vicarious.

[Wyrmbreaker] It's later now. Mrena has been dead for a number of hours. Her body is cold; if she were to touch it, it would be stiff with rigor.

She doesn't touch it. It's possible she can't, incorporeal spirit as she is.

They stand a ways from the others, Lukas and Mrena. The rest of the pack are waiting, some sitting, some standing, some watching the sky, some watching Mrena's body. They're out of earshot but still in sight in this barren Umbral plain, under the huge Umbral moon.

Lukas asked to speak to her alone, but now that he has her he seems hard-pressed to find something to say. His arms are wrapped around his chest as though he's cold, or wounded. He paces slowly, head down, and then -- all at once -- he turns to her.

"I wish our last meeting hadn't gone the way it had," he says.

[Armstrong] Her body was cold.

It was something that she, genuinely, was trying not to think about. She was trying not to think about the fact that she was genuinely deprived of tactile sensations at the moment. They stood away from the pack, and for all they knew, this was just a private conversation. Just something between Shadow Lords.

They would be allowed their secrets. Mrena was dead; she would tell no one. Lukas was surprisingly easy to confide in; were he not pack, she might find this notion disconcerting.

But there she was, all gossamer and ethereal darks and lights. Very distinctly herself, but nothing like herself. she usually seemed so sure of herself, but now? Now something had changed, and there was some silent sort of apprehension there. He had his arms folded across his chest. He paced.

She didn't move. She only just now started looking at him again.

"You were right, though," she replied. "Funny thing about living inside of your own head is that, eventually, you figure out that there's no one else there..."

Silence. Longer than she had intended. But there it was.

[Wyrmbreaker] A twist of his mouth. "We all have our flaws. But it takes a real coward to raze everyone around him down while refusing to point it back at himself. I have more flaws than I dare to name."

The Ahroun stops pacing; faces her now. His arms are still folded across his chest. His shoulders hunch. He pulls in on himself as if to make himself smaller, slighter, when normally he stands so straight, so tall, so proud.

"You were right too. I was being weak. And stupid. If you want to know the reason I'll tell you, but the truth is it doesn't matter. It's no excuse. I made mistakes, I made a mess of things, and then instead of owning up to it, I hid in a hole for a week."

He looks right at her. In the light of the umbral moon, his eyes are nearly as clear as ice.

"And I let you die alone."

[Armstrong] In the umbra, at that moment, she was every bit of her name's sake. Her eyes were so damned pale that they almost looked silver.

And in the light, his were so clear. And she turned to regard him full on; they faced each other. She looked up at him, because even when wrapped around himself, even when slightly hunched he was taller than her. Lukas would always be bigger than her- except in that moment. He seemed small, there.

And she did nothing to hide the fact that it hurt. It hurt in ways that she had never felt in life; she looked at him, brows knit, fists clench and then unclench. She reached out with hesitation, but stopped.

She didn't touch him.

And I let you die alone.
"You didn't let me do anything."

It was the best that she could offer in that regards. She tried to be somewhat comforting; this was closure. This was supposed to be closure, at the very least. He let her die alone- none of them had been there.

"There's a full moon in the ground right now... if you had made it there before I died, can you really say the odds would have been in your favor? If you had arrived too late, it would have been six on one. And we would both be skipping merrily off to our ancestral homelands and the pack would be floundering. And they would be thinking the same thing they are right now "We let them die alone."..."

[Wyrmbreaker] His smile looks a little like a wince. "I didn't say that because I'm looking for comfort, Mrena. You and I both know that if I had been there, I could have -- if nothing else -- held them off long enough to let you get away. That's how it should have been. That's my duty as Beta and Ahroun."

Lukas drops his head then, reaches a hand up, massages the back of his neck. Draws a breath and lets it out.

Quieter, then: "And you know what the worst thing is, Mrena? Some part of me can't help being ... glad that I wasn't able to give my life for yours." Christ, but he never does shy from the truth, does he? At least there's this: he looks her in the eye when he says it, his hand cupped over the back of his neck for a second, then dropping to fold with the other. "I'm glad that I have a second chance, when it was bought at the price of yours."

The silence is absolute. What more is there to say to that?

[Armstrong] He smiled- it was more of a wince. She looked at him and, for her part, could not find it in her to even fake a smile. And there she was, an imaginative creature thinking through the possibilities. She was not an empathetic creature, though- she never had been. Mrena had no idea what that felt like, what it would be like to be him at this moment.

But she would give him that, and she would stay with that thought because she understood duty. And she understood that he had a role to fulfil.

She could imagine, briefly, what it would feel like to loose Lukas in battle. She imagined that it would be no different than this.

Lukas drops his head then, reaches a hand up, massages the back of his neck. Draws a breath and lets it out.

And then he replied to her, something quiet and honest. Because, if nothing, he was honest. If nothing, he was direct. He always had been; he looked her in the eye when he said this. He had a chance to redeem himself, yes, but it was at the cost of the younger, smaller theurge.

And for her part, she just stood there and looked at him. And she looked so young then, every bit as naive as some believed her to be.

She shook her head some, lips closed, eyes wide, as though she didn't want to believe it.

But Lukas was never shy about telling the truth.

So instead, she just stood there, locking eyes with him, and not saying a word.

"What do you mean?"
Spell it out. Make it hurt. Do it.

[Wyrmbreaker] It's a common misconception that to be a Shadow Lord is to be strong in the face of others' weaknesses. That to be a Shadow Lord is to crush the weak with your strength -- to always turn your strength against outsiders, enemies, rivals, opponents.

That's part of it. The other part is to turn your strength against yourself. It's to flay yourself open, to lay it on the line, to crack open your ribs and dredge out your own weakness by the clawful.

He doesn't wince now. He doesn't even flinch. He looks right at Mrena; Mrena's shade.

"I mean," he says, softly but unwaveringly, "some part of me is glad it's me going to John Thornton with your painting instead of you going to Dani&+269;ka with whatever pale words I might be able to dredge up for her. I'm glad it's me mending my fences with Gabriella, and Sampson, and Sam, and Caleb, and whomever else I may have hurt, rather than you smoothing over what transgressions you may have made in life.

"I mean I'm ungenerous and I'm thinking of myself over the pack, over you. I mean I'm selfish."

A beat. He doesn't beg her forgiveness. He says, very softly:

"I mean there's a part of me that's glad, so fucking glad, that I'm not the one lying dead, Mrena."

[Armstrong] "I don't envy you right now," she said. Stated. "Comparatively, dying is very, very easy."

He doesn't beg her forgiveness; it's fortunate, because who was to know if she would forgive him.

And it was easy, really, to stand there and think through her mistakes and his. And it was easy to look at him and want to pick him apart and tear him down and do something so that next time something like this happened-

Suddenly, Mrena realized there was no next time. Not her her, at least.

She looked down, and for a moment she didn't know what to do with herself. It was clear, written across her palid features as clear as the moonlight. She folded her arms too tightly across her chest; she felt cold. Realistically, it was a psychological sensation instead of a physical one. And for a moment, she didn't look at him, but rather looked past him.

"For what it's worth, I'm glad it's me and not you."

And she looked at him for a moment, and as much as she wanted to wipe the expression of uncertainty off of her features, it wouldn't budge, and as much as she didn't want to appear weak infront of one of the few people whose opinion she valued, she couldn't. Mrena finally looked back at Lukas, and she brought herself to the forefront. She focused, and she looked him in the eyes.

"I want to go home," she whispered.
I don't want to be here, she meant.
I don't want to leave, she meant.
Do something, she wanted to scream.

But nothing came out. And for a split second, he could recognize that Mrena was terrified. She was facing the realm of uncertainty and, for her part, didn'tknow what to do. For this particular theurge, who prided herself on understanding the unknown, who knew so much, who studied and worked and catalogued at the expense of actually living, being somewhere uncharted scared her.

And as much as she had tried to prepare her pack for this inevitable event, she wasn't ready herself.

[Wyrmbreaker] For what it's worth, I'm glad it's me and not you.

That's when he looks aside. That's when his courage fails him, and he sees now how little courage he has, really. Not enough to stay by the side of those he loves, apparently -- not Danicka, not Mrena -- and not enough to own up to his own mistakes. Certainly not enough to wish, to truly and unadulteratedly wish things different.

Who knows what he really would have done, had he been there that day. Perhaps Mrena thinks she knows; perhaps she thought she knew. Perhaps she once thought Lukas would do for her what Lukas always used to think he would -- for her or for any other packmate -- lay down his life for theirs. Perhaps she doesn't think that anymore.

Because: who knows what he really would have done. He doesn't anymore. Who knows if he'd go back and change things if he could. Who knows --

She wants to go home.

He closes his eyes. He takes a long breath. The umbral air is sweet and clean, even here, but perhaps she can't smell that anymore, either. When he opens his eyes again he looks at her with something like grief, something like pain, something like guilt.

"You'll be Home soon enough," he says, softly. And then, though right at this moment he isn't even sure he believes this, himself, "And you'll be back amongst us soon enough. Just... not as Mrena."

Christ, but that sounded empty. He has to fight to hold her gaze. A beat goes by. Perhaps he should say his goodbyes now. He doesn't. A moment passes, and then it bursts out of him, insofar as anything ever bursts out of this cool-eyed, cool-minded Ahroun:

"I don't know that we deserve the Talons of Horus anymore, Mrena. I don't know that I deserve it. I know you told us to persevere, but -- Christ, after the last five months, the bullshit with Sam, the bullshit with losing Ed, losing Kate, losing Dylan, losing you -- I don't know that we have any right to call ourselves a circle unbroken. God, I wish I had never suggested this goddamn city -- "

He stops short. That's a lie too. Because whatever else, there's one reason he's glad, glad against all else, that he's in this city.

A muscle tenses in his jaw -- releases.

"How am I to guide a pack that places your brother before yourself when I've failed that in every way?"

[Armstrong] They had discussed this before. More appropriately, he had all but screamed this at her before- Mrena didn't know Lukas that well. Not at all, really. She had admitted, before that, that she did not understand him sometimes. Or at all, really. And that idealized version of Lukas was left in the hotel room he was staying at.

