grace.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Alone wasn't quite what it used to be anymore.

Some girl, anywhere between sixteen and twenty-three years old with features that did not strike but did not repulse was wandering near, looking awestricken and sympathetic all at once. She reached out toward the glass, vibrant green eyes wandering from tank to tank, display to display, expression flickering just a little for a new flavor with each new sight.

Gabriella Bellamonte watched her quietly, carefully, with her hands in her coat pockets. She watched as the girl moved in close, ducked in front of her to get a look at the insects, and took two steps back when this was done, allowing the girl her space and avoiding physical contact both. The steps weren't small, weren't overlarge either, but the motion was quick enough to stir up the breeze in the stagnant and artificially-warmed air, to carry a whiplash of breeding as bold and distinguishable as the taste of oregano on the palate. Silver Fang. Royalty. Blood of Heroes, right there.

"Excuse me," she murmered softly as she moved closer to the center of the aisle rather than crowd the wall beside her.

[Grace] She looks at Gabriella, and her eyes aren't filled with wonder or anything other than an overwhelming sadness. It was strange for the ragabash, looking at roaches and spiders and things that were creeping and crawling and not at all cuddly.

She looked at Gabriella, the princess, the royal and homid-born as though there was something that she could do bout it. She places her hands on the glass, one lingering and giving a good, firm press. It won't give.

"Stuck," she tells the Silver Fang. And it's a pleading, saddened, mournful sound. Like a howl for those who had fallen. Like a lament for those yet to realize the horrible world they live in.

"Not their home," she informs her. She does not say how this makes her feel to the near complete stranger. It's already been made perfectly clear.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] The girl appeared mortified at the idea of entrapment, of anything being stuck behind glass in such an enclosed area, with no territory to claim and no grounds to roam and no prey to track down and kill on their own. Gabbie watched this with a high arch to her slim, light colored eyebrows and rolled her shoulders a little inside of her coat, adjusting how it rested on her frame so it was more comfortable, wasn't bunched up odd at the back collar.

Either the girl was crazy, or...

...that 'or' seemed a strong possibility, considering the city, considering her life.

"No, but if you let them out here they'd freeze and starve. This isn't something you can really do anything about." Shoulders hitch up again, this time with a little more meaning to the gesture. Helplessness and an apology heaped into one.

"...Maybe I should help you find your way out?"

[Grace] "Just stuck," she acquiesces. The blonde nods.

She observes Gabriella, and the woman makes an offer. The way that she speaks is slow, after long pauses when there are words mulled over. She's an average looking sort. She would be prettiest if her hair wasn't tangled, she'd be prettier if she didn't seem feral. She is tall, or rather, tall-ish. She's tall compared to Gabriella, and she observes her quietly.

She doesn't come close, she doesn't do much. When she does approach, her gait is tentative. She ducks down, looking over features, but even this is a foreign gesture for her. Sight is not her sharpest sense, and one can tell this by the way she observes...

She inhales, then speaks. The word is quiet, "falcon."

A word she recently learned, but knows the meaning well.

"Grace," she tells her. Does not offer a hand or a bow or anything of the sort. She has on scent, not like Gabriella. Instead, she needs a word for a name, and to a wolf that meant very little.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] In a world of werewolves and beasties that slither through sewer grates and breathe steam against your window panes at night, where even the slightest slip could mean death, abduction, worse, codewords were key. They were necessary, they mandated your life. If you didn't know how to speak in code with others like you, then you were lost, you would drown in the sea of ignorance and never know who was around you.

'Falcon' was uttered quietly on the taller girl's lips, and Gabbie's eyebrows lifted just a touch higher before she nodded, confirming what Grace already knew.

"Gabriella," she answered. Last names didn't matter much to people that didn't offer them, she figured. Besides, wasn't the whole point of coming out here tonight to avoid being a Bellamonte or anything attached to them?

One hand moved from her coat pocket, swept toward the direction the exit lay in, and she turned to start walking. As she walked, she spoke, her words soft so that her voice would not carry up the hall and beyond the pair of them. "Where do you come from, Grace, and do others know you're here?"

[Grace] Gabriella.

Gabriella smelled like falcon's brood and that, in turn, left a taste on her tongue and she semeec more-than-pleased with this. Her hands went to her pockets. She followed Gabriella, and she was all the while trying to mimick her gestures. She was doing a fair job at this.

She walked with straight posture, she walked with every bit of grace that her name implied. She was, in an effect, elegant in her movements. Everything like a dance. If nothing more, she was very much a student of mimicry, and immitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Gabriella was pretty. Gabriella was unobtrusive. Gabriella fit well in a city, so she would be like Gabriella.

"Lila and Carlotta are coming," she says. The words came ad they were foreign against the alto's tongue. Where is she from? where did she go from here?

She takes a second, and stops. She looks at Gabriella, and the blonde keeps her hands in her pockets. There are many ways she could respond, and there are many more. There is not confusion in her eyes, and the sound she makes is high pitched, almost like a whine. Jaw clenched again, she is searching.

All sorts of ways to respond. But none are easily defined.

Then? She half smirks, and the gesture is not one that is familiar to her, but she is growing more comfortable with.

"They are slow. Should take bus- four wheels are faster than two legs."

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Grace was mimicking her, and either Gabbie didn't pick up on this or decided not to read deeply into it. She walked along the hallway, following the main stretch that hugged the building's shape in a singular line, with no sudden corners to throw her off track. Her posture was straight-backed, proper because it had to be, with rounded shoulders, unobtrusive because she wanted to fly under the radar.

Lila and Carlotta were coming, and she assumed that this was the rest of the girl's pack, that she had arrived first for some reason while the other two were hanging behind, taking their time in showing up within the city. Gabbie pulled her scarf out from where she'd loosened it to let it rest under her coat, wrapped it more securely around her throat and snuggled her chin into it, then reached for the door.

But Grace had stopped, so Gabbie paused as well, looking back at her, blinking once.

An attempted joke. Four wheels are faster than two legs. The Kinfolk looked a little surprised at first, like she'd just been expecting a spectacular on-stage performance from a renowned stand-up comedian and instead got a Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road joke. Then she grinned, the expression putting a split in the otherwise placid and undedicated to emotion face she'd been wearing, and pulled the door open to hold it for the girl.

"Maybe they'll consider that next time."

[Lukas] It's at the door that they run into Lukas. He wasn't in the reptile wing. He was where he usually is -- at the schooling fish, watching the silent whirlwind of fish.

"Gabbie," he greets her, slipping the loose ends of his scarf through the loop to tighten it, and then tucking it inside his coat as he buttons it up. The Shadow Lord's breeding announces him for what he is; if that does not, then his black hair, pale fierce eyes do. "And Gabbie's friend," he says. A joke of sorts -- rare, with the moon so full.

[Lukas] (LESS WATCH. MOAR PLAY.)

[Grace] "They should," with gusto. With resolve, "Chicago smells. Menus have no pictures. Cities are strange."

With absolute resolve in that thought. Her friend was a Galliard, her warder was a Galliard, she had lots of words, it jsut took the blonde a long, long time to choose the appropriate one. She nod, and is almost at the exit when she finds herself greeted by a wall of Thunder and rage.

Grace looks at Lukas, green eyes bright. Brows raised, and she takes a step back.

She offers her hand, and the gesture is abrupt, unfamiliar.

"Grace," she says. It's all she gives. Just Grace.

[Lukas] Grace sticks her hand out the way ... well, actually, Lukas can't think of anything that best approximates that abrupt, straightforward thrust of her hand. He looks at it for a second, blinks, and then takes it.

"Lukáš," he replies.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Unwanted people in unwanted places.
This was starting to feel exactly like old times.

Gabbie startled just a touch at Lukas's sudden presence, but the surprise on her face was washed away almost immediately by something that was part displeased and annoyed, part resolved. She released the door handle once Grace had stepped through enough, with her arm stuck out like she were a robot rather than as though the motion was comfortable. The Kinfolk plucked at her scarf until it settled where she wanted it, tugged at her coat until the lapels were situated correctly, then her hands dipped into her pockets and she shifted off to the side, quiet, watching fish rather than Garou.

[Lukas] (they were leaving the aquarium, right?)

[Grace] (to my knowledge! So, we should all be in about the same place!)

[Grace] She's not entirely certain as to what to do now. Humans do something after they've taken hands. She doesn't shake it, she doesn't do much.

"Lukáš," she repeats. With a longer A and an s that is less like an S in english and more like an sh. It's an imitation, it's repeating what she's heard for confirmation. It's an excellent mimicry of a language whose rules she doesn't fully understand.

She keeps her hand in his for awhile longer, then pulls back if allowed. She slips her hand back in her pocket.

"You know each other," to the two of them. A question without asking it.

[Lukas] Lukas looks at Grace with some surprise -- as much for her strange handshake as for her rather perfect pronunciation of a name that, thus far, only one other in this city has managed.

"Gabriella's my old friend's little sister. And you're her ... school friend?"

Utterly unlikely.

[Kate] They should know by now -- no, correction, Gabbie should know by now -- that where there was one Unbroken member, there was bound to be another. Like the fierce cold-blooded animals that swam in the depths of some of these very tanks, another pack member looms out of the darkness of the Aquarium as they exit. She; bringing up the rear as if the two between them were being rounded up.

Of course; the Silver Fang cannot hide herself from other full bloods; not with her breeding. It was a beacon to them all and Truth's Meridian appeared, first her pale eyes, then the legacy of that golden hair, then her figure, clothed entirely in white with only her boots to stop it becoming a singular theme.

[Lukas] "...and there's my old friend now. This is Katherine."

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Lukas and Grace spoke, two Garou going about the rituals of greeting in their own ways, and Gabriella held her tongue, seeming rather involved with a school of brightly colored fish that existed soley to bid visitors farewell on their way out the doors. Let them do their talking, posturing, what have you, she had no business within it.

How do you know our dear Gabbie?
By circumstance.
Shall we discuss other things?
Certainly.

Then, rounding the curve as a vision in white came the elder of the Bellamonte sisters, but not the eldest of the Bellamonte children in whole. Gabbie's clear blue eyes flicked toward her, then returned to the fish.

[Grace] This is practice.

Are they school friends, "no."

As though this is simple enough. Not immediate. Not automatic. She mulls over words and meanings, listens to what the other person says, and thinks about it until she finally responds. Conversation is not an immediate thing with Grace. not fast paced, not rapidfire quips and blows and flowing words back and forth, nor is it abrupt.

"I don't go to school," she informs him. Then, there is Katherine.

This is Katherine.

"Grace," she offers, but doesn't try to accord the lady with an awkward handshake. It's getting easier, the flow of conversation, and a word seems less awkward to fall off her tongue.

