzzled, mildly so. "The Brotherhood? My room?"

[Kemp Oates] There were times ya had to let thing soak in and hoped they did. Just like there were times you refrained from prodding when it could make it so much worse. Big brother he wasn't and he had been through his fair share of doing stupid things himself and having his ass handed to him on a platter. Leaving Hector to his own peace as he climbed back up. Not bothering with brushing himself off and not flicking an eyelash with the way his shoes squished and water spurt out the hole in the toe like a fountain.

He was taking in the new arrival as he nodded to Hatchet whom he'd only gotten one word out to before going over the edge.

[Administrator] Sampson Musembi, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)

[Hatchet] Hatchet, from beneath his simple black hood, looks back at Lukas as he says he doesn't think that he actually hates Edward. They have actually not had any conversations that have not been civil. The day is surely coming on the horizon when one of these men will snap and say something truly offensive or damning, or -- more likely -- lunge at the other. Lukas's loyalty to Edward is unquestionable, as of yet, and Edward despises Hatchet, and Hatchet seems to stand for completely opposing ideals.

The day is coming when it won't be civil, surely. But for now it is definitely odd, and noticable, that Hatchet is looking back at Lukas with an almost tranquil expression, his breathing kept steady even though there are currents underneath the surface ready to snatch his own consciousness away from him.

Attention moves from him to Sam, and Hatchet slowly rises then. Getting to his feet he looks over at Kemp and returns his nod of greeting. There's nothing said about Hector, no 'thanks' or 'sorry about that'. He trusts that Kemp knows his place, and he knows his own, and what's done is done. He turns towards Sam, when he hears his name, his hands out of his pockets now.

He holds out his right arm to Sam, hand open but forearm -- rather than palm -- offered. His hand is slightly tilted, knuckles facing the sky. It is dominant but not totally, and asking for the ancient greeting of warriors in the same cause rather than a far more mortal handshake. He makes no mention of the fact that there is a very very faint, barely lingering scent of Lukas now mingled with Sam's odor. He just smiles.

[Katerina Ashcrofte] Katerina had been meandering around the caern, seeing to the spirits as needed, when through the gauntlet she felt the tug. A tug of someone near, someone important to her. Two someones to be exact. It was the draw of the totem bond between packmates, alerting her to the presence of the others. It was a comforting feeling, a pack. A feeling she hadn't felt in quite a long time. Wolves and humans were social creatures, after all. The Garou were both.

Slipping through the gauntlet, Katerina stepped along until she spotted Lukas and Sam. Long, wavey blond hair stirred with the occasional breeze as she approached. A pair of designer jeans, her customary heeled boots that laced to the knee adorned her lower body. Katerina wore a different coat tonight, a three-quarters dark green suade overcoat, tied around the waist. Beneath it she wore a crisp white women's button-down blouse, unbuttoned to expose a portion of cleavage.

"Gentleman," she said to Lukas and Sam. The other man was given an appraising glance up and down, but she remained silent.

[Wyrmbreaker] "Katerina." The same, full introductions are made here, of course. Afterward, Lukas falls silent for a while, content to watch the interactions.

(OK, grocery store run. Back asap.)

[Sam Modine] The introduction is made. And Sam does his level best to show no hesitation in offering his hand. He does it in a stranger way than most people, a way that seems to fit his bearing though to a perfection. His hand is tilted palm up, just-so, his fingers are spread wide. It's less it seems about the handshake than a measure of good faith that he holds no murder in his grip. No subterfuge. A warrior's anachronism that.

"Hello." He does address the other coolly. "And only by reputation."

When Lukas asks he turns back to his Beta, head leaned down. "No, he'd gone out." He looks up, though not so far as the shadow Lord's eyes. "The place had a dress code." He frowns a little at that. The previous annoyance earlier flashing across his face. "I'll have them washed." The frown turns around a little at the end though and he remarks, "I did get two numbers before I left though. Can't imagine how well you do in this stuff."

[Kemp Oates] He took in the two additional packmates to Lukas, having seen the two once before. And as casual and dignified as he could be in squishing shoes and pant's legs, he took his leave.

((Ok, heading to bed. I have a bug that is kicking my ass. ))

[Sam Modine] ((night blu!))

[Kemp Oates] ((Thanks for the play, it was appreciated! ))

[Sampson Musembi] A flailing of dirt, mud, whatever it is falls forward in advance of Sampson's high speed approach. He'd planned the stop so that the mess isn't aiming at the garou gathered, but mess it is. The scent of earth and something more industrial rises around the Strider.
He's panting, and though only his face of his skin is visible, it's covered with a light sweat, which means he's been at the running for quite some time, deliberately allowing himself to have a scent in this moment. Disgustingly cheery, he beams at them all, white teeth and eyes in a dark face in the night's dimness.
"Septbrathas! It is GOOD to see you!" He butts right in, one long, wiry arm flailing to wrap up around Lukas and the other around Katerina unless she gets away again, bridging the gap between Fang and Lord.

[Administrator] Kemp Oates has left Caern & Adjoining Lands

[Katerina Ashcrofte] ( Brb. )

[Administrator] Katerina Ashcrofte has left Caern & Adjoining Lands

[Hector] (I'm off--night!))

[Administrator] Hector has left Caern & Adjoining Lands

[Sampson Musembi] (night!)

[Sam Modine] ((later phil!))

[Hatchet] "It does tend to precede me," Hatchet says mildly, clasping Sam's forearm briefly but with definite and unhesitant warmth in the action. Whether he hates Edward or not, or even dislikes the man, is still up in the air. And as far as he is concerned, apparently, that supposed dislike does not extend automatically to the rest of his packmates.

Even if Edward's hatred of Hatchet, conversely, might.

Letting go, he glances at Katerina, and lifts a hand of farewell to Kemp, returning both of his hands to the pockets of his jeans. At the comment to Lukas about how 'well he does' in these nicer clothes, Hatchet seems to pause a moment, but it's gone quickly. He takes a step back, and at Sampson's approach, he moves slightly out of the way, observing the other pack's interactions.

[Sampson Musembi] (Shit i am freaking sleepy suddenly, sorry! night)
to Hatchet, Sam Modine, Wyrmbreaker

[Sampson Musembi] "I go to get the Thing for that One who wishes it! Before we hunt!"
and with that, Sampson looses his packmates and then bursts into speed again, and through the Umbra towards where the Guardian packs stand uhh guard.

[Administrator] Sampson Musembi has left Caern & Adjoining Lands

[Sam Modine] His own hands fall to his sides. He doesn't put them in the pockets of the suit but instead they hang at his sides. His fingers half grasp at some invisible aether there, keeping the muscles tense. When Sampson comes running upon them, Sam takes a quick sidestep to avoid the furious momentum. He's now facing his packmate, regarding him with some amusement. But without more than a few second he's gone again, all flailing limbs and loud calls into the night.

"So," He begins again to the Fianna. "What brings you across the country?" The question is careful, if clumsy and full of all the words that didn't get said.

[Administrator] cricket, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)

[Hatchet] His eyes follow Sampson: he jumps in, grabs his packmates, and zips off again. Hatchet watches him mildly, then turns his gaze back onto Sam. His eyelashes, quite long for a man and surprisingly dark compared to the fair color of his hair and beard, dip almost lazily in a slow blink. "Strider?" he asks.

Upon Sam's stoic vocal confirmation and nod, Hatchet bobs his head a bit. "I got one of those, too," he says, the sympathy -- or at the very least, understanding -- implied, rather than explicit.

He cocks his head to Sam's question, hands hidden, and considers his answer for a moment. "You mean in general, or to this place specifically?" he asks. Apparently the particular bit of his reputation, such as it is, has not quite reached Sam's ears.

[Wyrmbreaker] (ok, i'm back, but will be slow while i cook, so don't wait for me.)

[Wyrmbreaker] "No need," this is earlier, when Sam says -- guiltily -- that he'll have Lukas' clothes washed. "I don't mind you borrowing my clothes. Only, next time -- ask first."

Then the quiet: which continues, while Wyrmbreaker waits to hear the answer to this.

[Sam Modine] "Chicago." He replies. It comes as though tested against will, the statement. These are replacement words wrung through a heavy filter. He adjusts his shoulders uncomfortably while the wind blows the lapel of his- Lukas's jacket up into his chin. The clothing is light for him and it's obvious he's new to things you need to both wear and care for at once. His hand slaps down the errant fabric pinching it and sliding fingers down to be sure it may stay a few more moments.

It's a movement not spastic but sudden, reporting loud in the empty air between them when he beats his chest with open hand. His packmate speaks on the matter of the clothing and some small measured relief crosses his face and again he is only quotable in his brevity. "Thanks."

[Administrator] Andrea Locke, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)

[Hatchet] "Ah, well." Hatchet shrugs, lifting his shoulders almost up to his hood-hidden ears. "A little Theurge told me and mine that there was a sept up here, not currently being attacked from all angles but sparsely protected. And when I found out that the winter weather up here in Chicago is just so charming, well...I just could not help myself."

[Andrea Locke] ooc: everyone upstairs in the common room?
to cricket, Hatchet, Sam Modine, Wyrmbreaker

[Hatchet] ((All out on the docks, actually.))
to Andrea Locke, cricket, Sam Modine, Wyrmbreaker

[Administrator] cricket has left Caern & Adjoining Lands

[Andrea Locke] ooc: d'oh -- well, look at me, makin' assumptions. kk.
to cricket, Hatchet, Sam Modine, Wyrmbreaker

[Administrator] Katherine Bellamonte , welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)

[Wyrmbreaker] (we can say it's not actually caern land though, if it makes things easier. NEAR the caern but not in the bawn.)

[Administrator] Armstrong, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)

[Sam Modine] "Yeah." He nods along, thoughtful. "I swear the ice realm where I had to learn to climb was warmer than this place." Perhaps he's opening up a little bit to the other, it is as much as he's offered in the way of conversation so far. But he falls silent afterward so it could in fact be that he's just trying to make sure any bad blood does not yet boil over.