God, she wanted that back. Worse than anything, worse than being alive, she wanted that disillusionment back.

Strike that.
Worse than anything, she wished Lukas believed he was the man that she did. Because in Mrena's mind, he was honorable. He would always be honorable. In her mind he was strong, and in her mind this wouldn't hurt him as much as it did. Later, she might muse on this, she might think it stupid that she wanted to cling so much to fantasy. But, there was no later. There was only now, and whatever precious few moments they had left to find closure. In a perfect world, dying wouldn't sting like failure.

But that's what it was.

And being dead felt so much like a performance reivew, and she saw her one opportunity to make things right. Lukas burst out with something, and she cocked her head to the side while she listened. It was a subtle gesture, though more avian in nature than lupine. Given the nature of their totem, given how much time she spent in the umbra, it was understandable.

He doesn't know if they deserve their totem.

"You're the only one honest enough to admit this. It's proof that you may be the only one who is deserving," she said. "Because you wouldn't be concerned if you thought things were acceptable. The fact that it takes your alpha dying to move the pack to sufficient action is deplorable... but you are the one who seems willing to change and take responsibility for actions instead of blaming circumstance."

She continued, and who would have ever thought of her as the type to speak in terms of inspiration. She had nothing else left to give them, so this was her best.

"You will bring change. You will grow. And you will remember what this moment feels like. And you will not make the same mistakes, real or perceived, again."

She looked down for a moment, then seemed to regard him. His tensed jaw, his muscles, the way his eyes didn't meet hers for a moment or so. She was seeking them out, an intentiona gesture. When Mrena reached up, it was instinctive. It wasn't like her to invade one's space, especially Lukas', but she did anyway.

When her hand met his cheek if felt like nothing more than cold wind. Something like winter, if it could be described as such.

The speed at which she pulled her hand back could be indicative of many things. None of which were explored at that moment.

"Find those who embody our ideals, and where you think we should be and where we once were, and bring them in. If we are not deserving of the Talons of Horus, find those who are and learn from them. They would not accept you if we were not worthy. They are easy to rouse and will not tolerate disgrace... the Talons of Horus remain, and I believe the spirits, int he end, have the final say as to whether or not we have disgraced them."

[Wyrmbreaker] Mrena's hand is against his cheek for no more than a flicker of an instant.

He doesn't feel a thing. He doesn't know what she feels: the burn of his rage, the burn of his life, the aliveness of him calling to her; taunting her, perhaps. Maybe she draws back because the temptation is to great: to stay, to not go, to wander the umbral planes as a shade, staying close to the still-living.

It doesn't matter. It's for the scholars to debate. What is not debatable is that he listens to her: he listens, and when she doesn't-quite-touch him, he looks at her, and his shoulders unhunch a little.

They straighten; they roll back. He stands straight and when she's finished he unfolds his arms, lets them drop to his sides. These could be the final orders of an Alpha; this could be the final counsel of a Theurge. There's wisdom in it: he sees it now, clearly, shorn of what uncertainty he accused her of in life, stripped of the doubt and lack of confidence he once saw.

They face each other. It's the first time he's just looking at her -- not staring, not shying away, not wincing, not wracked with guilt and shame and grief.

"I would have followed you," Lukas says. "You would have led us well."

A moment goes by. He looks briefly at the rest of the pack in the middle distance; at this range he can hardly tell the difference between them. They're luminous creatures in the penumbral light, aglow with the moon and their own spirits.

"I'll remember what you said," he says, and returns his eyes to her. "And I'll remember your conviction when my own falters."

[Armstrong] And that could have been what it was. She reached for him out of subtle want. She wanted to be alive, she wanted to not be having this conversation at all, she wanted to stay. Mrena wanted so many things, and they were things that she had no clue she had ever wanted until she realized she no longer had the opportunity to have them.

Or maybe it was symbolic. At the end of the day, this is what she dealt with. White Eyes lived a world of symbols and gestures and ritual and meaning; at the end of her days that was all seh became. A symbol. Something with gestures and ritual and amorphous concepts. At the end of it all, White Eyes would be nothing more than a concept.

The Alpha who never was.
The theurge who would always be.
The Shadow Lord who could have had the world if she would have taken it.

Opportunities passed, regrets aside, she would fade into tales. She would live in memory and song. In this, she was more than she ever could have been in life.

"Let them falter, Wyrmbreaker. They will learn nothing from perfection; they'll gain more in trying to attain it."

He would have followed her, he says. She would have led them well. To that, all she did was nod, a silent bit of gratitude, acceptance. He would have followed her; he had no clue how much that meant. But she wasn't looking at him now; she was looking at her pack. That which never was looked back at what could have been, and she seemed ever untouchable.

Just as she always would be. Just as she always had been.

"... do you think he'll take care of him?"
He- Sam. Him- John.

"I feel so stupid asking; he's Fenrir. They don't need someone looking after them."
He had no idea.

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas has to think about this for a moment; not because he doesn't have a ready answer but because he's not certain he should voice it. Maybe now -- far too late -- he should invest in little white lies. Maybe he should tell her yes, yes, it'll be okay. It'll all be okay. Maybe he should lie.

He's frowning. Then he's not. In the end, he gives her the truth as he sees it, blunt and unadorned, but gently as he can: "No. I think Sam has enough trouble trying to take care of himself.

"But John will take care of John." The Ahroun shrugs his shoulders, looks back at the once-Theurge. There's the faintest echo of a smile at the edge of his mouth. He parrots her back to herself: "He's Fenrir."

A short pause.

"Should I tell him myself?"

[Armstrong] He could have lied to her. It would have been humane.

But that was neither here nor there. He hadn't been shy about the truth before; she would not abide by anything but the truth now. Sam had enough trouble taking care of himself- something about that brought about a nostalgic smile. She nodded slightly, as if to say yes, you're right, what are we going to do with Sam? Though, Sam was distinctly Lukas' territory now.

But then he asks if he should tell John himself.

She was quiet for a moment, and she nodded It was quiet affirmation of something; in all honesty, she didn't care who told John so long as someone did. She looked at her packmates though, instead of their impromptu alpha.

"That man meant the world to me; I hated that about him," she said. It was something unfamiliar mixed with a quiet resentment. How dare he mean so much to her. How dare he come up in her thoughts after death, how dare he... how...

"I don't think he had any idea."
It was for the best.

[Wyrmbreaker] That makes him laugh -- a short, mirthless exhale, nearly soundless. When she looks back at him Lukas is looking at her fondly, smiling, sad-eyed.

"I understand."

And he did. God, did he understand that.

"Should I tell him that, too?"

[Armstrong] She was every bit little sister for a moment; there were certain aspects of life that she had avoided. Components to the human interaction ritual that she had never completed or understood. This, amond so many other things, was something Mrena realized she wanted too late.

"Please do," she said.

She paused, and then seemed to think for a moment. She didn't reach out to him, she let her gaze come back to the other Shadow Lord instead of anywhere else. "Journal's under my pillow where it always is. Try not to let anyone else read it."

Every bit a little sister, but he knew that was more than a diary she had willed to him.

[Wyrmbreaker] "On my honor," he says, and this would be a small vow for some. For Lukas, whose every word was on his honor, to state it explicitly was ... something else, altogether.

Another pause. Then, "Is there anything else?"

[Armstrong] Silence.

"Tell me about yourself."

[Wyrmbreaker] There's a flicker of surprise; perhaps a touch of bemusement too. After a small silence, Lukas simply asks, "What do you want to know?"

[Armstrong] "Tell me... tell me what your Rite of Passage was like," she started.

But she wasn't done. Not by a long shot.

"Tell me why you were named what you were. Tell me why you came to Boston, where you've been-" she continued.

Questions were coming more rapidfire at that point. The pace signified something, and they came, quickly, building up in pace. Why was she asking this? Why did all of this matter now? Why did she give two shits about where he came from, what he was named for, why he was here and not in New York.

"-tell me who the first person you fucked was like, tell me about your first broken bone, your first scar, why you like lamb, tell me what high school was like, tell me what it's like to have a sister-"

And then it hit. It hit hard. He looked at her, bemused, surprised, and she was asking him to tell her all these things. She was asking him about herself, but she was asking for something equally important. Something that, if she had time later to muse on this, would feel almost childish against her skin. Felt too warm and too cold all at once.

"-tell me something."

She was asking this, these questions, all rapidfire, because she wanted to know what she had missed in life. And she wanted to know him, she wanted to know about him, and for a moment she wanted to live through him.

Tell me it was all nothing.
Tell me that the road leads nowhere.

And sometimes, it was easy to forget that Mrena was so young. Tha thse had changed young. That she had missed so much.

It was easy to forget that, maybe, she missed not having those things.

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas is drawing breath to tell her about his Rite of Passage when she goes on. She asks about his name; why he came to Boston. He releases half his breath in a huff of a laugh, a touch awkward -- hold on a minute, the breath says, but by then she's asking where he's been; how he lost his virginity; his first broken bone, his first scar --

and on and on until she can feel his start to tense, start to close up, because she's asking too much, she wants too much of him; and he can't take it, and

-- and then she says: tell me something and suddenly he understands.

Mrena is dead. This is it. Her spirit will persist; it will go on. It will return, but it will be changed. The same essence, a new body. All her memories, all the experiences she ever had -- these, she's set down in her journal, and that will be the last record of Mrena White-Eyes in this world. That's what she's giving him: the sum total of her existence. And what she wants back:

The memories she does not have. The experiences she's missed. A slice of his life to add to hers for as long as she has consciousness of this life of hers; a few more years tacked on to her pitiful twenty.

Lukas understands, and the look in his eyes is something like a slow crumbling; something like a wince, something like a falling asunder.

"Okay," he says. "I'll tell you."

--

So he tells her.