[Kate] Katherine was a tall woman in her early twenties with wavy blond hair that fell just past her shoulders and features that looked as if they'd been carved out of some design on what a Silver Fang ought to resemble if she possibly could. High cheekbones and a long, straight nose made up her features, and a mouth that tended toward smirking or curving in deliciously meaningful moments of expression.

Katherine placed one palm against her sister's back as she passed, then let it slide away as her interest was taken with 'Grace'.

"Bonjour, Grace." She says with an air of pleasure, her critical eye running down the figure. "To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence with my sister?"

[Grace] She is tall and thin. Tall by human female standards. High cheekbones a long, somewhat narrow nose, a jaw that is set and eyes that are bright, bright green. They were beautiful, really, but the color themselves was a concept that was completely lost on the flaxen-haired female. She had within her a great potential to be lovely, save for the fact that she seemed a little too feral.

Save for the tangles, she seemed clean. She wasn't particularly offensive to any of the senses. Unremarkabe to look at, ungrating to hear, not too rough or too soft, and no discernable scent.

"Coincidence and cockroaches," she offers Kate, though the response is not immediate in the least bit. The way she pays attention is not dissimilar to that of a person who does not speak English as a first, or even second, language.

A pause, again.

"Is this a problem?" not accusatory. Not defensive. A genuine question.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Katherine slipped by, touched a hand to the center of Gabriella's back and pressed it there lightly through the heavy wool of her younger sister's winter coat. Black, as opposed to the white that Katherine had sheathed herself in. Gabbie looked remarkably like her sister when it came to a simple matter of bone structure, Katherine simply existed in paler tones. Lighter hair, fair, unblemished skin, fine white clothing and an always careful application of make-up. Gabbie, tonight, had gone without make-up in an effort to remain unremarkable, dressed in jeans rather than a nice skirt, and stayed plain as a girl with such blatant breeding could.

The hand slid away, though that could be in part due to the fact that Gabbie moved away at the same time that Katherine stepped forward to investigate Grace.

Without a single word to either of the pack that shouldered the burden of her responsibility, Gabbie pushed the exit door open with her shoulder, hands still in her pockets, and made for a silent retreat.

[Lukas] "Gabbie, wait." That's offhand, casual. Then, laughing, "No, if it were a problem, Grace, Katherine would be very clear about it."

There's a pause. Then: "Forgive me for being rude, but you seem ... out of place in the city." He leaves it at that, an unspoken inquiry.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Offhand, casual, but an order's an order and she knew that much. To ignore him outright would mean she'd be grilled later, or grilled immediately with claws in her back and fangs at her neck. Either way, it seemed that immediate escape was slipping out of her grasp.

So she stopped and turned, shoulders against the door leading outside to hold it open, letting the well-below-freezing air whip in and lash at the three, showing she had no intention of waiting long.

[Grace] She perked up, watching Gabriella start to leave, brows knit for a second, her posture changes, less tension, more eagerness. The corners of her lips draw inward, and a half pout comes across the blonde's features. He asks for forgiveness- a pleasantry she does not entirely understand. Grace gets to the meat of the conversation though.

She is out-of-place in a city.

"I am," she affirms, "Chicago smells. Menus have no pictures. Cities are strange."

She pauses, and mulls over how to say this. As with anything she says, Grace thinks and chooses words carefully. Inarticulate does not equal unintelligent.

"The experience is worth the discomfort."

Words she stole from a Galliard. Words she made her own.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] [Nodding off. Just assume Gab out one way or the other.]

[Lukas] (night kenna!)

[Lukas] Well; that seals the deal, confirms the suspicion. A faint quirk of a smile at the corner of the Shadow Lord's mouth, as though quietly pleased at the discovery. Then he turns to Gabriella.

"Call a cab," he says to the girl, then nods at the sky. "Cold out."

[Lukas] Swinging back around, Lukas finishes doing up his coat and nods at the door.

"Come on," he invites. "Walk with us a while."

[Grace] Her coat is held close, and buttons are not checked. She isn't dressed for this sort of weather, but then again, stepping out into it doesn't really seem to bother her. She doesn't whimper or shy away from the cold, she doesn't make a displeased sound, no whimpers or chuffs or any indication that stepping out into single-digit weather made her eyeballs sting and her lungs dare to seize.

Instead, she pulls the hood of her coat up, and this is adequate enough protection.

When she moves, it's to keep in step. Not so much walk as prowl. Distinctly inhuman undertones in a very human body.

[Lukas] Katherine presumably flanking Lukas's other side, the three step out into the bitter cold. Lukas is silent as they walk away from the closing Shedd. It's early yet -- 6pm, the dinner hour -- but in the deep of winter the sky is already black.

Snow is flurrying down. Snow is on the ground, though cleared away from the paths.

After some distance, when they are safely out of the earshot of humans, Lukas speaks. "Where are you from, then, Grace?"

[Grace] "West," she told him, and could not quite clarify.

The word itself is unfamiliar, and the description does not come easily. There is more there there is so more much more there, so much more of a specific answer that is completely lost to human words.

"Sweet grass, fertile land fat cows," is the best she can come up with. "Near Unanswered Questions, but not Unanswered Questions. Sept of the Hidden Path... Near... Wyoming?"

She looks at him for confirmation. That Wyoming is a word and a place and something that made sense to him because the distinction meant nothing to her. There is snow falling, in a distinct pattern in its own way.

"Black Hills... not a city. Not like Chicago. More cows than people," yep, sounded like Wyoming.

[Lukas] Lukas nods in confirmation. "Wyoming's a human state in the west, yes. I've never been there. What's it like?"

Not a city, she says. More cows than people. And Lukas huffs a quiet laugh.

"I come from New York City. Now that's a city. More people than flies." He looks at her again, this longlimbed, feral creature in the shape of a girl. "Wolf-born, are you? What are you doing so far from home?"

[Grace] He's from New York City.
"I'm sorry," she tells him. And she means it... or else, she seems to mean it. He says something about there being more people than flies, and it makes her laugh. She tries not to bare her teeth, but she does anyway. There is a lot communicated in the sound, half growl, half mirth, all amused.

Why was she here?

"Hidden Path couldn't perform a Rite of Passage. Sent here instead. Learn war where war is fought."

A pause.

"I beat Carlotta and Lila here," she states.

[Danicka] The first lupus-born Garou Danicka ever met recently ate a kinswoman he had sworn to protect.

Danicka doesn't know this. Danicka probably never needs to know this, just as she does not need to know how a Bloody Bandage is made or the fact that the spirits bound into them will very likely get progressively more angry with Wyrmbreaker for handing the carefully wrapped squares of cloth over to his mate time and time again. There are things she knows she's not expected to know. There are things she does not know that she should never be told, for her own welfare.

Which is the same reasoning used in not telling children about sex, or death, or gods.

There is a woman smoking at the bottom of the Shedd's steps. Her hair is long and thick and blonde and curled at the ends. There is a green knit hat with a tiny decorative brim at the front and a white flower on the brow. Her coat is long and black, the cut of it tapering to her waist and flaring around her thighs slightly. Elegantly. She can't have been out here long. Not in frostbite-worthy temperatures. Not with the sun down.

[Danicka] [DLP]

[Danicka] [Delete the DLP! DTDLP. New acronyms!]

[Lukas] "Huh." Surprise. "You're a cub, then. Are they also cubs?"

The broad steps in front of the Shedd are nearly devoid of people tonight. It's too damn cold. Lukas's breath trails white behind him with every word. He pulls a flat cap out of his pocket and puts it on, pulling the brim low over his brow. When he sees Danicka at the bottom of the steps, a flicker of a smile crosses his face, like fire down a line of liquor.

He adjusts their course so that they'll pass her.

[Grace] "Carlotta is. Thunder's blood unproven. Lila's not. Unicorn. Fostern," she clarifies. She is specific, though, not saying he and Carlotta share a tribe but, rather, that they might share blood. Tribe being more than accident of birth.

Speaking of Thunder's blood, there is a shift in the wind, and Grace finds herself looking at Danicka.

Her hair is long and thick and blonde [silver] and curled at the ends. There is a green [grey] knit hat with a tiny decoative brim. There is electricity and ancestry and promise. Women like Danicka Musil don't exist where she is from, and she is looked upon with brows knit faint and drawn upward. Not a flower, because kin are not so delicate. Flowers wilt in these temperatures, and she is still standing.

There is promise, there, and bright green [vivid grey] eyes go from Danicka to Lukas- with his long a and his sh rather than American S- and she states the obvious.

"You know her," she says. You like her. She says without saying.

[Lukas] "Lila will be your mentor, then? Are you also of Unicorn's lineage?"

And, his eyes returning to Danicka, "She is my mate. Come on. I'll introduce you."

[Grace] "Stag," she says, "Lila is my warder, though."

She's somewhat proud of this. Her lineage, her warder, the entire fact that she could put the entirety of that statement together with the subtleties attended. She befriended Galliards, this one.

"Almost ready," she tells him, and nods. He's going to introduce her to his mate, and lips upturn, posture straightens and Grace, for now, seems eager for the experience.

[Danicka] He knows her. He likes her. More than that, really. Enough that he smiles, and starts to move towards her like the change takes no thought, no effort, no plan or consideration.

Rage assaults Danicka from behind and to the side, crawling up her back and underneath her sleeves and under her hair, licking at her like flames and icicles at once. Danicka, Dunhill held delicately to one side, turns her head as she exhales and looks over at the two of them. One familiar. One not. She doesn't smile as Lukas did when he saw her.

She stabs out her cigarette in the ashtray atop the trash can she's standing next to, waves her hand in front of her, and takes a few steps away. The cold leeches away some of the smoke, some of the smell, but it still lingers. Clings. Even if she only smoked a quarter of one so far.

Her smile, when it comes, is a faint curve to either corner of her mouth. "Lukáš," she says, and inclines her head to him, then turns to Grace with an unspoken question in her green eyes.

[Lukas] "Your mentor," Lukas corrects, gently enough. "You're a cub, not a child."

Then they're at the bottom of the stairs, and Danicka is turning to face them, stabbing out the cigarette that doubtlessly assaults Grace's wolfbred senses.

"This is Grace," he answers the unspoken question. "She's a cub from Wyoming. Grace, this is Dani&+269;ka, my mate. Also from New York. And," since he hasn't offered a formal introduction yet, "I'm called Wyrmbreaker. A Fostern Full Moon of Thunder."

[Grace] There are two things that people typically notice about Grace: her eyes are green. Bright green. Vivid emerald poison green. Two: she doesn't blink enough. Or, rather, it is not that she doesn't blink enough, but that when she does it is deliberate. It is slow and savored. Her attention does not waver. She doesn't so much look at someone as she does observe them. The look is a courtesy; she's not observing them simply with sight.

It's scent that lingers. It's concepts she tastes, like cigarette smoke and the various other things she's not used to.