[Hatchet] Hatchet is very aware that he is in the presence of two members of a pack that could be considered his automatic rivals. Lukas does not seem to hate him, but Lukas is also viciously loyal to Edward. This is the first time he's met Sam, and Sam -- like Wyrmbreaker -- is of the moon that is waxing overhead. Hatchet may be a Fostern, may be possessed of Rage that comes very near what the two Cliaths are just barely containing, but he damn well thinks like a wolf.

Though to hear him speak, to watch him behave, he's just this guy, you know?

"What we need," Hatchet says when Sam brings this up, "is some of that hot apple juice that Señora Locke has. And!" he says importantly, holding up a finger suddenly and then dropping it, "perhaps some hot cinnamon buns." He pauses for effect and then nods sagely, shoving his chilling hands in his pockets. "If one cannot immediately procure for oneself a warm and willing Kinfolk for the winter, then some hot cinnamon buns are definitely in order."

[Sam Modine] When one is green behind their political ears two things are sure to trip them up. the first is learning to lie, though if he has any reputation at all Mjollnir's heart has one of honesty and this is taken from the equation. The second though is the offering of gifts from enemies, or even rivals. It's tough to draw up hate for a man offering you food and speaking of fellowship.

"Lukas?" He defers to his beta this time after a few moments of his own thought end in a non-decision.

After that there's only silence and the awaiting of his packmate's answer.

[Sam Modine] ((If damon's still busy for a minute we can go ahead, just figured i'd give him a hook to stay on if he wanted it))
to Andrea Locke, Armstrong, Hatchet, Katherine Bellamonte, Wyrmbreaker

[Katherine Bellamonte] "Je sais, maman. Je vous manque aussi bien."

A soft voice drifts into hearing range, the rise and fall of an accent while clearly in no way french somehow melodious all the same in the way it shaped words and seemed almost to coo them as if the recipient required careful modulation. For a woman of her breeding and tribal affiliations it is no great surprise to hear the eldest female Bellamonte speaking in another language.

Meridian's Truth as she is so called is traversing the length of the docks, her cellphone against one ear, and a smart black briefcase in her free hand. The moonlight cast the tall figure of the Philodox into stark relief against the backdrop of the shipyard; her hair a white halo around her shoulders; her boots sinking deep into the soft earth. Carried along with her softly conducted conversation was a trace of perfume and leather.

Katherine's steps slowed; and in the dark her expression softened where none could bear witness. "Elle va bien."

[Sam Modine] He doesn't wait for an answer right away, instead gestures toward the Silver Fang. The sister of my king is at once my liege and my ward. "Maybe I can meet you there," he calls back to both of them in particular and heads off her way.

He falls quickly into step with her, following but not speaking. He is doubly careful not to interrupt her conversation.

[Hatchet] The thing is, Hatchet can't quite offer what these people call 'cider', or cinnamon buns. He can, and may very well argue that all he really did was suggest hot cider and cinnamon buns. What he can offer, what he is offering, is a chance to share said hot cider and cinnamon buns with the 'other' Ahroun of the Unbroken Circle.

And there is no denying, even for a moment, the meaning and significance of breaking bread together, even if one has to beg for it or charm it out of their host, even if one is buying and the other is accepting. Regardless of the origin of the food, to sit and eat together and drink together is an act that transcends cultural boundaries. The refusal of offered food and drink, in some places, is tantamount to a slap in the face.

Fellowship? As Hatchet would put it, You betcha.

Sam looks at Lukas, and Hatchet looks at Lukas...and then Hatchet hears French. His face freezes, not in dislike or anger but a strange expression that is difficult to puzzle out but unmistakably present for a moment. He turns towards the voice before he even recognizes whose it is, and then he smirks. "Fan-fucking-tastic," he mutters, exhaling a breath.

It clouds the air in front of his lips. With a shake of his head and a glance back at Lukas that does not quite hold a question of his intentions so much as ...well, shit. It's hard to tell why the hell he's looking at Lukas before he walks off. But that's what he does. He walks, back towards the Brotherhood and the warmth and food he can usually assume is there.

[Armstrong] It was getting late, or rather, it was already late. She had to take in the air and enjoy it. she listened. She waited. She listened to the way the water sounded against the ships nearby. It was a subtle splash, keeping on her ears and making the theurge stop and just enjoy the distant melody.

She took a few steps away from where she had been, further from the shipyard, making her way down the docks instead. Silvery eyes went to the sky and she played idly with the end of her bright red scarf. It was a splash of color against a black pea coat. It was fraying at the end; it made her stop and look at it for a moment as she let a frown start to play across her face. More the kind that a frustrated child would get.

But then? Then there was the sound of French in a familiar color. Something blonde and silver Bellamonte. And instead, she took the opportunity to stand and wait and listen. She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly, then exhaled. She was at a quiet sort of non-peace. She's been thinking.

[Wyrmbreaker] "Go on," says Lukas (though his player posts most belatedly), "I'll catch up with Katherine."

They walk off. Lukas watches them go. The pier is dark, save for the orange glow of industrial-grade sodium lights; the distant white sweep of a lighthouse. The young Lord turns his face to the water and the wind for some time, counting the slow steady cast of light to cast. Once, twice, thrice.

Then he gets up and, without any uncertainty whatsoever, heads unerringly in the Fang's direction. If she's still on the phone: too bad.

"We're heading back," he says to Katherine. He's a shadow at first, tall and imposing in his overcoat, which masks nearly all details of his body. Then he comes into the light: expressionless, his dislike kept in check. "Why don't you come with us."

[Andrea Locke] It is Sunday and in the Western world Sunday is typically a day for shops and restaurants to close early. The Brotherhood currently keep rather constant hours, thanks to the willingness of its employees... and the capital of its owner who can afford to keep things running even when demand is still relatively low. But Sunday nights, even the Brotherhood closes early, giving the small staff some much appreciated rest -- some time home with respective families.

Of course, for others, their family - or what passes as such - is right there in the kitchen. Thus it is that Andrea Locke reclines in a saddleback chair at a table that's been moved in from the dining room, set before the bricked fireplace that houses a dutch oven next to it [some breads just come out better that way]. A glass of red wine from the Rioja region of Spain slowly dwindles as she enjoys the company of the married couple that had come with her from... where ever. And, of course, the Giant Joaquin. In the middle of the table is a crock of country stew, savoury and highly satisfying. A few loaves of crusty breads and fresh creamier butter.
There are perks to owning this kind of place.
But as the night goes on it is only her and Reuben, the 50-ish man entertaining her with questionable jokes as she sips her wine, lazily slicing bits of cheese from a greater block to munch along with the remaining bread. She appreciates the bread crumbs scattered over the polished tabletop -- the mingling smells and the way the hard cheese leaves a coating on the slicer. The sharp compliment of the cheddar to accent the faint bitterness of the wine. These homely and yet decadent things; these good and simple things.

"So the man tells 'is mate, 'e'does: 'Oi've been 'avin a bit o' trouble with Freudian Slips lately --- other day went t'the train yard n' asked the vendor'man f'r a Ticket to Titsburg...'" Wheezing slightly int he beginning merriment of his own wit, the coffee skinned man wrapped gnarled fingers around his brew mug and takes a sip, the better to draw out the moment. "An' 'is mate, 'e sez -- 'Been 'avin' the same bloody problem.. other day took t'breakfast w'the aul' lady n' meants t'ask 'er proper fer the mornin' paper, but said 'Ye've ruined m'life, yeh bitch.' Shocked hell outta the both, I sez.'..."

Andrea's response is not at all loud - not as Ruben's boisterous cackle - but the alto resonance of it hums with mirth as she shakes her head. "I pity the day you let such a slip loose with Jenny, mi viejo..."

All that is good.
All that is simple.

[Katherine Bellamonte] As he closes on her, perhaps Sam can catch fragments of the other side of this bilingual conversation. The voice on the other end is female; deeper than Katherine's but carrying the unmistakable traces of a heavily french upbringing. There is something almost decadent about Rosalie Bellamonte's voice; it is the soft caress of velvet against one's skin. Full of warmth and maternal concern.

"....Honnêtement?, I worry so at this distance." Sighed. "Et ainsi, how does my son go, Katarina?"

A hand tousled in thick hair, and the softness leeched from her face. Perhaps because she sensed Sam approaching, perhaps something in the question goaded her; perhaps it was the mere insolence of the Wyrmbreaker's approach. Katherine's eyes bore the remark she wished she could make; her voice remained even; as calm as a frozen winter's lake.

"Edward is fine, maman. I shall remind him to call you." A beat, something which drew a small smile. "As I always do. I must go, oui." She snapped her phone shut and in the same motion was moving back the way she'd strolled.

[Hatchet] [BRB, assume Hatchet is walking.]

[Wyrmbreaker] (*puzzled* wait a minute -- argh, i think i skimmed too fast. can i get a soundoff on locations again? i thought sam and hatchet were together, katherine was alone, armstrong is hidden, and lukas was still on the pier)

[Armstrong] (correct on the location for Armstrong!)

[Andrea Locke] ooc: In the kitchen!

[Hatchet] [Hatchet is walking from the docks to The Brotherhood. Since I have a phonecall, I am assuming that it takes him more than 30 seconds to get there. *L*]

[Sam Modine] ((K. I had sam, lukas and hatchet on the pier w/sam breaking to catch up with kat who's walking withing eye/ear shot armstrong yes- out of sight and andrea is holding down fort furry.))

[Wyrmbreaker] (okay. hmmmm. okay, let's play it like this: sam catches up to katherine, and lukas catches up to armstrong instead. and obviously he doesn't dislike armstrong as much. *bangs gavel* play-ho!)

[Katherine Bellamonte] (wth, now my whole post makes no sense. ;_;)

[Sam Modine] (it does!)

[Hatchet] test
to Hatchet

[Sam Modine] "Katherine." He addresses her as formally as he always seems to before she bids him at ease. She'll notice his clothes tonight as the others already have are not his own. It's one of Lukas's suits, a grey on white number with blue and silver striping on it's white shirt. It doesn't quite work for Sam so well as it does the owner but it does give the impression of a sort of sophistication he only really nudges against. After all running with those who share blood with kings still makes you just a soldier, even if you're the leader of the soldiers.

