katherine.

[Lukas] It's late night and the restaurant is closed, the building quiet. The common areas are deserted. Most are sleeping. But the kitchen's still open -- Always, Andrea had said -- and Lukas is still awake.

Not that he overindulges. Not in this; not in anything. The young Lord is stretched out full-length on what's fast becoming his favorite of the sectional sofas, his shoes off, socked feet up on one armrest, head pillowed on the other. The heater is on high enough that he doesn't need to wear more than a single layer: pajamas, it looks like. A plain white t-shirt, the sort of thing one might wear under a dress shirt; a pair of butter-soft drawstring pants.

There's half a rack of lamb on a small plate in front of him; one rib is eaten clean, the other three still untouched. Also, a foam-topped mug of house brew. He's reading -- a paperback, the cover bent back the way librarians tell you never to do -- and his free hand is not quite tucked under his head, pulling lightly and absently at his short-cropped, dark hair.

[Belinda Perry] It was through the opened kitchen that Belinda had came, going through the protocols of passwords and interrogations beforehand, to move across the floor quietly. There was the quiet tap of her heels across the floorboard. Those that are listening to the silence of the night, quietly enough to hear the wind buffeting the windows and walls from outside, would pick up the way she stopped, paused by the stairs after stepping on the first. It had been a little louder than she expected, the echo of it drifting up the stairwell, and leaning an arm into the wall, she unstrapped her shoes and slipped them off. One clattered to the floor, causing a soft murmured hiss ("Quiet you!"), and plucked it from the floor before resuming the ascent in stocking feet.

[Armstrong] She had wandered out with a pencil. A pencil and a notebook that had seen better days; there were blood on some of the pages. It wasn't something she talked about, conversely, it wasn't something people ever really asked about. There was no reason to; White Eyes put all sorts of things in notebooks and pieces of wood and who-knew-what-else.

This one, however, was just an unfortunate sketchbook who had had the lovely misfortune of being the Theurge's favorite. So, naturally, it was only acceptable that it would be blood stained and mud-stained and some of the pages would be worn thin in places due to compulsive erasing.

She had come to the room, claiming a nearby chair. Armstrong surveyed the room for a moment, more looking at the position of the chairs than the actual comfort values of them. Eventually, Armstrong picked a chair and looked at her packmate. He was reading. She looked at him somewhat expectantly, like she was waiting for something. Then again, she was always waiting for something, except today her eyes weren't on the sky. Not quite.

"I'm drawing you," she finally said. There was, however, the implied question of consent. She had not picked her pencil back up just yet.

[Lukas] Lukas makes some low sound -- ngh. -- which may be interpreted as assent, displeasure, boredom, didn't-hear-you, or don't-give-a-fuck, depending on the mood of the listener. His hand leaves his hair; he turns a page. His hand returns to the armrest (headrest, in this case). Instead of pulling at his hair this time, he simply hooks his forearm over, his hand hanging down over the side of the couch.

Several minutes later, abruptly: "What are you going to do with that drawing?" He looks at her with his glittering pale eyes. The moon is full, well and truly full, and to be on the receiving end of his stare is something akin to be flicked with a light whip: sharp, stinging. "Nothing unpleasant, I hope."

[Hatchet] Hatchet has not been seen for about six or seven hours now, and the last person to see him was Soledad. The door to the room he shares with her (at least) opens at whatever ungodly hour he has woken at, and he steps out. He did fell asleep in almost all of his clothes -- the boots, notably, were set neatly under the bed before he flopped onto the mattress -- so he is wearing the same worn jeans, thin white tee, and threadbare blue sweater that he had on the last time Armstrong and Lukas saw him.

Belinda, coming up in a moment, knows that he has exactly one other change of clothes in his backpack. Every time they winter in a city or stay for more than a month he will -- by the grace of charity or his packmates -- have a little more, but once they hit the road he never takes more than a single change with him. He moves quickly, and he packs light.

His hair is mussy, but he's running his fingers through it, walking out into the common room as Lukas is asking Armstrong if what she wants to do with this supposed portrait is going to be unpleasant. Hatchet pauses, though not in hesitation so much as a gauging of the room, and then walks over to the same couch Lukas is sitting on. No, not one of the others. He goes to the other arm of the sectional, passing through Armstrong's line of sight, and flops into the corner.

[Armstrong] "There's very little benefit in doing unpleasant things to you, directly or indirectly. Especially right now. I'm just bored and you're casting an interesting shadow."

It was to the point, but he had given something of a non-sound. He didn't consent, but he didn't not consent either, so she instead focused her attention on the bent pages of the book. Poor paperback. From that angle, she couldn't even tell what he was reading. He looked at her and she didn't flinch. Though, the moon was full.

"If you'd like, you can have it when I'm done."

She then saw Hatchet drift through her line of sight; it was the different play of the light that caught her attention. She watched him move over to the edge of the sofa and sit. At that moment, she suspended shading. She raised a brow and at the moment looked at him. The same textures as she had seen before. same sweater she'd seen previously. She gave something of a half nod to acknowledge his presence.

Like someone could miss the mounting rage in the room.

[Belinda Perry] Arriving on the second floor with a bustle of bags in one hand and heels dangling in the other, Belinda lets was about to let out a stagger of breath until she realizes that there are some others right here. Others that included only one of her pack. The breath, held, is released more quietly, and with a flick of her head she lifts her chin with a little more dignity; with any luck they missed that little slip anyway.

Hatchet. Armstrong. She couldn't quite who those feet belonged to but she'd find out as she moved further into the room. Textured stockings, some thick, black stretch lace (boutique stores darling) rode up to the below-knee hem of her pencil skirt. Her waistcoat cut in at the curve of her hip, snug and warm. A cream blouse with some ruffles around the collar was pretty and very non-practical for the weather. Soft leather gloves were more so. The hat? Not so much. It was a dainty little piece, saved from the wind by the way it clipped into her hair, off center with a little veil that threatened her blue eyes.

"Taggart, do you have anywhere I can place these?"

Oh,

".. good evening- morning." Perhaps to everyone in general, she certainly glanced at each.

[Belinda Perry] [hello?]
to Armstrong, Hatchet, Lukas, Meridian

[Meridian] "Are we having an impromptu party?"