He tells her what she asks. He tells her about his Rite of Passage, which was glorious and successful and all, but really -- not that special. He did not stand out. He's never really stood out; he's always been the beta, the quiet support player, the backbone but not the head. His name is the same; glorious and threatening and shadow lord and all, but nothing that stands out in a crowd. He tells her about leaving New York for Boston: it was mostly whim, partly because he'd struck up a friendship with a visiting Fang by the name of Edward Bellamonte. He tells her about the first girl he had, who was darkhaired and liked tuna fish sandwiches on rye bread. He tells her about his first broken bone (ulna, falling out of a tree, age 8) and his first battle scar (four weeks past his rite of passage, Dancer) and why he likes lamb (the texture; the tenderness; the flavor; the cost). He doesn't tell her about high school because he never went to high school; like her, he changed at age 14. He tells her that having an older sister is the biggest pain in the ass you'll ever love.

And then he tells her about things she didn't ask about. He tells her about moving to the United States when he was 5 and not knowing a word of English. He tells her about growing up in the rougher, ethnic neighborhoods of New York City. These are things the pack knows about, vaguely, but he never bothers to expound on -- stories that he doesn't lie about, but facades her refuses to drop entirely. He tells her that his parents were very poor in his childhood (something about Shadow Lord politics); he's careful to tell her his childhood was good, was happy, was not deprived in the ways that mattered. He describes for her his closeknit family, his stalwart father and his gracious mother, the oldest of old blood, the noblest of nobility.

He tells her how his sister used to boss him around, how she was always trying to help him even when he didn't need it. He tells her how he was an expert treeclimber as a boy. He tells her about winning his first fight at school and being thrashed for it by his father because it was a fight he started, and a Kvasnicka, descended from the ancient house of Zierotin, should have known better. He tells her about the posters he had on his wall in the first house they had, after they'd recovered, after his parents regained some of their liquid assets. He tells her about his first concert, two weeks before his First Change. He tells her about his mentor, who was a Philodox. He tells her about the books he read, the textbooks he checked out from the library and read, the books he borrowed from his father and read, the way he educated himself when school, when university, became an impossibility.

He tells her about the Bellamontes as they were: stiff-lipped Katherine, easy-smiling Edward. He tells her about the nights he and Ed caroused out on the town, the girls they would pick up, the way they would flock to Edward's charm and banter; the way they trembled when he touched them, because his rage was too much for them. He tells her about playing cards until dawn, losing sums of money he couldn't afford just to keep up with the Fang until he learned to win.

He tells her about what he saw in Edward. He tells her why he convinced Ed to come out to Chicago, where the pack would splinter like ice dashed upon rock; like birds scattered by a high wind. He tells her about his sister visiting him a few months ago, and his father's birthday.

He tells her why he spends nights alone at clubs, feeling the beat flow through him. He tells her about the women he finds there sometimes, and how they've made him cynical.

--

Hours slip by. The stars wheel. The moon skates across the sky.

Their packmates mill in the distance; they look their way sometimes. They lie down in one form or another; they sleep, and in their sleep, they unconsciously ring Mrena's body: a guardian phalanx, an honor guard for the dead.

Lukas talks on, unhurriedly, uneditedly, stream of consciousness, memories offered up as they come to him.

--

He tells her what it's like to feel that first attraction, that true attraction, that will later become love. He tells her what it's like to feel jealousy, and rage, and uncertainty, and all the things that are unfamiliar even to him. He has trouble describing love, though he tries hard. But then, perhaps Mrena has some inkling of what that's like. He has no trouble describing heartbreak and loss, though he doesn't go into detail.

He does not tell her what it's like to make love to Danicka. That alone is too personal; he doesn't even approach it, and perhaps she knows better than to ask. He does tell her the one memory he has of Danicka, the woman he loves, before she was a woman and he was an Ahroun: he tells her about the oak tree in Danicka's backyard when they were children, and how Danicka followed the Kvasnicka children into its boughs and slipped and fell.

He tells her about watching the sunrise over the Atlantic in New York City. He tells her about the quality of the light in the room he lived in as a small child, the way it was only ever bright at daybreak, but how, at daybreak, the very air would turn golden.

He tells her how he never as a child expected to be a Garou. He tells her how that was a surprise to all of them. He tells her how sometimes he wonders what his life would have been like as a kinsman.

He tells her of his impressions of her, the first time he saw her: a child, a girl, a little sister.

He tells her of his impressions of her tonight, the last time he will ever see her: a theurge, a woman, an alpha.

--

It's morning.

The penumbral sunlight is weak, and the moon still dominant. Lukas's voice has long since worn down to a husking rasp. He's lying on the ground now, stretched full-length like a boy, a college kid in the room of his old friend, talking til dawn. As the hours rolled one into the next his sentences became sparser, his memories fewer, more tattered, older, faded. At last, he has nothing else to offer her.

He lies in silence then. Perhaps he dozes a while. When he opens his eyes again, the sky is a deep, deep blue, far darker and richer than any daylight sky found on earth.

"Sampson," he says, hoarse, "wanted us to run with you one more time." He turns his head to look at her, wherever she might be. "He thought we could follow you as far as we're able, if you're willing."

don't try.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] It's a little after 10am, Wednesday.

The spirits lead Mrena about half a mile out of the heart of the city, just off club row. This part of the city may transform into a roaring over-21 playground by night, but by day it's nondescript, almost industrial: an area of cracked streets and concrete big-block buildings, ex-warehouses that disguise in their grey innards the latest and hottest nightspots.

Eventually the Theurge homes in on a Holiday Inn on a fairly busy streetcorner, kitty-corner from a gas station, next door to a greek fast food joint. The inn is clean but a little shabby, three or four stories total; it seems to be home mostly to families on vacation on a budget, or possibly clubbers who drove in from the suburbs and found themselves too fucking wasted to drive all the way back.

The Questing Stone isn't much more precise than that, but the girl at the front desk is eager enough to help once Mrena switches on the Persuasion. There's a Mr. Kvasnicka checked into room 306: upstairs and on the right when you get out of the elevator. When Mrena gets there, the door is shut, a DO NOT DISTURB sign hanging from the knob. The hallway is quiet, and it smells vaguely of cleaning solutions.

[Mrena Armstrong] She didn't know where Dylan was. She hadn't known where Dylan was for months, and she had done nothing.
She didn't know where Edward was. She had tried tracking him down a few times, only to have a few words and trust that things would have been okay. She had been wrong each time.
She didn't know where Katherine was. Truth be told, the last time Mrena had seen Katherine they had been in battle. She waited weeks before trying to determine anything. And she had done nothing.

This, in her mind, was no different. It could have been the beginning of many things, the end of something; Mrena wasn't sure. And the fact that she wasn't sure, that she didn't know where Lukas was seemed...

It wasn't like him to disappear. And given the pack's previous track record, she could not sit idly by and not know.

So there she stood outside of his door; the petite theurge knocked on the door. Three short, hard knocks. This time, it wasn't her usual rhythm. it was deceptively tall; the moon was full. She should have known better than to do this on a full moon.

That being said, the theurge- clad in jeans and a pull over- was at the door. And she would not take no for an answer. She expected the worst.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] There is absolutely no response to the first three knocks.

He's been up all night again. He's been up all night every night for nearly a week, and every night he ravages the fuck out of his body with alcohol, with substances, with sex, with bone-crushing bass and mind-numbing volume.

He's only been asleep for an hour and a half at this point. He's only starting to sink deep into slumber, and three knocks don't being to scratch the surface of his exhaustion.

Or six.
Or nine.

But when Mrena starts knocking rapid-fire, ceaselessly, hard enough to shake the flimsy door in its frame, Lukas stirs toward consciousness. He drags toward consciousness, unwillingly, until finally he rolls onto his back, snarls at the ceiling, and swings his legs out of bed.

Mrena can hear the thump all the way outside.

He knows who it is before he even goes to the door. It's his packmate; he can feel her outside. He looks around the room. Empty takeout boxes on the tiny coffee table by the window, between the two threadbare armchairs. Last night's clothes thrown atop the dresser. He hunkers over at the edge of the bed, burying his face in his hands, scrubbing. Then he gets up, snatches his boxer briefs off the ground, and steps into them.

Mrena's just starting to knock again when the door flies open under her knuckles.

Lukas looks like he's been sleeping. His hair is tousled and there's stubble on his jaw, but other than that, he looks ... all right. He looks good, even. He doesn't look wasted. He doesn't look like he's wasting away. He looks strong, irritated at the disruption, annoyed. His shoulders fill up the doorframe, and he leans against the left side.

There's half a joint between his teeth. He strikes the match against the wallpaper and lights up.

"You're Alpha." He puffs a plume of grey-blue smoke to the right, and then those glacial eyes lock onto Mrena's. "Congratulations. Now leave me the fuck alone."

[Mrena Armstrong] Her knocking was ceaseless. Mrena pounded on the door, waited until she was almost sick of doing so, until her patience started to wear thin, until she was all but willing to enter the room by whatever means necessary.

Hearing a thump from the other side of the room made it perfectly fine. It was, at the very least, something of an indication that Lukas was alive and functioning, or functioning well enough-

[The door opened, all but snatched open and his eyes were too intense and less-than-pleased to be looking at anyone. Much less her. Mrena didn't know why; admittedly, she might not care if she did know why]-

Functioning well enough to be strong, annoyed, and irritated. The moon was full, his prensece was oppressive. He damned near took up the entire doorway, and made her acutely aware that she was barely over five feet tall. Made her aware that she weighed half as much as he did.

He said she was alpha. Congrads. Now leave him the fuck alone. She didn't flinch, she didn't even seem to register what he said because, at that moment... well, who cared what she was thinking.
Now leave me the fuck alone.
"How long do you plan on doing this?"

Funny. She didn't even know what this was.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] " 'This'?" He barks a laugh, unpleasant. "Until I'm finished."

Lukas doesn't smoke. He never smokes. But now he drags down another hit like a pro, rolling to the side to put his back to the wall. He gives her his profile now: the high-bridged nose, the powerful musculature of his torso. One day, if he lives that long, Lukas will be husky and huge, a Lord of the peaks and the crags, the furs of his enemies draped over his shoulders, a lightning storm in his eyes.

For now, there's still a savage leanness in him -- his skin is taut over his muscle with almost no spare; almost no intervening layer of body fat. Where his oblique cut into the crests of his hips, the bones ride close enough to the surface to be visible. The veins running over the crests of his biceps, down the stretch of his lower belly on either side of his abs are visible in the morning light. He hasn't bothered to close the drapes in the room.

