i should walk alone.

[Sinclair] There is very little room in Sinclair's heart for grief for those not her moon, not her tribe, not her packmate or elder or friend. She mourns Kemp in concept, like an idea, where any expression of emotion would be drummed up out of silence and emptiness, awkward and stilted when given voice. She does not pretend her heart is drenched with sadness. She survived last night. They all did, but for the Adren Rotagar. The Wyrmhole that they found in the basement was closed, the body of the Elder brought back to his pack, and she thinks to herself that Moon Dancer or no, she will have no words or song to offer at the Gathering.

Besides, Gut Song hates her... guts. She'll keep her goddamn mouth shut and let his pack and the other crazy-ass Fenrir and No-Moons do what they need to do to get over this latest death. In the meantime, she holds it in her mind that their goals were accomplished. That they all knew they might not come back out of the raid, and an Adren knew as well as any, and a Get better than most.

Still: she chose a quiet bar. One in a pretty dingy area of town, where lamplights flicker and where it would almost be assured that the bar would be mostly empty. It's the night of Easter, after all. It's dim inside, the light having an orange hue, and other than Lukas and Sinclair, there are maybe half a dozen people in here, most of them not together. She and he sit around a low, scarred table, she on one end of a sagging couch and he in a sagging armchair, near an empty and cold fireplace.

They've been drinking for awhile. Sinclair slowly, methodically, which aren't words usually associated with her at all. She's drowsy from alcohol, a pleasant buzz inside her skull.

"So," she says, the first words she's uttered in awhile, "I'm going to challenge Waking-Dream soon."

[Wyrmbreaker] Wyrmbreaker does not mourn at all, per se.

He is disappointed; he is perhaps angry that such a strong Garou, such a powerful weapon in the war, has been lost due to hubris or carelessness or cowardice or all of the above. But ultimately, he did not know Kemp well enough to feel personal grief. And he knows the price of war. Expected, in truth, more casualties than they incurred.

In some cold, clear balance in his mind, the Sept still came out well in the black.

Still. A quiet bar tonight. And not much conversation. Just sagging couches, sagging armchairs, drinks that you nurse: not his turquoise blue hydrogen bombs but a good scotch straight-up, the liquid thick and faintly viscous in the glass.

He stirs when Sinclair speaks. The corners of his mouth quirk up. "Oh yeah? So you made it over the bar, huh?"

[Sinclair] It's sort of like knowing that this kid in your high school died. And you like, didn't know that, right? But they're dead, y'know? So like, you should feel something. Only you don't. And you're like, wow am I a dick? Maybe you're a dick.

At least they don't pretend.

She flicks her eyes over at him, pale blue, an ethereal, less piercing shade than his and Katherine's. "Yeah," she says, "I think so." She's drinking Jack and Coke; takes a sip. "Every time I cross over the spirits are all 'ooo' now. And the Guardians, and stuff, just... everybody seems to kinda look at me a little different. And I talked to Kate.

"Kate says she thinks I'm ready. And is like, proud of me and stuff. So. Yeah."

[Wyrmbreaker] That makes Lukas curious; makes him look at her with curiosity. "Did you need her approbation?"

The question isn't a test. It's just that: a genuine question.

[Sinclair] "I got fuck all done after my naming," Sinclair says, swishing her drink around in the glass. Half empty, half full, whichever way you see it. She's watching the liquid. Watching the Bubbles. "Broke up my first pack because I didn't like the way one of 'em was acting and didn't have the loyalty or sense to try and advise him. Threatened to kill another of my moon just cuz he was bein' a douchebag. Got tainted and ran away from my packmate and the city instead of asking for help. Got possessed and someone died. I've fucked up a lot. Like... a lot."

She takes a long drink, lets out a soft ah as she takes the tall glass away from her mouth. "It's just that that's not all I've done. And I didn't need permission or approval, I just... needed to hear someone objectively tell me that yeah. I've actually earned this, so stop dicking around."

Sinclair turns her head and looks at him. She smiles, looking a bit lazy, a bit sleepy. "So I'm gonna stop dicking around."

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas listens, and it makes sense to him. Not approbation. Just an objective view. "Kate's good at that," he says. "Objectivity. I don't think it's even just because she's a Philodox. She has a rare gift of being able to go cool and clear-minded."

