polite conversation.

[Wyrmbreaker] After the revel, a cold grey morning. A night's worth of dark-compensation has left their eyes unused to the light. Everything looks brilliant, washed-out, lit with the sort of stark clarity a night without sleep gives.

Wyrmbreaker has returned to the assembly area, idly sifting a handful of cold, sandy earth from one hand to the other. When he catches sight of Covered Sky, he calls out to her. His stripped, raw creak of a voice is unmistakable. Only one wolf currently holds that punishment.

"Philodox." Dirt spills from his hands; he dusts them on his thighs as he rises. "A word with you?"

[Covered Sky] The congregation disperses quickly after the revel has finished. The earth doesn't seem to cry out with the press of Rage coming from so many bodies packed in so small a space, doesn't bristle with the electricity of it anymore. Even the dawn seems to breathe a sigh of relief now that the tricksters and the lawgivers and the warriors have decided to call an end to their gathering and go home to their Kinfolk, to their territory.

One Garou, in her thin homid form, remains at the assembly area. She is not wearing a coat, and her dedicated white thermal is stained from the Run, various streaks of melted snow and frozen earth on her jeans. Her arms are holding her elbows, and she's watching the east, in the direction of the rising sun, her breath leaving her body in visible white plumes.

A creaking cry carries her name on the wind, and the Half Moon looks over sharply, her unrestrained hair whipping off of her shoulders. She is not surprised. By now she has to be used to that voice, to having to strain to make out the phonemes as they rise and fall on the waves of Wyrmbreaker's punishment.

He's taller than her by almost an entire foot, yet she carries herself as though she does not have to tilt her neck to meet his gaze when they come to stand beside each other. Her eyes leave the foggy horizon, and she turns towards the Ahroun Elder.

"Of course," she says.

[Wyrmbreaker] "It's about your packmate," he says -- no attempt to sidestep or deny this. He remains standing until she is near enough that it is polite to sit. "You heard what I said earlier, at the second challenge for Master of the Challenge?"

If she has not, he repeats it, paraphrased, for her benefit.

"The bottom line is," he finishes, "I think your packmate has forgotten his place, or is deliberately trying to rise above it. Put even more bluntly: I think Zeke is the type of 'beta' wolf who will not hesitate to seize what power he can. I think if you're not careful, you'll find that his influence will soon exceed yours. And Host of Traitors is the sort of Shadow Lord who probably shouldn't be allowed too much free rein.

"I mean no disrespect by bringing this before you. Rather, I mean to respect your position as Host of Traitor's alpha. I will keep him in his place if I need to as alpha of the tribe, but he's your responsibility first."

[Covered Sky] When Wyrmbreaker sits in the sand, Covered Sky hefts a breath and drops into a light-footed crouch beside him, balancing on the balls of her feet for now, arms draped across her horizontal thighs rather than tucked in against her body despite the chill.

"I heard," she confirms.

Slim fingers that hardly seem to belong to a warrior of Gaia link together where they hang over the edge of her knees, and her shoulders are back and her neck is straight as she listens to the forecast: her metis packmate is trying to rise above his station in more than one arena.

Anyone looking at Covered Sky during the Cracking of the Bone whereby the Ragabashes were calling upon the newly-named Master of the Challenge or during the actual challenge itself would have noticed that she didn't seem to be paying attention to what was being said beyond ensuring that there was a bone in the hand of the person speaking and that no one around them was whispering amongst themselves. When she was paying attention to the proceedings there was a look of measured patience on her face, a lack of familiarity in her eyes; Host of Traitors' standing up to challenge a Fostern Fiann for his position had come as a surprise to her, but only those with keen senses would have been able to tell.

"He is my responsibility," she says, supinating her forearms as if to feel the dawn's air on her flesh. She isn't shivering. "Wyrmbreaker-rhya, I will speak with him... remind him of his place. We don't have the ability to do so using Ares as a conduit yet, or things might have gone differently tonight."

[Wyrmbreaker] There's a moment when Wyrmbreaker's keen, pale eyes are on the Philodox, searching her face. She might recognize this look. It's a look she herself has worn before, perhaps when she was a cub -- learning to smell deceit or uncertainty before she had the help of gifts.

A moment later, apparently satisfied, the Ahroun nods. "Thank you," he says. "For what it's worth, I think Zeke is doing what he feels is best for the Sept and the war. It's his methods I disagree with. Tradition and law exist for a reason."

The morning is overcast and frigid, but there's still enough light sheening off the lake to make him squint when he looks eastward. When he turns back, his face relaxes suddenly; smiles.

"I guess I don't have to tell a Philodox that."

He coughs, then, a distracted, reflexive attempt to fix a voice that won't right itself for another week yet. A moment of hesitation; then he adds, "One more thing. A beta can be invaluable, but don't make the mistake of thinking they'll be loyal to you above all. A beta is always loyal to the pack first. His idea of the pack. If he senses weakness -- or if he simply senses you straying from his ideals -- he will not follow you for long.

"You already know this, I'm sure. But it's not something you should forget. I was the beta of my pack once. Edward was the Alpha. Look where we are now."

At the Howl, Edward stood dead last with his pack.

[Covered Sky] Were not for the fact that Wyrmbreaker is her tribal leader, that he already knows more about her than anything else in this city, this conversation would have been truncated at a very early stage. He knows that she used to be the Master of the Challenge at the Sept of the Red Rock, or at least, she's told him this; he knows, or at least was told, that she twice earned and lost the second rank, that she is a Cliath for the third time at an age that is advanced by their society's standards. She's well beyond young adulthood, is well beyond those tumultuous early twenties where one is attempting to find one's identity as a person and a creature of Gaia as well as fight one's way out of the heap to become a warrior of distinction with one's pack, one's tribe, one's Sept.

That said, even if she is not used to people telling her things that she already knows, she has the sense to recognize when someone is attempting to offer her advice, or guidance, or something resembling assistance. He seeks out her face for signs of subterfuge and finds only mild fatigue and wariness; she looks back at him and sees exhaustion, hears squawking reminders of punishment for a crime that her auspice leader believes was due to happen eventually.

Covered Sky releases her fingers to reach up and push a large shock of black hair back behind one small ear. When he smiles, so does she; but faintly.

"It's been some time since I was part of a Sept," she says, "let alone the Alpha of a pack. This pack is very small. In a way, I have to be more vigilant than I would be in a larger pack. We can't afford to be divided, or have conflicts of interest, or we won't have a pack for long."

The wind is tugging at the ends of her hair. In the pale dawning daylight, Wyrmbreaker can see more clearly the scar that was obscured by darkness and shadow at the Moot: her throat was torn out recently. She was killed, but she did not die.

"I appreciate your words, Wyrmbreaker-rhya, and I'll keep them in mind when I speak to Host of Traitors-yuf."

[Wyrmbreaker] The Shadow Lords are not beasts of etiquette like the Silver Fangs, but most of them a sense of decorum nonetheless. It's a more practical sort: an awareness of what to say and what not to say, and of the reactions of their listeners, designed not so much to keep to a thousand and one rules of complex ceremony and courtesy but to, very simply, be effective. Effective leaders, effective warriors, effective advisors.

Things are said which are not spoken. It means something that Covered Sky appreciates his words; it means something that her pack can't afford to be divided. The Ahroun, who looks perhaps a bit tired from the night and the challenge and the hunt, but mostly just seems ... eerily calm, emptied of rage and filled with spirit, mulls this over for a moment and then nods.

"Can I ask you something else?"

And if the answer is yes -- "Why didn't you challenge for Master of the Challenge?"