The muscles of his arm and shoulder, his upper chest bunch when he brings the joint back to his mouth. Another hit.

"Why the fuck not, huh? Everyone else takes vacations without warning. At least I'm still on this side of the mirror."

[Mrena Armstrong] "Because this isn't like you," she said.

Oh, tact. Glorious, wonderful tact. SOmething she had learned over time, something she was still trying to master, and something that, sometimes, she had very little of. He would have none of it. And there, she stood- readable and curious.

He would be quite the specimen, someday. He would be terrifying, he would be awe-inspiring. Until then, he was who he was. And he was as much a twenty-something year old male as he was anything else. It was easy to forget that they were practically teenagers. It was easy to forget that, despite all things, there was cognitive and moral developments that were to be had.

"I wanted to be sure that nothing had happened," she said.

She had been worried. Of course, she would never say that.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "No." Moods shift as easily as a spring sky. He sounds almost musing now; distant and detached. "I suppose it's not like me."

Lukas closes his eyes to feel the drug take hold. His hand falls to his side. He leans his head back; he's leaning against the wall, his feet braced, arms relaxed, hanging. The joint is barely clinched between his fingertips. He exhales slowly, smoke rushing out of his nostrils.

And then he rolls his head to the side, his eyes reopening, narrowed. He frowns at her, as if puzzled and displeased to see her still there.

"Then again, what the hell would you really know about who and how I am? You live in your own goddamn head and in the Umbra. I don't think you even realize half the time that other individuals have something called free will. I'm not tied to the will of some Incarna. And sometimes, Mrena, believe it or not, I behave in ways that aren't fucking typical."

It's a lick of anger, irrational. He straightens up, assymmetrically -- one shoulder leaving the wall before the other. He reaches out to take the door.

"Tell the pack I'll be back when I'm ready. Until then, I'm fine."

[Mrena Armstrong] (a wailing and gnashing of teeth...)

[Mrena Armstrong] For the most part, she looked at him, and she listened. Because that was what she did. Her posture was straight and stark. Mrena didn't budge. There was no reason to do so; Lukas looked at her with quiet displeasure. And yet, he couldn't figure out why she was still standing there.

And then, there it was. He told her where she lived, what little world out in the middle of space that she existed on. And how... incredibly... fucked up her world was. And, she didn't flinch at that. She didn't let her hackles raise, but at that moment she was aware that the moon was full.

Full, bright, and oppressive. And while his rage was often too much for one to bear, she was... well, she was half as intense as he was. It was saying something. A quiet flare of something. Silvery eyes almost narrowed, and her jaw clenched.

Mrena Armstrong wasn't unfolding her arms any time soon. And she wasn't opening her mouth any time soon either. She inhaled slowly through her nose, and for what felt like an eternity to her, she just looked at Lukas.

"Is there anything else you'd like so say to me?"

Control. She had it, she held onto it like a god damned security blanket, and if she couldn't say something nice... Save it.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Yeah." He transfers the joint from his free hand to his mouth, clamped between his teeth. "Leave me the fuck alone."

[Mrena Armstrong] "Tend to your weaknesses, Lukas. Take as long as you need," she said. And words slipped out with quiet, disillusioned venom. The theurge took a step back, and she didn't glare. She didn't bark, she didn't so much as indicate that she was angry. "I'll make it sound like you're doing something important if the pack asks."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (throat-grab! (aka grapple))

[Mrena Armstrong] (ack! Move!)

[Mrena Armstrong]

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] The response is instantaneous. The Ahroun's left hand flashes out. He grabs the Theurge by the throat, lifts her clear off the ground, slams her into the adjacent wall.

They're face to face now, eye to eye. Rage is seething under his skin.

"I don't need you to lie for me." Soft, soft as velvet. "And I'm not so weak that I won't break you in half if you ever say such a thing again."

[Mrena Armstrong] She was in the air, and for a moment she was struggling for air, and for a moment she was suddenly reminded of what it was like to be a cub. To be outclassed; this was becomiung a familiar feeling. Twice that she's hit a wall in as many days; Lukas wasn't breaking her ribs though. At least, not yet.

I don't need you to lie for me.
"Then you admit that this isn't important," she said. They were eye to eye and she didn't waver. He had the edge; lifting Mrena off the ground wasn't difficult by any means. It was a moment like this that it was made clear exactly how light she was and exactly how slender her neck was. "Because if it was important, I wouldn't be lying."

He stared her in the eye and she did not want to back down, but her back was against the wall. his hand was around her throat, and his moon was in the air; White Eyes knew better than when to push. But, as it seemed, she did it anyway sometimes. And at that moment, her voice was soft enough that it was only meant for his ears.

"And if breaking me in half brings you clarity then by all means..."

She might muse, later, that this was a rather fucked up notion, because she was completely sincere in that ... offer?

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas's face is a scarce three, four inches away, and even in homid, there's nothing human about him right now. His eyes are glittering, hard as diamonds. His teeth are bared, and the joint forgotten between them has nearly been bitten in two at the base.

A sheaf of ash collapses off the tip when he cocks his head to the side -- a tiny gesture, carnivorous. He studies her for a moment, his eyes clicking over her face, refracting the morning light in shards and slices.

And then he laughs in her face.

"Don't even try to twist my words around, Mrena." Laughter, and definitely not the laughing-with-her kind of laughter, roughens the edges of his words. "Don't try to push my buttons. Don't try to play me. I don't need your help. I just need you to leave me be."

He lets her down. And then, unceremoniously, he gives her a hard shove out. Unless she jams her foot in it, the door slams in her face a second later.

[Mrena Armstrong] They were close enough together that she could practically taste that joint. And, at the moment, senses didn't quite synch up. It was odd how Rage had a scent, how disdain had a texture; from that position, it was easy to feel her muscles tense, and how for a split second she forgot to breathe out.

Her jaw was clenched. The theurge exhaled.

He laughed in her face and she didn't even snarl at him. There was only a stony expression and a gleam in her eyes that seemed to suit his expression more than hers. Sharp and almost lethal- more silver than grey. She might analyze this later-

Or she might not. Whatever it was, who really cared. He lets her down, feet finally touching the ground. He had to drop her a foot; it was hard to maintain composure when you are dropped almost one fifth of your height. White Eyes inhaled slowly, she was regaining composure when she got shoved out the door.

He slammed it in her face a second later, before she could get a word in.

For the moment, she just stood at the door, staring with her muscles tense, with rage crackling in the air, tension had a flavor. A texture, a smell, and it hung to her too-soft hair, making it almost crackle like static. Silvery eyes glared into the door, and her fists were clenched at her sides.

The theurge inhaled slowly, chest raising slowly, lungs filling to bursting and at that moment she couldn't force air out.

She clenched her fists tighter, tight enough that the little crescent moon marks were etched into her palms, almost breaking the skin. Tight enough that her knuckles ached. And if she were empathetic, she would see this as desperation. She would see Lukas' behavior much differently.

But she wasn't empathetic. The theurge tried to draw more air into her lungs, but found no room, found the air almost suffocating. She turned, slowly, and then started to make her way down the hall. She was not storming off. She was not running, she wasn't screaming, she wasn't breaking things.

Mrena exhaled, and left. And who knew what else the theurge left behind.

it was not a possibility.

[Mrena Armstrong] There were things that she needed to do, and there were things that she had to get done, and there were questions that needed answers, burning in the back of her mind that needed to be answered. That would not go away, that was not allowing itself to be written off.

It was getting closer to a full moon, and in the back of her mind she knew that this was not a good line of questions to be asking an ahroun so close to the full moon. She knew that she was about to ask a potentially dangerous question. Because she knew, she knew what day it was. What she didn't know was what kind of day he's had, what was on his mind, what he had planned, etc.

All things considered, White Eyes wasn't tiptoeing or walking on eggshells in the hall.

And, with that, she knocked on Lukas' door. Cha-cha rhythm.
knockknockknock. [rest. rest]

[Chanlyeya Greyeyes] He read it and yet another bit of surprise.

"I spent much of a day with Kemp-rhya, and he did not speak of be wyrmfoe. A great honor for one who seems as old as I. For the one Silence, though he did not speak, I could see he has seen much in his life."

He offered to share his fries and sandwich with AM.

"You have been here for a time. Please, has any of my tribe been in this concrete forest before?"

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] The walls are thin here, and the doors have a hollow feel to them, as though they were pieces of plywood glued together. Lukas's voice is clearly intelligible from the inside, not merely the bass fundamentals but the higher harmonics as well, penetrating right through the door though he doesn't bother to shout. Or even call out.

"It's open."

And it is. When Mrena opens the door she finds Lukas on his bed, back to the headboard, legs crossed lazily at the ankle, a laptop on his thighs. He finishes typing his sentence, whatever it might be, and then looks up.

Mrena looks like she has something on her mind. He studies her for a moment, and then nods at the door over her shoulder. "Close it behind you, will you?"

[AnneMarie Hoch] That is perhaps the most poetic way to describe Decker Rohl, though it is also one that is accurate. Of course, it could be said that with their first change, the Garou has seen much - too much - though it quickly becomes a way of life. The only way. You wake, you fight, if you are lucky, you fuck, and then you sleep only to do it all again.

To his question though, she replies I have just recently returned to the city. I have seen no other Wendigo since I have been home.

[Mrena Armstrong] She walked on into the room, looking around briefly. It seemed that there was nothing changed about the location. Lukas' room was usually quite spartan. The only flavor she remembered was the coffee maker, and the coffee cups that occasionally came out.

"Did I interrupt something?" she asked.

True to the request, she shut the door behind her. Also, true to form, she didn't sit down unless she was given permission to do so. After all, this wasn't her room. It was his. He didn't even share it with anyone, so there really was no reason to touch things. Attire was comfortable. Jeans, pullover shirt. Though, admittedly, it was a shirt that she had stolen from Edward. Something with a high thread count, nice fabric, and was distinctly too big for her. Not the point.

[Chanlyeya Greyeyes] He nodded.