Katherine Bellamonte's deliciously sleepy voice queries from the doorway. Le Petit Madam is barely adequately clothed for public (in her own esteem) in a maroon dressing gown that neatly swathes every spare inch of her limbs from view. The feet are bare and unadorned and the carefully attended to hair allowed its freedom to roam across her shoulders. It's an usual sight for Katherine Bellamonte -- this seeming appearance of nonchalance about her packmates viewing her so intimately (un)dressed.

[Meridian] (lalala, I was AFK! Blame me not!)

[Lukas] (omfg. sorry guys. phone, gf upset)

[Hatchet] The man with the coppery-blonde hair has a personal scent that is more pronounced at the moment and mingled -- as it was not last night -- with the traces of dirt and wind and snow, as ethereal as the Rage that permeates the air aorund him. He does not feel like a Philodox. The years he has spent as a Garou, in full possession of his nature, have made him angrier. They have made him stronger, too.

But he has never been quite entirely human. He fits in with Full-Moons, and there's something far more natural about the smell and sense of the outdoors on him. He can be uncanny, when the moon is as heavy and aching as it is tonight, simultaneously ancient and infantile.

He can also be Just That Guy, lounging on the couch. For a moment he is dark with drowsiness and reclining languidly on the cushions in a way that says as much about his rank and power as his words might...and then Belinda walks in, all heels and lace and rustling backs, and he perks his eyebrows up, craning his head around to look over at her. Almost no one, catching sight of the Galliard, would think: animal. Even tonight.

Almost no one, looking at Hatchet -- or Lukas, for that matter -- would be able to think anything else. Especially tonight.

"Place whats?" he asks, stifling a yawn. "The shoes?" Then the yawn erupts, extends, then fades. Hatchet sniffs once, to get moisture out of his sinus cavities rather than to smell anything. "Sol won't wear them, I can tell you that right now," he says, shaking his head with impressively faked but ultimately good-natured sympathy.

[Meridian] (HDY console your gf over us! *shuns 4eva*)
to Armstrong, Belinda Perry, Hatchet, Lukas

[Armstrong] "Evening Ms. Perry."

It was the voice that caught her attention again, and left her pencil unattended. No, she thought you really have to focus a little more. She thought. Alas, her attention span was dwindling off into the great unknown and, being who she was, there was very little chance that Mrena had tethered it somewhere for safe keeping.

She then, at that moment, shut her notebook and shook her head. The light had shifted. There were more people here, more breathing, more heartbeats, more voices and weren't speaking. It wasn't condusive to staring at the Ahroun for long periods of time and fixating on the way rage looked on paper. The subject matter had shifted. And now? There was more subject matter on the couch.

"You were supposed to bring the pinata," she said. She grinned a little at Katherine; it was playful. "Don't feel bad, I was supposed to bring the hatsand I forgot."

[Lukas] (go on around me, lukas is quietly reading. but, quite belated -- )

"Show me when you're done, then."

[Belinda Perry] "No, not the shoes." The Glass Walker crooned. She had watched the way Hatchet's mouth opened, and opened some more, to give everyone a good view of his teeth. Her brows perked up, "I meant the bags, but thank you for sharing what you had for breakfast yesterday." Commenting on his yawn or maybe his breath, its possible that she'd remark on both of them.

Blue eyes shoot over to Meridian, one she hasn't met before, and there's no reason why she shouldn't smile at the other then. "Not as far as I know." Parties, they had just missed one. Belinda had been out all night, obviously she'd been on the town, and obviously it can't have been that good or she wouldn't be here at The Brotherhood bringing her pack-mates some essentials she'd shopped for during the day.

Another smile and a nod to Armstrong, as she went over to place the bags down by the sofa's side nearby Hatchets lounging self. Her shoes were placed down too, rather than thrown, and she stood up to take off her gloves, plucking them off finger by finger and taking her sweet time.

[Meridian] On quite the other side of the coin it was rare for Katherine to appear anything less than human. She was so very well contained in her human skin that to see her in battle to see her tear some wyrm-ridden thing to shreds with those hands was completely baffling.

Especially as right this moment they were involved in shifting and tossing heavy bangs from her vision, the cuticles carefully tended to, each nail manicured with a clear thick gloss to within an inch of its life. Devoid of make up Katherine Bellamonte seemed freer, a little less regal and uninviting. Of course -- the lack of imperial style suit and slacks did much to soften her as well. She had what some might label classic features -- the slope of her brow and nose almost too precise, the manner her mouth puckered into either a frown or (less frequently) a smile too exact.

Her teeth were straight gleaming rows of expensive dental work and her eyes almost perfect replicas of her fathers. Not that many present could attest to the likeness.

She was tall, however, quite like her brother and carried with her certain similar mannerisms in speech and glance that recalled the absent Bellamonte.

"I was?" The Silver Fang stepped further into the room; her gaze sweeping the collected folds of known and unknown before returning to Armstrong. "Perhaps we need to invest in a memo pad."

[Hatchet] That's another thing you learn to take care of, if you want them to last. Teeth. Hatchet flosses. Oh yes he does. That's something he considers worthwhile, doesn't take up much room or weight in his backpack. Damn right he flosses, and brushes, and as a result has fucking gorgeous pearly white teeth and breath that makes little clouds of joy explode in people's nostrils. Or something like that.

He would be narrowing his eyes at Belinda and informing her without much true rancor that his breath smells like he gargles with mint extract, but he is thoroughly and immediately distracted. Not by Lukas shifting on the couch or Armstrong flapping away her notebook, but by a familiar voice from the door in his blind spot.

The redhead makes her way over to the couch to set down her bags, which have apparently just been forgotten by her Alpha, and he twists around on the couch to peer back at Katherine. The first thing that crosses his expression is minute, nearly invisible, but then he bursts into an emphatic grin. "Katie-baby!" he says cheerfully, elongating the first vowel of her 'name' to indicate just. How. Much. Pleasure. He takes in calling her that.

Folding his arms on the back of the couch to rest his chin on, he all but beams at her. "Belinda, this is Katie-baby. She's Old Edward's sister." Beat. "I told you about Edward's sister, didn't I?"