[Covered Sky] A brief silence passes over them, one sitting and the other lowering her weight onto the flats of her feet rather than continuing to balance on the balls, and then:

Can I ask you something else?

Thus far, the Philodox has answered nearly every question that the higher-ranked Ahroun has asked her. Her answers may have not been the absolute truth, and she may have omitted some details in the responses she has given him, but she has not darted away from the telling. Now, she looks up from where her eyes had rested on the sand and over to him, her eyes searching his face without boring into his eyes.

"Yes," she says.

She wraps her arms around her midsection, her Rage drained enough that she's feeling the cold even if she is not reacting to it; her will is just as strong as it was when she awoke this afternoon. There is a question as to why she didn't challenge for Master of the Challenge, and she folds her lips in on themselves as she considers the question.

"I thought I would be better suited as Truthcatcher," she says, after a moment. "I also didn't want to challenge a Fostern."

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas considers this for a moment. "Fair enough," he says.

Then, standing, he dusts his hands off again; holds the right out. "I should let you get back to your packmate," he says. "Thanks for talking, Covered Sky."

[Covered Sky] Hands on her knees, Park propels herself standing when the Ahroun does likewise. She does not have to cleanse her hands before offering them; in Lukas's, her right is small yet warm despite the chill of the morning around them.

The female squints briefly as she turns into the sun, then bows her head and says, "Any time, Wyrmbreaker-rhya."

With that, she retrieves her coat from where it had been left slung over a crate, and treks not north towards the Brotherhood but south, towards the bus stop.

[Covered Sky] [Wrap!]

great first impression.

[Park] By all accounts, Thursday is the new Friday. Whatever that is supposed to mean. The calendar in Room 4 says that Thursday is Thursday is the night before the new moon; there is a Rotagar living in the Brotherhood who is supposed to be able to use her voice again then, but the wavy-haired Half Moon living several rooms down from the Sentinels is not looking for Josephine Oliver, and she's not hunting tonight.

Last night, she had. She had found nothing. It was discouraging, but the moon overhead had not been heavy enough to renew her inner store of ferocity by a simple glance. There was too much cloud cover tonight for it to do any such thing.

Yet Covered Sky is still a frightening creature to those who have very little in the way of control over themselves and their baser urges, and she has a dangerous edge as she sits at a table overlooking the North Michigan skyline. She is alone, an empty armchair parked across the coffee table from her, and she seems perfectly at ease with this state of affairs. Her dress is just classy enough to be considered as part of the clientele at this establishment: black ballerina flats, a heavy black skirt, and a black thermal shirt without a bra. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, and she does not wear makeup or jewelry. She doesn't need to. It gets in the way.

She's drinking a Manhattan because it's the cheapest cocktail on the menu. Slim, unpainted fingers twirl the cherry around the ice-filled glass by the stem, almost meditative in her mindfulness. They're piping smooth jazz through the speakers on the 96th floor of the John Hancock Center, and if she's listening to it, she's doing so quietly.

[OOC: We are here! https://www.signatureroom.com/Signature-Lounge/ ]

[Kate] The last occasion that Katherine Bellamonte had had to be at the Signature Lounge, she had been drinking her sorrows away after she'd been forced to cast off her sibling from her tribe and her family. She had also been alone for a large portion of the evening before her pack-mates discovered her and with a mixture of tutorship, convinced the Half Moon that her self pity would get her nowhere at all.

After that night, it had been some time before Truth's Meridian had the time to return to the pretty, pretty views out the windows of the up-market establishment in the John Hancock Center.

Katherine enjoyed the place because it was 96 stories above everything else and she did appreciate heights -- she was singular to most she knew for this fondness. She also enjoyed it because it was quiet, most evenings, with only the sort of company that a young woman like Katherine Bellamonte would find pleasing. Would find, if not quite on a par with her level of sophistication, at least very near to it.

She arrives some time after Covered Sky, her winter's coat taken at the door and leaving the Silver Fang dressed in immaculate white slacks and a rather lovely soft cashmere sweater, a black belt was fitted around her waist and matched the heels on the Philodox's feet. Her waves of gold hair had been left out and fell becomingly around her neck and shoulders.

She pauses, the newly-made Fostern, when she glimpses the other Half Moon and with a small quirk of her lips takes herself over to Park's table.

"May I join you?"

[Park] The Cliath does not, in her interactions with the Garou of the Nation, carry herself like someone who is used to being referred to as '-yuf' by other Cliaths. She does not seem like someone who is still unsure of her place within their society, who needs to be told where to go and what to do, what actions to take; there is no wariness in her form when she is at the spiritual epicenter of their city, as though she does not understand the significance or the power of a Caern. She makes eye contact for just as long as is comfortable or respectful before addressing another person's forehead or chin. She knows the law backwards and forwards, knows it so well that she can almost present other tribes' versions of the truth without faltering or flummoxing.

Yet she holds no Sept offices. She holds no eldership of any sort. She is, for all the straightness of her spine and assuredness of her actions, a Cliath. There are only two people still in this city who have any idea why that could be.

Covered Sky is willing, even eager, to act as an impartial mediator or a judge for disputes and council matters here in the city, but she is not in quite as large of a hurry to open up to those who she helps. Thus far she and Truth's Meridian, who has called upon her twice for assistance with legal matters, have spoken perhaps a dozen words to each other.

And then there she is, sharply dressed and near luminescent despite the darkness of the sky overhead. The world is colorfully lit by neon, by bulbs; the sum total of the wattage put out into the city is reflected by the cloudy sky as a blanket of pink, giving the landscape an otherworldly feel to it. The Lord pulls her attention away from it sharply, her nostrils briefly flaring with the scent of Kate's perfume--not heavy enough to overpower her breeding; perhaps nothing can do this--before she smiles and gestures to the armchair across from her with the hand that had been stirring her ice with the cherry.

"Please," she says. Once Kate has seated herself, Park goes on, "I heard about your recent accomplishment. Congratulations."

[Kire] 94, 95, 96, and ding, the elevator door opened. Out of it stepped a man who, while dressed in casual clothes which were neither fancy nor vagrant-looking either, looked out of place. Almost like a caveman in the middle of a modern city, and in some ways he was, he felt more than slightly uncomfortable and uneasy about the place. Having grown up in a war-torn country and spending most of his adult life in and out of battlefields, as well as being new to this whole Garou society thing as a whole, the man by the name of Kire was not used to living in civilization, let alone a fancy place like this. Never in a million years would he have dreamt he'd ever set foot in a restaurant this fancy.

He paced himself carefully, walking as calmly and (un)naturally as he could towards a waiter, he dropped the name of the woman he was here to meet. Someone by the name of Katherine Bellamonte. The people at the Caern had given him a name and told him where to go, supposedly, to meet one of the Elders of the Silver Fang tribe, as well as Elder Philodox here. It was a matter of introducing himself properly to the people of importance in the city.

As he waited for the waiter to lead him to a table, as he'd apparently recognized the name and the woman was indeed in, Kire mused of the fight he'd lost earlier that day, a woman not that much smaller than him but probably half his age, he didn't even know her name, rank nor auspice, but he'd been beaten almost completely. They'd traded blows equally for a while before it swung her way completely, and the pain in his kidney was still there, though luckily no bruises were obvious in his current clothes so he could avoid strange looks.

[Kate] Katherine had been, it could be said, very fortunate in her upbringing. She had never not known what her parentage was, what her blood-line meant, why her father's mere presence frightened her senses so and why, one day that seemed in no way superior to any other, her father did not return home.