"I wish to ..undo some of rumors of my tribe. Not all of us were taught to hate others. I come from a small .. village that was isolated deep in Canada's north. We avoided all human society. But when we were called, we came to help those that need. No matter tribe. Other villages I had seen were taught the hatred. It is the only old way I was not taught. But I have felt the distrust from others when I mention my tribe. It is not something I like."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "No." The answer is firm, and he's not just being polite. If he'd been busy, he wouldn't have answered his door -- she can count on that much.

"You want to sit?" He nods at his desk chair. The surface of his desk is just as she might expect: pristine, devoid of anything except a small 4-cup coffee maker. The mugs are nowhere to be seen. "What's on your mind?"

[Mrena Armstrong] She nodded, then took a seat at the end of the bed and relaxed. Mrena had good posture; she always had good posture, but it was part of the appearance. She didn't present herself as anything other than a creature beyond contempt. Also, that being said, Mrena had to find some way to combat the fact that she barely over five feet tall.

"Would you have left the pack if Katherine hadn't challenged Edward?"

And there it was, question that was out there on her mind. To be discussed and answered and so on.

[Serafine] Her family was worried. She didn't call enough. They wanted to visit. That...would likely not have been a good idea. Thankfully, Serafine had managed to convince them otherwise, for the time being. Family issues settled, she was on her way back into the Brotherhood, green messenger bag still slung over one shoulder as she pocketed her cell phone into the left pocket on her jeans.

She headed back up the stairs, agile feet making barely a sound as she ascended into the common room. A quick glance with blue-green eyes told her that Evan had left, but AnneMarie and the unknown wolf were over at the little table. Her gaze alighted upon both figures for a moment, watching in curiosity as she made her way in and settled herself back on the sofa where she had previously been. The bag was dropped to the floor with a light *thunk*, and she leaned back into the cushions, stretching her arms up for a moment and giving a quiet yawn.

She took her time in turning around, folding her arms across the back of the sectional and resting her chin upon them as she watched the other two garou interact.

[Adam Swift-Arrow] (( places?
to AnneMarie Hoch, Chanlyeya Greyeyes, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, Mrena Armstrong, Serafine

[AnneMarie Hoch] She arches a brow slightly. Trust is earned or lost by the individual. If you had been burned by one of my tribe, I would hope that you would not hold myself accountable for their actions, but for my own. I could do no less for another.

Despite the fact that many think her nothing but claw and fang, nothing but mindless rage, AnneMarie can be surprisingly articulate. Too bad few see it.

Serafine's entrance is not missed. In fact, after she passes the board to Chanlyeya, she turns to watch her take her place on the couch. She meets her gaze briefly, and nods hello once more, barely a movement of her chin, truth be told, but it is there.

[Serafine] ((Everyone's upstairs. Sera's on the sofa in the common room.))

[Chanlyeya Greyeyes] A greeting nod is given to Serafine as he takes the board from AM and reads.

"I do not believe I have insulted or been insulted by any of Fenrir's children. For that, I am thanking. For your actions, I am thanking as well. You have given kindness to me. But you speak true, and I feel same. I think one should account for own actions not that of a tribe. I thank you for seeing as I do. And I hope this might lead to some sort of ...Milo call it alliance. Is that right?"

[Adam Swift-Arrow] *Another ascends the stairs into the common room. Pausing at the top. He wasn't an overly large man. Nor was he tiny. About 5'9" slender build, athletic. Tonight he was dressed in hiking boots, well worn jeans and a belt. A dark brown button up shirt under a rather normal looking leather jacket. His skin was sun kissed bronze, hair and eyes were dark. With him came an interesting mix of serenity and rage. Though not high as some, or even most. he was still born one of the true. It showed in his motion and his scent. The touch of pure blood was there to detect*

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] There are three lights on in the room right now. There's the lamp on his desk, the one clipped to his headboard, and the ceiling light. None of them are particularly high quality; all of them shed distorted spectra that are little like the light of day.

Despite that, Lukas's eyes are as ferociously blue as they ever are, clear and glittering. His eyes narrow when she asks the question, though it's not anger, quite, but consideration. And, yes, some measure of distaste for the subject.

"Why do you want to know?"

[Adam Swift-Arrow] (( good to see ya back))
to AnneMarie Hoch

[AnneMarie Hoch] (thanks)
to Adam Swift-Arrow

[Mrena Armstrong] "Because it didn't make sense to me at the time... and... I guess I'm trying to figure out why you said it now. Because if you would have, I'm wondering why you didn't just challenge him yourself. And if you would have... I... I want to know why you chose that as the means of pushing her."

For her part, she wasn't angry. She wasn't accusatory, and she wasn't even upset, she was just... curious. Mrena was almost always curious. And though she was not an empathetic creature, she was an observant one. And she caught the slight degree of distate in his voice.

"I'm trying to understand how you work through the actions and choices you have made and make... because, admittedly, I don't understand you sometimes," she said.

[Serafine] She nodded her own head slightly in response to Chanlyeya. "Another face I do not know. I see I have many introductions to give yet." The sounds of Paris danced across her words when she spoke.

Just then, they were joined by a fourth, and she couldn't help but quirk a smile at the truth of her own words moments before. "Two faces I do not know."

Well, here we go again, then. She was off the sofa and on her feet, so that her gaze might direct itself back and forth between the two men. "Serafine Marceau, Cliath Galliard of the Black Furies. L'Ange Noire... Black Angel." A nod to Adam, then Chanlyeya in turn as she waited for them to return with their own names.

[AnneMarie Hoch] Alliance is one way to put it, yes. An understanding, certainly. Subject to change of course, if necessary.

She does not place her loyalties lightly - if ever - to any save her Pack, or those who she has learned to trust. As she mentioned, such things are earned.

Her gaze flicks toward the man who enters, and she settles back in her chair, slender fingers lifting her beer to her lips for a long swallow, before pale blue eyes find Serafine once more as she gives her introduction again.

[Adam Swift-Arrow] *Adam gave the woman a smile, with out showing teeth and nodded to her greeting. How pleasant. A hand came out of the coat pockets and he motioned that Chanlyeya could go first if he so wished.

Stepping further into the room he cleared the top of the stairs in case people chose to come or go*

[Chanlyeya Greyeyes] "Waachiyaa. I am Chanlyeya Greyeyes, theurge of tribe Wendigo. Known also by Walks in Sokhta's Light given after meeting the great Sokhta."

He takes the board once more, reads and hands it back to AM. "I am thanking for the chance to prove it, child of Fenrir."

[Adam Swift-Arrow] *Nodding he then spoke. His voice was soft, not a whisper. Just a voice that was naturally not loud. Peaceful one might say. Strange to hear on one that was born with rage* Adam Swift-Arrow. Known as Nightcrawler to the nation. New moon, of the Uktena.

Nice to meet you child of Peagasus, and Little Brother. *A bit of a nod, Chanlyeya had indicated AM was fenrir* And Child of Fenris.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Mrena answers. Lukas watches her, silent, withholding all expression.

So Mrena goes on. And Lukas listens, and listens, and when she's done his eyes flicker away from her just long enough for him to lower the lid on his laptop and set it aside.

He plants one hand on his mattress and draws himself back, crosses his legs indian-style, sits against the headboard of his twin-sized bed. They could be friends visiting one another in some student dormitory somewhere, Joe and Jane College making plans for the next weekend, or swapping notes from Economics 129, or --

They're not. They're werewolves, and nothing close to human. And the masks are off in here. There's something in Lukas's eyes that's utterly hard, utterly ruthless.

"No," he says, "you don't understand me.

"I said it to push her. Kate never had Ed's vision, but at least she had determination and ambition, which, at that point, was far more than could be said of Ed. Her flaw is that she cannot bear to seem anything but perfect. That's why she can't bear the sight of blood or filth; that's why she would have never, ever challenged her own brother unless her hand was forced. So I forced her hand. I took on whatever burden of guilt she might have had in betraying her brother, and freed of it, she challenged.

"You ask me what I would have done if she'd refused. Let me tell you, Mrena, I never once considered it. It was not a possibility.

"That whole ... display may have seemed reckless and out of the blue to you, but it had been building in the air for weeks by that point. Kate and I had spoken several times; the plans were laid. She wanted Alphahood more than she ever showed. She just needed the appearance of spontaneity, of desperation, of being forced to extremes, do you understand?"

[Serafine] She listened to the introduce themselves in turn, storing the information away in her mind. "Uktena and Wendigo. I have not had the opportunity to meet with any of the Pure Ones before now. It is a welcome experience."

Her status as European was clear, of course, in both that accent of hers and her name. (She rather *looked* French as well, for that matter.) After affording the two men with a warm and pretty smile, she lowered herself back onto the couch, sitting with one leg bent beneath her and one bare arm draped across the back, so that she might be able to look comfortably in all directions. The black tank top she wore left exposed a portion of the tattoo on her back...the tips of two large black wings by her shoulders. Which came first...the name or the tattoo? Who knows.

[Chanlyeya Greyeyes] "And you would be first daughter of Pegasus I have met. So I welcome experience myself." Nodding to Serafine.

[AnneMarie Hoch] She takes her whiteboard, and slides it across her thigh. The darkened denim declares it something that happens often, a mar in what otherwise is a well put together, clean and fashionable look.

Speaking of looks - there's a tip of that tattoo again. Lips curl into something of a smirk beforeshe turns her attention to the now pristine board, to write. AnneMarie Hoch. Ruhiger to the nation. Cliath Modi. Eagle.

Eagle. And thus? Not a part of the sept as a whole.

[Adam Swift-Arrow] *A nod and the man smiled a bit* Always a blessing to meet others of Gaia's children.

*In motion again the ragabash glided over and sat on the far end of the couch. Tilting his head to watch the trio of others. Breathing in the air here. The place charged. So many garou living here it's lucky the roof hadn't blown off yet. Danger death, and the smell of ozone on the air.

Adam's dark eyes flicker over to the board (( assuming she shows it?)) and he smiled a nod offered to her* Ahh the Eagles. I've heard tale of them.