"Your mother, again?" He asks. quietly, eyes cocked groundward. Followed quickly by. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't intrude." His hands do find his pockets now and he walks to the inside of her, opposite the lake as she's told him over and over in the past is how a proper man should walk next to someone of her stature. A step back and a step outside. Always the squire perhaps, and not the knight.

[Wyrmbreaker] (erk -- apparently mindy and i were waiting on each other. editing last post for clarity!)

"Go on," says Lukas (though his player posts most belatedly), "I'll catch up with Armstrong."

They walk off. Lukas watches them go. The pier is dark, save for the orange glow of industrial-grade sodium lights; the distant white sweep of a lighthouse. The young Lord turns his face to the water and the wind for some time, counting the slow steady cast of light to cast. Once, twice, thrice.

Then he gets up and, without any uncertainty whatsoever, heads unerringly in the Theurge's direction.

"We're heading back to the Brotherhood of Thieves," he says when he's in earshot. He's a shadow at first, tall and imposing in his overcoat, which masks nearly all details of his body. Then he comes into the light: his eyes flickering over her, then in the direction of the Brotherhood. "Why don't you come with us."

[Hatchet] The smell of bread and stew hit Hatchet's nostrils well before he gets to the door of The Brotherhood. Hatchet's face, when there is no one around to see him -- or no one he knows of -- is far more stoic, far more serious than the face he shows to most others. Some of the masks fall away, and there's something brooding, seething and yet inexplicably peaceful left behind.

He is rather self-contained, despite his connection to his packmates. He does not show an instant relief or feeling of strength when one of them is near, the way that so many of the Unbroken Circle do. Then again, Weasel's Gang are not bonded to a spiritual flock, and half of them are so new, and one of them is so very far away...

Of course he is self-contained. For these and other reasons, he has to be.

Hatchet grabs the door handle, and he squeezes the metal, and as he walks back in the sense that he is truly set apart is gone. He is the same rather easy-going Garou that was in here the other night in Andrea's kitchen. And he has a smile on his face.

[Armstrong] Her stomach made a rather unhappy sound. It was demanding and impatient, telling Armstrong that she was supposed to be at the brotherhood where there was food and something with a texture. She stopped, but hadn't moved just yet; it was cold. She liked that.


She spent the better part of her time staring at... at something that didn't seem to really be there. She was looking at some distant figure that wasn't quite... visible. She blinked, and then White Eyes felt a a rather familiar feeling come over her and she glanced over at Lukas. There was quiet appraisal, to taKe in textures. Not much had changed; he was still a specimen of superior breeding. He was still relatively clean. He was still full and well influenced by the moon above. He cast a different shadow today than he had earlier; he was a distinctly more imposing figure in comparison to Armstrong.

It was hard to be imposing on first glance when you were barely five feet tall.

"Sounds like a plan," she said. "Who all is coming with?"

It didn't stop her from following along though. Her stomach made a rather displeased sound. She glared at it for a moment, as though giving her body a rather unhappy look would make it be quiet. It worked. A beat passed.

"I didn't finish the picture, though I do have a rather nice rendering of whatever it was you were reading."

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas, it is very likely, makes a conscious attempt to pass himself off as milder and less threatening than he is most time. He tries to be reasonable; he tries to be calm. He tries very hard to pretend he is not a monster. But the truth is, of course: he is. A monster with some intelligence; a monster with some control; a monster with honor. All of which, of course, only makes him more dangerous. A dumb brute is easily destroyed. A creature without control can be manipulated. A man without honor cannot take offense when his honor is insulted.

Digression. Point is: when he looms out of the dark, any human in his right mind would run away screaming. But then Armstrong, for all her diminutive stature, is not human either.

Lukas' pale eyes narrow into the distance as he thinks. "Sam. Katherine too, I think. And the Alpha of the Weasels will be there, too."

He falls in beside her: an absurd juxtaposition if ever there was one. The young Lord stands well over six feet; his clothes are uniformly expensive, handsomely crafted, subtly stylish. The other young Lord is five feet tall, and wears clothes off the rack at Target. Still, they cleave to each other in a natural, easy way that marks them indelibly as packmates.

[Andrea Locke] Conversation waxes and wanes as it is want to do, until it leaves the 50-something-year-old man and 30-something-year-old woman sitting in companionable silence. Reuben lights up his pipe and Andrea has rummaged the pantry, returning with some McIntosh apples which she sits peeling with a slender knife and a steady hand, fluidly working at one long, curling peel.

It is into that atmosphere that Hatchet walks (the front doors of the restaurant is closed, the lights off, but the back door is unlocked as is known to any roomers of the place), two contentedly, lazily silent kinfolk, the lights mostly off save for the glow of the Exit sign above the back door and the flickering, amber-illumination of the fire. The air is headily resplendent with the simple, co-mingling smells of hearty fare, fresh fruit, red wine and sweet cigar smoke. Beneath it all a sharp nose might pick out the other traces of smells -- today's lunch (gyros and paninis), slightly sweaty older man, the scents Andrea favours that draw from North African and Mediterranean influences of spice and flora.

Both kinfolk look up as Hatchet enters, Reuben sitting up, tension sliding along his older-but-still-strong squat frame. Recognizing the Garou, Reuben nods and sits back once more, grunting out something that is presumably a greeting. Andrea offers the Fianna an easy-tempered smile, nodding to him.
"Buenas, señor..." She continues peeling as she speaks, then pauses to indicate the empty bowls on the table, the bits of bread left. "Are you hungry? There is plenty of stew left on the stove and bread as well. A peasant meal - simple and excellent."

[Katherine Bellamonte] "Hello, Samuel."

Katherine's tone was thoughtful, if not a touch distant.

"Yes, she worries needlessly." She slowed the rhythm of her footsteps until the Modi was (if not [never]) equal to her than close to her elbow and glanced in passing at his borrowed clothing; the smile that twisted the Philodox's face was equal parts mirth and reprimand. "That suit isn't right on you, Mjollnir's Heart," Meridian's Truth pulled to a stop and extended a hand to indicate he too should cease.

With the air of one accustomed to tailoring in a gentleman's suit, her deft, sure fingers reached for the collar of the shirt and undid one or two buttons, Katherine tugged on the stiff material and surveyed her pack member; head to toe with those critical pale eyes of hers. They returned to Sam's face and she smiled; briefly tapping a finger against his jacket. "Better, but you need your own. I'll have to arrange something for the future."

There's no mistaking Katherine's actions for something more than they are; she is practical to a fault and barely gives the Fenrir time to react before she's sweeping onward in a breeze of perfume and something else entirely feminine.

[Hatchet] [JAMIE SAYS GOODNIGHT]

[Sam Modine] ((GOODNIGHT JAMIE!))

[Andrea Locke] goodnight Jamie! hope you feel better. poor thing.
to Hatchet

[Katherine Bellamonte] (GOODNIGHT JAMIE)

[Armstrong] ((G'Night!))

[Hatchet] [COME ON DAMON. EVERYBODY ELSE IS DOING IT.]

[Wyrmbreaker] (wha? sorry, i was hypnotized by this horrid/awesome song *LOL* NIGHT JAMIE)

[Hatchet] [*gets off of the phone* AND NOW I CAN TYPE FREELY. The world is new and shiny again.]

[Armstrong] It was information that made the difference. Careful planing and forethought before execution. There was interesting and clever cliches to be said about careful planning and the successful execution of informed descisions. Armstrong didn't think to explore them at the moment, she had no need.

Back on the subject, however, the two of them were making their way to the Brotherhood, the only readily aparent similarity between the two of them would be that they shared a tribe and they were pack mates. They might have shared an affinity for the color red, but Armstrong knew that Lukas wouldn't be caught dead wearing anything from Target. His suit sold for more than her artwork.

That would change though, carefully laid plans and all that. Again, digression.

The other pack's Alpha would be there too. Her expression didn't seem pleased or displeased. Maybe it leaned a little more in the direction of the latter. "Well, if nothing more, it should make for interesting observation."

[Wyrmbreaker] "Hm," a thoughtful sound. They're at the edge of the docks now, and he peels back the chain link fence, nodding her through first. The fence rattles back into place after he's through. "What do you think of him?"

[Sam Modine] "We're-" When they stop she takes his collar into her hands and adjusts his [not his.] clothing. "Yes I know, Lukas's shirts are a tad big on me." He gets back to his point once she's finished with her adjustments not staying on the point of her providing him clothing. "We were going to convene at The Brotherhood. Have some dinner." He pauses, one of those hanging pauses where it's second nature to wait and not speak for a moment.

"I warn you. The weasel Alpha will be there." The words are dropped with considerable weight, he's turned to gauge her reaction to them, letting long blonde hair blow back like a golden mane around him in the stiff Chicago wind.

[Hatchet] There's something aching for him about walking into the kitchen like this, smelling what he smells and almost able to feel the aftereffects of conversation and warmth. He breathes in the heat that he has missed since leaving earlier and standing on the dock while his packmate took a lesson in self-control from a New Moon.

"Ravenous, señora," he says, the Spanish rumbling out of him. His voice lowers when he speaks other-than-English, just as it lightens when he laughs. And there's something interesting about the difference between how he addresses her -- formally, almost -- compared to how he speaks to other Garou. Watching the difference in play, times other than this moment, it is not difficult to see that even when he is twinkling, mocking, and contrite, he holds other werewolves in the esteem of family in a way he does not include Kinfolk in.

Though there is also the fact that this woman is putting him up, feeding him, and not asking for much, if anything, in return. He may just not want to piss her off.

"Usted es demasiado generoso," Hatchet goes on, while he is being referred to not as Hatchet or Buried-Hatchet or even Taggart but as the Alpha of his pack. He is called by the role he fills rather than the name he was given, as he is going towards the stove to find stew, bread, the food he's been offered.