"... your mentor can change?" a question enough, but one worth asking it seemed.

By then, they're into introductions. This is Dani&+269;ka-

"Dani&+269;ka," she repeats, looking at the female for confirmation. Like a ch and not a C, imitation at it finest. In the end, it's all words to her, that Dani&+269;ka in her mind is the concrete term for Thunder and smoke and shampoo and being the object of guarded adoration.

Fostern Full Moon of Thunder.

She looks at him, and this is when blinking is obvious. Brows raised, she blinked twice, perked up immediately. Surprised, to say the least.

"... and you are both from New York?" she shakes her head. Both from a city. "Did you meet there? Why are you both here?"

[Danicka] "Dani&+269;ka," she says right back to Grace, confirming: and gently easing her close to the correct pronunciation. A ch and a sh all at once. Then a pause: "But you can call me Danicka. Or Dani. Or Ms. Musil, if that's easier."

One eyebrow flicks up a bit when she seems appalled at the fact that they're both from a city. She glances at Lukas, then back to Grace, nodding. "We're both from New York. Our families knew each other briefly a very long time ago but we really met here in Chicago."

[Lukas] "Sometimes," Lukas answers the first question with some surprise. "Why? You're not satisfied with your present Fostering?"

He's quiet while Danicka answers about their history -- something she remembers better than he does. He's a year or two younger than the blonde woman the Nation acknowledges as his. When you're five, that year or two makes a difference.

"New York City isn't so bad," Lukas says then, laughing under his breath. "The Weaver's strong there, but ... you'd be surprised how much Wyld you'd find.

"I came here with my pack about a year ago. The Sept was small then, the Caern relatively unguarded. A lot of battles and bloodshed followed its raising, but after the Wyrm was beaten back a lot of the heroes of those early years left for other cities. We feared a resurgence. We also saw an opportunity." A touch of wryness, "We had visions and ideals. So we came."

Odd, but: this is something he's never actually told Danicka. Likewise, he doesn't know why she's here. They've never actually asked one another. It didn't seem to matter.

[Lukas] (wb! we've been assuming kate's with lukas. they're now at the bottom of the stairs outside the shedd, freezing their asses off.)

[Grace] "I am satisfied," she says, "I was satisfied with Guards Twilight as well."

She leaves it at that. Off to the topic of names.

"Dani&+269;ka," she says again, and waits a second after she hears Ms. Musil actually say it. She gets closer with each attempt. She pauses, then? "I want to call you by your name, not what is easy."

It's insistent, but that is what it is. Not rude, but determined. She was going to get Dani&+269;ka- the ch and the sh all at once.

"Dani&+269;ka," finally. That one little letter had given her such trouble, and now it is simply an immitation of what Ms. Musil said- a reproduction. A near-perfect immitation, only different in pitch and timbre. Unhampered by a clear set of linguistic rules, she has an easier time picking up the nuances of a different language. It's sounds to her, syllables to immitate and reproduce.

A pause.

"What do you prefer?"

One of the benefits of being around Galliards so much was that... well... Grace had a lot of words she had learned to pick up and immitate. Prefer being one, and resurgence-

"Resurgence?"

resurgence not being another.

"Were you right?" she asks the ahroun.

[Kate] (*grins* TY!)

[Danicka] There's a moment of long consideration on this, as she looks from Grace to Lukas and back again. It's as though she's looking for a guidepost, a sign of what to do. But finally she looks to the odd green-eyed woman and says: "I would rather you called me something else. Dani&+269;ka is sort of a nickname." So is Danicka, truth be told.

But Dani&+269;ka. When she says it's a nickname, when she says right out that she would prefer something else coming from Grace's lips, the tone of it is: And I don't know you.

It puts Lukas in an awkward position, in a way. He will likely not start mispronouncing the name she goes by. He will probably not start handing out her given name in introductions. Gaia only knows how he'll handle that. Danicka, asked her preference, actually gives it, and then looks to Lukas. She has not, and perhaps will not, answer Grace's question about why she came here.

Though this much is known: she did not come here with Lukas, already mated to him, if they met in Chicago.

"It's freezing. I was about to head to dinner." She nods her head towards the parking lot: a question.

[Kate] Katherine has been quiet for some time, perhaps on the phone, perhaps simply concentrating her thoughts elsewhere -- it is not the first occasion that the Half Moon's attention has become untethered and drifted away from the present moment, however she seems to return now, Truth's Meridian -- in thought, as well as footstep. Her boots crunch over the snow-packed ground and she returns to the group, now including Danicka, gathered before the stairs.

Katherine is closeting away her cell-phone.

She pauses as she catches sight of Lukas' mate, and her lips purse together in wordless reaction, her fair brows knitting as a huff of air leaves her nostrils. Still -- she approaches, her figure almost lost against the backdrop of white on white.

"Excuse my rudeness, I had some business to attend to. Good evening, Danicka." She offers, a touch stiffer than perhaps she had before, but conceding the greeting none the less for her Alpha's sake.

[Danicka] The woman over there has, til now, not garnered Danicka's attention. She was smoking, until Lukas and Grace walked over. She could not sense Katherine's rage or see her face for awhile, not until the Half Moon heads toward them. Her spine doesn't straighten automatically. Her lips don't press together, her forehead doesn't furrow in sudden frown. She does look over at the Philodox's approach, and nods to her.

"Dobrý ve&+269;er, Katherine," she echoes back.

[Lukas] "Right to come here?" Lukas's smile is a little quirky. "Yeah, I suppose it was."

Not: I suppose we were.

Danicka and Grace discuss her name, then. There's a glance exchanged between the Shadow Lords, brief, but noticeable. Enough that Grace -- quick, clever, and curiously able to see deeper into human interactions than humans can simply because she is not -- might be able to discern the reason for Danicka's hesitance to offer her name.

Her real name.

Then Kate's back with them, and Lukas is ... briefly, subtly tense. It passes. "I think dinner's a great idea," he says, including Grace and Kate in the comment before looking back at Danicka. "Where were you heading?"

[Grace] All of these interactions were new to her. Something exciting to be observed, and watched carefully with a discerning eye and heard with a careful ear; these were not wolves in front of her. They did not function in the way that wolves did. Nor were they rural people, and did not function the way the ranchers did. No, there was was something there, and her mouth closed, brows raised, the cub nodded at this.

You don't poke your elders with sticks, unless it's your job to poke them with sticks. Then, by all means, prod and question.

Grace was a no-moon.
Prod and question.

Back to Danicka.

"Ms. Musil?" she asks. Respectful, formal, indicative of a station and a degree of familiarity. She doesn't know her. They don't know each other. Dani&+269;ka is a nickname. [Truth be told, Grace is almost the same thing. She has no scent, she has nothing to really define her. Grace is a quality to aspire to, Grace is not a name. Grace was not given to her, it was earned and worked for. Grace was not a fingerprint, but prints and scents and deeds undone were nothing to human ear and mind. There was the need for something concrete. Grace was concrete.]

[Kate] Katherine turns on Grace with a smile; her teeth very white and straight. "Grace, I must offer my apologies for vanishing so soon after we met. I am without proper introduction to you and this I must rectify at once." She laughs, a little breathlessly for effect.

Katherine was something of a consummate actress when the occasion called for it. She could simper, swoon or snarl, no wonder Lukas put her to good use as his weapon in social settings. "I am Katherine Bellamonte, Truth's Meridian, Cliath Philodox of the Silver Fang tribe and member of the Unbroken. I am also the elder for my tribe in the city, as well as Philodox Elder and acting Mistress of the Challenge. I bid you welcome to Chicago, oui."

[Danicka] A great idea, Lukas calls dinner, immediately including Katherine... who was not there when Danicka mentioned it.

He looks back at her and she meets his eyes, her expression so serene as to be almost bovine, almost sleepy. She smiles softly and then turns to look at Grace, giving a small nod. "That will do."

She does not know that Grace is a cub, that while this does not make her a child and certainly does not put Danicka above her it does make her inexperienced in the world. Danicka was a governess. She was not like Nanny Helena, she was not like Professor Eldridge. She was, to the little girl who became a young woman under her instruction, always Ms. Musil.

The tension inherent in Danicka and Katherine's spare greetings is obvious but utterly fleeting on Kate's part, subtle and indistinct on Danicka's. Or it appears so. It's a complex thing, and difficult to say whether it's dislike or fear or jealousy or any number of things. It could be all of them. It is not addressed. Danicka answers Lukas then, finally:

"Why don't you decide?"

[Danicka] [Correction: She totally knows Grace is a cub.]

[Danicka] [Since Lukas. Y'know. Said that. Like ten seconds ago.]

[Lukas] The choice is left to him. Lukas doesn't hem or haw; doesn't bother polling the group. Whether because he is a fostern, or an alpha, or a Shadow Lord, or simply him, he decides immediately:

"Steak."

He comes down the last few steps, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Nine, I think." Nine steaks? "It's not far." N9ne, the steakhouse, then. He smiles, a quick flash, startling in its charisma. "Come on."

[Grace] Katherine is a flurry of words and concepts, which she sorts through while thinking about the finer details of it.

"Grace," she finally offers, "cub. Stag's blood, and no moon."

All the finer details of Grace all at once. As specific as she could be while still being accurate. There is talk of food, and she perks up. There is mention of steak, and while her stomach seems more-than-content to follow, Grace has to speak up.

"I should probably leave," she announces, but waits to be dismissed.

[Kate] Katherine smirks somewhat when Lukas decides on steak, just steak as the course of action. Of course he goes on to explain, but he is rather more addressing the Kinswoman than her, precisely, and she has no time for that -- or her, honestly. She instead focuses in on Grace, who appears to be uncertain if she's welcome to accompany them.

"You are most welcome to dine with us, Grace of the blood of Stag," Katherine prettily invites, her mouth condescending a smile.

[Danicka] She reaches into her pockets and pulls out a pair of well-fitting gloves, dark green leather. They're supple, sliding easily onto her hands and her long fingers. Danicka, told where they're going, simply heads down the stairs and towards the parking lot, remaining a few steps behind her mate.

[Lukas] Lukas, already heading in the direction of N9ne, turns on his heel. Rather than urging the cub to come along or not, he asks, "Where are you staying, Grace?"

[Grace] [OMG! Someone gimme help!]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 5, 10 (Success x 2 at target 8) [WP]

[Grace] "The woods," she tells him, "it is nice... familiar. Comfortable."

Cold, too, but she left that part out.

Katherine gets a moment, she catches the smile but does not quite comprehend its tone. Katherine invites, and the Fianna replies, "the offer is appreciated, but I must respectfully decline, Ms. Bellamonte. Perhaps another time."

Words that came after focus, that came elegant, albeit somewhat quaint and a little off from the lupus' typical speech patterns.