[Serafine] "My home Sept was about half Fenrir," she mused as she gazed at AnneMarie once more. Her teasingly rueful expression indicated that she had a great deal of experience with the tribe, for both good and ill.

Then, on a whim, she leaned over and reached into her bag, unclipping it and pulling out the notebook once more, along with a pencil. She set the notebook against the back of the sofa as she re-settled herself, graphite tip making little scratches against the surface of the paper. It was a casual bit of sketching...doodling, even. Not the practiced and focused marks of a real artist. But Serafine was the type of person who needed something to keep her busy.

[Chanlyeya Greyeyes] "Mine was only Wendigo and Wendigo kin. It kept our traditions unsoiled that way." He closed the foam container holding his food.

[Adam Swift-Arrow] *Adam smiled a bit at Chanlyeya's words. He'd heard such before* Very honorable of your people, Grayeyes.

*leaning forward a bit on the couch to look at Serafine's art*

[AnneMarie Hoch] She watches Seraphine as she starts to sketch, her eyes following the slide of graphite on paper before she catches herself and glances at Adam and Chan. The latter's comment brings a smirk to her lips, as she settles back in her chair, lifting her beer for another swallow.

There are things she could say to that, there are things she might have said another night, another time. However, for now, she just keeps silent. Shock, hm?

[Chanlyeya Greyeyes] Slowly he stood, a slight bow given to each garou in the room. "My time here is done for the night. I must return to my territory in Tekawitha. I have a spirit I must speak with very soon. Thanking you all for this meet. I hope to meet soon. Waachiyaa." Much like other native greetings, it means hello and goodbye. He paused a moment, looking to each, remembering faces to names, before he moved to the stairs to leave.

[Mrena Armstrong] No, he says, you don't understand me.

He talked, and so she listened. She listened like he was giving her some great lesson. Not passive, not receiving a lecture, but actively engaged. They couldn't be talking about Economics 124, because Mrena would have never been so interested in that... despite the fact that, aparently, she had been reading far too many books on corporate culture. [Ed was La s'aise faire, Lukas and Katherine were authoritarian, and there was no place in a pack for democracy.]

He continued, adn she listened, nodded when appropriate, and he could imagine that she was making notes. Taking tally of something or logging it away for reference purposes. Because, if nothing, she was a clever creature. She was an observant creature, and hearing all of this?

Well, now, it made her realize she was not quite as clever or observant as she deigned herself to be.

And, while she should be amazed. or others would be distraught or apalled, she seemed almost pleased at this, impressed, but not riding the border of awe. Just acceptance. This was what it was, and moved on.

"Again," she said, "When explained I can follow your logic."

Katherine needed to look like a victim. She needed to keep her hands clean, she needed to make it look forced so she could live with herself and not compromise whatever wall of morality she built. Leave it to a Shadow Lord to make someone do what was necessary.

There was a pause in her thought process.

"I think saying that I understand you, however, after your explaination is hasty," said rather plainly.

a pause.

"So," a change of thought. "What's wrong with me?"

What an odd question to ask.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas quirks an eyebrow.

"You mean why haven't I accepted you as Alpha already?"

[Adam Swift-Arrow] *Adam waved as the other departed* Take it easy man.

[Mrena Armstrong] "No," she said. "I want to know what's wrong with me. I mean that on a tact-based level. Where else are my weak points, not as a leader, but as a packmate in general. Physical weaknesses, emotional flaws, mental quirks, anything and everything."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Immediately: "You doubt yourself too much."

It might take her a moment to realize it's an answer, not a dismissal.

[Chanlyeya Greyeyes] A nod "You as well, ustaasimaaw." Then was down the stairs and gone.

((Night all, thank you for the RP. See you tomorrow.))

[AnneMarie Hoch] (night!)

[Serafine] She nodded a polite goodbye to the Wendigo as he departed. "Good evening, Greyeyes."

After watching him go, she glanced back at Adam with a little smirk. "Hardly a Picasso, I'm afraid. Drawing is not a strong talent of mine."

So far the rough sketch was only just starting to take form. But it looked...like she might have been drawing AnneMarie. It wasn't as bad as she claimed, either. Just..simple.

[AnneMarie Hoch] There was a lift of her bottle in something of a goodbye for Chanlyeya, though she remains silent then. She doesn't have a good view of what Serafine is drawing, though she has a good view of the artist herself, and she seems content with that, with watching her draw - though she had no idea she is her subject.

She sets her whiteboard on the table, the pen on top of it, and now it is her turn to watch the interaction of the other garou in the room.

[Adam Swift-Arrow] *he looked back to the page and smiles* Talented hand and a complex subject... should add up to a nice peice.

*He looked over to AnneMarie* Did you loose your voice in battle? *not being rude, just curious*

[Mrena Armstrong] And, for a moment, she almost did count it as a dismissal. And she did until there was a silent sort of realization that came over her. She doubted herself too much. And he wasn't the first person to tell her that.

"... doubt's a powerful thing," she said. Mrena exhaled, and then nodded. Acknowledgment, unspoken thanks.

"I've got talens for you, by the way."

[Serafine] "Ah, you are too easy with the compliments, sir. On the artist's behalf, at least. The subject, I am certain you are correct about."

Well, that was a perfectionist for you. Never approving of their own work. She did, however, toss Adam a knowing smile. They were in on something that AnneMarie was not.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Well," a ghost of a smile lifts the corner of Lukas's mouth, "get over it."

She has talens. His eyebrows go up. "Oh? Stuff I can't make myself?"

[AnneMarie Hoch] She arches a brow, slightly, at Seraphine's comment about the subject, perhaps curious, though she does not presume to get up and spy on what the Fury is doing. If and when she wishes AnneMarie to know, she'll will show it to her.

At Adam's question, she simply shakes her head. She did not lose her voice in battle.

[Adam Swift-Arrow] *A gentle laugh at Sera's words and a nod in agreement. then he looked to AM and tilted his head. The curiosity written there plain as day but perhaps asking more than once might fringe on being impolite so he withholds his question. Even as his dark eyes seak an answer* Quite an exciting town. Has there been any word on the radioactive stuff since the first meeting?

[Mrena Armstrong] "It's stuff you can make yourself, but I figured that, seeing as how you're the only ahroun in the pack now it couldn't hurt to give you a couple in the for emergencies only capacity. You're going to be in the line of fire a lot more now, and admittedly, not being able to feel whatever hit you for a little while might be handy."

There was a shrug, and then? "With two theurges, a ragabash, and you we're not really afforded the luxury of a head on assault anymore."

[AnneMarie Hoch] She reaches for her pen and answers his curiosity. It is nothing that she has not been asked before. I was born without vocal cords.

As for the rest, she has no idea what he is speaking of, so does not address it. Merely waits until they have read the board she shows them, than wipes it clean once more.

[Adam Swift-Arrow] Oh! *he nodded, answering his question. Then his brows knit and anyone with any sort of interaction with any sort of Uktena can figure out he's deeply pondering that. What if he'd been born with out. The applications.... That was heavy*

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] A faint wince at the corners of his eyes. "I appreciate the sentiment, Mrena, but I learned the gift from Kate. Keep the talens. Give them to Sampson and Caleb." A pause. "I seem to remember the warpaint being useful, though."

[Mrena Armstrong] She looked at him, and for a moment he could have sworn he saw her go white.

"Oh, please tell me she didn't teach it to you and just found the spirit to do it for you."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas has a history of mistimed laughter. He manages not to burst out into it this time, though -- if only by a narrow margin -- and escapes with a twitch of a grin at the edges of his mouth.

"Why? Afraid we've upset the spirits?"

[Mrena Armstrong] "Upset is a good word."

[Serafine] She had expected as much...in regards to AnneMarie. Which meant that the woman was possibly metis... but this was not a possibility that seemed to bother her. Her tribe, and Serafine in particular, had better things to do than foster prejudices. (Well, of that variety, anyway.)

Her pencil danced lazily across the page as she glanced between AnneMarie and Adam. In response to the latter's question, her eyebrows went up slightly. "I would not know, I'm afraid. I'm quite new to town yet."

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (let's mess with mrena's head!)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 4, 7, 7, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Adam Swift-Arrow] (( brb bio))

[Mrena Armstrong] (O rly? Ya rly!)
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 6, 6, 6, 8, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] The grin dies a slow, pale death.

He's serious now. Apparently, anyway. "Shit. Do you think it's serious? What should we do?"

[Mrena Armstrong] (Yer screwed, Lukas.)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 4, 5, 5, 6, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] (ORLY.)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 4, 6, 6, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Wahya] A third visit. Three times the charm, they say. He is getting better at routing directions to the places he wants to visit, though, his ability to comprehend street signs is still severely lacking. Wahya has found the back door entrance, meant for creatures like him, to stealth their way up to the commons. He is here for one reason or another, the knowledge that others like him dwell in this habit intrigues Wahya.

He is a much cleaner vagrant this time around. Clothes are not covered in grime and stink as before. The lesson in turning on broken waterfalls has come in handy, so one would pray. Still though, there is a lack of grooming that Wahya doesn’t participate in. The scruffy visage of his matted mane of tiny braids, molding into some fashion of dreads, slithers about his lean shoulders, curtain much of his bronzed, weathered face.

He can hear voices, or perhaps thinks he does. The slow climb up the back stairs is met with low clomps of his feet dragging across the floor, his head turning left and then right, up and down, to drink in the details of the room with his dark hidden eyes.

[AnneMarie Hoch] Possibly metis, though being born without vocal cords for a Fenrir could quite possibly be considered the worst deformity ever. It is nothing to be proud of, it is nothing obvious, it is nothing that lives up to the ideal of the Fenrir Sense of Grandiose Proportions that they give to everything they do, all that they are. She, however, neither confirms no denies anything, until she is asked.

Seraphine knows nothing of this meeting or the radioactive business either, and she gestures with a hand that agrees with what she said. She looks up as Wahya enters, and lifts her chin toward him in hello, before returning to watch Seraphine sketch with pale gaze.

[Mrena Armstrong] The color didn't come back to her cheeks, her expression didn't do anything but stay the way it was. And the theurge inhaled slowly and sighed. One would think that Mrena was just holding it back, that she was trying to find the right words to say or how to let him down gently- because that was what she did. Mrena sugar coated, she beat around the bush, and she was indirect.