At the age of six, she'd been presented in the Court of the Queen of her mother's family, and curtsied prettily for the patroness of House Gleaming Eye. She was reared between two continents and was bilingual by the time she reached her eighth birthday.

She was a monster by her eighteenth.

Truth's Meridian had never had so much trouble with her place among Garou society; she knew her role well enough, even as a Cub and then as a Cliath seemed only to bloom as she discovered where her talents and her obligations lay. She has been, perhaps here too, fortunate. The first pack she was a part of was still her pack today -- if re-named and beneath a new totem.

Two of her original pack-mates remain within it, alongside herself.

So, when Covered Sky offers her congratulations regarding her latest accomplishment within the world she's been reared since childhood to become an important part of, Katherine merely smiles in her pretty, polite way and inclines her head in unspoken thanks.

"I admit to a degree I still feel as if it was some dream, not reality, I--"

A waiter approaches the table and the Half Moon turns to check him with her eyes; he flusters and turns to gesture to Kire. "Pardon the intrusion, ladies, but that man seems to know your name, says he's looking for you. Shall I show him over?"

Katherine frowns, and flicks a glance at the other Half Moon.

"You may do so, and if you would be so good, a dry Martini for myself."

[Kire] Soon after, the waiter returned, he had received his instructions and began to lead the strange, out-of-place man to Katherine's table. He seemed to be afraid of Kire for some reason as he didn't seem to want to look him in the eyes or at all if possible. However, that was to be expect, even if you took away the strange and dangerous atmosphere around Garou, he would still seem dangerous, something about the way he carried himself, spoke, and acted, he was a veteran soldier after all. It was a short time until he was finally at Katherine's table, though now unease struck again, harder than ever.

He knew she was a member of the Silver Fangs, and he knew it was she obviously, as well as her name, but he had no idea of her appearance. He'd have to guess carefully between the two, and hope deep down, that not only was he right but that they didn't notice what he was doing. For now, though, he bowed curtly and introduced himself, hopefully she'd show herself before he had to result to guessing games.

"I am Kire Gustarf, Cliath Ahroun of the Glass Walkers," he spoke with utmost respect, but his accent some times got in the way of his words, it was fairly obvious he wasn't from around here or anywhere nearby for that matter. Luckily, after the mishap with the woman at Chinatown the other night, he'd made sure not to make the mistake of confusion Galliards with Ahrouns again, he was sure he wouldn't get off a second time if he made that mistake.

[Kate] The waiter leads the Ahroun urrah over to the table where the two Half Moon's are sitting, having what appeared to be friendly drinks. Katherine's arrives after a moment's forgetfulness on the waiter's behalf, as flustered as he is by all the Rage suddenly suffocating the air. He nods, and quick-walks himself to the bar to fetch a Martini.

It is presented to the Silver Fang on a napkin as Kire Gustarf is bowing and offering his introductions to herself and Covered Sky. The Glass Walker need not have troubled himself over who between the pair was the one known as Truth's Meridian -- her breeding just about screamed it. She was the only among them currently whose blood declared her the daughter of Kings and Queens, of great warriors from a time gone past.

"Bonsoir, Kire Gustarf, Full Moon of the Glass Walkers," she echoes back at him prettily, her voice surprisingly young, and girlish. There was a teasing gleam in her blue eyes for a moment as she studied him, bent forward to introduce himself. She waited for the waiter to deposit her drink and depart before she gestured that he should make himself comfortable.

"I am charmed, to be sure, to make your acquaintance. I am Katherine Bellamonte, Truth's Meridian, Honor's Compass, Fostern Philodox of the Silver Fangs and packed with the Unbroken, child of Christopher 'Grey Claws' Bellamonte, Grand-Child of Gerard 'Striker' Bellamonte, daughter of the House of the Bellamonte, of the House of Wyrmfoe and joined to the House Gleaming Eye. I am also Philodox Elder to the Caern here, and elder of my tribe."

A beat, Katherine seems to find great amusement in her long-winded introduction, and more so in waving a hand toward Park. "This is Covered Sky, she is a Child of Thunder's, and a fellow Half Moon like myself."

[Zeke] The Drive had been uneventful, a day of shuttling to some minor dignitaries come in to oversee some personal exchanges. An aid here, a translator there, a minor official of political standing. None had offered to speak or wished interruption, keeping to themselves behind the black glass. So it was, when Zeke pulled up to the parking, waving off Valet parking in favour of putting the car into a slot on his own, the air was a relaxed one.

An easy day.

The trip into the Lobby was made with a passing glance to the surrounding Humanity, while the punctuating flush of the Chauffeur's suit, was offset slightly by the loosened tie and the doffed sunglasses, tucked into the collar of his shirt. His regard is distinctly zen. Or perhaps, neutral is a better word as he walks through the lobby with careful steps measured toward the Elevator. Hands in pockets, long coat laid open, eyes lost in the vague reflection of marble floors.

[Kire] Kire knew enough to bow curtly to Covered Sky as well as she had been personally introduced by a Forstern and member of the Silver Fangs. Bad with people, yes, but not unintelligent, in fact Kire was quite the opposite. He could probably recite her whole name back from memory at the moment, but that'd probably seem rude. Still, he had a distinct feeling that she looked down on him, as all Silver Fangs generally did to the Bone Gnawers and his own tribe. Such thoughts were best kept to himself and so Kire smiled his best smile, which wasn't much as he wasn't accustomed to smiling, but still.

"It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Truth's Meridian, daughter of the House of Bellamonte. I don't mean to be rude, but might I sit with you and Covered Sky and enjoy a drink? I forgive any insolence on my part, but I am new to this city and wish to introduce myself properly."

[Lukas] The voice that comes out of Lukas does not fit the man.

The man is broadshouldered, with powerful arms and a strong back; a proud carriage. He's several inches over six feet. The way he's built says he should rumble when he speaks; the way he dresses says he should temper that articulation and eloquence.

When he opens his mouth, though, what comes out is an unfortunate, cracked creak some two or three octaves above what one would expect. Even across the room, the way the greeter reacts is visible: a blink, a stare, a too-long pause. Then she asks him to repeat himself.

"I said," he replies patiently, in that same horrid voice, "I'm here to meet friends."

He's let in, and heads directly for Katherine's table, drawn by the pack bond. The easy familiarity with which he grips the Philodox's shoulder briefly before settling himself in a chair -- between Katherine's and Park's, if anyone bothers with details -- says something about their relationship.

[Kate] Perhaps he had not noticed her geniel wave to make himself comfortable, or, perhaps it had been lost beneath the names and titles she had accosted him with upon their meeting. Either way, Katherine inclines her head and suggests with a polite little rise of her brow upward that of course he may sit with them, what a question to ask, as if she'd refuse, so on and so forth.

Then: her attention is drawn, her eyes stray toward the door and this is even before the awful pinched sounds of a Garou suffering beneath Voice of the Jackal reach them. She waits, the Philodox, with the patience of her moon for the form of one Lukas Wyrmbreaker to make himself known and only then does her attention return to fix on the Glass Walker.

She is unperturbed by the hand that grips her shoulder as its owner passes -- to most, this would be enough to have them blinking -- since when did the Silver Fangs and the Shadow Lords greet one another on good terms? Where were the snarls, the hisses, the guarded and suspicious looks?

There was clearly none of that present between these two. In fact, the manner in which Katherine ever so slightly turns her body so that it faces rather than ignores the Shadow Lord suggests much. "Kire, may I present my Alpha, Lukas Wyrmbreaker, Fostern of your Moon, and elder of the Shadow Lords."