[Lukas] "Well," Lukas replies, "if you find yourself missing the company of the Nation, many of us are bunked up at the Brotherhood. Look in the Umbra near the Caern; you'll find it soon enough."

[Kate] "The Woods?" The Silver Fang repeats incredulously, before restraining herself, and composing her features to hide her horror. She nods, and begins to move off after her Alpha.

[Grace] For a second, she felt a tinge of what could be considered kinship with Katherine Bellamonte, for they both had stood tonight in stark almost-horror at the prospect of where one of their company deigned to call home. Not more than a few moments ago, Grace had been staring at Wyrmbreaker with quiet horror as he told her that, yes, both he and Danicka lived in New York once, and then moved to Chicago.

She smiles, both for Kate and for Lukas, and even for Ms. Musil- all smoke and Thunder and guarded cautious something-

"Thank you," she says. Not a pleasantry, but a phrase with meaning. Given power because, to her, the phrase was not yet useless.

[Danicka] [manipulation: 'convincing' + subterfuge]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 7, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Grace] [Oooh, wassat?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 5, 6, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Danicka] [Bitch is hiding something under that near-perfect veneer of pleasant submission. And it's not fear of Grace or Kate or Lukas's rage. It's anger. At very least, Grace can tell none of it is aimed at her. Whether it's more directed at the Fang or the Lord, however, isn't currently discernible.]
to Grace

[Lukas] "See you, Grace," Lukas replies.

They part ways at the edge of Grant Park -- Grace heading back to the woods however a lupus in the city might choose to travel; Danicka, Kate and Lukas walking the few blocks to the steakhouse that looks like a club or a lounge bar.

what can we do.

[Genevre de Provence] ((while waiting for Damon))

Once more, after a few hours of debating herself, she finds herself at the Brotherhood via a taxi. She also made sure to bring along Lukas' and Danicka's gifts to save a trip. She had her black overcoat on over a pair of black slacks and silver silk button up.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] [Watch? Shoot, come play! :P]
to breeze, Genevre de Provence, Lukas

[Genevre de Provence] ((Watch or play, it's open))
to breeze, Gabriella Bellamonte, Lukas

[Lukas] Two days before Christmas, and Lukas's twenty-fourth birthday. The Brotherhood is still open to the public tonight, and this is the middle of the dinner rush. The dining room is packed, the noise audible whether Genevre enters from the front or the rear.

Either way, she won't miss Lukas. He's sitting in the kitchen, hunkered over a bowl of hearty winter stew. A copy of the Economist is folded open in front of him. He eats and reads quietly amidst the bustle of the kitchen staff, not minding when they accidentally jostle him on the way past, laden serving platters in hand.

[Genevre de Provence] Genevre came in the front and was quickly assaulted by the noise. She clenched the bag in her hand that held the two wrapped presents for her.....well her friends.

She slipped carefully between people and tables and made her way to the kitchen. She was about to head up the stairs til she saw Lukas sitting in the kitchen. There was some relief, but not much. Such crowding made her alittle uneasy.

She smiled as she came up to the table. "Bonjour, mon ami. I am non disturbing you, non?"

[Lukas] Lukas finishes his sentence and then looks up. His spoon is balanced in hand, half-forgotten. The Shadow Lord smiles faintly when he sees Genevre.

"Not particularly. Here for dinner?"

[Genevre de Provence] She looked around, seeing the hussle and bussle. She was use to more 4 star places. "Depends, is zee food 'ere any good?"

She slipped into a chair across from Lukas, and put the bag up on the table. "Zese are for you and Danicka, for Christmas. But zat is non why I am 'ere. I need your advice."

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Gabriella Bellamonte didn't have an agenda this evening, not much of one anyways. She had been idling about the Loft for what felt like the second month straight when she decided that she was due for a trip back to The Brotherhood of Thieves. She'd left the room she'd been occupying there a little while ago, but still had some things that she'd left jammed up on the top shelf of what had been her side of the closet. Some paints, a few books, a bundle of clothes.... Those types of odds and ends.

So she got in her car, a modest little dark blue Audi, and drove across town toward the restaurant/hostel she once called home.

She parked near the edge of the parking lot, out of the way of potential customers, and moved around the building and into the back alley. A glance was cast up and down, to make sure that no one was going to sneak up behind her and giggle 'oogie-boogie' in her ear for kicks and giggles, then entered through the back entrance and into the kitchen, a swirl of snow pulling into the building with her when the door was opened. Her coat and skirt swished about at her hip and thigh, and with a quiet 'oomph' noise, she pushed the door closed behind her.

Her hair was tossed about by the wind, and Gabbie raked her fingers through it to drag it back out of her face, tame the long light-bronze locks until she could see through them again. Genevre and Lukas were easy to spot, being the only two that didn't feel like they were moving a hundred miles an hour in response to the dinner rush. Her head tipped to the side, just a little, and her hand settled near her neck, fingers still lost in her hair because she had nowhere better to put them. Low heeled boots clicked quietly on the tile floor as she approached.

"Genevre," she greeted politely, then flashed a pearly smile at Lukas, one that felt just a tiny bit pinched at the edges. "Happy Birthday."

[Genevre de Provence] She looked up and smiled to Gabbie. "Bonjour, Gabriella. Pleasure to see you again."

[Lukas] "Thank you, Genevre." Lukas takes the gifts, looking genuinely pleased. "That's very considerate of you."

And, to Gabriella, laughing, "That's not for another two days, Gabbie. But thank you."

Three around the small table in the midst of the dinner rush is getting to be a bit much, and the staff is starting to give them dirty looks. Lukas stands up, picking up his magazine in one hand, his stew in the other. "Let's go upstairs and get out of Reuben's hair," he says. "And, the food's quite excellent here, actually. Try the herb-rubbed rack of lamb."

[Genevre de Provence] She stood, taking the bag for Lukas and following. "'Ad I known it was your birzday, I would 'ave gotten you another gift." She looked around the kitchen once more. "I may 'ave to one night, just out of curiosity, if you say zey 'ave lamb 'ere."

[Lukas] So they relocate upstairs, the three of them tromping up the stairwell in file, Lukas's footfalls decidedly heavier than the women's.

"It's all right," he says over his shoulder, "I'm rather used to getting one big present every year. Always a danger for being born close to the holidays."

In the common room, Lukas sets up at the sectional, taking his favored spot on the long arm close to the corner. "So," he says, "what'd you want to want about, Genevre?"

[Gabriella Bellamonte] "Yeah, well, I figured I'd get it out early. No doubt you've arrangements of your own for the day."

Her shoulders rolled in a shrug under the heavy black fabric of her winter coat, and fingers moved to undo the double buttons across her breast and stomach, pulling the garment open to better ventilate now that she was out of the blustering cold of the windy night. Under her coat she wore a soft sweater in a mild tone of green, almost a pine color but a little bit lighter, with a necklace that let a single pink-tinged pearl rest at her neck. Expensive, no doubt, but hardly as flashy as she could have gone.

Reuben was glaring, Lukas was done with his stew, so they decided to go upstairs. This was where Gabbie was going anyways, so she'd wait for Genevre to start climbing the staircase before following up after them. She would still off to the side of the stairwell entrance, hands in her pockets and shoulders pressed to the wall. Genevre wanted to talk to Lukas, and her light eyebrows lifted, gaze shifted over to Genevre for the moment. "Would you like privacy?"

[Genevre de Provence] She set the bag next to Lukas, then found a spot to sit herself. She pulled off her coat and laid it neatly over the back of the sectional.

"I am ....'ow you say, in a pickle? Between duty and mon own honour. So I need advice, and I do non wish to burden Lady Kazerine once more."

[Genevre de Provence] She looked to Gabbie and shook her head. "Non, stay. You could possibly 'elp as well. I zink."

[Lukas] Lukas isn't quite done with his stew yet; he'd brought it with him. The Economist is tossed on the coffee table, though. The Shadow Lord leans back on the couch, putting a foot up on the edge of the table as he brings the bowl to his mouth.

"What on earth is this 'Lady' Katherine stuff?" Lukas says, bemused, amused. "Did she tell you to call her that? My god." Nevertheless, he gestures for Genevre to go on.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Genevre said for her to stay, suggested that she could be of some help, and her eyebrows lifted a little bit, a touch curious, a touch skeptical. Clear blue eyes skipped over to Lukas, an expression of questioning flashed over the freckled mantle of her face, then she shrugged her coat off the rest of the way and folded it over her arms so that she was holding it in front of her stomach, covering up the majority of her slate gray skirt.

Go on, her posture said.

[Genevre de Provence] She shrugged. "Iz just being polite since she 'as offered me a place to stay."

She looked to them both, still not too sure about Gabbie. She had her suspicions about the kin and her cousin.

"I 'ad a talk with mon père early zis morning. And I told 'im everyzing. 'E...'as told me non to go before zee Council. But I still feel I should."

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Gabriella's jaw set a little funny, like she was biting down on something, perhaps a comment, and her eyes hooded just a touch. A breath pulled in slowly through her nostrils, she shook her head to the left just once, then raised her hand out in front of her, fingers together, palm facing into the room, and looked to Lukas.

A request to speak rather than launching into words, so that way she didn't interrupt Lukas or start talking over him.

Captain, may I?

[Lukas] Lukas nods to Gabbie, seeming to prefer scarfing down stew to speaking at the moment.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] A faint tip of her head to Lukas, then she sighed faintly and shifted her focus to Genevre, starting out by speaking the other Kinfolk's name, her tone easiest categorized as long-suffering. "Genevre..." Her hand lowered, wrapped back around her coat, and she waited until she had the Frenchwoman's full attention before continuing.

"Our advise can do nothing for you, you realize this? It is a decision that is yours and yours alone, and perhaps the best thing for you to do is consider the consequences of each of your actions. Let's review them...

"You go before the council, and you are disobeying your father, direct orders from a King. You will likely be pulled home by your hair or the nape of your neck, and my brother and sister can do nothing to save you from him or to still his hand. Nothing. If you wish to be drawn back to his side and have this... considerable freedom that you're been allowed stolen away? Then disobey your father. Repercussions are imminent, you won't escape them."

With a gesture of her hand, held out to her side, she continued.

"On the other hand, you can listen to him. You can let Lukas and Katherine testify against him. His offenses are greater to Lukas here by tenfold than what they were to you. He told you a lie, he defied the rank of a Fostern. Your words are not necessary for your cousin to get his, and if you hold your tongue your father has been placated and you get to stay in Chicago."

Gabbie lifted her eyebrows significantly, then folded her arms closed once more. "Ultimately the choice is yours, but we Kinfolk are made for obedience, are we not?"

[Genevre de Provence] She listened, nodding lightly. She had come to the same conclusions. Then she looked to Lukas for his comments.