[Armstrong] "He strikes me as proud. I have no doubt that he knows his duties, but he strikes me as proud and it makes lesser men make exceptions for themselves when they have no room for leeway..."

She nodded with that, slipping through the gate and looking back at Lukas expectantly. She had revealed her feelings, it was his turn to do the same. She was not specific as to whether or not she believed Taggart to be a "lesser man." She could have meant anything in regards to leeway though.

[Katherine Bellamonte] "Is he now?" She murmurs, seeming without, under even casual scrutiny to possess even the slightest inclination about the presence of the Fianna Alpha. Whatever her feelings toward the man she is cautious about revealing too much of them -- or at least so it would seem -- in front of Samuel.

Weakness was weakness, no matter the cause.

Her eyes were more gray than blue in the dark; and they gleamed across at the Modi. "I can tolerate the Fianna in exchange for a meal. Let's go in."

[Andrea Locke] With an airy gesture of a slender hand, warmer in tone than it actually is given the effects of the fire, she waves away his last words in a kindly manner. She is generally warm, solicitous, and polite with everyone she encounters be their Garou, Kinfolk or just the man who delivers the mail each day. There are differences, of course -- her quiet endearments for those of her staff closest to her. The display Hatchet (whose name she actually doesn't know -- seems to happen quite a bit here) witnessed the other night (the evidence of said display expertly masked with a knowledgeable brush and superb pallet) was certainly different from the woman most encounter. But, in general, she is nothing if not possessed of seemingly natural, countess-in-exile social skills.

"¿Demasiado? ¿Asi piensas usted? ¿Y no puede ser que otros simplemente lo hacen a menos?" Rather than entering into some deep, philosophical realm with that question she poises it lightly, perhaps even with a touch of [bittersweet] whimsy.
Reuben grunts slightly, shifting in his seat. With a slight sound of apologetic careing, Andrea slices off a bit of apple and shifts to her low, sibilant English. "I'm sorry, old friend -- I would make introductions but I'm afraid I've yet to pick up our guests name. Shall I begin at least? I am Andrea Locke and this delightfully grizzled specimen is Reuben Coltrane...."

Hatchet will find that there are stacked stone-ware bowls and utensils laid out beside the pot of stew, bread in a warmer at hand and the cheese, apples, and wine are on the table.

[Sam Modine] "Good." He answers. The conversation coming easier it seems with her than earlier with Lukas and the fostern outsider. [An interloper, no different than the rest of you.] "I am hungry." As they change course just so to march their way toward the safety and warmth of the Brotherhood so does the conversation shift between them. Perhaps it's the memory of a related story that now finds itself in it's third act, maybe it was the phonecall he'd come upon, and perhaps it's just a matter of duty for him to ask after the smotth running of his packmate's affairs.

"How is Gabriella?" He keeps his tone a careful one, not so interested as to seem lecherous toward the royal kin and not so neutral as to seem detached from care.

[Wyrmbreaker] There's a pause as he digests this. Then, in lieu of an answer, he slants a faint smile at the Theurge. "That really doesn't tell me very much at all, does it?"

He doesn't seem perturbed by this, though. They continue on. When they're within a block or so of the Brotherhood, Lukas speaks up again. There's an abruptness to the way the subject is reapproached, but his tone is measured; this is not blurted out.

"I think I could trust him to watch my back, if I needed to. Provided he isn't the enemy, of course." The Lord reaches up to undo the topmost collar of his coat as they near their destination. "I think it's a pity Edward hates him so utterly, but there's nothing to be done for that. On the bright side, I think I dislike most of his packmates."

[Hatchet] No judgment has been placed, in Hatchet's words or mind, on either Lukas or Andrea. He was not there when words passed between them or when questions were asked and responded to. He was not there when the smack was even given, only heard it as the door between kitchen and counter opened.

Hatchet had not given Wyrmbreaker the glare of a Fianna who feels protective for Kin or a Philodox wanting to remind another Garou of their duty to the near-mortals they rely on for so much. His question to Andrea about her cheek that night had been neither perfunctory nor terribly concerned. To talk to him, there had been no gauging his reason for asking without making some kind of broad assumption about his character.

As for his surprisingly frequent, shockingly civil interactions with Lukas...it hasn't come up.

He takes a bowl as though he has been here for years, rather than a few days, and spoons stew into it. Unlike many Garou, he does not take a great deal of food. He is tall, just a little over six feet, and though his shoulders are broad it is hard to tell whether he is quite slender or barrel-chested in the usually bulky clothing he has on. He tears off a hunk of bread to put it in the stew-bowl, and walks slowly to the table where the cheese, apples, and wine wait for his eager attention.

He nods to Reuben and Andrea as he sets his bowl down, sliding himself onto a chair, or bench, whatever is available. "Taggart," he says simply, giving them the human name that does not rankle him to hear. "The Garou call me Buried Hatchet," he adds, picking up his spoon.

[Administrator] peek, welcome to Caern & Adjoining Lands (Now)

[Armstrong] Armstrong walked and listened; her response hadn't told him much and she shook her head. It didn't really say much, it really could have been taken several different ways. But she did listen to Lukas. They two walked onward, a few blocks from the Brotherhood they continued on ward with the conversation.

"If they wish to stop hating each other, they're both going to have to put forth from effort. It is a pity," she said. And there was a degree of sincerity in that statement. "Though most of the man's pack is abbrasive. My opinions of them are skewed though, it's very difficult to give a bad impression by saying "Hi, my name is Belinda.". There is very little room to mess that up."

[Katherine Bellamonte] "Challenging. Spiteful, resentful of all that I say and do." Silvery laughter escaped from Katherine's lips, before it faded and was replaced by the now-familiar furrow of consternation above her nose. For all her short-comings; asking after either her elder brother or younger sister was an easy enough pathway into Katherine's good graces. She prized both the opportunity it brought to discuss her family [one of her favorite subjects of study] and the potential to somehow further her desire for her brother's conquests.

Her smokey eyes slid to Samuel.

"In other words, quite the same."

[Andrea Locke] "Taggart." It is the human name she enunciates, saying nothing of his Deedname, though surely it is noted and filed away in the recesses of her mind. The gaze that drifts to him is surely intelligent, but not even remotely prying. For his part, Reuben merely contents himself with another florid grunt and half raising of his brew stein - the greetings of men. Of men!

Silence descends once more -- comfortable for Andrea's part, acceptable for Reuben's as he puffs away on his pipe. The kinwoman eats her apple, slow and savoring, languid in her simple attire: black slacks, smoke gray-blue fishermans jumper and her bare feet extended out towards the fire. It is only after Taggart [now she will think of him as such] has had time to introduce himself to the wonders of a homemade cassoulet that she speaks again - not in the manner of someone who feels a need to fill up gaps in conversation [far from it - silence is a blessing, companionable silence more so] but rather to address a matter that has weighed on her mind, jostled and full as it is with any number of concerns, both the obvious ones and the unfathomable.
"The girl, Cody -- a Bone Gnawer. I've considered asking her to come and stay on with us. This will be quite satisfactory to me and mine, but as someone who is living on the second floor with our other guests I wondered if you had any thoughts as to whether it would be prudent to make the offer..."

[Wyrmbreaker] "They don't. At least, Edward definitely does not want to stop hating Taggart. And Taggart definitely does not want to stop hating Katherine, if last night was any indication, and you know Ed. An attack on family is an attack on him.

"At any rate, this won't stay at a mere personal disagreement much longer. I think we must be here for the same reason, Taggart's pack and ours -- to strengthen the Sept. To control the Sept. And once we move into that province, I doubt they'll stand by idly and watch." A crooked, ironic grin, "Then we'll really have a reason to dislike them."

Armstrong remarks that it's impossible to give a bad impression by saying hello -- and Lukas simply laughs, a short, sharp, humorless bark. "Believe me. The woman can bungle a simple introduction up."

And there they are: the Brotherhood, in all its cheery, good-food-y glory. Lukas, gentlemanly or simply warding a weaker packmate, pulls the door open and flanks Armstrong through.

[Hatchet] In origin, the name is Scottish, but the man himself is lacking many of the stereotypical characteristics of Scottish descent. He is not fair-skinned but comes into Chicago in December wearing a tan that is fading but almost golden in color. His hair is light-colored, and in the firelight -- when he pushes his black hood away from his face -- definitely takes on a coppery hue, the reddish hints that his beard always carries. He has no freckles or curls, and his eyes are not blue or green or brown but a gray that tends to be more metallic than cloudy.

He does not have a beerstein to raise to Reuben in return, not has he asked for a glass to pour wine into. He contents himself with the stew, dunking bread into it as though he much prefers that to the metal spoon that looks so small in his hand. But he does nod to Coltrane, his mouth full. It has been some time since he ate a few bites of lamb offered to him by a Shadow Lord.

There's irony for you.

His eyes lift from the table, move from Reuben, and go to the Kinfolk who owns this place. He chews thoughtfully now, swallows what's in his mouth, and then he waves a hand as a replacement for a shrug. "In my experience," he says, "Bone Gnawers are often offered warm places to sleep and free food to eat and while they appreciate it heartily, it rarely lasts. Most of the Gnawers I've met, if they choose to stay, would rather make their environment more what they are used to or go back to the streets."

"That said," he goes on, as the back door opens to Lukas's hand, "if she is invited to stay here and accepts, my first order of business will be to dump her in a soapy bath and hold her under til she scrubs the smell of human garbage off herself."

[Sam Modine] "Just wait until she's given some responsibility." He notes. Turning his own gaze to her as they get closer to what has quickly become ground zero for Chicago's Garou. "She'll be grown soon enough, with all the grace and class of you Bellamonte women." He smiles, a genuine one too. The Modi finds himself a bit more relaxed after the previous night's chance to blow off some steam.

"She should pick a school soon, only a few months left." Sam seems to leave himself for a moment, locked in a half-remembered nostalgia of things almost had. He's after all only a few years a Garou and he was a boy before that. One with dreams and hopes far different han the life he leads now. He does not though, allow himself to dwell on this thought, whatever it is. To do so would be weakness. And weakness among his tribe is intolerable a sin as any litany violation. They're close enough to see their packmates let themselves into the establishment and he takes a serious turn to the regal figure he flanks.