Now, Lukas and Belinda and Katherine have all seen this before. The exaggerated joy, the overemphasized words. Katherine, however, is the one who has seen -- and sees now -- the edge in his eyes, the silvery sharpness that makes his words somehow more intense. And that, under a full moon with this much Rage in a single room, seems incalculably dangerous.

[Belinda Perry] Gloves off and folded together, she places them in her waistcoat pocket before she begins on the buttons. Hatchet is distracted, as he so easily is by women, and it gives her some time to work the jacket off her frame. Her arms are sliding out of them when he's cheerfully (mocking) the new arrival, and the jacket has been folded by the time he's introducing her.

Her eyes glint beneath the smokey applied shadow, and she smiles over towards Meridian. "Yes you did." She tells Taggart without glancing down towards him, all eyes on Meridian. "A pleasure to meet you Miss." If there's some hidden agenda it's not really showing tonight. This woman isn't affected by the harsh Full Moon, not so much as making her seem even tense across the brow or shoulders. She can be, oh she can be, its merely that others haven't been privy to that yet. Not even in the year that the pack has been together. Belinda is very pleasant, subdued even, tonight. Both sarcasm and cigarettes are yet to make an appearance.

"It's good to finally meet you." The Galliard went on, speaking to the Fang, "I've heard so much about you. Particularly of your gaurded honour. It must be lovely to have a doting brother like Edward." Belinda's from Louisiana, one can easily tell by the accent of her somewhat sultry voice.

[Lukas] Lukas, who has by and large ignored the gathering until now, abruptly snaps his book shut. Silently, he swings his legs off the sofa and sits up, tossing the book on the coffee table, planting his feet, his shoulders pressed deep into the back of the sofa. Evidently, if Armstrong's still drawing, she'll have to do the rest by memory and imagination.

[Armstrong] Twitch. She opened her notebook back up and tried to renew her focus on what she had been doing. She took her time and she listened; Mrena's attention was divided. And now it was divided between Katherine and company.

Katie-baby and co.

It made her exhale through her nose, inhale slowly and... A lovely bit of composure came about her. And when her exceedingly pale grey eyes went back to those conversing [Those who were not part of her immediate subject matter. Maybe it was the concentration of Gaia's fury in one area that made it difficult to concentrate] she was taking in timbre, listening to tones. Ms. Perry seemed pleasant, filled with lacy textures. Hatchet was minty, threadbare, and somewhere between sunrise and monochrome in his color scheme.

She had tried to renew her focus, but then the moment had shifted. The lighting was different. And her notebook held a different purpose.

[Meridian] Katherine scoffs, her lids dropping to half mast to conceal any flicker of irritation (or otherwise) that Hatchet's presence invokes. When she raises them again her eyes are as they always seem -- perfectly polite and silently appraising. As if one were never quite not performing for the twenty-year-old's approval.

"Oscar, how delightful," she trills softly, deliberately drawing out the word. Even in a dressing gown, Katherine did not seem in the slightest put out to be introducing herself to --

[a delicate whiff of the woman's scent]

-- Miss Perry, of somewhereville.

"My honor is flattered, I'm sure, to make your acquaintance. After all," Katherine sat herself down on the arm of the sofa like a languid cat. "Any friend of Hatchet's is a friend of mine."

[Hatchet] Not for the first time in their brief acquaintance, Lukas removes himself from the situation. Not for the first time, another layer of understanding, curious or otherwise, settles into Hatchet's opinion of him. Not judgment. Judgment is reserved for a different arena entirely, and the common room of his free dorm is not it. But as the couch cushions shift with the sudden movement of Lukas off of them and away from the gathered Garou, there's a noticable spark of intensity in Hatchet's being.

Could be anger. Could be amusement. Hell, it could be fear, for all that it lingers. Hatchet's attention is on Ms. Bellamonte, keen and sharp as at least one half of his name. He hears a name that two -- two -- people on this earth are allowed to use, and whatever was there before dissolves into the obvious loathing he has for this woman.

He twists again, following her to the arm of the couch that he is not currently resting against, his Rage suddenly an almost palpable shadow around him, falling on the floor and upholstery together. "Would you two like to be left alone to keep being polite to each other?" he asks after a moment. "I could go...take a shower, jerk off, whatever. You could have tea!" he adds, with dry exuberance.

[Hatchet] [WAIT A SECOND. GOTTA RE-POST]

[Hatchet] Maybe it's Katherine's appearance, simply, or the way Hatchet reacts to her, but it gets Lukas's attention. The younger Garou is sitting up and taking notice, and there's no denying that the Fostern is aware of it. As the couch cushions shift with the sudden movement of Lukas off of them and away from the gathered Garou, there's a noticable spark of intensity in Hatchet's being even though he does not look over at the Shadow Lord.

Could be anger. Could be amusement. Hell, it could be fear, for all that it lingers. Hatchet's attention is on Ms. Bellamonte, keen and sharp as at least one half of his name. He hears a name that two -- two -- people on this earth are allowed to use, and whatever was there before dissolves into the obvious loathing he has for this woman.

He twists again, following her to the arm of the couch that he is not currently resting against, his Rage suddenly an almost palpable shadow around him, falling on the floor and upholstery together. "Would you two like to be left alone to keep being polite to each other?" he asks after a moment. "I could go...take a shower, jerk off, whatever. You could have tea!" he adds, with dry exuberance.

[Belinda Perry] Miss Perry, who has to be older then the lot of them here - at least in human terms, has the fragrance of lounge bars, cigarettes, cocktails, Bourbon and beneath it all, timeless perfume that has lasted the ages. She would never (never) wear anything like Britney Spears, nor, for that matter, the latest (even if expensive) rage from Paris.

There's a little laugh from her, something that is smooth in her throat and is as much amused as much as it seems polite. "Friend is such a strong word.." Her painted nails flutter down her blouse and over the high waist of her skirt. Slim, curved, accentuated. She looks up from where she was fussing over her blouse, that is neatly tucked in and quite prim and proper, to glance at Oscar.

Her mouth quirks, "Whatever pleases you, Taggart. But wouldn't you prefer to stay here, with us?"