[Zeke] The elevator door chimes politely, as if to say 'Excuse me for this noise, please to be carrying on with your meals, Thank you' and Zeke steps out alone, giving the dim and tastefully lit numbers above the double doors a brief flick of a glance. His jaw claps shut, hands tugging at the driving gloves even as he paces past the carpeting and halls to the podium where stands the Hostess who lifts a flick of a glance and blink toward him.

Before she has a chance to say anything however-

"There's a Young woman here, with another younger woman. Both pretty. One asian, one blonde. Business type with a Princes- Ahhh..There." A pause, gaze regarding the somewhat confused Greeter. "Katherine Bellamonte. We're old friends." The smile is benevolent, even excusing of the girl's confusion. He patronizes with impressive quality, patting her hand while he's moving past.

"I'll say hello and leave you to the smile and How do." And he's walking past, gloves vanishing into jacket pockets, the long coat itself plucked from his shoulders to reveal the Chauffeur below. One of the waiter's looks about ready to rush over, turning worried eyes toward the bewildered hostess. When the young fellow arrives, Zeke is tugging at his tie, pulling the windsor knot out with a grimace.

"A rhum and coke. Dark rhum, none of that bacardi business that thinks it's being clever. Single slice of lime. No straw, minimal ice." A pause, the waiter blinking. Zeke's own Rage was not a harsh thing as those that have come before but the effect of that many Garou populating the place has put the staff on edge and in the realms of the timid. Blame not the no moon for taking advantage of such.

The Waiter, pausing briefly, glancing toward the table Zeke is turned to, offers a hurried nod before moving toward the bar. Zeke smiles after him and then turns toward the table, moving with a calm step and regard for the occupants.

[Park] The waitstaff has got to be shitting themselves right about now.

Prior to Zeke's arrival, not a single one of the group that ends up in a cluster around a small coffee table over by the giant plate glass windows could be mistaken for anything but an Ahroun if Rage were the only clear indicator of experience and stature within the Nation. The two Ahroun who are present have an excuse: this is what they were born with, the burden that they must carry as a result of being Gaia's chosen warriors.

The two Philodoxes, however, are an entirely different story. There are several different paths to allowing one's Rage to becoming extraordinarily high. Trauma, loss, bearing witness to the destruction and rape of Gaia... all of these things will cause even the most mild-mannered of Theurges to become furious monsters with the single-minded intent to destroy all who serve as an affront to the Mother. Despite their poise, their bearing, these women have either suffered or seen a great deal of suffering in their lifetime.

To say nothing of what the life of the man ordering a rhum and Coke must have been like.

None of the five of them have led easy lives, and none of the staff on the floor tonight, not the cocktail servers nor the bartender, want anything to do with this lot, this well-dressed, well-mannered group of people who the squeaky-voiced man claimed he was here to meet.

For a time, it seems as though Covered Sky has drifted off into her own thoughts, for her gaze traipses off over the skyline beyond the reflective surface of the window as the Silver Fang and the Glass Walker introduce themselves. She looks up when she hears her name, and smiles a quiet smile, but does not speak until Lukas joins them.

"-Rhya," she says, and lifts her Manhattan to take a quick swallow.

[Lukas] "Evening, Park," Lukas acknowledges in that hideous, whining, grating voice. "Good to see you again."

He doesn't make the slightest attempt to ameliorate the sound of his voice. He speaks at his normal volume and pace; his eyes meet his tribemate's directly, a pale, cutting blue, and then flick to Kire.

"Kire," Lukas repeats, and leans forward to reach over the table, grasping Kire's arm in a brief, solid clasp if it's offered. "Good to have another Full Moon. Which tribe?"

[Kire] Meanwhile, the man named Kire had settled into his seat, slightly uncomfortable in his surroundings and now made even worse by the fact that more and more Garou appeared. He wasn't good communicating with people, on a social basis anyway. Chain of command, orders, cover my back, clear that outpost, things like those he understood and in situations like that he thrived, but this, this was something else. Something wholly unpleasant for him, he had difficulty speaking to one person, he was gonna handle 5. But still, wearing the same smile as he had for Katherine, he addressed Lukas upon the introduction.

"Pleased to meet you, I am a member of the Glass Walkers. I look forward to fighting side-by-side with a fellow warrior such as yourself," the same respectful but heavily accented tone as before, then again even speaking normally his accent always stood out. It was just harder to control it when he was this uncomfortable and trying not to make a blunder.

[Kate] Zeke uses Katherine's name as his entry card into the Lounge, and certainly the young Aristocrat has visited frequently enough and tipped graciously enough for her name to be known and acknowledged as one of their more up-market customers -- so they don't stop the angry young man with the bizarrely pitched voice or the second young man whose confidence and easy naming of the Silver Fang engender him as seemingly 'belonging' to the crowd by the corner table.

They just try their best to stay calm, and overlook the impending sense of doom that emanates in waves from that section.

For her own part, the Philodox elder seems quite relaxed given that she's surrounded by no less than three Shadow Lords now. She's cupping her Martini glass in both hands and occasionally sipping from it, listening with a tilted head to the interactions between the two Ahrouns. She turns her attention to Zeke however when he approaches and her fair brows rise in surprise, and some degree of amusement at finding the Ragabash at the Signature Lounge.

Her eyes flick to Park, and she inclines her head as if to wordlessly ask: is he here for you? before glancing back and greeting the Shadow Lord with a tip of her glass. "Host of Traitors, bonsoir."

[Lukas] To his credit, Kire doesn't bat an eyelash at the Shadow Lord's voice. That gains him a considering look, the grip maintained a moment longer, and then Lukas lets go. "A Glass Walker; I wouldn't have guessed that off the bat. It's not necessary to put on a show of etiquette, Kire, if it's not your nature to do so. We all understand respect isn't the same thing as courtesy, anyway."

He sits back, draping one arm over the low back of his armchair.

"I'm not here for long," he informs the table at large. Indeed, he hadn't even bothered to order. "Just saw Kate here and thought I'd say hi." His eyes lift over Kire's head to find Host of Traitors approaching. A faint smile quirks Lukas's mouth; he lifts his hand casually in a wave. "Zeke."

Ironically, of the gathered, Lukas has known Zeke longer than any but Katherine. To say the tribemates differ in personality and approach would be the understatement of the century; at the shadow moot alone, they locked horns or at least butted heads at least once or twice. Some level of acquaintanceship and ultimately similar goals, however -- and the sheer camaraderie of survival in a rather hot warzone like the Chicago protectorate -- have built some vague level of familiarity between them.

"Still alive, I see," he adds. "Have a chance to touch base with Edwin about our neighbors in the north?"

[Park] Unlike a lot of people must be upon hearing the pubescent wavering and whining of Lukas's voice, Park does not flinch or show much distaste for her elder's jackal throat. Granted... she can't hear the higher-pitched sounds coming out of his mouth, so when a squeak or a squawk sends his words shooting into the upper echelon of decibel levels, it's as though it has completely ceased to exist.

Park has to be aware of her packmate's presence tonight. They share a totem connection now, though it is not such that they can hear each others' voices in their minds. The two Cliaths have to communicate in other ways: phone calls, text messages, email, or showing up at the apartment or Room 4 when something goes awry or needs speaking of. Park knows that Zeke wants to speak to her.

He's also starting to learn that finding her during the moon's waning period is to find her not at her best, to find her faltering somewhat. The darkened half of the moon has passed on to a new phase, and she is starting to regain her footing.

Both Kate and Lukas address the chauffeur before his Alpha does. For her part, she crosses one leg over the other at the knee and turns in her chair to face the bar. Her drink is half finished. She pulls the cherry from the concoction by the stem and pulls the fruit free with her teeth, chewing as she listens to what portions of the conversation she can actually hear.