"We're gonna be all right in here?"

[Andrea Locke] The last bit of apple chewed slowly and swallowed, Andrea sets down the knife and rises from her seat, moving to collect a glass from where they hang upside down in traditional manner. "Vino? Agua? Agua ardiente?" A smile in her tone more than her shapely lips at the last offer of liquor rather than all the namby-pamby stuff.

Taggart speaks, giving his opinion on Gnawers and on Cody's absolute ghastly lack of hygiene. For a moment Andrea merely turns the empty glass in her hands, her expression shifting in the shadow play of the firelight, murmuring something beneath her breath [she's just a child...]. Then she shrugs, straightens and the slight trace of a smile does broaden at the fiannas last words. She shakes her head, ebony waves and loose curls shifting with the motion. "A top priority of my own, as well. I shall..."

What she shall or shan't do slips away as the door opens once more, harolding the arrivals of Lukas and Armstrong. "'Evening, Armstrong.. Lukas..." Her tone is light as she speaks Armstrong's name, neutral as she greets Lukas, though otherwise she simply goes ahead with either giving Taggart his glass so he can pour himself wine or filling it up with whatever else he prefers.

Reuben, upon seeing Lukas, rises into action. Standing with a faint popping of joints, he clears his throat [all gravel and pitch] and taps out the remnants from his pipe bowl, into the fireplace. "Be taken m'leave now, Andy. Taggart. Miss Armstrong. Too late f'r these auld bones." With that he makes his way out of the kitchen patting Andrea's shoulder with one broad, gnarled hand as he passes.

[Armstrong] The real reason to dislike them, she smiled a ltitle. The look was pleasureless, humorless. She took a strange amount of... pleasure? No, not quite. It was humorless, without teeth. Armstrong's smile was much like Lukas's laughter.

"Things will get much more interesting soon enough," she grinned a little. Interesting. Wherever her thoughts were, Armstrong was talking without having to reveal too much. There was a reason for it, they were practically at the brotherhood and... well... she had to keep things on the down low, as it were.

With that, she made her way on in, content to be flanked. She knew she was smaller than Lukas, and she knew that she was slightly less durable. Armstrong's job wasn't to be a shield, just like it wasn't her job to fix the physical ailments of her packmates. She dealt with different injuries.

"I've got to drop some things off upstairs, do you need anything?" she asked her packmate.

With that, she was being addressed by Ms. Locke and company. She nodded a little and did offer them a polite smile.

"it's going to snow again on Tuesday, you may want to prepare now."

[Katherine Bellamonte] "Yes," Katherine notes most seriously, her expression grave. The darkness does the expression no favors, she looks beautiful; but a touch unreal and alien in all her white and gray. "She is a Bellamonte woman and it's my responsibility to make sure she remembers that. Our name cannot be blemished."

The Philodox's voice turns almost a feverish a moment, fingers stressing the strand of pearls around neck. It's passion, but a kind none of the pack relish the appearance of for this tunnel-vision of hers cannot be reasoned with, its as fixed as the stars above.

She seems to calm somewhat as they approach The Brotherhood; Sam's question -- we're gonna be alright in here -- receiving the benefit of Katherine's raised eyebrows and her hand, reaching for the door handle. "Don't be melodramatic, Samuel, we're capable of restraint, even if they aren't."

And in she drifts.

[Wyrmbreaker] "Hang on." She offered; Lukas wasn't about to pass the opportunity up. He unbuttons his coat, strips it off; whips his scarf off his neck; strips his thin sweater off; pulls his gloves off as well, and dumps the entire bundle, still warm from his body, into Armstrong's -- er, arms. Then he grins, charmingly, too charmingly: he's teasing her, one of his rare moments of levity. "Thanks, Mrena."

Unburdened of his outerwear, he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt and rolls them up. Perhaps it should bother one more than anything else that he's absolutely unruffled by Andrea's carefully neutral greeting. There's no shame in the way he looks at her, though perhaps the bruise is still fresh on her cheek. There's no antipathy either. He nods, "Hi, Andrea," and then looks around. "Huh. Katherine and Sam aren't here yet?"

[Hatchet] Under her breath is wise. Hatchet may wear a beard but his face is young underneath it, and there is that odd sense at times that his eyes are seeing things for the first time ever. He got that look in his eyes when they first came into Chicago, when it was just him and Sol and Belinda and Amunet and Hector. He had walked through Grant Park with a smile playing on his face, his eyes delighted.

But even so, were Andrea aware of that little episode, or had she been treated to one of those moments when his gaze seems so lost and so unknowing, Hatchet would argue that Cody is not a 'child' at all, no matter what her level of maturity or lack thereof, no matter how she looks or how easily frightened she is. That 'child' has claws. In that argument, however, no metis is ever truly a child.

Which Hatchet would also agree with.

He looks over his shoulder at the door opening, though, staying silent at first even in the face of being offered alcohol or the response to his thoughts on Word Vomit's hygiene. He glances at Armstrong and Lukas briefly, then at Sam and Katherine coming in soon after them. His gaze lingers, but not for long; of the four Garou that are slowly entering, it is not immediately apparent which one of them is the one holding his eyes for that handful of seconds.

Hatchet then breathes out and looks at Andrea. "¿Alguna vez has conocido un Fianna a bajar la cerveza...o vino...o agua ardiente?" he asks fluidly, a wry but only half-present smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He nods. "Por favor. Le ruego se sirva."

[Katherine Bellamonte] "Why--" Katherine is standing just shy of the doorway, sliding a calf-length overcoat from her shoulders and flicking aside the fringe of blond hair falling over one made up eye. "Do you long for my presence so very much, Lukas?" Again, the silvery laughter, only this time it lingers until her gaze meets Hatchet's and it dissolves into a carefully neutral expression.

[Armstrong] (alright lovelies, I have the munchies. I'll be back, Armstrong's off and up the stairs!)
to Andrea Locke, Hatchet, Katherine Bellamonte, peek, Sam Modine, Wyrmbreaker

[Wyrmbreaker] (*waves* later minds!)

[Hatchet] When Katherine looks back at Hatchet, in those few seconds his eyes are turned that way, she discovers that he -- perhaps oddly, in her estimation -- is not gazing at her, in fact, before he goes back to his host and his dinner.

...Huh.

[Sam Modine] Her eyes and the look in them worry the Fenrir. He would not yet tell her so, and he'd never dream of asking yet at what makes her tug so hard at the string of pearls. But it worries him and for just a moment it shows. But he is a warrior, a fighter. What he is not is a mender of hearts and minds. He can Inspire greatness on the battlefield that rivals what he himself is capable of but he cannot fix them. Cannot make them whole.

She glides in though and he holds the door for her, hearing only the end of a snipped comment thrown the way of the other Ahroun. He pops his head in seconds later. "Hey Luke. I thought you--" He looks about. "Where's Mrena?" When the question is answered he gives a cautious wave in the direction of Buried Hatchet. The most and at once least diplomatic of gestures.

The woman he merely nods to and focuses to the ground with flushed cheeks which for once make him look nearly as boyish as he truly is.

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas, more or less left to himself with his packmate's departure and the fact that the other two occupants of the room are speaking Spanish, wanders over to the stoves to check what was cooking. He finds a small stash of roasted almonds, doubtlessly intended for some salad or entree or main course or other. "May I?" he asks, perfunctorily, already dipping his hand into the proverbial cookie jar when Katherine speaks, suddenly, from behind him; brings him snapping about.

For an unguarded instant, he's outright glaring at her. Then he draws a swift breath through flaring nostrils. "Yeah." Smoothly, and carelessly, that. "That's exactly it." And he pops a couple almonds in his mouth, then the rest of the handful.

Chewing, dusting his hands off, he's a little muffled: "I was just wondering what was taking the two of you so long, was all. And, she's upstairs. Probably getting her sketchbook."

[Andrea Locke] The argument as to whether or not Cody is a 'child' is ultimately moot, and ultimately one Andrea would lose even if she attempted to debate the point. All the same, that murmured opinion [longing] would remain. Not children. Not men. Not women.
But it doesn't change the unattainable desires of most Kinfolk.

If Andrea is perturbed by Lukas' casual address and lack of either shame, concern, or antipathy, it doesn't show. "No, not yet." Is her simple response, fluidly spoken as she sets down the glass for Taggart to pour himself wine or water at will then takes up a tumbler, reaching up on bare tip-toes to draw down a rather dusty bottle of aged whiskey [drink of Fianna champions everywhere] from a cupboard, pouring out a generous tumble and setting that down beside Taggart's plate. By this point of course, the people Lukas was asking after have entered -- they too receive the same social smile, politely warm nod, her lips perhaps playing slightly broader when she gives the non-verbal greeting to Sam, a touch rueful, but mostly simply kind. "I'm glad to see you are fully dressed, Mr. Modine. And thank you for the tokens -- they were very thoughtful. I am very appreciative."

She waves at the pot of cassoulet, still steaming slightly, still smelling mouth-watering delicious. "Please, help yourselves if you like..."

Then she sits down once more, turning back to Taggart. "Se encuentra el sopon a su gusto? Por favor, tienes que provar el ron -- un regalo de Reuben, envejecido mas de doce años... sendo tambien de los Fiannas, el tiene mucho de los mismos gustos."

[Katherine Bellamonte] The Silver Fang Heiress reaches two hands up and uncoils the thick swath of hair clipped to her nape; carefully shaking her head from side to side until it framed her cheeks in a cloud of blond waves. Lukas' glare is met with pure nonchalance, the oh-so-casual rise and fall of a shoulder as she sets her belongings down and makes a beeline for the offered cassoulet.

"This looks divine." She offers, and dips a spoon into the steaming pot, stirring it once.

[Hatchet] A lot of Fianna, Kinfolk or no, know a thing or two about unattainable desires. The topic constitutes about eighty percent of their songs. Hatchet himself could go on for hours about unattainable desires he has heard of, seen play out in tragedy in front of him. He would not go on for hours about any of his own, and in fact does not seem to have any. He has his bowl of stew and his bread, he is being offered libations; the man would claim contentment.