Looking over to the others, "Is this what always happens here? Gatherings in the morning? Pajama parties for the wee hours of the morning? It could almost be considered family orientated. How very uniting." One hand has found its way across her stomach with her fingers clinging to her opposite hip. She's regarding the lot of them, the tension sliding right off her shoulders to drip with Oscars Rage onto the floor.

[Belinda Perry] [edit: "Pajama parties for the wee hours?"]

[Armstrong] (Lovelies, I have to peace out. I am les tired *salute* we can assume Armstrong wandered off looking distinctly distracted with her notebook)
to Belinda Perry, Hatchet, Lukas, Meridian

[Lukas] Falcons and stormcrows, ravens, birds-of-prey. There is much that is avian, skybound, in the tribal identity of lords and fangs -- which is, in fact, what these three members of the Unbroken Circle are. And like their totem spirit, Lukas' eyes are sharp and pale; they move quickly, locking to one face and then the next.

He studies Buried-Hatchet for a moment. Sometimes it seems the man had two faces, one insincere and flippant, sharp as a hatchet, full of exaggerated, half-foppish mannerisms; the other, worthy of the other half of his deedname. Then he looks to Belinda instead, his eyes cool and even.

"We don't often keep human hours, Perry. I was reading; I can't speak for my packmates. Why are you here?"

[Meridian] There's a strange kind of symmetry to the way they move here.

The Philodox moves to seat herself on the edge of the sofa and Hatchet twists and follows her; invading her personal space as she adjusts the hem of her maroon gown over her crossed legs so that only the very tips of her toes can be glimpsed. One hand buried in her hair; balancing her weight with an elbow against the spine of the sofa and the eldest Bellamonte daughter looks quite nonplussed by the degree of tension in the (suddenly rather small) room.

"Don't be ridiculous, there's no need for that. I'm perfectly capable of being polite with you present. Besides, your Miss Perry," Katherine's eyes travel beyond Hatchet to the woman as she flutters a brightly painted hand over her blouse, "Might take the wrong idea."

Lukas interrupts; and Katherine returns to meeting Hatchet's gaze, going so far as to answer Lukas' response with her own purpose at rising at this hour. "I was checking to see if Edward had returned."

[Hatchet] The glance he gives Belinda is sidelong and inscrutable. Friend is such a strong word, she says, and he half-turns his head when he looks at her. The gaze is not judgmental, or angry, at least not on the surface. She doesn't know him well enough, even after a year, to read these glances the way that another might. Half the time the pack has sat around a fire or a room with a drink or a story she has been somewhere else, anyway.

She does know him well enough to know that even those closest to him can't always read him, don't always know what is going on behind those masked gray eyes, and could probably not tell her if they wanted to what it is, exactly, he's thinking when he glances at her.

Especially because what he says, ignoring Katherine all of a sudden and still not looking over at Lukas: "What's in the bags, anyway?"

[Belinda Perry] "My pack's here." If it needed further explanation he'd have to ask for it. She's not particularly giving, even if she's more open then majority of her pack. "Are you reading anything interesting? I'm particularly fond of a novel by Pamela Sargeant; a Shore of Women. I highly recommend it. You might find it of interest." Helpful.

Meridian adds her little tidbit in, receives a glance and perhaps a little more, but Hatchet is looking at her and her gaze continues on to meet his.

Her blue eyes meet his grays, used to the mask that is there and thinks nothing of it. Not even on the way he was studying her seconds ago, with his gaze searing into the side of her pale cheek. The bags. Her gaze drops to the bags at her feet, where she now lays her jacket. "Assorted clothes and gloves. There's a pair of shoes (or two)." She doesn't say why. Doesn't make a big deal of it. The reason why she is away, so often, is for a bank account that is often called on by the pack. Money does make the world turn around, no matter how much these animals try to deny it.

[Lukas] "I meant, actually, why were you here. In our presence." Lukas has a methodical, even way of speaking, as though each sentence were a smooth dark stone to be laid out. "We who are evidently not your friends."

This could be a blatant attack; but there's a certain solidness about him: a methodical, unperturbed confidence that doesn't quite lower itself to barbs and insults. His eyes are steady, the blue pale and clear, catching even the dimmed lights of the common area. Energy conservation; eyestrain; late night; some reason or other for that. Doesn't matter. He watches Belinda for a moment -- her words flow over him and leave him unchanged, a stone in the rain. Then his eyes flicker down, briefly, to his book.

"And, yes." He answers her first question after all. "It's interesting. And thank you for the recommendation."

She turns her attention to her alpha. Lukas turns his to what remains of his rack of lamb. He pulls a rib off, then passes it to Meridian next, counterclockwise around their loose circle. Hatchet would follow, after the Fang.

[Belinda Perry] "Oh. I do apologize." This back to Lukas, with a brief glance over to him. She's not in the habit of ignoring anything cast in her direction, at least when it's made in such an obvious manner. "But not my friends? I wouldn't presume that you would be, Wyrmbreaker, but that you're going out of your way to confirm, is it?, that you're not is duly noted." Her mouth does not quirk upwards this time, but gives a brief downward tilt.

... even as she's looking back to Hatchet again.

[Lukas] (gonna go on and post since it's getting a bit late -- smack me if you wanted to get something in before me :P)

"Don't try to pin this on me." There's just a flick of sharpness there; then it subsumes. "You said it first: friend is too strong a word for my packmate."

[Hatchet] "Thanks," he says to Belinda, though it's a little flat. "I'll toss 'em in the room when I go back." This is something Belinda does. She's the one with the money, the one who usually ends up buying the food or bringing the clothes or setting them up wherever they've huddled down for the time being. He is holding his tongue, and there is something he is not saying, but that proves the obvious: the Philodox Alpha of Weasel's Gang is not, even when he is being damn near flamboyant, as open as the often-away Galliard.

As he told Lukas, his name was given to him by a Shadow Lord and an Uktena. Both tribes know a little something about burying things. Yes, they do.

Bored with Katherine, or too irritated by her glib use of his first name -- though he has to be honest with himself, he started that shit -- and his curiosity with Belinda's delivery satisfied, and the little artist drifted off again, he drags his eyes through the air and looks down to the other leg of the sectional, where Lukas was sitting when Hatchet first wandered out of the room he is occupying.