"Well," she said. "I... Yeah, this is kind of serious. Unless you perform some kind of chiminage to them, those particular spirits might hold that slight against you any time you try to learn from them again. If it's been awhile the damage might already be done."

[Adam Swift-Arrow] *Reclining on one end of the couch, Adam's dark eyes came up from his ponderings as Wahya came in. A gentle smile crossing his face* Well. Good evening my wolven brother. How does it find you?

And we seriously have to talk about the sweet gifts you've been leaving my sister... and the manner in which it's been done.

*His tone was slightly amused. Slightly not.*

[Wahya] Wahya’s eyes light up with mirth, a moment of clarity sparking in his features as he recognizes the voice and hand gestures that call out to him in greeting. He gravitates instantly to the grouping of AnneMarie and Adam: people, no Garou, which Wahya is familiar with.

Adam spoke of the ‘gifts’. “No find rabbit.” He responds in kind, the rumbling growl of his voice coming out in a gravelly tone. The corners of his mouth spread wide and up, a reflection of his birth moon, flashing perfect white sharp teeth at all of them. He saunters his way over, quick to join the company that he knows. A hand steals itself from out of his pocket, raised up in a small gesture in the air to greet AnneMarie.

[Adam Swift-Arrow] *Adam laughed* ok two things.. I like cats.. so no more cats ok? And No peigons. They have lots of desiease that could totally Kill Sage. Like KILL KILL. Dead.

She appreciates the gifts and the intent with which they were given but yeah.. Maybe flowers? Instead of flesh? She likes flowers. She's an herbalist.

*looking to AM and Sera* Have you both met my brother? This is Wahya, wolf born of my people

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] "Well then," and Lukas is the very picture of careful contemplation, frowning with his arms folded across his chest and his hands tucked under his biceps, "it's probably a good thing that ... "

-- still totally deadpan, this --

" ... I learned it from a Bear spirit." A beat. Then the Ahroun grins, a sudden breaking of the expression across his face. One thinks of shafts of sunlight through stormclouds; one thinks of sunlight flashing off knives. He reaches behind himself to grab his pillow, chucks it rather unmercifully at Mrena's face.

"Nice try trying to scare me though," said the pot to the kettle. "Ass."

[Serafine] Finally, the pencil stopped. She applied the eraser to a few places, cleaning up some of the stray lines. She wasn't exactly satisfied. Serafine was never satisfied with anything. But it would do.

She looked up from the sketch as Wahya was introduced to her, and she offered a polite nod in the Lupus' direction. "I have not. It is a pleasure to meet you, Wayha. I am Serafine. Black Angel. Cliath Galliard of the Black Furies." She'd shortened the list of identifiers for the lupus, partly because she understood that too many names and translations of names could get to be a bit much for some of the Wolf born. Partly because she's introduced herself more than a few times today as it was.

Then she stood up, tearing the page from her notebook and walking over to AnneMarie. She handed it to the Modi calmly. "I hope you do not mind."

The picture was, as she had said, not of professional quality. Just a simple sketch. But it had character, and an elegant stroke that indicated a distinct style which was all...Serafine. "I like to draw things that I find interesting."

[AnneMarie Hoch] She lifts her hands and signs a quick hello to Wahya. ~I trust no more broken waterfalls?~ before Sera stands and moves toward her with the notebook. She arches a brow, slightly, and reaches to take the notebook, and sets it in her lap. She sets her beer bottle on the table, and studies the quick sketch for a long moment, silently.

It's always slightly disconcerting to see how others see oneself, and this is no different. She traces the lines with her fingers, without marring them, as if exploring her face for the first time, so that she later can compare them in some mirror or another.

Serafine says she draws things she finds interesting, and the smirk softens slightly into the slightest of smiles - there, than gone again, but if she is watching for it, she will see it. She reaches for her whiteboard, and writes quickly, but leaves it in her lap, where only Seraphine can read it.

[AnneMarie Hoch] I do not think I am as interesting as your picture, but it is beautifully done, for all the plainness of your subject.
to Serafine

[Wahya] Cats? Wahya blinks, stunned by Adam’s revelation, he shakes his head violently from side to side, sending the vines of hair into frenzy away from his shoulders. He stops on the floor, a few feet away, lowering his body into a crouch, hunching forward with his arms drawing up to drape over bent knees.

“No like cat.” He snorts, a cuff of air rushed out of his nose. Nostrils flaring, he drags a hand out to point at Adam, “Wolf big, cat food like rabbit, yes. Wolf-brother see. Little Sister learn make good cat, yes.”

His eyes wander over to Serafine as she addressed him. He brings up a hand to wave to her, remaining crouched on the floor as he was, it was hard to tell how big or small a man he was. Though, Wahya was a bit on the short side, his borrowed clothes, garments stolen from Adam’s closet were a bit baggy on him. His gaze swings in AnneMarie’s direction, watching the exchange between Fury and Fenrir; the jagged arches of his thick eyebrows lifting high to almost disappear into the wrinkling of his brow.

"Wah-yah Many Tongues," He replies back to Serafine, thumping a hand to his chest. "Grinning moon born." There is an accent to the way he pronounces his name, the rest of his speech a jumble of broken English. His eyes dart back to catch the hand gestures as AnneMarie signs to him, he nods his head to her grinning even more.

[Adam Swift-Arrow] *Adam ran a hand over his eyes* Um... cats could be peoples pets. We have a cat. it's... a bit touched. It actually likes me.. No eat cats. Eat squirrels or some shit.

*Laughing he stood* And the pigeons could kill her. So none of those.

*he pointed* and no sneaking' into my house. If I tripped over you in the dark one night slipping a mouse into her shoe I might freak out fur out and kill ya. *He laughed* Door step!

[Mrena Armstrong] Hi, pot! I'm Kettle!
Hi, pillow! I'm face!

And, with that, she took the pillow to the face, and instead of throwing it back just yet, all it did was make Mrena erupt into almost giggles born of semi-sadistic glee.

"Oh, I'm an ass. I'm an ass-" she said as she threw the pillow back. Admittedly, her aim wasn't half as good as Lukas' "-and you're the one who tried to convince me that you'd learned it from Katherine."

She was somewhere between giggles and mild irritation.

"God, you-you- buttface. What the Hell? If you're gonna trick me, don't make it so easy to catch you!"

[Serafine] "You flatter me, and give yourself not enough credit. You are a Modi. That is hardly...plain." Leave it to a Galliard to remind a warrior just why they were supposed to be proud.

"Keep it."

She said this as she retrieved the notebook, separating the page with her picture on it and leaving this on the table. "Or you can throw it away when I'm not looking, if you don't like it. I promise I won't be offended." Her wink was a knowing one, as she turned and paced back to pick up her bag and replace the notebook and pencil inside of it. Then she slung the thing back onto her shoulder and gave one last look to the room at large. "I bid you all a good evening."

Then she was off down the stairs, and out into the night.

[Wahya] Adam points a finger at the hunched man, who blinks ever-so-innocently up at his tribal brother. Wahya cocks his head to the side, tilting so far to the left that he’s almost looking up at Adam from an upside down angle. His eyebrows twitch up and down, knitting forward until their corners touch. He makes some gargled sound, which could be passing for a chuckle. His body shook with small tremors of quiet laughter. “Wolf-brother does same to prank Little Sister.”

[Adam Swift-Arrow] *He nods* It's very funny but yeah. keep that in mind.. *he grinned* I gotta be getting home. You cool here by your self?

*Raising his brows and looking to Wahya.*

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas fends the pillow off with a careless arm. It bounces off his forearm, skids off the side of the bed, lands on the floor. There's no confusion on his part: Lukas is just laughing, uninhibitedly, hard enough that he can't answer for a while.

"I just -- I just couldn't resist--" and he's off again, laughing harder.

When that bout lets him go, Lukas is wiping his eyes with a pinch of his thumb and forefinger. He leans back against his headboard with a sigh, something between exhaustion and satisfaction. "My stomach hurts," he says; guffaws; calms. "And I couldn't resist. It's your own fault for seeing through it. I was hoping to get some cellphone pics of your 'I'm Outraged!' face."

[AnneMarie Hoch] She wipes the board clean on her thigh once Serafine has read it, and then takes the picture, as it is offered, with a look up at the Fury. She certainly will not throw it away at the first moment she is gone. Instead, she folds it carefully. She pulls her coat off the back of her chair, and slips the picture into the inside pocket, where it will remain until she can place it with her things, where it will not be lost.

And then she is gone, and AnneMarie just remains sitting there, very calmly reaching for her beer to take several long swallows. Loud laughter comes from one of the rooms, and she glances that direction, and then returns her attention to the rooms other occupants.

[Wahya] “Yes.” He says to Adam, straightening himself up as he sits higher on his heels, watching him for a brief moment. His head cants to the side at some muffled sound of laughter in the distance, trailing off from one of the rooms. He swings his eyes back in the direction of AnneMarie, where Serafine has left her. He waves to Adam, slowly rising up, stretching his arms back over his shoulders and waits for his tribal brother to leave.

[Adam Swift-Arrow] If you need something to eat, just come by our place. Knock.... and we'll feed ya up man.

*nodding he smiled and headed for the steps. Waving good by to the ladies as well* Nice meeting you ladies.

*Then he glided down the stairs and out*

[Mrena Armstrong] it stopped being giggling and evolved into laughter. The kind of laughter that made her body shake, that made her fall to one side of the bed and curl into something fairly close to the fetal position. Instead of making a ruckus, she turned her head to try and not make so much noise.

She started to calm down. Mrena stopped, uncurling just enough to look at Lukas... just in time for him to say that his stomach hurt.

Which was all it took for her to keep laughing, and laugh harder. Which, eventually, turned into quiet gasps of air and half owws.

"Oh, god, which pics do you have? I admit, my 'I'm outraged' is amazing. I'll trade you two of my embarrassing shots for a few of your unflattering I inhaled my lamb shots."

[AnneMarie Hoch] She lifts a chin toward Adam as he leaves, and absently rolls the beer bottle between her fingers before she sets it on the table again with a dull clunk.