[Lukas] A line appears between Lukas's eyebrows as Gabriella speaks; deepens by the time she finishes. There's a brief quiet, interrupted only by the rustle of fabric as Lukas sits up; a click as he puts down his bowl.

"It's your choice, Genevre. Do what you think is right. But here are the facts.

"If you choose to disobey, you'll suffer for it. You'll suffer for every iota of disobedience you offer. One day, you might be maimed for it, or killed, or sent back to Paris.

"On the other hand, if you choose to obey, then be prepared to always obey. You can't have your cake and eat it too. You can't choose to obey today when the danger is great and disobey tomorrow when it's not. That's not freedom. That's not free will. That's a pretense of choice within the tether your tribe lays out for you. But then, in the end, that may be all that the life of a kinswoman is."

There's no cruelty in this, but it is hard. It is harsh. It is truth.

After a moment he adds, "All I ask is that you inform me of your decision as soon as you reach it. And that you decide either to testify and tell the truth, or stand down and say nothing at all.

"Don't try to lie to the Philodoxes. They will see through you in an instant, and they will not forgive you for it. Do you understand me?"

[Genevre de Provence] She nodded slowly. "I would non offer lies any'ow. I know what mon cousin did is wrong. And 'e needs to be accountable for it. But I can non get mon père to believe me when I told 'im zat Fons 'as even threatened mon life. 'E does non think Fons is stupid enough to threaten zee 'eir to the 'Ouse. So 'e zinks I will be lying if I go before the Council."

[Kate] Lukas?

Katherine's voice slides into the conversation, albeit only in the Full Moon's head. There is, amongst the noise downstairs the very apparent sound of the Half Moon's heavy winter boots clunking across the floor.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] "Now I find myself lost," Gabriella interjected with a furrow of her brow.

"How has he threatened your life, Genevre? From what I've been told, he lied to you about that Shadow Lord attacking him. A lie is not a threat."

[Lukas] Common room, across the totemlink.

"Genevre was told that she would be killed if she went near Theron again," Lukas replies to Gabriella. "Or near any Shadow Lord. I can't remember the details."

Then, to Genevre again, "Like I said, Genevre. The choice is yours. Just let me know."

[Genevre de Provence] She let Lukas explain, and nodded. That was pretty much the jist of it. "I suppose it will be after zee 'olidays?" Meaning the Council meeting.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] "And I was threatened worse about Sam by my own uncle," she cut to Lukas, frowning now, though more at the memory than anything else, bothered that a Garou was going to be persecuted for such a crime while a Kinfolk as slithering and sneaking as her uncle managed to go unchecked. "Yet I went before no council to address Lucien's misgivings. We know what he's done, yet he stays secure in his office in New York City, and not a soul has gone after him."

She almost snorted, so indignant she found herself. "Yet we persecute a Garou, impertinent though he may be, for finding himself snarling and Rage-shaken at the idea of his cousin running off for a whimsical one-night affair with a Shadow Lord, making threats that are likely as empty as any of the number that have been thrown in any of our faces.

"I understand that he may be underhanded, that he may be seeking to uproot the pack that you and my siblings are keeping together, Lukas, but what I don't understand is why we've stolen his cousin away from him and hide her away in our home. She is his responsibility, as I am Kate's and Edward's."

[Genevre de Provence] She looked away as she heard Gabbie's final comment, and slowly stood. "I see now." She picked up her coat. "Bonne nuit, Lukas Wyrmbreaker." Then she just looked to Gabbie, and held her tongue, before moving off to leave. "Per'aps I am better off wiz mon cousin. Atleast zen, you won't 'ave to keep running to 'im and telling 'im everyzing I did."

[Kate] Never under-estimate the abilities of a Full Moon to sneak upon you. Gabriella is speaking, and yet her sister's Rage suddenly collides with her like a heat-seeking missile. Outside, it is Katherine's moon and she more than a touch prickled by it. "Stolen her away, have I, indeed?" Her sister's voice invades sharply.

When they twist, when they turn, they greet Katherine; pale and lovely in her white winter's coat and scarf, cheeks colored by the snowfall outside. Aside from a handbag, strung over one shoulder she carries a rather large rectangular box, wrapped in black paper and adorned with a bright red bow in one corner.

[Kate] (Er, Half Moon!)

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Gabriella barked out a sharp laugh at Genevre's response, shaking her head and smiling bitterly. "I didn't have to tell him anything, you wore the evidence sloppily about your neck like a strand of pearls."

She may have had more to say to that, but was cut quiet by a voice behind her, to her left, where the stairwell was that emptied into the downstairs and also looped up to the loft above, though it has been empty for quite some time now. Gabriella turned to look at Kate, met the chilly gaze and the warm blast of Rage both face-on, and while her heart and belly clenched, she did not flinch visibly. Just lifted one light-colored eyebrow and hugged her coat a little closer to her stomach.

"Have you not? I don't suppose you went to speak with Fons himself when you took her into our home?"

[Genevre de Provence] She paused at the stairs when Kate made her entrance. She doesn't snap back at Gabbie. She just stands there, back to Gabbie, and listens. Wanting to hear Kate's answer.

[Lukas] (folks? pause. i've got 15 things on my plate and i need to catch up.)

[Lukas] "Gabriella," Lukas says, suddenly flat, "whose side are you on, anyway?"

[Kate] (Rage check)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 6, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 5)

[Kate] (Reflexive: Burning a WP not to destroy, *runs type*)

[Kate] It's her moon outside.

Her control in most things is remarkable; her elegance and poise long revered and marveled at in her closer circles. Katherine was the Philodox of the Unbroken, her pack-mates looked to her for how they might behave, for how to retain tight control over their tempers.

Yet; right now, standing near Katherine Bellamonte feels akin to being in the room with a homicidal maniac counting off his targets with a shot gun, readying it to fire. Her eyes narrow on her younger sibling, and waves of pure, undiluted anger flow from the young woman.

The last occasion she'd had to feel this incensed, she'd been taunted by a fallen elder of her own tribe, her own auspice and she'd torn his spine out after leaping on his back. "I," the Aristocrat says in a deathly low growl. "Have done nothing but protect you all!" She yells the last, her voice raising octaves.

She does not move, she has no need.

Gabriella understands why she does not, she has seen her sister's temper lost before, but it is a rare thing to be the target of a wild animal's ire. Pointed, burning into you. "I have put my life on the line for you, day and night and the thanks that I receive is to have my own sister undermining me. Do you have any conception of what I--"

She trembles so hard she loses her grip on the parcel; closes her eyes and flexes her fingers, the draw back like claws, fold into fists.

"Go, get out." It's hard to say who this whisper is directed at; Genevre or Gabriella.

[Genevre de Provence] She apologizes softly, not wanting to be the true receiver of that temper once more. Genevre just continues on, down the stairs, to leave the BH.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Kate's Rage billowed outward like sheets in the wind, only much hotter, less pretty, and so far from something simple and domestic. It washed over Gabriella, barely a foot away from the Philodox, and it had the Kinfolk straightening her spine, biting short but well-kept nails into the fabric of her coat, and moving two-three-four very quick steps to the right, away from Katherine. She swore she saw her sister's body tremble and her image blur, she thought she saw teeth and a snout, flashing animal eyes and a pelt of fur as truly white as Kate's cornsilk hair was blonde.

These were not words new to her, what her sister ground out. Look at what I have done for you, everything I do. This is for you, not for me, not for my glory and name and position. How dare you undermine me, how dare you question? How dare, how dare? But this sort of loss of control did not come easily or often. It had Gabbie's heart hammering in her chest and her teeth sunk deep enough into the tip of her tongue that she tasted blood.

She said to go, to get out and leave, and immediately Genevre rushed the stairs, disappeared with a soft half-French half-English apology and a sweep of dark hair. Gabbie stood still, however, sliding gradually further and further from Kate, like she'd sooner hop out the window than go past her to reach the stairs.

[Lukas] "Genevre," Lukas doesn't turn to watch her go, his attention on the Bellamonte sisters instead, "let me know by midnight tonight."

A beat goes by. Kate is on the edge of frenzy; the beast bitten back by sheer will. Gabriella is standing frozen. And Lukas is where he was: on the couch, unsmiling, dark to the sisters' blonde and fair.

"I want an answer, Gabriella. Because all I've heard from you tonight is staunch defense of this Fons character that you mask as good advice and a consideration of the 'options'."

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Gabbie's eyes shivered in their sockets for half a second, trying to turn toward Lukas but unwilling to leave her sister, or more to the point the unhinged, barely-restrained thing that wore her sister's skin and spoke in her voice. She swallowed once, hard, throat having to really work to make any noise that didn't sound like a strained whimper.

"I don't have a side, Lukas. I think that this mess is a result of overreaction and a hickey-stained floosy kicking up a fuss because Daddy isn't here to bear down upon her. I simply find it.... unfair that the accused has no one to speak for him and only reports from the tongue of that girl to condemn him beyond what he did to you."

[Lukas] (whee, more ragechecks!)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 7, 7, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Kate] Katherine visibly worked to check her temper.

Fur erupted beneath her lovely winter's coat, the sleeves stretching against their seams for the instant it appeared she would loose out against the monster that lashed out against its restraints within her. Her cheeks vanished beneath white pelt, then reappeared.

And all the while the Half Moon focused.

focusfocusfocus, you are not the beast, you are not the beast, you are katherine bellamonte, you are not a monster until you choose to be a monsterrrr--WANT TO RIP HER HEAD OFF AND--controlcontrolcontrol

The Half Moon's eyes remained closed, her chest lifted and fell with slower, steadying breathes; her will alone forcing back the bitter tide that rose like bile in the back of her throat.

"The accused is barely worthy of the rank of Cub!" Her voice is still harsh, still like whip-lash against sensitive skin. Beside her, she can feel the stir of her Alpha's own Rage, and her pale eyes whip toward him instantly. "You wish to take Fons' side over that of your own flesh and blood, Gabriella, than do it.

I have nothing more to offer you and clearly it fails to be enough to buy even the smallest degree of faith in me."

[Lukas] A flash of rage -- like fire in a skillet.

It subsides.

Katherine continues to rage. Lukas is simply silent now, his eyes glittering like cut diamonds, cold and thoughtful on the face of the younger Bellamonte.

When Katherine is finished, a silence passes. Then, very low: "If you still think this is about hickeys, then you haven't heard anything I've said to you."

Lukas leans back in the couch, opening the curvature of his spine. It's relaxation so deliberate and sure that it's not relaxation at all, but simply a different coiling of energy, of strength, of brutality.

"You've become a liability to this pack, Gabriella," the Ahroun says; level, low, with a shocking evenness that borders on courtesy. "You are foolish, blind, and far too easily misled, and you can no longer be trusted to make your own decisions.