It isn't 'his' room. It is not claimed territory, even though he would probably snap a little if he found someone sleeping on the bed that now smells like him, is adjusting to his weight and form.

Looking at Lukas for a few moments, perhaps awaiting the lamb, he speaks still to Belinda, his voice in a tone of rather gentle instruction: "Friendship isn't something extended automatically, Whisper. Being reasonably polite to him and giving him no great reason to dislike you is not the same as giving him -- or anyone else -- convincing reason," and around this point he looks at her again, "to consider you a friend."

She has known him long enough to know that this tone of voice is not exactly as gentle as it sounds.

[Belinda Perry] "I'm not sure what game you're trying to play at, Wyrmbreaker, but I said no such thing. If you were listening, I said friend is such a strong word. If there is any relation between that and my pack-mate is through your assumptions and nothing more. I assure you, the bond between my pack-mate and myself, while none of your business, is far more than friendship, however strong the word may be."

[Hatchet] Hatchet stands up. In that single motion he is immediately and physically taking dominance of the room. He has the rank for it, he has the height for it, and he does not hesitate for a second to reach out and take it. "Belinda, sit down, and shut up. For," he says, spreading his hands with some of the characteristic if sometimes false lightness he carries, "maybe ten seconds."

[Meridian] Lukas tossed his reading material to one side; and it had been picked up as a mere trifle of curiosity by the Silver Fang. Held imperiously in one hand, the spine studied as the interchange of voices went down.

Katherine merely raised an eyebrow at the offered lamb, peering over his own novel at him. "Eating at this hour is bad for the digestive system, Lukas."

Thump.

The book is tossed aside, and Katherine draws herself upright, tilting her head as if she'd just caught wind of a particularly juicy morsel of gossip. "More than friendship? Well isn't that darling." Her voice is mild, but threaded with loose agitation.

[Belinda Perry] Hatchet cuts off any further words from the Galliard, who's still yet to show any signs of Rage outwardly. It's there, but one has to look really deep for it. Her human skin is something else, really something else, to take a beating of Rage on this Full Moon. Drawing her hand away from her hip and across her stomach, she eases into the arm of the sofa that Hatchet had just vacated, one that she had been standing beside since her entrance into the room, with her bags at her feet.

[Lukas] There's a flicker of a blink -- almost a microexpression. And then, abruptly, Lukas laughs under his breath; he sounds chagrined.

"No -- " he glances at Hatchet, waves negatingly, the way a man might wave off a too-generous offering of some gift he couldn't accept, " -- it's all right, Hatchet-rhya, the fault is mine." Refocus: those pale blue eyes fast on Belinda again. "I misunderstood you, Whisper-yuf. I didn't think calling your own Alpha a friend and a brother would be 'too strong'."

The silence there hangs just a tick too long. Then, gently, "But of course, now I see that you were only joking. My mistake. I apologize."

He moves on: Katherine. "Bugger my digestive system." His mouth slants; a half-smile, faintly carnivorous. "It'll regenerate."

[Belinda Perry] Talk, don't talk. This Galliard thing is bothersome. This following an Alpha, shutting up and keeping her mouth closed is even more so. But she's good at it. If anything, she's very good with body language. She sits, just so, one ankle over the other, while watching Meridian and Lukas in silence.

[Lukas] (Whoops, addition--)

"And if you're not going to eat it," and he tears into his own lamb rib, "pass it on." He's turning into a regular purveyor of shared foodstuffs, Lukas.

[Hatchet] "It wasn't for your sake," Hatchet says with far-too-tense wryness to Lukas, turning from one female to the other. As he looks briefly at Katherine, his eyes loose the cold steel edge they've been carrying since the moon waxed, and become almost stormy. That's what's disturbing. Hatchet's Rage makes his eyes nearly metallic. But that's when it's held back.

He does not say a word to her. He is disgusted, that much is written on his often-expressive face. He despises her, that is why there is an unspoken, unmoved threat lingering in that brief glance. He chooses -- with grave effort -- not to speak, not to stir up, not to provoke or challenge. But his teeth are on edge when he looks at Belinda.

There's less Rage there. There's more...bewilderment. He shakes his head, that's all. If he's got something to say to her, he'll say it later. For now, he goes over to get some lamb. "Maybe I will just go shower," he says, taking it from either Katherine or the platter, "jerk off," he takes a bite and speaks through chewing, "and tomorrow we can do some team-building exercises or something. It'll be fucking fabulous," he adds, swallowing.

[Meridian] Maybe Katherine had it easier than Belinda -- following her own brother felt less like obeying an Alpha and more like business as usual for the daughter of wealth and titles she'd never had to begin to earn.

"I'm not touching that." Her drawled retort devolving into a yawn she hide behind a cupped hand. The Philodox slides from the arm of the sofa noiselessly, the folds of her gown arranging and rearranging themselves around her long legs. There was an air of unintended sensuality in the way Katherine Bellamonte walked, her hips swaying as she strolled toward the doorway.

Of course -- this comes after the glance -- the held moment where she stares at him and he stares right back at her and it seems as though something might occur -- before he's reaching for the lamb and tearing a bite off, mentioning something about jerking off in the shower. The golden-haired Fang leans at the doorway, arm casually splayed over her abdomen, toying with the cord of her gown.

She strokes it, and smiles in what must have been a vaguely polite manner.

"Have fun with that, won't you."

[Belinda Perry] It really can be infuriating, that she doesn't react to the looks or the rise of Rage and testosterone. Sometimes it even irritates her. Maybe if she could rise to it, she'd fit in better. But it was such an effort, trying to fake that. Besides, why on earth did she want to walk around like them? It seemed so .. impractical.

She's left watching them. Struck to silence by a higher rank's demand. It's not something she rallies against, even if there was a possibility that she felt slighted.

[Hatchet] "I'm gonna have a grand old time," he all but snarls to Katherine, tearing into the lamb. "I'm gonna be thinking about the poor sheep that had to die to give me this fine meal, like a good Scotsman."

Says the man without a drop of the accent.