He lifts his tumble from the arm of his chair, then, and unfurls his arm in Sinclair's vague direction. "Cheers," he says. "To your upcoming challenge. Try not to pull an Ed."

Lukas isn't serious. There are failed challenges, and then there's pulling an Ed. He doesn't think Sinclair would be capable of the latter.

A sip; a quiet. Then, "I'm almost Adren." No, that's not exactly right. "If you listen to what people say, if you look at how spirits react, I am Adren. I just need to challenge and be recognized. But I don't think I'm ready." His left hand rises, taps at his sternum. "In here.

"It took me a long time to gain the wisdom to achieve Fostern. To understand that idealism is not wisdom, and nor is sheer pragmatism. In the meantime I gained a reputation for honor, and I killed a lot of shit. My auspice doesn't really require a lot of brainpower once you're past the first hurdle, though. So the step between Fostern and Adren has soared by a little too fast for me.

"I think I'm going to wait a while. I know that's," a wry turn of his mouth, "perhaps not very wise, given that we're in a war, and it's my duty to contribute what I can, not what I want to. But I'm not ... ready yet."

[Sinclair] A nod of agreement comes when he points out Kate's strength, her gift, as he puts it, for clearing her mind. Her name is a drawn line between honesty and falsehood, real and fake; her second name always points to honor. Both suit her, and rather precisely. Warcry and Wyrmbreaker, though: servicable, but simple names for a Galliard and an Ahroun, respectively. It tells the Nation little about them but implications of noise, violence, destruction, roars of the Garou and the shattering of the Enemy.

But it is not all she is, or all he is. Hardly.

Sinclair quirks a brow when he mentions Ed; she looks a little lost, as though she's not making the connection, or wants to ask a question. The pause isn't that long, though, and she doesn't interrupt. She keeps drinking, listening to her Alpha, brother, role model, what-have-you. She doesn't nod or openly agree when he says that as far as the renown of his name goes, he's already attained his rank; her quiet almost seems to say yeah. I know. How could she not know, being what she is?

But also, when he says he's not ready, the same vibe: yeah. I know. That one is more empathetic, more personal. Sinclair knows he's not ready in that breastplate-protected organ he indicates, because she's still not entirely sure her fist-sized muscle is ready, either.

"That's what's weird to me about even starting this," she admits. "Not the whole duty versus personal feelings thing, I mean... for one of my moon to become a Fostern, it's more about the glory of battle than anything else. Some token wisdom, some hint that you've got a decent head on your shoulders." A faint, almost bitter laugh. "Barely even matters if you're honorable or a total snake. But then... you look at an Adren Galliard, and it's like... all about how wise they are. The advise they give. The history they know. The ability to inspire in battle and also just destroy things falls to the background."

She finishes her drink. "Which makes me nervous. Cuz that's something I'm good at. It's... what I'm mostly good at, to be honest. It just seems to me like the path between Fostern and Adren is about wisdom and honor, and I've never thought I was much of either."

Sinclair turns over her shoulder and holds up two fingers to the bartender, who seems bored. Another scotch. Another J&C. She turns back to Lukas. "Though I guess I have time."

A beat. She laughs. "Well. As much as anyone does."

[Wyrmbreaker] "It's not even a matter of time, really," Lukas replies. He's still nursing his scotch; has perhaps a finger left, swaying amber against the curved walls of his tumbler. "When you step into your role as Fostern, you'll naturally grow one way or another. Maybe you'll just keep on kicking serious ass, and nothing else, ever. In that case, maybe you were really meant to be a combat ragabash. Or maybe you'll grow in honor, but not so much in wisdom outside the battlefield, in which case maybe you were really meant to be an Ahroun. Or maybe you'll find yourself growing along the path Gaia intended, and reach for Adren of your auspice.

"Or," this, after a small pause, "maybe not. And maybe you won't ever gain enough glory, honor or wisdom for anything else, and you'll stay a Fostern no matter how long you live. That happens, too, and it's all right. Not every soldier can be a general.

"I doubt that'll be you, though. I've already seen you grow and change in the few months we've been packed."

[Sinclair] She gives him a weird look at the words combat Ragabash; it isnt' hard at all to read the expression. It's bewildered. It's slightly insulted. Ragabash. Really.

No weird look, when he says maybe you were really meant to be an Ahroun. She's looking at the Jack and Coke that just arrived. Under her denim jacket, an old name burns on her skin, writhing with memory, just as deadly as the snake around her thigh.