"Henceforth, you are not to have any contact with Fons whatsoever. If he seeks you out, turn him away. If he sends you gifts or correspondence, return them at once. If you even think to seek him out yourself, you are declaring war on your sister and on this pack, and you will be severed from it utterly."

He doesn't bother to ask if this is clear. It's not necessary; whether or not Gabriella understands, this is Lukas's course of action.

He turns to Katherine now.

"As for your kinswoman, Genevre: you're the Fang Elder of this city. It's your right to allow or deny entrance to a kin of your Tribe as you wish. If she chooses not to appear before the Council, if her father and her family holds such sway over her as that, then send her back to them immediately. She can return when the matter with Dirge of the Covenant has been settled; not before.

"Now." His feet come off the coffee table, land on the floor with a thump. "Let's go to the Caern and drag that insolent pup before the Council. I've had enough of van der Noot."

[Lukas] [For the record:

- Later tonight Lukas will ask Theron to summon a stormcrow spirit. The spirit will be bribed with Gnosis for the purpose of a single task: to be bound to Gabriella for a period of X weeks (X being + of succ on this next roll) as a conditional-release deal.
- Condition of release: if Gabriella speaks to Fons or accepts any overtures from Fons.
- The spirit will be asked to report to Lukas, but obviously, it may or may not actually do so. However, its mere presence or absence will be a telltale sign.

Determining weeks of service: WP roll for binding vs spirit's Gnosis (3) -1 (1Gn spent))
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 2)

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Gabriella's teeth almost cracked under the pressure she put on them, so tightly her jaw had clenched. She didn't look at Katherine anymore, didn't look at Lukas either. Instead she looked at the coffee table, tasting the blood off her tongue and working to keep her breathing even, mellow, and calm. This was a different control from what Katherine was struggling with. Katherine fought to keep her temper, Gabbie fought to keep herself.

The world felt fuzzy and soft, intangible, like it could blow away like dust on the wind.
One deep breath, a slow exhale, and Lukas was instead addressing Katherine.

Gabbie pulled her coat on, fingers slowly, clumsily did half of the buttons up before giving up, leaving the jacket half-done, two buttons in their wrong holes, making her appear sloppy and slightly maniac. Not a word squeaked past her lips, but her feet moved, steps stiff, like she was working with a body that was new to her and she wasn't certain of her balance or how well the joints had been oiled.

Unless stopped, she left down the stairs.

[Kate] Katherine leaned down now, scooped up her forgotten gift and held it against her chest like a life-preserver. Her features were calm now, a familiar mask of cold civility met any glances cast her way from her younger sibling.

It was as if Katherine had ceased to be, or worse still, ceased to care.

"I believe it is well overdue time that I wrote to King Calvin de Provence and informed him in no uncertain terms just what his nephew has been up to in the city. Perhaps hearing such details from one not so closely connected to him may sway his mind on this subject.

If not," Katherine raises a shoulder. "It shall be as you say, she will return to him until such a time as she is safe from her Cousin's influence."

Gabriella takes her leave and as she sweeps past her elder sister, for once the Philodox's eyes do not follow her, her jaw clenches visibly and she instead moves to sink down beside her Alpha. "One moment, Lukas. I came with a purpose." She sets the gift on his knees, smiling in a fond, if strained, capacity.

"For your birthday coming."

[Lukas] After Gabriella and Genevre have both departed, there's such a hard chill in the air that when Katherine halts Lukas and gives him his birthday gift, the offering seems surreal. Lukas lets a visible breath out, looking down at the gift and its cheery wrapping paper. All at once the smooth, ruthless emptiness of his countenance collapses into a wince, a grimace, and he reaches out to pick the box up between his hands.

"Christ," he murmurs, though he doesn't really believe in the god-child with whom he supposedly shares a birthday. "Do you remember Boston, Kate? Before all this... shit?"

He doesn't seem to have anything else to say but that. Then again, he doesn't need to. It says it all. Boston was another world. No titles to bear, no positions to defend, no rank to live up to.

A lifetime ago, it seems.

He gets up, then, picking up his two gifts -- plus the one for Danicka. "I'm going to put these in my room," he says. "Then let's go get this over with."

[Kate] Katherine seems wistful for her younger days. "I remember not feeling such strain, I remember feeling as if I were destined for greater heights than any others." She adopts a faint trace of a smile. "Oui, I remember, Lukas. But what can we do but adapt to the days that are here, now?"

She rises with him, and turns to silently stare out the window as he deposits his gifts -- staring out at her moon.

[Lukas] "What can we do," Lukas echoes, wry.

His gifts go into his room. He locks his door and, coming out, pulls an overcoat on as he descends the stairs.

Theron will meet them there. And Genevre -- she'll show, or she won't.

[Kate] [Wrapped with a bow!]

best approach.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Gabriella was seriously considering finding some real estate of her own, something small and modest, like a one bedroom apartment, or even a loft. She could care less if it was in Bronzeville and had insects scuttling over walls and appliances at this point. Whatever it took to get away from the Loft and the new guest.

Was it unfair of her to refuse to interact beyond a passing glance and nod, to avoid giving the other Kinfolk a chance to become anything more than an acquaintance, a body helping keep her home warm? Perhaps, but Gabriella was stern in her mindset. Her reasons she would keep to herself , she wasn't the slandering sort. She wouldn't complain to Katherine or Edward, for she would be scolded and told to open her arms to family. Instead, she went out, out where she wouldn't be expected to be found.

Chinatown was no warmer than any other part of the city, but it somehow managed to feel more crowded. Not necessarily by population so much as by layout. The streets were thin, the buildings tall and looming, curbs lined with cars and carts, steam billowing from grates, trucks pulled up in front of shops to carry shipments and supplies through the front doors because there was no room in the neighborhood for back doors and spacious alleyways. Gabriella, fully intending to simply hide out for the day, walked up the sidewalk in a heavy coat with thick black stockings keeping her legs warm rather than pants-- she'd favored a skirt today. Boots, hat, scarf. Recognizable by grace of breeding and long bronze hair alone.... but why would anyone in Chinatown know her?

[Mickey] Chinatown by day is a riot of garish colors, from the lipstick red ceremonial entrance gate, ornate and scrolled with gold dragons, to the poster sized menus tacked up inside restaurant windows displaying everything from General Tso’s Chicken to obscure bowls of rice noodle broth. People flow and ebb like waves of the ocean upon the shore, filling certain streets and draining out of others, and the air is replete with a thousand interesting scents, from the steam that billows out of kitchen vents to the sewage stink that billows out from the grates below. Spices, hawked handbags, cheap sunglasses, the cry and call of vendors selling Chinatown Express Bus tickets to farflung and exotic destinations like Boston or New York, the thousand shops gleaming and open to reveal their wares, and the impassive, stoic older folk who observe the madness from windows above, cutting lunch on wooden chopping boards balanced precariously on window ledges.

Mickey is sunk into a shopping cart, his legs hooked over the bottom edge at the knees, filthy hiking boots almost falling from his feet, one arm trapped against the inside wall of the shopping cart and thus sticking straight up as if he were asking an invisible teacher a question, the other cradled to his chest, holding the remnants of a whiskey bottle. His face is obscured by what looks like a huge, furred, black Russian hat, a red star emblazoned on its crest, the ear flaps down and the brim pulled almost over his nose. In fact, he’d be unrecognizable were it not for the distinctive tattoos that are scrawled across his chest, or the strange and unnerving quality that suffuses the air about him even as he snores.

People eye the shopping cart where it’s parked against the mouth of an alley wall with distaste, but none come close. None of the shop keepers seem eager to awaken the man, and though eyes are rolled and angry statements muttered, he’s left where he sleeps, for now.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Now typically, as a rule of thumb Gabriella was smarter than the average Kinfolk. She didn't go looking for trouble, didn't investigate strange noises or strangled cries for help up dark alleyways because she knew that there wasn't anything she could do for some bad situation that she could find herself stumbling upon except for getting herself involved in it and hurt. She wasn't a gunslinger (despite popular belief when those stories about her blowing off two mens' heads with some mobster) and she wasn't a strong fighter. The most she could hope to do is stun someone long enough to run away, and even then she wasn't even the fastest runner and couldn't rely on her own feet to ensure her safety.

...but something about those tattoos was familiar.

Gabriella came to a stop in front of the alley while others kept on walking, fists in her coat pockets, scarf hiked up over her mouth and tucked under her nose. Light colored eyebrows lifted in study, her eyes skimmed the slumbering figure's feet and legs, the arm sticking straight up in the air, the bottle of liquor cradled to his chest like a child's teddy bear.

"...couldn't be," she murmered, but ventured to find out anyways. Gabbie glanced up the sidewalk, then rounded to the side of the cart and reached out toward the hand that dangled from the arm standing upright in the air, a windless flag on a flagpole. Soft glove-sheathed fingertips grasped at his fingers and pulled lightly, pinching and tugging to coax the beast to consciousness.

[Mickey] His fingers are perfectly curled, following the same curvature of a conch shell, and though there’s grime beneath the nails and hard calluses across the palms and finger tips, it’s an elegant hand, capable of expressive gestures and teasing forth music from the most recalcitrant of instruments. Gabbie’s hand slips into its grasp, and perhaps she’s oblivious to the surprised stares that this gesture receives from the locals of the street minding their own stalls or standing in doorways, or perhaps she simply doesn’t care. She pulls on the fingers, and for a long moment, or several tugs, there’s no response.
But then the fingers spasm, and the snoring degenerates into a rumbling cough, and the figure crammed within the shopping cart stirs sluggishly. The arm bends at the elbow, comes flopping down so that his hand falls onto his hat, and the feet wiggle, as if tentatively seeing if they are still alive.
“Grrah,” he says, voice thick, face still hidden beneath the brim of his hat. He stirs once more, but he’s trapped, or unwilling to manifest sufficient effort to extricate himself from this metallic cocoon. Instead, he shifts his hips about, smacks his lips once or twice, and smiles lazily from beneath the brim of his hat.
“Alright, alright,” he says, voice thick with the dregs of sleep. “Daddy’s awake. Get me another drink and… we’ll play hide the pickle… again.” He frowns, and then the frown begins to melt away as sleep steals over him once more.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Her sister would be appalled if she ever admitted this, her brother would lift his eyebrows and laugh like she was joking, and her mother would cluck her tongue sadly... but it was a solid truth that Gabriella Bellamonte had, some number of months ago, found an honest friend in a Bone Gnawer Galliard. His motivations for paying her any mind were skewed and impossible for her to get a solid idea of, but she'd decided after a couple of weeks that she simply didn't care. She'd settled into the Loft, Sam and so many others had disappeared, and Mickey Perl had been amongst the number of those that vanished, presumably into the mouth of War.

