flexibility of morals.

[Fabienne Bartelle] *It had been a good while since Fabienne Bartelle had come to call at the Bellamonte Loft. Other affairs had quite held her attention and now that she had a moment to breath, she'd found she'd been lax in her duties as kin. Those duties of course being - keeping an eye on the trueborn so as not to be blindsided by some decree or political machination that saw you betrothed to a slavering single minded full moon. Fool her once, as they say. Now she stands (never lingers) in the sitting room, speaking to Lucille quietly. It would appear Katherine was not available at the moment. Edward mated, and elsewhere. If Fabienne is surprised it doesn't show in aristocratic features. Her expression polite but overall - bland.*

Of course. Would it be too forward to ask when you expect Mlle. Bellamonte might be suited to seeing visitors?

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas doesn't have Sinclair's singleminded devotion to the pool. He doesn't come here every day, or every other day, or on any sort of schedule at all to swim. He doesn't come here every day, or every other day, or on any sort of schedule at all.

That said, he does come here today. And while Fabienne is speaking to Lucille in the sitting room, the front door opens behind her. It's warm in Chicago now, by god, a balmy seventy-something degrees even at midnight. The heater is off. Another few weeks and it'll be the A/C running day and night. The windows are open right now, though, and Fabienne can hear the Shadow Lord's footsteps coming up the walk. His voice, too, though the quietness of his tone and the language he's speaking in makes it rather unlikely for her to pick up on what he's saying.

He doesn't ring the doorbell. The packmates have keys. He unlocks the door, steps in -- a woven shirt and the trademark three-hundred-dollar jeans tonight, dark head down, iPhone held to one ear, carrying on a conversation in Czech. He sounds vaguely annoyed; mostly exasperated; familiar. Family on the other end, probably. The Shadow Lord steps out of his shoes, kicks them aside, grumbles something on the phone, and then -- without any particular surprise, which suggests he's seen her or heard her or smelled her presence the moment he stepped onto the property -- raises a hand in a mute wave at Kate's kin.

A few more sentences on the phone. Then he ends with, "Hey -- I have to go. I'll call you later. No, I promise. Yes, I know. Okay, okay. You too. Bye."

He lowers the phone, punches End Call, slips it away. "Hey, Fabienne." He steps out of the entryway, into the high-ceilinged spaces of the loft. "Haven't seen you for a while."

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Lukas approaches. The warble of a voice in the distance causing a thin brow to pinch in mild irritation. A year ago, words would have been clarion clear. Now, Fabienne tilts her head, even goes so far as to turn her shoulder, and still, nothing but muted babble as Lukas draws closer. The wave however is obvious, and the slender fencer raises her palm in polite greeting to the Shadowlord. Politeness, regardless of her personal opinion. This was her warder's alpha, for whatever reason, and as such she'd defer to Katherine's wisdom in the matter by showing him no disrespect. His question answered with a upwards tip of her chin. Haughty perhaps. Or perhaps Lukas was just obnoxiously tall. Reply crisp.*

Family Matters, Lukas. You understand. I trust you've been well?

*Subtle phrasing that. The most delicate of change in her demeanor. She states assurance he will understand. Entirely mannerly. But different from the glib apologies she'd offered him in past, as a matter of course.*

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Quite, thank you," he replies, and slips his phone into his back pocket. Lucille moves around him to shut and lock the door and he takes a step to the side, moving aside so thoughtlessly and naturally that he seems to have done so out of volition rather than courtesy.

"I heard you were looking for Kate," he adds. "I think she's at the Caern right now. You might try leaving a message on voicemail. Is everything all right?"

[Fabienne Bartelle] Yes. Perfect thank you.

*Of course everything was perfect. Didn't she look it? From the loose blonde curls to the tasteful and understated sundress (bone white) and entirely unneeded but criminally fashionable cashmere sweater (dusty rose) down to tasteful ivory pumps. Hands clasped in front of her unclasp. Move to her purse and remove a small gift box.*

Would you be so kind as to make certain Mlle. Bellamonte gets this? A gift sent from my uncle Anton Klahber, in thanks.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas takes the box, head tipping as he looks at it. There's a certain unabashed curiosity about him that isn't quite human. He tilts the box to and fro. There's a sense that he might sniff it if that weren't so obviously rude.