He smiles at Andrea as she gives him a glass, and follows her over to the cupboard with a rather cheerful expression. He looks like a kid, for a moment, who has just been told he's finally going to get that puppy he's always wanted. As she comes back, he switches to English. That is notable, and yet could easily be interpreted as an order. He has not heard anyone else in the room speaking in his Beta's native tongue. When it was just them and Reuben, that was one thing.

Now there's members of another pack standing right there, and Hatchet chooses to make his speech transparent.

"Delicious," he assures her, dunking his bread back into the bowl and pushing his glass towards her. "I had a feeling he was," Hatchet adds, as she is hopefully pouring. "He make it himself?"

[Sam Modine] Miss Locke smiles and he smiles back. It's easier in the day after battle perhaps to hold at bay that thing which is both your greatest blessing and your greatest burden. "I'm glad you liked them." It's a simple response, but more seems a little beyond his reach. "Here." He hands a bowl to the Silver Fang and another to the Beta, taking another for himself, waiting patiently behind them to grab some of the offered food.

"Did white-Eyes tell you she stiched me up last night?" He turns to each of his companions in turn. "No joke, I walked her through the whole thing. Katerina wasn't here."

[Wyrmbreaker] Again: she offers, he accepts. This time it's Andrea, and this time the favor is cassoulet. "Excellent," Lukas says, sounding genuinely pleased. He finds himself a large, earthen soup bowl (or is handed one by Sam) and proceeds to ladle himself a heaping portion.

-- or would have, anyway, except Katherine makes it there first. So Lukas does something better. He puts his bowl down conspicuously next to hers, as though he expects to be served.

While he waits, he replies to Sam: "Was it a wyrmridden bite or something, that you couldn't simply heal yourself?"

[Andrea Locke] To Katherine, Andrea beams momentarily, nodding in general agreement. "It tastes even better, I assure you, señorita. Whatever my prior sins in life, I've been granted three great blessings -- two of which are the Coltranes. Reuben - who did indeed distill and age the whiskey, " She nods to Taggart, answering his own question. "And Jennifer, who can make old shoe leather completely palatable. The bread if of my own two hands, I'm afraid, but I think it comes up to scratch." Her words hold not trace of either false-modesty or an overt pessimism regarding her own skills.

Looking back to Taggart, she pours his glass and then takes up her own glass of wine, drawing from it, letting the bouquet flourish at soft pallet and tickle at the back of her throat where the last remnants of its smell are made known, and swallows. "I'll let Reuben know you approve."

[Andrea Locke] Remembering herself [the hour is late and that isn't her first glass of wine] she rises once more and takes down three -- no, four, Armstrong may come back down -- more wine glasses setting them on the table along with a second bottle of the same Riojo red wine as the first has dwindled. Likewise she takes four tumblers and the dusty bottle of Whiskey just recently poured out for Taggart, setting that on the table for anyone who would like it. The pitcher of water is refreshed, and extra knives are set out for anyone wishing some of the McIntosh apples. The extra-sharp Wisconsin cheddar is still on the table, the cheese-slicer at hand. Satisfied that all is in order she sits down once more, curling up before the fire, comfortably claiming as a feline.

[Sam Modine] "Bane spear in my shoulder." He gives a proud grin, "And leech claws in the ribs." He continues, "I healed most of it during the night and this afternoon. Just a little of the hole left here." He points to where the gaping wound he'd paraded through the establishment the night before had been previously. He shrugs. "No suitable fights to be found though."

Sam looks down then to the placement of the Wyrmbreaker's bowl. And looks between the two of them again, his look is anything but approving. He knows how this usually ends and is not looking forward to it.

He however continues on the course of the conversation. "I'll be good enough to get back out tomorrow I think, if any of you decide to come with."

[Wyrmbreaker] "Yeah." He'll come along. "There are a few places I've been sniffing around. Might be something promising there." He leaves it at that, for now.

[Katherine Bellamonte] She ladles a generous amount into her own bowl, and, while not ignoring her Beta's primely placed dish, is careful to ensure he receives a spoonful less than her own serving -- childish and ridiculously petty? Oh, count upon it. Garou they were; but Katherine was barely out of her teens and it did, most particularly in regards to two of the men present satisfy some juvenile part of her to torment them in every small way imaginable.

Cradling her bowl between her hands she turns a frown upon the Modi as he retells his story. "Be sure to take someone with you next time you decide to wrestle with leeches, the last thing we need is undue attention being called our way."

Lukas chimes in, he'll go.

Katherine sniffs. "That's settled then." And she slides between her pack-mates, carrying her food.

[Armstrong] She came back down the stairs, attire had changed. Well, attire had changed slightly. The red scarf- the one that seemed to be a constant fixture in her winter wear, had dissapeared as did the coat. She was wearing a long sleeved shirt- something solid colored. It looked dark grey. She had changed into black pants, they looked like the kind that people wore to yoga classes or something to that effect.

Sketch book in hand. Pencil stuffed through the binding. That's probably what took her so long; Armstrong owned sketchbook after sketchbook, but she only liked one of them and she only really used four of the countless pencils she hoarded.

She rejoined her pack, tucking some of her hair back behind one of her ears. She looked at them curiously "Did I miss much?"

[Hatchet] Hatchet isn't talking much. Hatchet has a bowl of stew, and a hunk of bread, and there's apples and cheese within reach and he has just been given whiskey crafted by a kinsman of his own tribe. Stare as he might when four members of the Unbroken Circle traipse into the previously quiet kitchen, the man is certainly distracted by filling his belly and setting his brain to swimming.

There is an art to getting drunk when your metabolism burns approximately seven times hotter than the fire Andrea goes to curl up by. It involves drinking as much as possible in as short a time as possible without vomiting, and Hatchet has this down to an art. It also, due to some combination of genetics, practice, and a completely unnatural nature, takes a lot of strong drink to get Hatchet swaying on his feet.

He looks over at Lukas and Sam for a moment though, even if he does speak to Andrea instead: "Haven't approved yet," he says, and lifts the glass to his lips, taking a large swallow.

[Andrea Locke] The three [now four, as she watches Armstrong descend into the kitchen] packmates seem quite content to revolve in their own comfortable orbits, which leaves Andrea free to her fire gazing, wine drinking, and casual, unforced and unrushed conversation with Taggart when he so deigns to come up for air now and again. She chuckles lowly, a subterranean sound of humour that resides largely in her slender throat, as though it is something that is meant more to be felt than heard, casting the Fianna a knowing glance, as if to say 'oh, but youwill'... after he swallows, one ravens wing eyebrow sweeps upward, her head canting slightly to the side.
"[i]And? Does he pass the test?"

[Administrator] peek has left Caern & Adjoining Lands

[Wyrmbreaker] "You missed Katherine being a petty little minx," you know it's bad when Lukas doesn't even bother hiding his pique from outsiders, "but then again, that's nothing new." Abruptly his lips compress -- he shuts up and picks the bowl up, its large diameter easily gripped in his larger hand. With his other hand he picks up the glass of wine. His footsteps tromp up the stairs, then across the ceiling above them.

[Wyrmbreaker] (unless you guys really desperately want to RP with me, i'ma bow out and watch a while before bed. i gotta stop those 5am nights!)
to Andrea Locke, Armstrong, Hatchet, Katherine Bellamonte, Sam Modine

[Hatchet] Some of that aforementioned self-containment is evident tonight. He is not antagonizing Katherine, who apparently does not rank higher than a free bowl of stew and a mug of whiskey. He is not sniffing around Sam to find out more about him, or keeping an eye on Armstrong. He is not holding some alternately tense and casual conversation with Lukas, though it does not take much to see that when other wolves of either pack are present, the alignment of each man makes itself rather clear.

Soledad is not here. Sarah is not even in the state. Hector was left out by the water to relish in his humiliation and potential lesson. Belinda and Amunet are god-knows-where. Hatchet does not seem depressed about any of this. He seems, rather, just fine with sitting quietly, having his meal.

Yet there is an inexplicable spike of something when those heavy footsteps tromp upward. He stops, and swallows, and breathes out. "Sufficient," he says in a faux-rasp to Andrea, as though the whiskey just hit his throat like fire.

[Armstrong] ((Go for it mister! I had a blast!)
to Andrea Locke, Hatchet, Katherine Bellamonte, Sam Modine, Wyrmbreaker

[Andrea Locke] ooc: Alright, the husband has declared that it is absolutely time for me to get my ass to bed. Assume Andrea finishes her wine, wishes them all a good evening, warns them that the baking crew will be starting in about 2 hours and makes her way up to the third floor. Thanks for the play!
to Armstrong, Hatchet, Katherine Bellamonte, peek, Sam Modine, Wyrmbreaker

[Hatchet] [Night, Michelle!]
to Andrea Locke, Armstrong, Katherine Bellamonte, Sam Modine, Wyrmbreaker

[Katherine Bellamonte] (ack! Night departing peeps!

[Armstrong] ((toodles Meesh! *blows keesus* See thee anon!))
to Andrea Locke, Hatchet, Katherine Bellamonte, Sam Modine, Wyrmbreaker

[Katherine Bellamonte] ( *) >:( )

[Wyrmbreaker] (wtf is that?)

[Andrea Locke] ooc: what the hell.. what is that?! Jacqui -- stop breaking my tired brain! (bawls and runs off to bed) Night all!!
to Armstrong, Hatchet, Katherine Bellamonte, Sam Modine, Wyrmbreaker

[Administrator] Andrea Locke has left Caern & Adjoining Lands

[Sam Modine] He hands the bowl he's holding to Armstrong an grabs another for himself. He ladles himself a rather large portion, taking for granted Miss Locke's promise of a taste to match the smell. The Modi's lips purse, face sets, eyes narrow when Lukas tears up the stairs.