[Zeke] "...Zeke." The smile is interpretive.

Katherine makes use of Zeke's deedname and he in turn corrects her with a polite expression, gaze flicking up toward Katherine's gaze, only for something to shift in the Metis with sudden, correcting fluidity. His regard does not make it's way past her chin and their is a re-assembling of things within his system that tells of an instant alteration to the young No Moon's inner gears and mechanics.

It is not discomfort, but more a distinct appraisal that turns the smile from something shielded to something genuine. A broadening that threatens teeth, but not quite. He doesn't answer Kate immediately, turning to regard Lukas. If the Metis pays any mind to the Ranking Ahourn's punishment he casts no mention or even grimace.

"Lukas and...Not yet. Edwin's collective is made up of several new bodies as well as multiple tribes. I get the feeling he and his number are mulling the details over. I'm content to let him relax with it for a while before approaching. Ed's a smart fellow. He'll call when he's made everyone ready."

And then on toward Katherine, the greeting and smile interrupted briefly by the peripheral arrival of the waiter with Zeke's drink. He is searching desperately for some place to put it, seeing as the Ragabash has yet to take a seat anywhere. Zeke watches him with a narrowed gaze and a slight purse to his lips. Five seconds and then he's reaching forward to pluck up the glass and nod at the fellow to be on his way. The Waiter all but gulps and back peddles, narrowly avoiding knocking a table askew in the process.

"...Katherine" The tone and word carry a generous amount of amusement and glee "-...Congratulations are in order." The glass of dark liquid is raised toward the Silver Fang, whilst eyes and attention fall briefly to Park. No word. Not yet.

[William Edward Talbot] The elevator doors cut open again, whisper silent. This time, the hostess - sleak in her black cocktail dress and rigid with a sparking sort of tension given her subconscious response to the rage of the monsters in the room - looks up without a smile, her mouth still, her eyes wide, wary, and alert.

The pair that emerge from the elevator give her no cause for alarm, however. The man is tall and fit, well-dressed in a custom-tailored suit that errs on the more conservative side of sharp. Somewhere in his mid-thirties, he has close-cropped blonde hair, and an easy, charming smile that sets the tense woman immediately at her eyes. The woman is smaller, with dark brown hair shot through with wiry strands of gray that she has not ever bothered to dye. They share few physical similarities - he has an immediate intimacy with the hostess, standing close to her as he requests a table, laughing, a flash of white teeth in a face tanned despite the season, when she makes some passing quiet. The woman remains reserved, standing back from the podium, her plain face held in a bland mask, perhaps a frission of irritation evident in the set of her mouth. Both, however, are well and conservatively dressed. And in both, the blood of the mad kings sings its tidal song.

William, of course, notes the gathering - and the Philodox at the center of it - as soon before the hostess has led them two feet past her elegant little desk. He stops her with a touch beneath the elbow, excuses himself indicating the table around which the Garou are gathered with a tip of his head. The hostess cannot supress the shiver of dread that crawls up her spine, and the animation he had brought forth in her sparks and dies again in her eyes. As she returns to her station, William inclines his head to his companion, murmuring a quiet explanation as the pair redirect their steps toward the isolated corner of the Signature Lounge, where mere mortals no longer dare tread.

"Ms. Bellamonte," William greets Katherine, quietly, offering her a smile no less charming that that with which he favored the hostess. He stands on the outter periphery of the gathering of True-Born, and waits for a lull in the conversation to speak. The plain-faced woman stands beside him, a tight, bland little smile on her face, tension evident in the cut line of her jaw, the flat curl of her mouth.

[Lukas] Aha, says Lukas into Kate's mind, is this the reason behind the mona lisa smiles?
to Kate

[Kate] Hush, comes the instant response, peppered with a generous amount of embarrassment and sincere pleasure at the sight of the Kinsman. Be nice.
to Lukas

[Lukas] "That's fine," Lukas replies. Screeches. Yelps. "I'm not in a hurry. Yet. I'll check back with the two of you in a few weeks."

The Shadow Lord's ice-strewn eyes turn on the newcomer, then, and his plain-faced companion. Katherine's table is rapidly filling up; many of the newcomers will have to stand or pull up their own chairs. For his part, Lukas does not appear polite enough to give up his chair for a lady. Then again, a different set of laws of etiquette apply in the company of wolves.

His regard is speculative; then, rather unexpectedly, Lukas laughs. My god, even the laugh matches the voice -- a mad hyena cackle. Some first impression, this.

"You must be Will Talbot. Kate's told us good things. Pull up a chair."

[Kate] Zeke corrects her use of his deed-name, and receives the benefit of a sharp little smile, edged and subtle that creeps around the corners of her lips. "But of course," she all but purrs with liquid grace and it seems certain that he has certified the use of his deed-name from her in the next few interactions they have. Still, when he offers his congratulations on her new rank, she is all politeness and sweet, open expressions as she lifts her drink to toast in return and sips from her martini.

Then: a flicker of something like pure pleasure across the Philodox's face and a warm blush creeps over her cheeks and neck as her Kinsman approaches. Still, Katherine is nothing if not poised, her dignity keeps her seated, and her chin slightly lifted in response to William's greeting.

"Good evening, Mister Talbot, what an unexpected pleasure to see you again so soon," her pale eyes shift to his plain-faced company, and her lips quirk a little at the edges. "This must be the elusive Ms Templeton Gray, non? It is quite a pleasure to put a face to the name."

[Lukas] Hm, well. He seems presentable, though you Fangs are always so good at hiding skeletons in your closets. Lukas is eying Will speculatively. He's not secretly a heroin addict, is he? Or ... a dealer in stolen art and kidnapped women?
to Kate

[Kire] Kire silently sank back into his seat, watching the new arrivals in silence, he was growing less and less comfortable with this arrangement. He'd completed his purpose, he figured he might as well leave soon, these kinds of places were not suited for him. Still, he sat, waiting and watching the new arrivals and the people who were now too focused on conversations with each other to notice him. He was studying them, their movements, behaviors, personalities, you could tell a lot about someone from how they moved and acted.

[Kate] You are so full of suspicions and conspiracy theories it is a wonder to me, she remarks in reply, hiding her smile behind her martini glass. No, he is none of those things. He is actually a useful contact, he manages my family's trust funds among other things, is the managing director of Olyphant Templeton. The dour faced thing beside him is his assistant I believe.
to Lukas

[Zeke] "...Newblood, right?"

The conversation would begin to rise in Etiquette and posture. Well beyond the means and measures of those of lesser 'quality'. A Kin came to the table. Two, in fact and Zeke took the opportunity to slip into place alongside Kire's left shoulder. A hand moved out to tap an index finger against the man, Zeke's features, a trim goatee, flattening out into a brief smile. Small and calculating.

"Company here is a bit much to take in sometimes but we all work the same business." The other hand flicks a white business card, holding it out for Kire to take. The name on it in simple, stylized black lettering

Zeke

Followed smoothly by a number and an Address to an apartment building, tucked away into the lower right hand corner.

"...A lot of work for Full moons in this City, Neighbour. You come find me when you get bored 'n we'll set you up with somethin' real, well-" A glance up toward the rest of the table, his voice having lowered so as not to interrupt the Unbroken and the Kinfolk meeting.

"-A lil' more real than the meet 'n greet anyway, hmm?"