People stopped to stare, wondering what in the world this elegant, money-born looking young woman was doing pestering some slumbering homeless man, but this was something else that Gabriella didn't care about. That was the beauty about neighborhoods that weren't Lake View or the Mile-- the people that recognized her didn't come around here. She would be downright shocked if Van Der Noot came up behind her at this moment, as he seemed to have acquired a habit of doing in the more expensive, cleaned up neighborhoods.

The Galliard stirred and shifted about in the cart, smiling and mumbling, and what slipped past drowsy lips had a quiet laugh muffled by the scarf coming from the Kinfolk. She returned her hand, tugged her scarf off of her mouth, and opted to fold her arms over the edge of the cart and lean forward to rest her chin upon her wrist.

"As tempting a prospect as that may be, let's find something that everyone would enjoy instead."

[Mickey] Her voice seems to slide through the layers of sleep like a ray of sunshine through banks of fog, and the Galliard doesn’t quite stiffen as seem to grow aware. Though not a muscle moves, suddenly it seems as if alertness, quiet and focused, as stolen over him, and so it’s with no surprise to Gabby that he drops his fallen hand from the crown of Russian hat to lift the brim and peer up at her with gleaming eyes that seem to laugh even as his face remains serious.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says, “I’ve yet to meet somebody who didn’t end up enjoying finding the pickle. After all was said and done, you know.” He simply looks at her, and then a smile breaks across his ugly face, too narrow by half and bifurcated by an overly long nose, his eyes small, his mouth sensual, his skin pasty white and seemingly impossibly unhealthy on the visage of a Garou.

“Heya Gabbie,” he says, as if months and months haven’t gone by, as if they’d just run into each other in a coffee shop and not the mouth of an alley in Chinatown. His curly black hair, greasy as always, spikes out from under the hat, which he then allows to drop back over his eyes a mere moment after giving her a wink.
“I’m stuck,” he announces. “You’re going to have to liberate me.”

[Gabriella Bellamonte] "Mmm," is all that she offers as far as the game involving the pickle goes, as it was really better to not egg the topic on. There was a grin on her freckled face, cheeks and nose dusted rosy with the cold even though she didn't seem to be terribly bothered by it. The hat finally shifted away from his face, letting that ugly mug out to confirm for certain what Gabriella was already sure of. She'd rediscovered Heckles the Wyrm. He smiled, and she smiled right back, the expression broad and hardly restrained.

Heya Gabbie.
"Heya Mickey." A study of his posture was made when he announced that he was stuck without bothering to try climbing up out of the cart himself, and she straightened up, leaving her hands on the edge of the cart. Her mouth pressed to one side, expression thoughtful, assessing, and she chuckled and shook her head, then pushed the cart back until the handle bumped lightly into the alley wall. "You know," she stated, shifting the cart so that its side was pressed against the wall rather than the front, and settled one foot on the bottom rack to steady it while bracing with her other, "it'd probably be easier just to dump you out."

But she reached in to offer a hand to help drag him out anyways.

[Mickey] “Dump me out?” he says, mock indignant, and takes her hand in his own wiry one. “What kind of lady would dump out a helpless young man in his time of need on a filthy alley floor? Unspeakable, and thus, unconsciousnable, and thus, impossible.” Taking her hand, he levers himself free of the cart’s embrace, and groaning and stretching, slithers out over its top to stagger onto his own feet.

Standing, even bent over as he is, he’s taller than Gabbie, but not by much. Nobody would ever confuse Mickey for a giant, gangly and lean as he is, but there’s an angularity to his presence, from the sharp edges of his shoulder blades, the salient clavicles and the rawness of his jawline that gives him presence, the kind of attention that others might achieve with their bulk. It’s in the way he holds himself, the easy tension, the coiled intensity that glitters and burns in his mocking eyes as he turns to regard her.

“My back hurts,” he informs. He presses one hand against his sacrum, and with a groan forces himself to straighten up. Then, mostly upright, he rolls his head around on his neck, which causes a series of sharp cracks to bounce of the alley walls. “Ah,” he groans,” and then loosely lolls his head back and forth a few more times. A deep breath, and then he drops the empty whiskey bottle in the cart and turns brightly to her.

“Let’s get breakfast. Eggs, and ham, and rashers of bacon, and gleaming sausies, and more eggs, and a mug of coffee the size of my head, and grilled pineapple slices, and maybe some pulled pork, or some grilled beef, some, what do they call it in Texas, when the---brisket! Let’s find some brisket, and drown it in bbq sauce, good stuff though, you know, tasty. Maybe some corn, or baked beans on the side, with some mashed potato, and some chicken wings?”

[Gabriella Bellamonte] A pull, a tug, and for the most part Gabriella found it easier and best to simply hold still and be an anchor, or a railing, something sturdy for Mickey to use to leverage himself out of the cart. Those tattered hiking boots found pavement, and the Bone Gnawer groaned and rumbled as he straightened himself out, stretching muscles from positions they'd been coiled up in for god knows how long, joints popping and crackling loudly until he was finally upright, rolling his head on his neck and asking for food.

Gabriella tugged at her skirt so that it was comfortably arranged under the hem of her hip-cut coat once more, then returned her hands to her pockets and glanced at the empty bottle in the cart. If he'd really managed to drink all of that himself, it was a testament to the workings of the Garou body that Mickey hadn't died in that shopping cart, poisoned by his own vices. ...But then, she supposed, if he was going to die by way of vice, that probably would've happened ten or so years ago.

"Well," she said, and glanced toward the sky before tugging her cellphone out of her pocket far enough for her to see the time displayed on its screen, "it's a little too late for anywhere to be serving breakfast, but I'm sure we could find something for you." The phone was tucked away, the girl's chin lifted, and a smile that had something bubbling under its surface spread on her face again. "I'd offer to head on back to the loft and just make some eggs and greaseball sausages, but I'm quite certain that Katherine would throw a fit and our houseguest would simply die."

That might be worth Katherine throwing a fit, though...
Be nice!

[Mickey] “Katherine, eh?” he says ruminatively, narrowing his eyes. “Katherine. That would be your sister. Really hot, acts like an ice poker is up her bum.” Eyebrows raised for confirmation from Gabbie as he turns and begins walking, naturally assuming she’ll fall in stride. “I remember her. We had a wonderful tea party together at your place that one time. I innocently asked for your hand in marriage, and she got all upset about it.” He rolls his eyes, and glances across at her. “Fangs,” he says, as if that explains everything, and with a grin he shakes his head.
“And a house guest, hmm? Not that hot little latina lady you had cleaning the sheets? What was her name? Conchita? Consuela? Carola? Camilla? Hmm. I bet she kicks off her shoes when she dances. Does she ever let her hair down?” He taps his chin as he walks, bites his lower lip, and then shrugs. “I’ll find out sooner or later, I guess. So , house guest? Friend of the family?” A more speculative glance. “Or… somebody that’s being imposed upon y’all by that nuncle dearest out in big bad NYC?”

[Mickey] (running out for some lunch, back in an hour. take your sweet, sweet time with the next post!)

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Naturally, Gabbie fell into stride beside the ugly-as-sin Gnawer, just as she would with anyone else she was holding a conversation with if they would start to walk. She tugged at her scarf, adjusted the white knit hat that she was wearing so that it better covered her ears, and shook her head slowly at Mickey, grinning a bit when he mentioned her sister.

"Yeah, I remember that. Shame she turned you down, ours would have been a passion that'd never burn out." A wry curve at one side of her mouth betrayed the humor with which she spoke, and she glanced up at the hook-nosed profile of her companion before looking forward again, content for now to follow his stride and not worry so much about where he was leading her. After all, she'd followed him up to the top of a skyscraper in the middle of a lightning storm and watched a ritual involving a guitar, thunder, and strong tequila without too much protest or forethought. It was rough to explain, but he was easy to follow.

"Lucinda," she corrected when he went through a broad list of Spanish names that began with the letter 'C', lifting an eyebrow just a touch. If he really desired to find out if the woman dancing between middle-aged and senior citizenship ever let her hair down, he'd find out that, as a matter of fact, she didn't. Maybe when she showered so that she could wash it, but that was all.

The inquiry about the house guest was answered with a shake of her head and a roll of her eyes. "Hardly. She is another Kinfolk that my sister has opted to take into her protection, what with being the city's Silver Fang Elder and all she found it her responsibility to shelter the girl from her own stupid mistakes." There's a note of unresolved displeasure to Gabriella's words, though it's rather hard to pick up where the root of this distaste was lying. "The girl falls into the arms of some Shadow Lord within maybe two weeks of her residency here, has the lack of sense to run around with hickeys all over her neck and flash them in front of my sister, and then stirs up an entire whirlwind of romantic drama and conflict.

"Now, I suppose, this girl's cousin, her proper guardian, has... frightened her? Intimidated her? Told her some conjured story about how her lover had flayed into him, and because of this, for some godforsaken reason, Katherine has deemed it critical that the girl be protected from him. Because apparently these days lying to someone means that you're a danger to them and that they need to be taken away from you."

[Lukas] (away with thee, snail!)

[Lukas] "Gabriella," exasperation is to be read in that single word, "does discretion mean anything to you at all?"

The moon is new. The sky is clear, bitterly cold even in the midday. Sunlight, direct but pale, watery with winter, casts the Shadow Lord's shadow across the sidewalk clean and sharpedged. The man himself is in a black overcoat that drops past his knees, and obscures all but the roughest impressions of height and breadth, strength and rage.

He sips from the lidded cup -- an espresso from one of the smaller local chains, the sort that sold such things as corretto a cognacs. "And," he continues, "if you think Fons's lies are harmless, are anything but malicious and dangerous to your sister's standing and your family's safety, you and I need to have a talk."

Pale blue and chill, rather sharp, his eyes pin Gabriella for another moment and then flick to her companion.

"Who's your friend?" There's a light curiosity in his tone.

[Gabriella Bellamonte] So, once upon a time ago Gabriella couldn't walk five feet without Lukas somehow finding her, shadowing her steps and keeping tabs on her for the sake of his, at the time, Alpha's reputation. She couldn't quite remember the number of times this Shadow Lord had popped up from shadows and nothingness to thwart her, but she was certain that they were abundant.

It seems that Lukas was back to old habits. He hadn't had reason to shadow her as of late because she'd stayed inside, avoiding contact with anyone and everyone for such a stretch of time, but naturally the first day that she stepped outside of that mold, he had to be there. Go figure.

"I suppose we'll need to talk, then, Lukas," she replied cooly, perhaps a little moreso than necessary, and narrowed her eyes at him just a bit in aggravation. It was a practiced younger sibling look, the clear will you go away? signal that will no doubt either be ignored completely or commented upon then disregarded. Her jaw set, jutted out to the side just a little bit, and her shoulders rolled up against the weight of her coat, her own way of shifting just a little under the heavy gaze of the Ahroun.