"I don't know why you insist on doing that Katherine." Blue-gray eyes turn toward the silver fang, standing at his full height as an imposing figure in the center of the room. "And in front of people." The second part is growled through gritted teeth. "And don't-" he raises a large finger in the air. "tell me 'he's just being childish'. Because-" A long exasperated sigh leaves the young beast, his chest heaving downward in it frustration. He moves to set his food down next to hers and sets about the kitchen for something to drink, eventually moving behind the bar for a couple of microbrews and a small piece of paper he scratches something down on quickly.

Once Sam has sufficiently gathered food and drink together he sits down next to the Silver Fang. "There's no damn reason for it."

[Hatchet] Andrea makes mention of the baking crew as she's finishing her glass, and makes her exit. Lukas tromps off, and Hatchet sits there for a few minutes ignoring the Fenrir and his apparent arch-nemesis for whom he has not given so much as an iota of reasoning for his dislike, finishing his dinner.

And his whiskey. He approves of the whiskey, indeed, and gives a mighty belch to prove it. Then, pushing his chair back with his legs, he takes bowl and glass to the sink and washes them out. Not a rinse-job, not a quick swish. He finds soap, and he cleans everything he used before putting them on racks to dry. That done, he even goes back, pushes in his chair, and sweeps the breadcrumbs into his hand to toss them.

The man can, as it has been said, be somewhat meticulous.

He doesn't say good-night to Katherine, or Sam, or Armstrong. He just leaves the kitchen, and standing alone in the dining room he pauses. For a breath, then two, with his eyes open and his mouth closed and no one there to witness whatever it is he is taking a few seconds to work through. Once he has, though, he starts to ascend.

[Armstrong] She looked at them for a moment and sat herself down. It was as if nothing was going on, despite the words that were flying and the decisions that were being made. And, well, she had missed a rather vital bit of information. The fact that she could not find that bit of information yet was problematic.

"I think it may be beneficial," she said. "To continue this with a greater awareness of body posture."

and then? Then she had a bowl in her hands and she started to put her things together in a nice, manageable pile. Not soon after she said that, Taggart got himself up and left with his things.

"Not that it matters now..."

[Wyrmbreaker] (JOO H0R, VERACITY.)

Upstairs: Lukas is eating alone, like a loser.

[Sam Modine] What's he looking at?

Sam's eye is caught by the Fianna in the room. "Night." He calls after him as he heads up to the boarder's floor of the place. It's not particularly jovial, though it isn't nearly as cold as the greeting from earlier. Perhaps that though is simply the benefit of a warm fire and a hot meal.

Armstrong goes on about awareness of body posture which draws a quizzical look. "What does that even mean?"

[Hatchet] He does not have any whiskey with him, as Andrea only poured him the one glass. It was strong. It was crafted by a Fianna, for Chrissakes. It's very, very strong. It's not enough to make Hatchet even remotely drunk, but he does feel slightly more relaxed as the food and the drink settles into his system.

He does not have any food with him this time, of any sort. One could assume he went upstairs after Lukas only to go to the bedroom he's got and crash for the night. He does not. He goes to the couch, across from the other Garou, and sits his ass down. Leaning on the arm, he props his head up on his hand.

"You don't like her, either."

[Katherine Bellamonte] (sorry I needed food! *dash to type*)

[Wyrmbreaker] There's a certain wariness in the way Lukas watches the Fostern. One thing is becoming clear about the Lord: his control is everything to him. It's what raises him above a thug and a brawler. And he fucking hates losing it, even for a second. Which is unfortunate, because his moon conspires against him in that particular department.

Then Oscar Taggart makes his statement, and Lukas laughs, suddenly, a short and mirthless exhale. "I can't stand her."

Maybe there should be a rule against being this frank with your enemy/rival/opponent/whateverthefuck; but then, Lukas is not a liar. He can stretch the truth and hide it, play all sorts of tricks with it if he needs to -- if he needs to. When he doesn't, he's much like Sam Modine, downstairs. He despises a liar, and he despises a lie.

"But she's my packmate," he continues a beat later, "and my Alpha's sister. So I would die for her. I hope the vice versa is true." Hearty country bean-and-meat stew isn't really his thing. Red meat off the bone is. But you'd be surprised what Lukas would put up with. He hunkers over the coffee table to eat, his spoon shuttling between his mouth and the bowl with hardly a pause, except when he talks. "Now then, what's on your mind, Hatchet-rhya? First you ask me how long I've known Edward; now you want to talk about my friendly relationship with Katherine. What are you getting at?"

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine is settling herself down to consume her stew like a self-contented feline might, smoothing a hand over her gray slacks and unfolding a tablecloth to lay across her lap as Lukas storms off up the staircase. In response, his packmate takes a measured sip of broth with her eyes closed to savor the taste.

"Mmhmm, quite divine."

Of course -- then Hatchet leaves without excusing himself (Fianna) and Samuel of all creatures deigns to lecture her on her behavior towards Lukas, of all people. Katherine calmly sets her spoon back down beside her bowl and leans back to set her arms over her chest.

"I don't recall asking for a lecture from you, Mjollnir's Heart." Calm, paced. "But you're welcome to go soothe his ego, if you want."

[Hatchet] The moon is waning. It's reflected in everything all of them are doing now, whether they pretend otherwise or not. It plays heavily into Hatchet's behavior, into the look in his eyes and the effort it takes to maintain his own control. Neither would likely admit it right off the bat, or even if pressed, but they have that in common. Hatchet has a little age and a little experience helping him out in that department; Lukas also has that much more Rage to contend with. It is not easy for either of them.

It is never easy.

He may be right to be wary. He doesn't know Hatchet at all yet, has only seen two evidences of what he is like as an Alpha, knows nothing of his relationship to packmates he has known longer than a matter of months. He is also, as far as Lukas is concerned, Edward's rival. And that makes him, perhaps, the rival of the entire Unbroken Circle. He may be up here because Lukas is alone, and getting members of that pack alone is vital if one is to get anything effective done.

Anything effective to undermine or divide them, perhaps. Maybe that's what Lukas is wary of: an attempt to push wedges between them. Maybe he thinks that Hatchet is more likely to be a liar than he is, than Edward or Sam might be. Maybe he's just wary of Hatchet, who sits there so languidly and yet stares across the coffee table so fucking intently at Lukas that it's a wonder the sense of a contest for dominance is missing from the room. His body is relaxed. His eyes are far from it.

And he ignores the first question, which wasn't really wanting an answer anyway. What's on your mind? It doesn't come out of his mouth. He shrugs, and watches Lukas eat. "The first was curiosity, and maybe to get a beginning of the full measure of your attachment to him. As for the second, I just find it interesting -- though maybe a bit disturbing," he says, with a wry look of confession, "-- that we seem to have anything in common."

[Armstrong] "Your body says a lot, and an observant eye can hear it. We may need to appear that we aren't openly at each other's throats. Particularly in the face of rivals."

She finished her thought and then took a drink. She was thirsty, so she drank. The lady started to wait for a moment. She looked at Katherine for a moment, then Samuel. the look in her eyes said more than her words had, a silent agreement? An appreciation of what was being said? Then, the meal. She looked at her bowl and traced along the outside of the bowl.

"Katherine, I don't think I've ever drawn you before," she made a statement.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine's face lights up at Mrena's words and she smiles much more exuberantly than any previous smile she's given this evening. You almost expected her to exalt and clap her hands together like a small child being given a treat.

Pandering to this woman's obvious appreciation of being marveled at is always a sure-fire way to brighten her mood. "No you haven't. Shall I adopt a pose for you, Mrena?" Soft, full lips part to reveal two rows of perfect, gleaming teeth.

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas makes a soft sound, somewhere between humor and wryness. He polishes off the last of his stew, tosses his spoon down with an ungentlemanly clatter, leans back, brings his wine with him.

"We have plenty in common. We're both Garou, we're both in Chicago, we both have a stake, albeit a freshminted stake, in the welfare of Maelstrom. We're both, I think, honorable enough to put the War before personal grievances -- and the pack before personal preference.

"I'll be frank with you, Buried Hatchet-rhya. I like you. I think you have honor beneath that asshole exterior you seem to enjoy donning every so often. I think you're a good Garou, a good Fostern and a good Philodox. I think I would trust you at my back in combat, and if Edward did not hate you so, I would try very hard to make an ally of you. But Edward does hate you, and I do follow Edward, and I suspect his personal issues with you aren't going anywhere. I suspect it'll only escalate as we each sink our claws deeper into this Sept.

"So the truth is: I would be your brother in arms if the Wyrm fell on our heads this minute.

"And the truth is: I will do whatever Edward wants of me, whatever this pack needs of me, if your pack crosses mine."

A beat of silence -- the realization that he's speaking far too much is sure to come, but right now he's so high on the death-spiral of his own rage, his own annoyance at Katherine, the situation, all of it, that he frankly does not give a fuck. Cards out on the table, and there's a certain reckless abandon in that. He drains his glass in one big gulp and leans forward to set it down.

"So there you are, then. Now you needn't try and suss out the depths of my attachment to Edward and this pack."

[Sam Modine] A nod to Armstrong. Her logic was sound, even if following it was something that chance, fate, and the heavens themselves conspired against. She speaks of striking a pose and the silence in him snapsin her direction.

"When." The Fenris wolf wearing the man suit across the table utters. He does so across a spoonful of food, one which is devoured, swallowed, savored before the spoon is deposited with a thud back into his bowl. "Have I ever been the one to soothe someone's ego." He continues, his elbow dropping to the tabletop, his finger pressing down on it's surface. "It may be my place to make sure you and your brother and Katerina are fit and able to lead. It may be my job to protect you from any danger from within or without the nation."

His bredding seethes from every pore in his body as he growls the words out. "But that makes it my place to tell you when you're being, petty, insolent," He spits the final curse out like a million plagues at her. "and small. It makes you unfit for your own name and it's a habit you'd do well to break." With that though Sam leans back in his chair, his face cast down toward the table. "Your brother pushes Lukas, all of us-" He glances up but his eyes keep on her clavicle, the white hairs falling on the nape of her neck. "-into a war. I need you to do your level best, for me, for him, not to tear us apart." He sighs, reaching again for his spoon, holding it like one would a shovel in his hand, that way that so irritates even Edward who shun many of the affectations of his upbringing. "Not that stomping off is any way to go about things earlier. But I don't feel so bad about boxing his ears once for his own good."