[William Edward Talbot] "Has she?" Will's response is good-natured; he flares a smile from Lukas to Kate, then, the expression finding its way into the crinkles at the corners of his eyes. If he is uneasy among so many Garou, he swallows the signs of it with aplomb. Only the unexpected bray of Lukas' jackal's voice disturbs the well-tempered mask the man keeps, and then only for a fracture of a second - the smile briefly flattening with surprise.

Katherine greets him, and he steps closer to her then, lowering his head briefly, smiling down at her in response. Then, continuing the introduction started by the pair of Garou, Will steps back/pulls his companion forward, nodding to Katherine and, by extension, Lukas as he introduces her. "Yes, indeed. My cousin - and my right hand, Jennifer Templeton Gray. I know I mentioned her to you, Ms. Bellamonte - Katherine."

Tugged by her companion, the woman offers Katherine a polite nod of greeting. Her face is tense, her clear gray eyes alert, roaming over the rest of the monsters in the room without giving any cause for offense. Don't look them in the eye. When the barest necessities of greetings are concluded, she addresses William - "Will, we have to get those numbers to the actuaries by morning." and then deftly excuses herself, with a look back to Katherine. "It's a pleasure, ma'am. If you'll excuse me, though - I would appreciate it."

[Kire] Kire looked around to Zeke for a moment, it was obvious from the behavior that Katherina had around him that he wasn't the most gracious of guests, and yet from his words and the card, Kire instantly knew he was probably one of the few in this room he could truly get along with. Or at least in any way of the word he used it, he'd always had comrades, but barely any 'friends'. Still, he was smart enough to know not to give himself away right now, a small nod for only Zeke to notice instead of an actual response. He silently and carefully, so as to make sure the others didn't notice, slid the card into his sleeve, it was better than hiding it in his pocket for now. Less distance, and much less chance of being seen especially with his hand under the table.

"Ah, yes, this is quite different from my homeland, such horrid memories I have of that beautiful place, Bosnia," he spoke with a sad tone, but he hoped his message would be clear to Zeke, he knew his way around a battlefield, and not just as an Ahroun.

[Kate] The closer he steps to her, the more aware she becomes of him. Of his scent, of the cologne he wears. There's a flare of her nostrils, a very inhuman reaction as he bridges distance and places himself close enough to smile intimately down at her. Katherine looks upward at him with that small smile that expressed good humor and challenge all mingled together.

She was not cowed by him, that much was clear, but then, it took a great amount more to bring out fear in Katherine Bellamonte: most especially in her current company. "It is a pleasure, Ms Templeton Gray, and of course I shall not keep you a moment longer." She was all that was gracious, and charming -- but beneath her smiles and her charm was that hint of something darker; something powerful and capable of much violence.

Her eyes return to William, and she re-iterates Lukas' offer.

"Must you rush off also, or will you stay a moment?"

[Lukas] "On that note," Lukas says, having never even taken off his coat, "I'm heading out too. Kire, William, it was good meeting you. Park; Zeke."

There's no goodbye between Lukas and his packmate. It would be useless. He's literally a voice in her head, and vice versa. Instead, the Shadow Lord gets to his feet, sidestepping out of the increasingly crowded circle around the small lounge table. He smiles down at Katherine briefly, wryly, and without explanation. Then he's leaving the Signature Lounge, his rage a wake of ozone behind him.

[Kate] [addendum!]

When Lukas rises and excuses himself, Katherine merely meets his gaze with a smile of her own, and a decidedly wry arch of her eyebrow in response to whatever conversation has passed between them wordlessly.

[Lukas] The Omni Chicago, is Lukas's parting shot, has excellent suites. You might still be able to get a room tonight, even if Valentine's is only a few days off. I wouldn't bring him back to the Loft, though. I'm training with Sinclair tonight in your pool, and we'll go out of our way to make it one hell of a walk of shame for you.
to Kate

[Kate] Something very rude is said to him in french, and then: You are both wretches.
to Lukas

[Lukas] [night folks! thanks for the RP!]

[Zeke] "...Sad place indeed but beneficial for our line of work. You stay in contact and we'll make sure you're taken care of here."

The No Moon quirks a corner of his mouth, hand balling into a loose fist that pats down on the Ahroun Glasswalker's shoulder. A brief show of understanding and then the Ragabash is turning toward Park, offering a quirk of a brow as the young Asian woman finally catches his eye. The pair exchange a flicker of expressions, too minimal to really be suggestive of anything-

-then abruptly, Lukas stands and makes his good byes. Zeke offers a nod, as does the older Philodox. The pair of cliath Lords regard the Elder of their tribe as he exits the establishment, before they glance to one another with a curt nod. Both pull back from the Table, Park with a soft incline of her head, polite but curt, Zeke with a generous smile to those at the Table and a soft toned-

"Adieu"

Then the pair are turning to walk, slowly, to the Elevator. They would miss Lukas heading down by moments, the Ragabash maintaining a slow pace, interrupting their walk to send the Rhum and Coke back to the Bar with a distasteful clap of his tongue and a-

"...Bartender needs to work on his mix. It's a little hard on the syrup."

[Park] [Thanks for the play, y'all!]

i'll back you up.

[Wyrmbreaker] It's scarcely been an hour since Wyrmbreaker met Ewan's Fostern challenge -- and failed him.

Now the Ahroun is back in the abandoned hangar Garou had spontaneously sparred in a week ago, spreading heaped sand over the bare concrete floor with a brush. It's late. The moon, a bare crescent, has long since set. The night is frigidly cold, the lake frozen over for miles and miles -- pristine, pale grey in the darkness.

[Covered Sky] This is the sort of night that's cold enough to kill even the most hardened of warriors if they find themselves unprotected and out in it for too long. Breath is quite literally stolen from the body, spirited away as thick clouds and left to freeze in the air, and there is little that can keep it at bay save for the continuation of movement, of forward progress.

The Philodox has always kept moving, and finds the smack of a January night to be of little consequence. Though there is very little business to be tended to tonight, she nevertheless walks as though she has a purpose for being out here.

Her steps take her to the hangar where a challenge took place tonight, where a Fostern of the Nation is spreading sand across relentlessly frigid concrete with a brush. The woman who Lukas only knows as Covered Sky--he'd introduced her as 'my cousin, Sky' once--appears in the open doorway of the hangar, burgundy barn coat zipped for once, wavy hair hanging loose over her shoulders only to be plucked up by the wind like an aimless lover toying with the ends.

She watches him for a moment, and then asks, "I hear I missed the first meeting of Fight Club."

[Covered Sky] [Er... "then SAYS." I think I'm catching a contact drunk.]

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas has left his overcoat folded up on a crate. He's in a sweater and thermal undershirt, the sleeves of both rolled up, the cords of his forearms taut and flexed against his skin as he pushes

sand

over bloodstained concrete. How fucking zen. The presence at the door does not go unnoticed; it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, awareness. It's not until Park speaks that Lukas stops brushing sand flat over cement, though, straightening up with a slight grimace. Perhaps Shadow Lords are not accustomed to bending like that.

He leans idly on the brush, though, the handle held like a spear. And laughs -- short, amused. "And Spin Doctor's Fostern challenge besides." He looks at her: curious, smiling. "What brings you here so late?"

[Covered Sky] Thin eyebrows flick upwards, once, at the mention of her having missed a challenge, as well. It's acknowledgement that has them moving, taking the place of a nod or actual speech. She does not lean against the open door, holds herself upright with her hiking boots planted to give the impression of readiness, keeps her hands in her pockets as though someone with her abundance of Rage ever truly needs to be concerned with the temperature of the air around her. Like many of the Half Moons currently attached to this Sept, this young woman carries with her more anger than she was born with.