[Lukas] There's something almost like a guffaw from the young Lord. Then, watching Katherine cross the room, he seems to come to a decision of his own. He gets up, picks up the last two lamb ribs and his mug of house brew, leaving behind the empty plate.

"Goodnight, [weaselpackname]." -- just like that, as though the pack itself were an entity, addressable by name. "Meridian, wait a minute, will you."

Just a hint, just an edge of steel there: that's how he couches his commands. She doesn't quite scoot -- or sashay, or whateverthefuck it is well bred fang women do -- into her room fast enough to avoid hearing it. He follows her, and the door clicks shut behind them. The walls are thin here. Their words are indistinct inside, but their voices can definitely be heard.

--

Inside, then: the spartan confines of a dorm room. Not that Lukas knew what a dorm room looked like. He shuts the door; he snaps the lock on; he turns around and his control is not so perfect. He doesn't need it to be. He lets the chain out a few links, and his face is hard.

"The next time you decide to sink to their level and trade petty insults," he says, low, "kindly do it when I'm not around, so I don't have to leap into the mud with you in your defense."

[Belinda Perry] Her gaze tracks the other pack as they leave the immediate room for the private confides of the other. It leaves her with the unhappy Fianna, to whom she sets her gaze on now. She shifts on the arm of the chair, turning her hips so she's a little more comfortable, and crosses one leg over the other properly; a motion that pulls her pencil skirt snug across her legs. Belinda doesn't break her silence. Her thumb nail brushes back and forth across a gold ring she wears on her right ring finger, an absent motion she has been caught doing now and then.

[Hatchet] Lukas follows Katherine, and it takes effort -- visible effort, on top of what it took out of him not to snap at Katherine or lecture Belinda in front of people outside the pack -- for Hatchet not to turn his head and watch them leave. Why he'd do that is anybody's guess. Katherine's sashay, Lukas's Rage, who fucking knows. But his head starts to turn, and he won't let it, and he looks at Belinda instead, licking his lips.

And his fingertips.

Hatchet sits down. He does not remain standing over her, but flops onto the couch, and looks at her on level. They can hear the voices. Muffled, but the words still coming through, they can hear. Katherine and Lukas can, quite likely, hear what he says to Belinda now, too. "Okay, so, just so I have a clue what goes on in that dye-addled brain of yours," he says, sounding more tired than anything else, "what the hell did you even mean? With the whole 'such a strong word' bit?"

That's all he says. It's not quite a lecture. It's a question, and like most of the questions he has asked her over the last year...or rather, roughly eight or nine non-consecutive months...he is genuinely waiting for an answer, rather than trying to interrogate her.

[Meridian] The walls are thin, here.

But the problem with the manner in which Katherine and Lukas disagree is that they were so utterly careful not to raise their voices that unless you knew better you could imagine they were simply having a polite conversation.

Unless you knew them at all.

--

"I did not ask you to get yourself dirty, Lukas."

She crosses the small room and sits herself down in front of a vanity, the lighting is softer in here, dulled to a pale yellow glow. The Philodox turns back to face her not-quite-so-controlled Beta and there is little in the way of deference there in the haughty contours of her face -- so alike and yet alien to their Alpha. There was a coldness in Katherine that did not seem present in Edward.

"You could have stayed hidden behind your book and we'd all have done swimmingly."

[Lukas] "How could I?" He nearly snaps this at her. "You're my packmate. You don't hide behind a book while your packmate fights a battle. This is the same; the very same. Only in this case, you could've stood and walked away from them. Christ; it's bad enough that Ed's hackles go up at the very sight of that Fiann, but at least he has an excuse. His honor was insulted and then his face was beat in. What's yours? You weren't even there."

[Belinda Perry] Her breath comes in as a sigh and she turns her gaze away from him, down to where she was fingering the ring. She turns her hand over, looking at her nails, inspecting them. Anyone that knows a woman, knows that this is a motion that is meant to distract them from other things, potentially unpleasant things. She does not have an air of arrogance or even haughty, certainly not now in any regard. "Does it matter, Buried Hatchet?" She is careful with her tone, other than keeping it quiet, she locks out the disappointment. He's right. This is all very tiring.

"Others will take what they want to hear, no matter the words or tones used to inflict them. It's always the way. The point was to see how they would take it, not necessarily how I meant it." Lifting her gaze, she turns her head to glance at him. She looks... subdued, closed down, distancing herself from this situation (from him?). "Friend is a strong word, anyone that thinks its not, doesn't know the meaning of it. It was a statement of fact used in an opportunistic moment."

"Why did you silence me?" Her brow draws a little together, creating a few fine lines between her sculpted brows. She, too, is asking out of a genuine need to understand.

[Hatchet] Hatchet, notably, has never asked Belinda about the ring. He doesn't even look at it. He has no jewelry, no photographs he carries in his backpack. Honestly, from the day she's met him it's seemed as though his life is, and has always been, the pack. His duty. The Law, the Litany, even other Garou. The man does live up to his name in the septs she's seen him visit. Yes, he goes out of his way to irritate the Bellamontes. Yes, he runs off at the mouth sometimes. But ultimately, when things get down to the wire -- and they always do, sometime or another -- the man is willing to sacrifice his pride, his renown, everything he has. Not for peace, per say. Not for the sake of friendship. Not for a lofty ideal.

For his race to survive, he will do anything, endure anything, become anything. If she has had her eyes open at all, she has seen that. It is not something that comes out every few years, or months. It is who he is. It is always there.

"Would I ask if it didn't?" he interjects when she sighs out her question, his eyebrows lifting. He is tired from being bewildered, but just got up from a good six hours of sleep. He is not ready for bed again yet. The effort of holding in his Rage...that's tiring. Sitting and talking to a packmate...isn't. At least not for him.

She speaks, answering his initial question, and Hatchet listens. Hatchet's very good at listening, actually. He watches her, his hands on his knees, and seems to be absorbing what she has to say, to get off her chest. "Belinda," he says when she's finished, and he sounds -- sincerely -- to have some kind of care for her, even if he is losing the patience he had back in New Orleans and the months thereafter, "I'm still not even sure what you meant."