He doesn't sniff it. He sets it aside instead, leaving it on the recently repaired coffee table.

"I've let her know," he says: not i will but I have, past tense, as though in the few seconds of silence he's already relayed the message. "An overseas relative, this Uncle Anton?"

[Fabienne Bartelle] Thank you.

*The gift handling draws a quirked eyebrow, but isn't commented on. Fabienne glancing elsewhere as though she hadn't noticed unseemly curiosity. Grey eyes guarded as he brings up Anton. A moments consideration before she responds.*

Mm. Yes. He resides near Vienna. House Gleaming Eye, of course.

*Of course. She says it with quiet pride. Wyrmfoe though she may be by her father, it was Gleaming Eye who's history had been pounded into her by Anton. A curl brushed from her temple before she regains control of wayward hands. Do not fuss. The slide of carefully managed rage across her skin has her uncomfortable, but the silverfang kin perseveres. Decorum dictated she do so.*

Have you had the pleasure of travel through Austria?

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] [hm, why the guardedness?]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Fabienne Bartelle] [manip + sub]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 3, 6, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] There's a second when Lukas's curiosity, the animal intensity of his interest, is directed at not the kinswoman's gift but the kinswoman herself. Unnerving to be the target of such scrutiny: those pale, sharp eyes, that keen regard.

Fortunately for Fabienne, Wyrmbreaker's perceptiveness is an innate thing, and far more sharply attuned to matter of life and death, battle and hunt, than to reading the emotions and thoughts of humans and near-humans. He looks, he sees ... ultimately, he decides it's not his business, the inner workings of a Fang family.

He knows something about extended, noble-blooded families. He knows something about the intrigues, the politics, the poisons that flow in the veins. It's not the same for Shadow Lords, of course, both better and worse, but --

what he knows, above all else, is this: sometimes it's best to leave blood to blood.

So, her polite small-talk, then. "My family lived near Prague until I was about five," he replies. "So I suppose I might have. I was too young to remember, though, and I haven't been back to Europe since.

"What about you? A native of Austria? I always thought you were of French descent."

[Fabienne Bartelle] A pity. Austria is lovely in the Winter. Vienna particularly. As to my lineage, half of my family line is Austro-Hungarian. The Wyrmfoe half - that of my father- Now American, formerly German and French. I was born in New York.

*He decides not to pry, which suits Fabienne perfectly. He simply stands, and so she simply stands. Just two members of the nation. Hanging out in the foyer. A few moments pass. Quiet. They'd be awkward if Fabienne would allow them to be. But she won't. So they're not.*

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] New York, she says, which makes Lukas suddenly, and quite likely inexplicably, burst into a laugh. "I'm starting to think," he says, "that the entire Garou and kin population of Chicago comes from New York. Let me guess: Manhattan? Upper east side?"

While he stands there -- after he's set Kate's gift down -- he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt. Rolls up the sleeves. That done, he heads for the kitchen, nodding Fabienne before him with a tilt of the head. If she goes, he brings up the rear, and once in the kitchen, begins to sift through the large refrigerator.

It's not food he piles on the counter but fruits. A basket of strawberries. Half a pineapple, the fresh from hawaii! tag still tangled in the spiny leaves. A mango, and then, from the freezer side, a rather alarmingly large bucket of premium vanilla ice cream. Kate's version of self-medication, perhaps.

[Fabienne Bartelle] Upstate, though I attended school briefly in Manhatten, and my father keeps a manor.

*She corrects quietly. She moves with an athlete's fluid grace in front of Lukas. No hip switching sashay or other purposeful alteration to heighten her attractiveness or to appear anything other than what she was. Uncomfortable with a wolf at her back perhaps, she glances over her shoulder twice in as many steps. Finally settling at the counter, she gestures to the fruit.*

Would you care for assistance?