He asked who her friend was, and Gabbie glanced to the Bone Gnawer before replying simply, almost like he should already know. "Mickey."

[Mickey] (back)

[Lukas] (w00t! your post, then! *sits back*)

[Mickey] Gabbie’s talking, letting some stuff out, and for his part Mickey is content to simply amble along, enjoying the sheer sensation of stretching his legs after spending all night cooped up in a bird cage of his own making. Occasionally he makes a show of windmilling his arms, the action causing his skinny black leather jacket to flare open and show his bare chest, but somehow, perky nipples aside, he doesn’t seem to mind the cold.

Then, even as she makes her mordant comments on her new roommates condition, situation and apparently ridiculous need for protection, a man steps forward just as they pass him, fancy cup of coffee in hand, draped in dark clothing and seemingly quite familiar with Gabbie. Who stops to respond, even as Mickey keeps going, seemingly trapped by his own momentum, though he’s able to turn around so that he’s walking backward for a few steps, away from the pair, but inertia creeps up and robs his momentum and he grinds to a halt, some four yards past them.

Wry comments are exchanged. An undertone of tension is introduced, and Mickey, like a faithful hound, pricks his ears and raises his brows as he looks from Gabbie to this imposing young man. Gabbie introduces him, and he steps forward, extending his hand at the man, the very image of a young business man being introduced to the firm’s CEO. Broad smile, eyes wide, shoulders back. Were it not for the greasy hair, the scrawled tattoos and the foul body odor, you’d almost expect him to be carrying a brief case.

“Pleasure to meet you, sah!” he says, grin wide, accent suddenly Colonial English. “Honest pleasure. Sincere one, too. About time, if you ask me, about time we were introduced, small town, big elbows, lots of room for rubbing, if you know what I mean, sah!”

He looks over at Gabbie, and winks conspiratorially to her, though what the conspiracy might be is anyone’s guess. If Lukas shakes his hand, he pumps it right back, up and down, up and down. Should it not be taken? He leaves it aggressively stuck forward, completely unabashed.

[Lukas] Gabriella's petulance is met with a longer, level stare. Then he turns back to Mickey. The sudden joviality makes Lukas's eyebrows rise sardonically. The offered hand is not taken, but the forearm is: gripped firmly in the Shadow Lord's gloved hand. "Mickey, I'm Lukáš Wyrmbreaker, Fostern Shadow Lord Ahroun. Gabriella's sister is my packmate."

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Mickey stepped forward, all bright, somehow appealing smiles despite the face that they were set in, hand extended for a shake and some ridiculous accent flying off his tongue, no doubt for the sake of smart-alleckry and humor.

Gabriella pulled her eyes away from Lukas, cutting the returned stare she was giving short to look to the Bone Gnawer instead. Lukas had grasped his arm and introduced himself firmly and formally, explaining his connection to Gabbie as a precursor, no doubt just in case Mickey decided to try and turn into some unlikely shining-armored knight.

Gabbie fell quiet and still, arms straight and shoulders pushed up just a little.
Shh, the adults are talking.

[Mickey] “You’re packmates with Katherine? Ah…” he says, squinting at Lukas as if suddenly putting him in a whole new context. He cants his head to one side, and then nods, satisfied, as if everything has clicked into place. “Right. That makes sense, in a way. Sorry about what I said earlier. About her bum, that is, and the ice poker. Was just jokes, you know.”

A grin then, and he slips his arm free. “I’m Mickey Perl, Heckles the Wyrm and Galliard to the great and insovereign tribe of the Gnawers of the Bone, a mere Cliath, it’s true, and thus fully at the service of a Lord of Shadow, Fostern to boot, and pack-uncle or something to dear, dear Gabbie here.”

He crosses his arms over his bare chest, rests his chin on raised fist, and looks fondly at Gabbie while standing next to the Shadow Lord. “My, how she has grown. Any day now she’ll be married off to some charming cross eyed Fang, and that will be the last of her.” He sniffs. “It’s the way of the world, I suppose. What can you do?”

[Lukas] "There was probably some truth to that," Lukas replies. The sound he makes might be a laugh, a scoff, a snort, or anything in between. "But if Katherine takes it out on your hide, don't act too surprised."

Mickey's chest is bare under his thin leather jacket. Mickey is wildly underdressed for this weather. Mickey looks like he might be too insane to care. On the other hand, Lukas -- fancy coat, fancy drink, fancy pure breed gleaming in his veins like silver, or ice, is well and fully attired in several layers, wool and knitted silk and cotton. He sips again from his cooling drink, and his eyes flick between the girl and the Galliard.

"You can stop mocking her," he says, rather bluntly. "I doubt Gabriella sees much humor in it."

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Mickey put on a show, and Gabbie expected nothing else of him. He folded his arms over a bare chest scrawled with tattoos, settled his chin on his fist, and observed her like a proud relative might, smiling fondly and lamenting over how some day soon she was going to be shipped away to some deranged tribemate that she was likely second cousins with, or something like that, and how she would never be seen again.

A sad half-smile tugged one side of her mouth. If nothing else, at least the inbreeding joke was picked up on and taken in good humor.

And Lukas, like King Kong, takes a swipe at the plane of jest, and Gabbie bit at her lower lip, suddenly awkward, and muttered: "Even if I couldn't speak for myself, I'm standing right here." And, that said, she looked away from the Garou, focusing past them and into a restaurant at their backs instead.

[Mickey] “Mocking her?” asks Mickey, turning to Lukas in surprise. “If you mistake the truth for mockery, than what does that say for the reality of her situation? That it is, when considered in the cold light of day, a mockery of how such relations should be conducted?”

He frowns, and reviews his words. “Or did I mean how one should conduct one’s self with one’s relations? Which, when it comes to the Fang way, is a little scandalous, even for my tastes.” He reflects further, and then shrugs. “No, I think it was the first one.”

He looks to where Gabbie has turned away, and his grin resurfaces. A side glance to Lukas. “Now look what you’ve done. You’ve put her in a pout. Honestly, I think she needs a hug.”His side glance turns reproachful. “When was the last time you gave her a hug? I really think you should, because if you don’t I will, and then she’ll probably have to burn her clothes.”

[Lukas] About halfway through Mickey's play of words, Lukas interrupts -- levelly, evenly, and rather mildly:

"Shut up."

A tick of silence. Then, "Gabriella's a Fang kinswoman. Reality is what it is for her, and she knows it. That's no excuse to rub her face in it."

And to Gabriella: "If you have something to say, then say it. Don't pout."

[Gabriella Bellamonte] A quiet shushing sound had started between Gabriella's teeth, but Lukas had cut Mickey off with an abrupt 'shut up', and so the sound died off before it manifested fully. Clear, crystal blue eyes shifted away from the menu she was staring at, the Chinese characters she'd been observing as markings rather than actual language since her skill in linguistics did not reach that far, and instead focused upon Lukas when he told her not to pout, to say what she wanted.

The Kinfolk's response was a huff made haughty by irritability that came from having a perfectly pleasant reunion spoiled.

"What I wish to say is difficult to articulate, Lukas, and liable to get me slapped. I'd sooner hold my silence."

[Lukas] "In that case," Lukas replies to Gabriella, that same level tone, "don't whine about not being allowed to speak for yourself."

[Mickey] Mickey does indeed go quiet. But he’s hardly offended. After all, he’s a Bone Gnawer Cliath. The number of time’s he’s been told to shut up are beyond count. Rather, he hooks his thumbs on the belt of his jeans and chews his lower lip as the Shadow Lord confronts the Silver Fang kin. Icy words are exchanged, and Mickey shakes his head.

“Can I ask a question?” He even half raises a hand. “What happened to old school Shadow Lord diplomacy? This is like…” he pauses to think, “Neo-Fenrir style. Or… Black Fury? No, there’d be more hissing and spitting.” He shrugs. And unless he’s been told to shut up again, continues a little further. “Just saying, rhya, you know. Classic case of dissatisfied kin, right? Hanging out with wastrel types, obeying the letter of the law, not the spirit, surrounded by stern authority figures that harshly impose their will, etcetera, etcetera. Given that, given all that, you think your tough love style of approach here is best?”

A half measured look at Lukas in all his finery, “Yeah, guess you do.” He looks past Lukas to Gabbie, and gives her an apologetic shrug. “Sorry, luv.”

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Gabriella eyed Lukas for a few moments, teeth pressed more firmly together than the pressure at which they rested. This was behind closed lips, however, her teeth were not bared, she knew much better than that. Instead this simply gave a tension to her jaw, one that didn't reflect completely to her eyes because while her body was still aggravated, her mind already sought resignation. There's simply no winning for her, not on this topic.

The only option here is tactical retreat.

She looked away from Lukas, focused entirely on Mickey instead.

"Weren't we getting lunch?"

[Lukas] For what it's worth, Lukas doesn't try to stop them. He doesn't drag Gabriella away from her unsuitable ... well, it's questionable Mickey is even a suitor. He doesn't leap to defend her honor from the greasy, stinking, too-charismatic Gnawer.

She's not his kin, after all.

But he does call her back, briefly. "Gabriella," he says, "I still want a word with you. Tonight, at your sister's loft."

[Mickey] Mickey falls in with Gabbie as they walk off, leaving the austere and authoritative Shadow Lord behind. Once they’ve moved on a block or two, sufficient to be out of ear shot, and taken a couple of corners he lets out a deep breath, blowing it out steadily before shooting her a look and inhaling deeply through his nose, letting the cold, clear air scintillate in his lungs.

“Lukas, eh? Packmates with Katherine. No shit.” He lifts his face to the sky, closes his eyes for a moment as if enjoying the natural if washed out light, and then shrugs his shoulders. Walks for a few strides like that, hands shoved in the pockets of his leather jacket, bunched up high about his ribs, and then he cocks her a wry look. “I think he liked me,” he says. Waggles his eyebrows. “You see the way he stared at my ass after we walked off? Rowr.”

[Gabriella Bellamonte] Gabbie barely even dignifies Lukas a glance when he speaks, let alone an affirmation or 'yes sir'. But she'll show, he'd be certain of that. She had to come home sometime, after all.

She and the Bone Gnawer walked, leaving Lukas behind, and there was a sullen, tense silence that felt one-sided as far as the tension went. Gabriella was stewing, and Mickey was just waiting until he was certain that the Ahroun wasn't going to hop out from a corner and yell 'gotcha!' when he said something questionable.

Even Mickey's jokes didn't quite break completely through, not just yet anyways. Gabbie had a grim set to her mouth and a frown creasing her forehead, even in reply. "Mm. It would tickle me pink if he'd picked one side of the fence and stayed on it-- ignoring me completely or giving a shit." She shook her head, the curse tasting bitter on her lips, and looked back up to Mickey. "Where'd you go?"