"You said friend is a strong word, and it is, but that the bond of a packmate is far beyond it. So...relative to that..." he furrows his brow, looking at the ceiling like he's figuring out a math problem, talking with his hands idly, "the word 'friend' is a comparatively weak word." He looks at her, as if to check and see if she's still with him. "You can see how that ended up not making sense, or at least being confusing. And then -- here's why I told you to shut up -- you put it in such a way that The Bidet Queen was able to turn it into an innuendo insulting your honor and mine."

He drops his hands to his thighs again. His jaw is set, but he does not seem be angry with her, or annoyed. Maybe he's just pissed off at the whole thing. Maybe he just wanted to get some of the meat he smelled from his room. Maybe the moon is full and he didn't get laid last night. Who knows?

"Now...that's her problem. Until it gets around. You said yourself people will believe what they want to hear, no matter what words are used. And what they hear, from your mouth or Katie-baby's...if it sounds like it's a break from the Litany, then that is what will be whispered when you walk into a room full of our kind. Whether," he adds, "it was a play on words or a joke or a misunderstanding to begin with, or not."

[Meridian] She stands up. Katherine was not a small woman, in heels she would almost be a match for Lukas in height. Without them she comes just shy of his nose. Even so -- she clearly did not feel at a disadvantage. She narrows her eyes a fraction at the slight rise in his voice and for a moment looks as if she would give him a piece of her mind in return --

What's your excuse?

-- before she breathes out a quick, shallow sigh.

Then again, perhaps not.

"I shouldn't have let myself be goaded." The Philodox's lips purse. "I'll be more careful, in the future." It was a concession from her, not a rarity but something that she offered only when to argue further seemed futile -- not to mention a waste of her time and energy.

[Lukas] Anyone else, anyone, would have earned a reprieve with a concession so sincere. Not Katherine, though. If anything it only seems to fuel his anger, the way an enemy shying away from a blow would. His jaw clenches -- a strap of muscle stands out in his cheek.

"No you won't. Don't say that just to pull the rug out from under me."

[Belinda Perry] "Isn't that what a Philodox is for? To find out the truth of lies, of misinterpreted words? They ask, I answer. The truth is known. Words twisted, will be unraveled, and the honour or dishonour of the party involved reinstated?" She doesn't go in to what she meant or didn't mean. It didn't seem the point of the conversation, but what was behind it did. The fact that they didn't get her and her them always cropped up in these little ways. Her blue gaze is still on him, having watched him from the moment she had turned back his way, listening, answering when appropriate. Patient, even if withdrawn.

[Hatchet] His eyebrows go up at this, and there is a spike of impatience guiding the flicker of Rage from within him. "Kindly refrain from any attempt to remind me of my role as a Half Moon, all right?"

[Belinda Perry] "It wasn't a reminder, it was a question." Her features struggle, briefly, to maintain a passive content.

[Meridian] "Then don't ask me to keep my mouth closed when that -- that Fianna," Oh, only Katherine Bellamonte, only a Silver Fang with all those centuries of royal blood running in her veins could somehow make the name itself something dirty and beneath her notice.

"Provokes me the way he does."

She crosses her arms over her chest, a familiar line of irritation appearing above her nose.

[Hatchet] There's just a moment, where he sits there staring at her, sort of gnawing on the inside of his cheek in thought, and then he claps his hands onto the sofa cushion and pushes himself up. As he stands, he picks up the bag of clothes Belinda brought.

"One day," he says rather quietly, as though he is almost talking to himself, "I am going to look at you and see a Garou before I see a mortal."

Hatchet says it almost like a mantra, or a prayer. It's a mixture of hope and genuine faith, however much that faith may be tested. Sadly, it is also indicative of disappointment: that is not what he sees. Not yet. He strides over to the line of doors, almost as if on cue, and raps his knuckles on the one Katherine and Lukas vanished into.

"Night, Katie-baby," he calls, before going on down the hall to his own room, taking the bag with him. "Goodnight, Whisper."

[Hatchet] [I should have been in bed 2 hours ago. I really need to sleep tonight. Folks, it's been real. Thank you for the play!]

[Meridian] (night babe!)

[cuddle lumpkins] [Fuck that shit, I want to lurk while I brush my teefs.]

[Belinda Perry] There was nothing to say to that. Nothing she wanted to say to that. Left sitting on the sofa in the empty common room of The Brotherhood, she looks away from the door of her Alpha's once it's closed. Her gaze raises, briefly, to the ceiling and drops again. She smooths her hand across her leg seconds before she uncrosses them and places her stocking feet to the floor.

Easing off the sofa, she crouches down and picks up her heels and jacket that were left behind. She doesn't glance back to the rooms, where she had planned to stay for the night, but she can feel them boring into her back as some guilty shadow haunting her.

Tucking a her hair behind an ear, she begins for the darkening stairs and begins her descent. Her jacket and shoes will be placed on by the back door. She'll take another moment to pull on her gloves, taking them out of her jacket pocket, before readying her keys in hand and stepping out into the cold.

[Lukas] "What do you care what he says to you? He's beneath you." This isn't so much a reassurance as it is a sort of mockery in and of itself -- throwing her arrogance in her teeth. "He -- "

The flimsy door at his back abruptly jumps as Hatchet knocks on it. Locks and closed doors here were more inconveniences than barriers. Put a shoulder into one of these doors with more than casual force and the wood would splinter open. Raise your voice but a little, as Hatchet does, and the other side will hear it loud and clear.

Lukas' lips thin at the taunt: truth is he's not so guarded here as he is outside, in the eyes of others. Truth is he's far more guarded with her than with Edward, though he's known one nearly as long as the other. Truth is, the Fianna's repeated goads bother him just as surely as it bothers her, or Edward, or any of them. It was only a matter of control, and Lukas' control is as carefully, meticulously maintained as anything else about him. Irritation was a flash in the pan. Then he's steady again, his cold blue eyes raking her face for her reaction.

Quiet, and steely: "It's just noise, Meridian."

[Belinda Perry] [thanks for the play.]

[Meridian] (night, hun! cheers :) )

[Meridian] Equally quiet, her eyes shifting from his gaze (their blue so familiar and yet different from her own shade) to the cheap wooden door that rattles ever so lightly beneath the Fiann's knuckles.