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Sure," Lukas calls over his shoulder, crouching now to get the blender out of a low cabinet. "There's white grape juice in the pantry. Get a bottle for me, will you?"

The blender -- some ridiculously overpriced, sleek work of household art in brushed metal and piano black -- gets set on the kitchen counter. Lukas sets a cutting board beside it, selects a long, thin paring knife from the block, and gets to work on the mangos.

"I think there are bananas and blueberries, too, if that's more to your taste." Oh. He's being a good host and making her a smoothie, too.

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Grape juice looked for and retrieved. Oh dear. He was going to use a blender. That was going to make thing so much more difficult. A brief search for bananas comes up empty, though she finds a pear and brings that to the counter, carefully stepping back.*

If you might only include pear and pineapple in mine, I would appreciate it. I quite remember the last incident with fruit juice and am reluctant to repeat it.

*Granted, Lukas wasn't ogling a busty plastic woman in leather and lacy crotchless panties this time. Perhaps he would be more attentive. Finally, a subtle smile ghosts across pale lips.*

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] The Ahroun halves the mangos and begins to peel them from their rinds quickly and rather expertly. An eyebrow goes up, and he glances at Fabienne over the counter. "Wait, what incident -- " then he remembers. He has the good grace to looks faintly embarrassed, and rather amused besides, biting the insides of his lips as he sets the peeled mangos aside.

"Oh. That. See, I'd try to pretend I didn't know what I was looking at, except I wouldn't fool anyone." His mouth quirks: a crooked smile. "So let's just call it poorly timed curiosity. I'll buy your discretion with a smoothie, how's that sound?"

The pineapple, then. The leaves sawed off at the base; the half halved again; the quarters peeled from the rinds much as the mangos were, then sliced into large chunks. He drops one quarter into the blender, begins on the pears.

"Ice cream or grape juice? Or are you going to chew on nothing but pureed pears and pineapple and crushed ice?"

[Fabienne Bartelle] Grape juice, If you please.

*It would appear she's taken the bribe. Watching Lukas move about the kitchen, a strange domestic ritual he seemed ill suited for, for all his skill at it. This was a monster. A full moon. A shadowlord and a murderer besides. Making her a smoothie. In truth, she was rather more comfortable scaling skyscrapers. It also begged the question - why was he making her a smoothie? The pale kin busies herself with cleaning up rinds. Finally moving to wash her hands as Lukas finishes cubing pears. *

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] There's really no cubing involved. That's what the blender's for. He simply quarters it, cores it, drops it in. Sloshes in some grape juice, dumps in some ice scooped directly from the freezer compartment, pops the top on and --

WHIIRRRR!

-- he's pouring the drink into a tall glass, then, and picking up the prior topic. "Anyway, I asked about New York because both my mate and I were originally from the city. Kate and her family, too. A bunch of the other Lords. And Theron I met during my fosterage up at Stark Falls.

"You might be vaguely familiar with that Sept if you come from upstate. Maybe not, though," he adds, wry. "Predominantly Shadow Lord."

He slides the glass across the polished stone counter. He makes a mean smoothie. He's pretty good with a blender. He's really good with a knife, and new moon or not, the sight of Kate's fine German cutlery in his hands is a somewhat unnerving thing.

Then starts on his own. The works, there: mango, pineapple, strawberries -- the tops sliced off with a quick, sure hand -- ice cream, juice, ice. Top on. Hit the button.

When the blender goes off again and he starts filling his own glass, he asks lightly, "A question, Fabienne." The emptied blender jug set aside, the filled glass picked up. For all his thoughtless courtesy, his ease within the boundaries of social mores, he doesn't care at all that there's fruit juice on his hands, that he leaves sticky smears on the glass. "Have you met Shadow Lords before Chicago?"