People come and go quickly here in the common room of the brotherhood, while others stick around and stay a long time. One can learn a lot through simply watching the interactions - and lack there-of. Finally, she signs at Wahya, arching a brow slightly. ~You have been well since we last spoke?~

[Wahya] Tongue in cheek, they bubble out filled with air, nostril flare up as he slowly breathes out, appearing indecisive. Wahya kept his eyes on Adam’s back until the other Uktena had become far out of sight, down the stairs.

The motion of hand gestures, silent words as he likes to call them, route his attention back to the Fenrir woman sitting in her chair. He doesn’t answer her just yet, walking over to her instead. Wahya finds a chair nearest AnneMarie dragging/pushing it over to her. He hops up on the seat, feet planting a space apart as he crouched down, looking up at her as his arms cradle against his chest, and resting hands atop bent knees.

He begins to sign to her, Good yes. pointing at her, indicating after herself, You?

[AnneMarie Hoch] She watches him watch Adam, silently, until he comes to join her at the table. She is sitting easier tonight, normally even, where as last time they met she was stiff, and the scent of dried blood hung about her, sharp and familiar. If she was injured, it is clear that has since healed. - that's healed, not been healed. She is Fenrir. She did not seek healing, but rather let her body mend itself as is fitting for a Modi. The difference is important.

She nods slightly at the question, and then asks another. ~You leave cats and pigeons for your tribemate?~

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] She descends back into laughter. Which of course drags him down with her. He's laughing again; she wants i inhaled my lamb shots; he leans sideways, nearly falls out of bed, grabs his pillow up, wallops her again.

"No, but I'll give you the pics I have of Kate in a car wreck." This, when he's got himself under control again. "I think my angle was way better than yours; you could totally see her glaring." And another laugh bubbles out of him, escaping before he can call it back.

A little later: "I miss her." The laughter dies a natural death; subsides to a smile. The smile shifts, becomes quieter. "I miss them all. Sometimes I wonder -- "

He breaks off there.

[Wahya] She can see the look of bemusement creeping over his face. He flashes a quick grin, rolling up his shoulders and shrugs them, doing his best to feign an expression of innocence.

Little Sister and Wolf-brother good to Wolf, so leave presents. Little Sister no like cat. he lets out a sigh, Rabbit scarce, make do with what there is to hunt. Hunt cat. Can eat cat.

[AnneMarie Hoch] Her lips quirk at the feigned innocence, though not quite into smirk nor smile as she nods her understanding. ~In Scab, rabbits are difficult to find. Cats are plentiful - I understand the choice.

You asked me to teach - here is another lesson. Little sister may be better pleased with flowers. Pretty ones from the forest, that smell nice, and have vivid color. They cannot be eaten, but result in less screaming. Seem silly to you, but in the City, things are different. Like Making Rain to wash under in the Cave of Shiny Stones.

Unless, of course, her screams are for amusement? Then, try Sewer Rats. they get almost as big as cat.

[Mrena Armstrong] "Oh God you have to send me yours, Lukas, I am so serious-" she said. Mrena finally managed to come down from her laugher, managed to uncurl from the fetal position and back into something more natural.

Or, at the very least, more upright.

A little bit later, he said that he missed Katherine. That he missed all of them, and stops himself mid thought. And Mrena sat there in silence, in Edward's shirt, and for a moment didn't quite know what to say. The thought of them made her smile.

"I miss them, too," she said. Quietly, but not too quiet.

And, for a moment, she didn't explore that last part where Lukas had broken off. There were things that they knew and things that they didn't; it went unsaid that they missed their packmates. It was hard to articulate how much. Mrena didn't touch Dylan's half of the room. It looked clean, and it was as pristine as it had been since Dylan was last there.

But Mrena never so much as considered touching it. She never ventured to that side, as though that half of the room was sacred. Maybe it was because, on some level, the theurge was delusional. On some level, she was convinced that Dylan was coming back. And, on some level, Mrena thought of this as a weakness.

"You wonder what?"

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] In the silence, Lukas had looked away -- toward his desk, his closed closet door, as though taking inventory of his room.

Her question brings his regard swinging back. He looks at her for a moment.

Then: "I wonder if we should've stayed in New York. Or Boston." A shrug. "Sometimes it just seems like we were more of a pack there. Closer. Not so strained. I thought we should come out here to toughen ourselves up, to ... grow up, but -- "

A shrug ends it.

[Wahya] He grins for a moment when she mentions about making rain to wash in. He is still smug with himself at having discovered the secret to fixing the broken waterfalls. His body is relaxed, continuing to perch in a crouched position on the chair. Wahya is pretty still, except for his head movements, which always seem to turn or tilt in a certain manner or direction. Shifting to follow the paths of light that might gleam off an object that could catch his eyes for a second or two, before returning back to focus once again on AnneMarie.

The talk of Little Sister seems to make his eyebrows furrow deeply. She can see him shake his head, tossing that matted mane of braids back over his shoulders away from his face. The glossy, puckered line of scar tissue runs in a slant down his right temple, caressing over part of his cheekbone, ending just at the flat curve of his nostril; it twitches and pulls as he works the muscles in his jaw.

He signs back to her, Sewer rat? Little Sister cannot live on flowers. Will starve to death, rat good?

[AnneMarie Hoch] Her pack might be surprised to see her like this - almost relaxed, though they certainly have often seen her calm. Despite the press of the growing moon sharpening the edge of her rage, she still remains still, with any tension coiled deep within, ready to call upon at a moment's notice, for any reason - despite that, she has the visage of one who is relaxed, and speaking with a friend.

...does she truly have any? No one knows.

She signs after a moment's consideration. ~In the city, one does not need to hunt as you do in the Forests, to survive. Here, we trade money for food, at the store or like the floor below. You walked through the kitchen, where food is prepared here often. It is much the same for your Little sister. She will not starve. The flowers are not for her to eat, but rather something pretty to look at - in the scab, it is sometimes hard to find natural beauty. Flowers remind us of that beauty. ~

[Mrena Armstrong] "I think.. maybe, it's because we have grown up here. It's harder because what's familiar has changed. Roles have shifted, people have grown and we're all going in different places."

She was quiet for a minute. "You know, before I joined this pack I'd never been out of Boston? And, even after that, this was the first place I'd ever really been?"

A mark of how young they all were, really. Lukas has seen her grow up, almost literally. She's been in this pack for almost a quarter of her life. In a way, it was almost more potent than going through some sort of life-changing event. It was uncertainty.

But she would adapt, or she wouldn't. And if Mrena didn't adapt, well then...

"I don't know how to fix things, Lukas. I can't until people get it into their heads that things aren't the way they were, and that today isn't yesterday and that we aren't who we were. And even, I can't keep us together unless packmates are willing to try."

there was silence.

More silence.

"It's actually easier, for me at least, to talk to you now than it has been in the past."

[Wahya] Wahya’s jaw relaxes; mouth opens a bit in a slack jawed expression. He blinks at AnneMarie as she can begin to read the markers of confusion stirring up. His arms slide away from his chest, hands drift up in front of his chest to sign back to her; long fingers curling and uncurling, moving in quick fluid movements that seem to express some sort of agitation, thumping against his chest a few times.

Have seen this money you speak of, fills the cups of my coats. People take pity on me and give on the street, while others are scared to come close. What is purpose of these frog-skins? If I can hunt in forest to survive, why can’t I hunt in Scab?

Wahya drops his hands across his lap, smoothing his palms over the denim fabric of his jeans until it creates a warming sensation that draws his eyes downward, examining the dark blue material between his brown fingers. “Flowers.” He mutters in a gravelly bass, perhaps more to himself, just to hear his own voice. Wahya shakes his head, looking up at AnneMarie and signs to her. What flowers do other than die to look pretty? Why suggest giving them to Little Sister, when food better.

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Silence answers her, though there's every sense that Lukas is listening. He just doesn't have anything to say.

There's nothing to say to most of that.

But at the end, when she says it's easier to talk to him now, the edges of his mouth turn up in a faint, wan smile. "Well," he says, wry, "at least there's that."

It's a sort of knee-jerk irony. A moment passes before he adds, sincere: "I'm glad of that."

[Mrena Armstrong] "Yeah," she said. And it was all that she said. Mrena then rolled off the bed and started to straighten herself out. Her hair was a bit of a mess now that she had taken a pillow to the face and endured all sorts of mess-your-hair-up endeavors.

"If there's anything I can do for you, let me know, okay?"

[AnneMarie Hoch] She watches the confusion grow, and runs her hand back through her hair, considering how she might answer his questions. It is more difficult than one would think, to explain such things to those who have not grown up with them.

~Monkeys, and the rest of us in the cities, use money to buy food, to purchase lodging, to use for the daily needs to live in the city - even the water for the Waterfalls is paid for with this money. Suggested flowers because Little Sister may not need food, not in the traditional hunting way. Flowers to die to be pretty isn't a need, but enjoyed for the time they live. Sometimes in the scab, wants mean more than needs. Bottom line, hunting in Scab could attract attention of those who would not be so understanding of you and your ways, and cannot know of us in general. When in Scab, have to do as those in the Scab do.~

[Lukas Wyrmbreaker] Lukas nods. Mrena gets up, straightens herself out. He picks his laptop up and flips it open, returning to ... whatever the hell he was working on before she came in here.

"Back atcha," he says -- flippant words; sincerity just under the surface.

[Wahya] Wahya watches her hands rather intently; he swallows the lump forming in the base of his throat. A taste forms in his mouth that feels bitter and causes him to swallow again as he tells him about what one does to live the Scab’s way. His nostrils flare out, breathing in deeply, he wants to spit out the bad taste in his mouth at the notion of having to abandon his hunting tactics.

It brings about his next question of her; Do all Scab wolves do this? Does it make you lose sight of your wolf nature? he had considered the lengths of time he might have to spend in this city, the notion of losing touch of his self did not sit well with him. It makes Wahya curl back his upper lip in a mock snarl and grit his teeth.

[Mrena Armstrong] And with that? She was out the door. Mrena shut it behind her.