"I know."

Katherine moves away from him now, seats herself carefully on the chair before the vanity and picks up her hairbrush; stroking it down one side of her thick blond waves. She watches her pack-mate as she performs this nightly ritual in the mirror.

"I just rather wish I could mute this noise permanently."

[Lukas] A faint curl of his mouth. He looks at her reflection now -- his rage is somehow dissociated from him through the mirror. It beats at her back; his image, devoid of it, seems lesser, younger.

"You and your brother both. But there's honor in that Fianna, buried under all the crap. When he's like this," a jerk of his head toward the door, as though that indicated it all, "he's not worth speaking to. There are better things to do with our time. But sometimes he lives up to his name, and then he's a worthy ally in the greater war. That's something to remember, if you can't bring yourself to ignore the bullshit any other way."

The common room is quiet outside now. Lukas leans his weight against the door again, imposing. When he folds his arms across his chest the breadth of him almost fills the doorframe edge to edge. Humor, or what might've passed for it, fades soon enough. His moon is high in the sky, and he can feel it in his blood.

"Anyway." His hand comes up briefly; he rubs his thumb and forefinger over his eyes, grimacing. "It's getting late. Tomorrow your brother and I will speak to the Grand Elder. He wanted you to come along. For moral support, I suppose, since you've trained him to expect it so well." Some temporary truce has ended; Lukas straightens, and there's a hard cast to his face. "We're leaving at a quarter after eight. So if you want a part of it, try not to spend three hours in the bathroom, doing you god damn hair."

[Meridian] The motion of the brush drawing through her fair hair ceases for a beat -- she turns to impose her gaze on him -- filling up her doorway with all his height and simmering rage. She's a picture of Edward for just a second with his smile casting over her lips, turning the corners upward. But where her brother's warmth extended beyond the occasional smile and always reached his eyes -- his sister's did not gleam with good humor.

There was only anticipation at the words Grand Elder -- a sick kind of bubbling excitement -- and a faint trace of satisfaction at his words. "I'll be ready by seven."

The brushing recommenced.

"Goodnight, Lukas." It was as much a dismissal as a farewell.

[Lukas] A faint sound, suspiciously snort-like. He wrenches the door open; he'd never come more than three feet into her room.

"Goodnight, Truth's Meridian." The door shuts behind him -- quietly enough.

[Lukas] (good timing *laughs* I'M going to bed, since it's 6 fucking am here. maybe jacqui'll stick around though!)
to Hector, Meridian

[Hector] (*laughs* You sticking around, Jacqui?)
to Lukas, Meridian

[Meridian] (uh, um! what? OMG. *flaps* I can? *LOL*)
to Hector, Lukas

[Meridian] (aww. mah boys are both in the room. *relishes moment*)
to Hector, Lukas

[Hector] Not so early morning but still early enough; people are milling around The Brotherhood's restaurant area, the smell of cooked food is in the air, and children chase each other about as they run laughing between the tables. The occasional Garou unsettles and unnerves the patrons as he makes his way towards the stairs, but the cookin's just too good for the humans to stay away. Plates of fried egg, toast, grits and baked beans are ferried endlessly to the tables, and the voices are raised in animated cheer, blending into an indistinct hubbub as people relish their Saturday Brunch.

Hector pushes the door open, and peeks his head inside. Almost as if he were peering into the depths of some bathroom, unsure if it was men's or women's, and not wanting to get yelled at. He fills the door way, his unshaven face looming scrunched into a mild frown, and surveys the interior. After a long moment, he pulls the door open wide so as to accomodate his broad form, and steps inside. He pulls of his knitted hat and holds it in both hands before him as he surveys the crowd, searching for a familiar face.

[Meridian] The occasional Garou also includes the young woman sitting at a table on her own amongst the crowded restaurant -- a black leather briefcase sitting against the leg of the table nearest her; her tall frame clothed in lavender slacks and a white blouse, a fine chain of pearls strung around her neck rest in the hollow of her throat and with an air of apparent leisure the jacket of the suit has been carefully folded over the empty chair facing her.

There are no rings on the fingers; or any clear sign of a dining companion with the young woman -- she is reading what appears to be the daily newspaper; her hair (a rather attractive honey-blond shade) neatly tucked behind her ears. It's stylishly cut, and waves of it flow around the woman's shoulders.

All this could be enough to convince a casual diner that Katherine Bellamonte was, well, wealthy not to put too fine a point on it -- but she also happened to be a Silver Fang. Ah, so the scent of her would have been just as convincing to a newcomer like Hector.

[Lukas] (omfg, people are WAKING UP. i'm going to bed. night!!)

[Hector] Hector wanders forwards, drawn, inevitably, to the goodies counter. He stops before it, drawn and held by some powerful magnetic pull, and looks down at the crystalline shelves with quiet speculation dancing in his eyes. Leaning forward, bending at the waist with some difficulty, and stares at the phalanxes of meringues, eclairs, chocolate covered strawberries, dark chocolate tarts--allows his eyes to luxuriate on the riches heaped before them. Finally, with a sigh, he straightens and looks about once more.

He's large, Hector is, big in the old fashioned sense, none of that bodybuilding nonsense. Built like a trucker, or a longroad biker, heavyset shoulders, barrel chested, with a barrel of a gut to match. Arms that look like they could punch holes through most things, and legs like tree trunks to support his mass. Heavy boots that look like they've seen some lethal use, and a mass of plaid shirts to keep him warm, the first few buttoned, the upper layers open. His jeans are dark, and he looks like he could use a shower. Maybe two.

He also looks like the new kid at a dance, hugging the sidelines, watching the activity before him, trying to look at ease while everybody moves through the proscribed dance paces that are alien to him. His eyes follow plates of breakfast like they were visual fishhooks, and dwell on families eating with a wistfull air. Surprising that the management hasn't ushered him out; he's clearly not homeless, but doesn't look like he's about to start buying either.

Finally his eyes come to rest on Meridian, and pause. His expression turns neutral as he takes her in, and then, perhaps, hardens just a little.

[Meridian] (omfg, go already you nut!)

[Hector] (night!)