"Thanks, man," she says quietly, picking up the glass, after he's done. She doesn't toast him. She takes a drink. "What'd you mean about 'pulling an Ed'?"

[Wyrmbreaker] "I was referring to his challenge against Kate," Lukas replies. A second double of scotch has arrived, but he leaves it alone for now, working on the one he has. "Challenging futilely out of whim and hubris, without good reason or even hope of a good result, and costing us all the blessings of Perun right before we go the fuck to war."

There's anger there, but it's banked and cold; his voice is almost mild.

"It was a joke," Lukas adds, then. "I wouldn't expect you to do something like that. Ever." He polishes off his first scotch and sets the empty glass aside. "You're not an idiot."

[Sinclair] When he adds that it was a joke, and that he wouldn't expect her to do that because she's not an idiot, Sinclair just smiles. Gently, almost. "I know," she says, in a voice he's probably never even heard from her before. Well. She's drunk. "I just didn't get it. Mostly cuz..."

That's where she hesitates. It's new for her, to hesitate before speaking ill of someone not present to defend themselves. She considers what she has to say, and then takes a breath. "Well, to be honest? Everything I saw of Ed was so fucking retarded I wasn't sure which instance you were referring to. I couldn't even say anything when he announced he was leaving cuz... well. I was glad."

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas's mouth quirks wryly, and he lifts the second glass, takes a swallow.

"Yeah, me too. It's not that Ed was quite a danger to the pack, or even as large a liability as he could have been. But he wasn't suited for us anymore, if he ever was.

"He asked to meet for a drink, you know. The night we discussed his departure. Wouldn't say what about. I had to broach the topic and ask him flat-out if he still thought he was going to stay in the Unbroken. Once I did, he was quick to say no, but -- I had to ask first. Which about summed it up for me, as far as Edward is concerned. No drive, no courage, no strength of his own."

Lukas leans back in his armchair, slouches down, lays his head against the back. A quiet, drowsy moment. Then:

"He used to be Alpha. Did I ever tell you that?"

[Sinclair] Sinclair has lost count of the drinks she's had. It doesn't matter. Even if she were not a wolf, even if she could not shift and burn the alcohol out of her system in an eyeblink, it takes a long, long time for it to hit her. She's stronger than most women her age, most people her age, period. She's stronger than plenty of Garou. Her rage laps at the alcohol, is not quite sedated. She drinks more. The stirring deep within her is soothed for as long as it takes for the drink to hit her stomach.

She leans back on the couch, slouching. Sprawling, to a degree. She lifts a brow. "For serious?" A beat. "I like, I know Kate was for awhile. And that somebody else. And stuff. But... Ed?"

[Wyrmbreaker] "Yeah," he shoots Sinclair a glance, somewhere between rueful and amused, "Ed. He was our first Alpha. My first Alpha. Ed, Kate and I -- we were the Unbroken Circle out of New York City, though we were only there for a year or so before relocating to Boston.

"Ed has a lot of charisma. He's hard to hate, easy to love, and it's easy to mistake charisma for genuine potential when it's never really tested. We were a pack of Cliaths in Septs where even Adrens are the rank and file. None of us ever really needed to step up and be responsible. And the pack grew larger and larger and we'd all built up this image of Edward in our minds, which we defended at any cost, even against our own doubts. If anyone's to blame for that, it was probably me. I can be," he laughs under his breath, "one hell of a spin doctor.

"Then Edward hit Fostern that we decided to leave Boston and go somewhere where seven Cliaths and a Fostern might actually make a difference. I think I was the one that suggested Chicago, actually. Kate helped me talk Ed into it. And once we got here, we started setting Ed up for some real responsibility, real leadership, and he just ... couldn't really handle it. We rallied around Ed, of course, but I think Ed just couldn't handle the pressure. Maybe he never could. I think we'd all built up a myth of Edward the Great, mighty Alpha and shining hero, when he was really just likeable guy who liked, more than anything else, to be liked. Anyway, he just started drifting away from the pack. I remember calling him on it once. He said something like 'no harm no foul'. Christ, it still makes me angry to think of it."

He doesn't sound angry, though. Just -- thoughtful. Slow, a little lazy. Recounting the history of the pack for a Galliard that, in a few short months, feels more closely knit into its weave and weft than the Ragabash he'd known for years.