It's hard to tell if this is merely a coincidence, or if this Caern, with its calls for sacrifice and its history of bloodshed, is a draw for those of them who have already suffered plenty in their lifetimes.

Her ringless left hand pulls itself out of her pocket to push a hunk of black hair behind a small ear as he asks what brings her here so late, and she glances skyward as though that will give her an impression of what time, exactly, it is. The eastern sky hasn't yet begun to brighten with the coming of morning, but the moon has disappeared first behind thick clouds and then beyond the western horizon.

"I keep strange hours," she says, for the second time since they've met. "How long ago was the challenge?"

[Wyrmbreaker] "An hour," replies Lukas. "Maybe two. He'll try again next month."

They're both Shadow Lords here, but only Wyrmbreaker is visibly so. His face is unmistakable: that black hair, those cutting pale eyes. The wide, high cheekbones, the broad brow and angular jaw. Pure eastern europe. Pure slavic breeding, the blood that persisted for hundreds, thousands of years in the Carpathians. Lukas has ancestors that look just like him. The same eyes, clear blue. The same mouth, the same nose. That same look echoed over and over in the face of heroes, kings, warriors, vampire-hunters, vicious brutal warlords.

She's nothing like that, though. Covered Sky -- Gillian Park, though it's questionable whether anyone calls her that now -- looks nothing like the stereotypical Lord. She isn't even Caucasian. Doubtlessly she's been mistaken for Hakken. Maybe some racist fuck once asked her if she could use a katana. Maybe some racist fuck once told her to go back to Japan, though she's not from Japan.

Digression. Lukas considers his tribemate for a moment, and then he tosses the broom at her -- sideways, the shaft held crosswise between his hands, hefted over the distance.

"Help me out," he says, and goes to the edge of the hangar to pick up another broom. He's a hard worker, and he gets right back into it, pushing sand down over the floor of the hangar, smoothing it over crevices and cracks, stains and discolorations. All Shadow Lords are hard workers. Some are conniving fucks and some are domineering assholes, but all of them are hard working. None of them, not even a purebred creature like Lukas, were born with a silver spoon in mouth.

"Tell me about yourself," he invites. There's no preamble to this.

[Covered Sky] This woman's greatest asset is her mind, and yet there is a fluid sort of gracefulness in the way she carries herself, in the way she lifts her hands and seems to anticipate the fall of the broom's stick into her palms rather than reaching out into the air to snatch it away from gravity. She does not seem as though she would be much use in a bar fight, perhaps, and Lukas has seen the scars that cut into her neck and shoulder, but neither is she at odds with her body. She has the confidence that seems inherent to a Shadow Lord's nature, that persists despite defeat after defeat after defeat. This woman holds herself like someone of some authority, like someone who has achieved things that the sum total of her deeds do not even begin to hint at. Underneath it, though, is an undercurrent of loss.

All of them have lost. This is the End Times. Even the youngest cub will taste sorrow before the year is out; the oldest among them are just as torn up and etched with scar tissue on the inside as they are in flesh.

That broom comes into her possession without protest or question, and she briefly rests it against the wall of the hangar so that she can take off her barn coat. Beneath the heavy jacket there is nothing more than a form-fitting gray thermal shirt and lean limbs. Sleeves are pushed up, and the hairs on her arms do not immediately stand up in response to the cold; there is protection from the wind, here.

Her coat is tossed over a nearby crate, and long-limbed strides carry her deeper into the building.

As she gets to work alongside her tribesmate, broom stabilized in both calloused hands and slim back bending effortlessly, he speaks again. Her eyes come up, once, as though she has to give genuine thought to the prospect of doing as he's asked. It lasts but a few contractions of a working heart, and then the female begins thoughtfully spreading sand over the splattered concrete.

"I come from the Sept of the Red Rock in California," she says. "My Rite of Passage took place when I was fourteen years old, almost twelve years ago, and for almost twelve years that's where I stayed. I made Fostern when I was seventeen years old, which I lost when I was nineteen. I reattained the rank when I was twenty, and held it and the office of Master of Challenges until about a year ago."

Though she has never officially introduced herself as a Cliath, it's in her body language, confidence present or no. That rank was lost a second time, and she has yet to reclaim it.

[Wyrmbreaker] They work the way their ancestors -- or at least Lukas's ancestors -- possibly never dreamt of doing: with their hands, and bent backs, and a sort of physical, mindless focus. Lukas doesn't look at Park. He looks at what he's doing, shoving heavy, shifting sand from the heap dumped in the middle of the floor to the very corners of the old, shambling hangar.

There's something inherently soothing in repetitive work. In the burn of muscle groups, the ache of joints. In the repetition, like a heartbeat: grasp, lean in, push, straighten. Repeat.

He laughs under his breath when she mentions gaining rank. Twice. And losing it. Twice. The wind is stopped here, but the chill is in the very air itself. Hard work makes sweat break out along his hairline. It lifts away almost as fast, sublimated into the subfreezing air, freezing as a crust on his skin.

"Few regain a lost rank. Most die first. Even fewer regain it only to lose it again. What the hell did you do?"

[Covered Sky] What they are doing hardly qualifies as back-breaking labor. It certainly isn't the sort of work that the typical Eastern European is used to performing on a regular basis, certainly isn't the sort of work that the typical Korean sets herself to task to accomplish every day, yet it is more than most would expect out of a Shadow Lord. These two work as though this is what they were meant to be doing, without complaining or tearing their gaze away from it. Perhaps the fact that they have this, this mindless devotion to a single set purpose, is what is allowing the former Fostern to confess to not only having been knocked down from the second rank and scrambled back to reclaim it once, but losing it a second time.

His laugh is a far milder reaction than she had to have been expecting. One has to expect that there are places where she will not confess as much to a near-stranger, that there are places where she will claim to have never been a Fostern or a Master of Challenges to begin with. Perhaps there are places where they learn the story and force her to keep moving. She hadn't said where she has been for the last year, but given the way she dresses, the way she eats, it's not hard to imagine that she doesn't stay in one place long enough to get comfortable, to enjoy amenities that many of their tribe have come to take for granted.

Their tribe is also known for their ability to warp the truth so completely that is is mistaken for another brand of reality altogether.

It's her turn to laugh, and there is no humor in it.

"The first time," she says, "I confessed to having broken the first tenet of the Litany and was stripped of my renown. My rank went with it. As for the second time, I was one of the few survivors left after the Caern fell to the Spirals."

[Wyrmbreaker] Lukas is ready, of course, to hear something rather awful. Rank isn't stripped easily, especially one as low as Fostern. The Nation doesn't expect all that much from its Fosterns. Some basic skill at whatever it is they're supposed to be doing. Some basic ability to avoid Complete Fuck-Ups.

So the first thing rolls right over him. She's not the first Charach he's met. Not even the first Charach Philodox. Maybe it was something about that moon, charged with seeing two sides of any issue. Maybe it was just coincidence.

The second, though. That makes the Ahroun stand upright, leaning on his broom for a moment. "Huh," he says, quiet.

A moment later he goes back to work. And to finish the thought: no. Lukas's ancestors would not have done this. They were nobles; kings of men, lords of wolves. They would not have bent to manual labor, though they did bend rather easily to deeds of shocking brutality and ruthlessness.

That's in his blood. Lukas tries his best to be a good Garou, a good man, a good wolf, but --

he's a Shadow Lord, after all.

A few moments go by; nothing bu the sussurant sound of brushes over sand, sand over concrete. Then: "Why were you blamed for that?"