Perhaps it's impossible to believe that the tactic would take with a girl like Katherine.

[Armstrong] "Whatever makes you happy. I don't really require much," she said. "Just look natural."

She opened her notebook and seemed to abandon the idea of food for the time being. She shut her mouth and looked between those involved and, again, found herself in a situation where she wasn't going to get to really finish yet another portrait.

It would be something Katherine and Lukas had in common. They would both, more than likely, become unfinished works of wine glasses and paperbacks in her favorite sketchbook. Though, she attempted to start the work anyway. It was quick, because she had to be because she wasn't sure how long Katherine was going to keep a pleased expression.

Then again, these were two sides of her that were equal and should be documented.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine's good humor melts away like frost under a bright morning sun. Her eyes shift to Samuel slowly, as if she cannot quite decipher what manner of creature it is that raises its voice to her and thinks it can get away with it. The napkin is set aside and the chair scrapes back against the floor -- she's not a small woman; Katherine Bellamonte and for all her refinement and pretty words -- she is just as much wolf as the Fenris growling out a lecture across from her.

She leans her weight into the edge of the table and presses her palms down -- flat.

"You are out of line, Samuel." It's the utter surety that's most frightening about the lean woman's anger. There is no gray in the Silver Fang's judgment -- there is Katherine's truth and the misinformed. "You do not tell me that I am unfit to bear the name Gaia herself passed on to me. She choose me. It is not purely coincidence that we have arrived in this city in its time of need. I was guided here."

Her fingers curl into the grain of the wood; her voice lifting a notch.

[Hatchet] Reckless abandon, when the moon is this high and this full and this heavy with the achingly delicious burden of Rage, is about as risky as sharpening your claws on your enemy's doorfront. Reckless abandon of any kind, whether you are sharing information or suppressed emotion or making drunken plans, is far outside the realm of the control both of these two hold so dear. And yet that is what fills the air when Lukas speaks: abandon.

He mentions similarities between them, the most obvious and therefore the safest, avoiding any other potential avenues, and Hatchet notes that rather clearly in his impressions of all Lukas is saying, a footnote of what is left unsaid without necessarily including an analysis of what that could mean. If anything.

Hatchet smiles when Lukas comments on his asshole exterior. If his eyes were not quite as involved in the smile it would be a smirk, hard and unkind and sharp as a blade, but he seems honestly amused by Lukas's take on it, and not because he knows better. He is amused, in fact, because Lukas sees in a way that the Bellamontes apparently do not that it is. Just. An exterior.

Granted, he would point out, it is also a part of his anatomy that he shares with not just one but all three of the vaunted Bellamonte siblings, but that's beside the point, and Lukas is still talking, so he is still listening.

He would be his brother. And he will do what he has to.

The realization that he may have spoken too much has not hit Lukas yet, but a great many things have hit Hatchet all at once. He is staring at Lukas not with wide eyes or a dropped jaw but his gaze clear and ringed in thick, soot-black lashes. His chest is rising and falling steadily but carefully, as though he is making effort to keep his breathing in cadence. It requires his lips to be faintly, faintly parted from each other, and so they are.

A glass is drained, and there is something in the air between them -- or merely around Hatchet -- that seems to make gravity less graceful. It does not quite feel like Rage. He does not say a word, not immediately, not until he is able to take a breath to speak without having to suck the air into his lungs. So it is a moment, or two, or three, before he says quietly:

"Were the Wyrm to fall on our heads this minute, or --" and this is important, this 'or', "-- were Edward neither determined to hate me nor to take leadership of this magnitude long before he is truly ready for it, then I would gladly call you my brother, Lukas Wyrmbreaker."

Not: ...were Edward not determined to take leadership.
Not: ...in arms.

Hatchet moves his head away from the hand it has been propped up on, tipping it to the other side as he watches the Ahroun. "You know," he goes on, still in that same soft, steady voice that conveys tranquility but is really an extreme exercise of self-control, "and I'm not saying this necessarily means anything, or precludes loyalty -- it doesn't -- but I don't think you like him, either."

[Sam Modine] A handful of blonde hair is pulled back away from the man's face. That same face is brushed over with his pams, chin to cheeks and over the eyes. "Regardless," Large fingers pinch his nose at it's bridge, "you can not speak to him that way." Exhale, slow, calculated. Painfully restrained behind the mask of man-flesh. "And you most certainly can not speak to me that way." He's calm, self-assured, but slipping back into the quiet lessons. The new lessons.

The ones he's getting from her.

He's managing tact now. Diplomacy. A logic that should work for most people but for some reason seems at times to bounce off her. "I would walk upstairs now and kill a man for things he's said about you and your sister." He leaves the part about being expressly asked not to and his agreements on the issues of prudence and necessity, but he does not lie he would kill on her behalf. "I would go into the deepest realms there are to do battle with unspeakable things for you. Because I am loyal. Because I am in line." He lets some small amount of tension build, the way Dylan has shown him. "So when I decide you're stepping out of line and to tell you so."

The Fenris wolf finishes then, bowing his head in deference to the blonde woman. "It's that same loyalty that says I have to. Not to do so would only allow you to fall blind into weakness. "

[Wyrmbreaker] I would gladly call you my brother.

The Shadow Lord's jaw flexes; it's impossible to read what it means, not for lack of information but for an overload of it. There's elemental gladness there, the primitive pleasure of one wolf accepted by another; there's discomfort and something like guilt there; there's something perilously and paradoxically close to anger. But through it all, his eyes are steady, but brilliant -- they hold a flame in them, an echo of the rage twisting at the core of his being, cold and incandescent.

But then:

But then, Hatchet goes on, and he goes too far. Lukas' face hardens, it slams closed like a book. He stands, fast, but not so fast that it might seem an escape. He looks away; he picks up his bowl, piles his wineglass into it.

"Whatever his faults," he says, flat now, controlled, "I love Edward as a brother. Now if you'll excuse me, Rhya, I need to take these dishes downstairs."

[Hatchet] "You are not excused," Hatchet says flatly, without moving. It's a mystery whether he would have answered that way if Lukas himself had not applied the honorific he has earned to his speech. But he says it, demanding via that dominance that Lukas stay right where he is.

Whatever is in the air around him is shaking, and the fact that the emotions playing riotously through Lukas's expression are slamming up against his own rather similar ones and tangling them as surely as the graceless paws of a newborn cub...well. That's not helping matters much. It's accentuating everything.

And it would take more attention than Lukas is paying to understand just how much 'everything' there is.

He lowers his voice from that hard, flat edge he uses to keep Lukas in place, and after a slow exhale of tense breath, he says just over a whisper: "I did not suggest that you don't love him, Lukas." That said, he takes a breath. "Now: you are excused, if you still wish to be." It is not, quite clearly, a dismissal.

[Armstrong] She shut her notebook rather calmly and went to go put her things away. Everything in a nice, neat pile. Dishes went in the sink, the glass was rinsed out. They were then put on the "please wash me" side of the sink. They were pre-rinsed, it would be easy. She straightened her back, looking back at her packmates.

"Don't go to sleep angry."

She nodded some, and then gave a wave. She was off to bed, it seemed. Armstrong headed on up the stairs and off to the room she was staying in. She made it a point to push everything over to one side of the bed [The coat, the scarf, the pencils. The books upon books upon books she insisted on taking with her] and rolled over onto her stomach. Sketchbook was shoved under her pillow and Armstrong was ready to call it a night.

[Armstrong] ((Good night, lovelies! I'm getting my happy butt in bed!)
to Hatchet, Katherine Bellamonte, Sam Modine, Wyrmbreaker

[Wyrmbreaker] Oh how that rankles: to be held in place by rank and all that rank demands. But hold he does. He arrests, instantly and completely, and he waits, silent, until Hatchet speaks his piece. And until he's excused.

A beat. Then he nods, in recognition or acknowledge or sheer unfailing politeness, and takes the damn dishes down the damn stairs.

(okay, i declare an OFFICIAL end-scene, cuz my ass is gonna sleep. after i listen to a few more tunes. and watch a few more posts. *LOL* thanks for the RP, all!)

[Katherine Bellamonte] Sam bows his head when he is finished with his in-line stripping down of Katherine Bellamonte and for a long, painfully drawn out moment there is no sound to be heard but the harsh breathing of the enraged [en-maddened] Silver Fang across from the Modi.

Armstrong's desire to draw her is all but forgotten.

There is only the twin points of coal-black where once Meridian's Truth's pale blue eyes resided -- tension rattles along her arms and the table protests as she levers her firm grip from it and stalks with the slow, deliberate grace of the beast that trembled beneath all their skins to stand before her pack mate. Her anger lashes his skin and there is the potential for violence in the manner she moves, looks, even speaks.

Though she is careful -- so utterly careful -- to keep her voice moderated; calm. "Then perhaps I'm thankful." The hot skin of her bare arm brushes against him as she passes -- a motion more wolf than human. "Even if I don't believe I'm wrong."

[Hatchet] It is after Lukas has left, and it is after Armstrong has drifted through to go to sleep. Hatchet sits there in the corner of the sofa he'd commandeered for that little conversation, and as soon as he is alone, he takes a deep breath. His chest expands fully and he lets himself exhale slowly, showing an affect that he refused to reveal in front of any other wolves.

Living as he does would be exhausting, if he had not learned long ago to take those brief, too-infrequent moments where he is not being watched or sniffed at or investigated to...do whatever it is he needs to do. Center himself. Calm down. Regain control. Convince himself of whatever he needs convincing of. He needs it, or he would shatter himself with the force of what's inside of him.

And then he slaps himself across the face. Hard.

That done, Hatchet blinks, nods once to himself, and rises to his feet. He is going to be in his room before Lukas, or anyone else, gets back upstairs. Whether he will be asleep or not, however, is anybody's guess.