"I think it was a little after that that Kate and I decided that the next time Ed stumbled, we wouldn't cover for him. So, when he did, Kate took over the pack, and I was her beta instead. And then around that time the Talons of Horus started pulling one packmate after another into the Umbra on some secret bidding, and Kate was drafted. I acted as Alpha in her absence until Mrena took over. Then Mrena died, and I think in avenging her, I finally stepped the fuck up.

"By the time you joined us," he adds, "Kate had just come back, and the rest of the original Circle had either died or gone. And by the time Ed came back, everyone who used to worship him had either taken off the rosetinted glasses or simply vanished. So."

Full circle, then.

"I don't think he really fit with us anymore."

[Sinclair] When she wants to, Sinclair can be a hell of a listener. She's not a judge. She can teach, usually hard truths given through brutal lessons. She can dominate, usually by simply moving faster and hitting harder than anyone else. She has two instincts that dominate her life, always at war with each other, and the one she chooses to follow most often is the one that leads to the image of her drippiing with the blood of whoever she has torn apart this week.

It is the less-often indulged instinct that makes her genuinely interested in what others have to say. It's not just duty, even, not just the work of a Galliard to listen and learn and remember. That's part of it. But the other part is the one that wants Lukas to feel heard. That wants Kate to feel supported. That wants Alex to feel happy.

Sinclair leans back into the couch, drinks her Jack and Coke, and listens. Her eyes flicker when he says Ed's hard to hate, easy to love. There's a faint wryness to her expression, a hint at a curl that could have one day grown up to be a smile when he mentions mistaking charisma for potential. Mostly, she doesn't react strongly at all. Her brow lines a bit at no harm no foul, though it's only as close to angry as Lukas sounds as he tells her of it. That is: not really.

She notes things like the next time... we wouldn't ... when he did. Lukas doesn't say 'if he stumbles again'. It was inevitable that Ed should falter again, fail again, even then. Kate was Alpha. A Lord named Mrena who is bured in the Graves. Kate returned, and Lukas remained the Alpha. The totem changed, the pack morphed into its current shape and collection, and Lukas gives a rather weak conclusion, restating what is already known even to their very bones: he didn't fit.

Warcry takes a drink, and then a breath.

"If he ever did," she says, echoing something Lukas said earlier. She drinks again, draining the glass. She's buzzed. Not drunk. Not for her constitution. But tipsy, most definitely. "I think. I'm gonna go to the caern."

Sinclair puts the glass on the table, as though out of nowhere The Time has come, and begins to get to her feet.

[Wyrmbreaker] There's a shift as Sinclair stands. Lukas remains where he is, relaxed, but: a shift. An awareness in his posture and bones that his packmate is leaving, and their duo will become two singularities.

"For Kemp?" he asks quietly. "Or to take your guard shift?"

[Sinclair] "For me," she says, without shame that she isn't going to the caern to howl for Kemp, or to walk her patrol with the Guardians. She's steady on her feet, but her eyes are bright from drink. "To see Lila."

[Wyrmbreaker] "Oh." Duh, is the unspoken addendum to that, abashed. "Want some company, or would you rather go this one alone?"

[Sinclair] She considers that for a moment. Smiles at him, a bit fondly, tipsily, at the abashed way he says Oh. But the question: well. The question, she considers. "Kate's coming," she informs him. "I asked her to come witness. If it's okay with Waking Dream, and all. But I think it will be."

Sinclair is wearing a denim jacket. Her hair is in two braids. It's raining outside, and her car's in the lot, right next to Lukas's. "I'm walking." As though this matters; just to make sure he doesn't even offer her a ride, or assume she's getting in her car. She seems itchy to leave, ready to go, now that the decision is made. Some things you don't question; she doesn't question this. "And I should walk alone. But if you're there when I get to the caern...

"That'd be cool."

And she smiles. "Pick up the tab, kay? Awesome. You're a peach."

[Wyrmbreaker] Something about the fact that Wyrmbreaker has yet to so much as stir from his seat says he expected something of this sort all along. So he only smiles back -- a quick, small smile, but warm, and yes: fond.

"I'll be there," he says.

And then he watches from his armchair, sipping his scotch, as Sinclair walks past the window, through the rain, toward the Caern.