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Fabienne's impulse to the terrible rattling of ice and shredding of fruit had been to throw her hands up to her ears, curve her body from the sound and wince. A long fingered hand stirs at her side to that effect, before pointedly clasping the other. Smile tight as Lukas says something incomprehensible, which apparently doesn't require a response, as he goes back to chopping fruit. Regal bearing faltering not a whit when the ahroun slides her drink across the counter like Tom Cruise in Cocktail, kin catching it neatly in one hand. An appreciative sip, and the damn blender is going again. Her ears still ringing as he addresses her once more. A pale eyebrow darts up as she flicks her eyes to meet him. Question curious indeed.*

I have. Though, in a limited capacity. Why do you ask, if I might be so bold sir?

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Curiosity," Lukas replies. "So many of your tribe seems to have had little exposure to mine outside of what amounts to cautionary nursery tales. Caleb, Asha, Keith ... probably even Kate, come to think of it, more or less consider my entire tribe to be a dagger aimed at their collective backs. I'm pretty sure they think of Theron and I as exceptions that prove the rule, rather than refuting it. Of course, it's hardly onesided. My tribe tends to stereotype yours just as harshly, if not more so.

"I suppose I'm wondering: what do you think of the sons and daughters of Thunder?"

[Fabienne Bartelle] *What was the moon phase today? Hollow. A small reassurance as she stalls for time to think with a dainty sip of her smoothy. The glass is set down, condensation cold and wet on her palm as she settles her right hand flat on the counter. Cool stone beneath the pads of her fingers helps her think, stops the kin from fidgeting like an idle fool.*

I mean your tribe no disrespect, however I would be lying if I said I found Shadowlords trustworthy, or appropriate. There is a certain dangerous flexibility of morales that I am not entirely comfortable with. I would not be willing to make exceptions to the rule.

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Grey eyes lift to Lukas's. Cool as chipped ice. Nerves confined to the press of her hand on the counter. The readiness of her posture, weight rolled carefully to the balls of her feet so she might - what? Dodge? Defend herself? Flee? Careful. wary. Chin raised as she measures his response. He had asked afterall. She suspected lying would earn her just as much of a beating were he inclined to give one, but erode her credibility besides.*

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] There's a certain skittishness to Fabienne. It's not superficial -- at all. Superficially, the kin is calm, collected, ever appropriate without quite being charming. Under that, though: the impulse to flinch. The impulse to blanch, glimpsed now and then, at particularly inappropriate persons or actions. Tiny hesitations while she arranges her words as politely as possible.

Maybe not skittish, then. Wary. That's a good word for it.

The Shadow Lord watching her across the counter, though, gives no sign that he's about to reach across the counter, grab her by the hair and introduce her face to the counter. Not that he's incapable of it. Not that he couldn't possibly fly off the handle and bloody her, kill her. Just ask Fons. Or worse: not that he couldn't possibly deal out a beating not out of fury but out of cold discipline. Just ask any number of Garou and kin who have offended Lukas's -- ironically rather rigid -- code of honor and morals and behavior.

It's not incapability, then. It's simply: he doesn't intend to beat her, was not looking for an excuse to do so. It was what it was. A question. Philosophical discourse.

Still: a beat before he answers.

"I think," he says, "your view is not unjustified. There are two kinds of Shadow Lords: those who will do anything for themselves and those who will do anything for Gaia. And since a large majority of my tribe considers yours mad and obsolete and better left in the past," this spoken with a certain ruefulness, "I suppose from a Fang's point of view, there's really very little difference between the two."

His glass grates quietly over stone as he turns it in his hand. Then he takes a drink, sets it down, smiles faintly and ironically.

"Thanks for your honesty, Fabienne."

[Fabienne Bartelle] *Fabienne was not made of granite. She was not unflappable, nor was she particularly brave. She was simply very polite, and not comfortable with lying more than she had to. Social situations had never been her strongest arena. Decorum and a certain frankness her best and only defense. Lukas talks. She listens, head tilted just so, to facilitate her bad ear. It becomes clear this isn't a baited conversation, and Fabienne relaxes somewhat, posture less rigid. He thanks her for her honesty, and she barely nods.*

Of course - rhya. Thank you for the smoothy.

*And conversation is pleasant until smoothies are consumed, and goodbyes exchanged.*