[Covered Sky] Based on the amount of time that has passed since her First Change, most other people would be looking at challenging for Athro if not there already in the amount of time it has taken this woman to rise to and fall from Fostern twice. Of all of the ranks within the Nation, the Fosterns are the most plentiful. They have more responsibility than Cliaths, but they are not held to the same level that Adrens are. In many places, in most traditional--older--Septs, Fosterns do not lead packs. They do not hold Sept offices. They do not call themselves elders of anything, be it tribes or auspices. In the grand scheme of things, they are rather expendable.

Based on what Sky has said, it would not be a far cry to deduce that the Sept of the Red Rock was one of those more traditional--older--Septs, one of those Septs where Fosterns are expected to keep their noses clean and prove themselves more adept at their auspice roles than those who are fresh out of their Rites of Passage and little more. Perhaps she was viewed with more scrutiny because she was a female, or perhaps the Sept was not comprised of mostly Shadow Lords. Perhaps her mentor or her pack was viewed with enmity and she bore the brunt of it when she executed a misstep. She isn't saying. There is a lot she isn't saying. What Covered Sky is giving Wyrmbreaker is the boiled-down, bare-bones facts of what happened, either hoping that he will not ask questions or knowing in her heart that that is exactly what he is going to do.

There is no reaction when she states without stating that she has lain with another Garou; when she states that the Caern in California fell and that she was one of the few left behind, he takes notice.

He even stops sweeping, if only for a moment. Sky, too, stops sweeping so that she can look up and meet and read his gaze, and she does not look away until he does so first, turning his attention back to the matter of covering the floor with sand. Her attention appears to be on the distribution of tiny grains of sand in a satisfactory layer. She does not look at him as she speaks.

"There is honor in dying in defense of Gaia, and there's honor in preventing a Caern from falling into the clutches of the Corrupter. Where is the honor in surviving an onslaught that has killed nearly every last one of your comrades? I could not convince the council from the next Sept over that it wasn't cowardice that had me living while my entire Sept was burned to the ground, and so I was punished."

[Wyrmbreaker] When their eyes met briefly, the Ahroun's were even and curious; rather without blame or censure. He turns away first, though he's the elder when it comes to rank, and the one who has longer claim to this Sept. It does not seem to matter overmuch to him.

When they exchange words again, Lukas stops sweeping a second time. He's facing Covered Sky fully now when he asks -- clearly, unflinchingly, levelly -- "Was it?"

A moment later he clarifies: "Cowardice. That led you to live."

[Covered Sky] Whether or not the clarification was needed, the response is the same: Covered Sky stops sweeping, and she holds the broom upright and still in her curled left hand, and she looks at Lukas with purposefully blank brown eyes and a leveled jaw. She has not yet broken a sweat, but then, she has not been working for as long as the Fostern has been. Her hair is reacting to the humidity in the air, though, chunks of it curling and frizzing. She reaches up her free right hand to gather the curtain of black in two sweeps before banishing it behind her back.

She is silent for several seconds, the weight of her refusal to speak right away bearing down on what words have yet to emerge, and then she reaches up her hand again to cross over her body and tug the neck of her thermal shirt away from her shoulder. Even in this wan light the stark ivory of scar tissue is visible, standing out against the tan that persists on her skin. Something bit through her neck and shoulder once, and their kind do not scar unless they had to claw their way back from the brink of death.

"I was one of the first ones to respond to the call," she says, letting go of the cotton to cover the battle scar, "and one of the last to go down. I took down two Spirals before I was killed. My Rage revived me, but just barely. The Spirals mistook me for dead and left me where I'd fallen. When I regained consciousness, everyone else was dead. The glorious and honorable thing to do would have been to fight until I was cut down permanently, but I dragged myself twenty-six miles to get to the next Sept instead."

[Wyrmbreaker] There's a space between them, some twenty or so feet of brushed sand, dull grey in the moonless night. It's pure night vision that allows them to see in here -- the blessings of their race; the acuity of their senses even in their most mundane shapes.

That, and the fact that it doesn't take much perception to brush sand evenly over a floor.

He's not looking at the floor, though, the Fostern with the rolled-up sleeves. He's looking at the Philodox, once-Fostern, now Cliath again. Third time around. Third time's the charm, maybe; they'll see, he supposes. She doesn't fly into a rage, though perhaps, the way he turned to face her square on, he expected her to. She shows him a scar, which is only barely visible in this light. She tells him a story, as level as he ever was, and when she's finished he nods.

"Thank you for telling me that. It couldn't have been an easy tale to share. Or to live." Lukas bends to the broom and the sand again, pushing. "If anyone in this Sept insinuates otherwise," he adds, "I'll back you up."

[Covered Sky] He doesn't ask her why it is she tells him all of this. The reasons might be easy enough to suss out without having to dig too deeply: they share a tribe. He is higher ranked than she is. She knows very few people in this city despite having been here for several weeks already.

He doesn't ask her why it is she tells him all of this, and she does not rankle when he turns to face her, nor does her voice quaver or shake as she tells her story. On the contrary: she seems to recite rather than tell, reading from a mental cue card without becoming emotionally invested, as though that is the only way that she is going to survive having to relive that evening all over again.

The remembrance of pain alone is enough to send some of Wyrmbreaker's moon flying into frenzies. Some of the Ahrouns in this Sept are so young and so full of Rage that they have not had the time or the tempering necessary to learn how to control themselves. Some of the Ahrouns in this Sept are so easily angered that it is a wonder they are able to go out in public without being arrested or winding up on the evening news. Covered Sky's Rage matches some of those Ahrouns', but Covered Sky's Rage does not overwhelm her ability to control herself, even when the moon is swollen and heavy overhead.

So when she speaks of what happened, it is with purposeful detachment, an adherence to facts rather than an impassioned push for someone, anyone, to believe that she is innocent. The conclusion that Lukas comes to after hearing her speak doesn't make itself obvious until the last four words that come out of his mouth; long after he has turned away to continue brushing granules across the hangar floor, the Philodox remains watching him, reading him, as though there is some hidden truth to be found in the veins in his forearms or the racks of muscle beneath his shirt, the sweat on his brow.

Ultimately, she finds nothing but belief. And it's enough for her. She folds her lips in on themselves, once, and says, the first traces of feeling returning to her voice, "Thank you."

She looks away, then, and covers up a spot of blood on the floor.

[Covered Sky] [WRAP]

noodles.

[Park] The last time Savage Dawn saw Covered Sky, the both of them were recovering from injuries sustained at the hands of a creature who the Philodox confessed had been present at the death of Tiny Doom several weeks ago, one of them with ribs and organs exposed and the other with her throat cleaved straight through. Their injuries were not dire, and they were able to rest in the concealment of an alleyway in forms not their own while their bodies took up the task of healing.

It is four nights later, four heavy-mooned nights later, and Park is out in the early morning hours without anyone at her side, boots tromping heavily on the pavement, hands thrust into her pockets, eyes alert and focused on the colorfully-lit world around her. She walks with a purpose, as though she has somewhere to be, someone to meet, some reason for being out on these unforgiving streets past midnight, or at least she does a damned fine job of pretending as though she does.

[Lukas] Chinatown sleeps late. There's a noodle shop on 18th Ave open til 3am. Situated next to the Buddha Lounge, it's a wildly popular spot for club kids to grab a late snack after working up an appetite. At 1:30am, it's crammed full, standing room only. Lukas is standing outside with a styrofoam bowl of udon in hand, slurping away.

[Keith] It's colder than cold can cold the cold. Which is very cold, indeed. With windchill factor, it's getting to below zero, so only the truly insane want to be out. Want to be walking, want to be patrolling, but there's something stronger than self-preservation, something more intense than the drive to survive. In Keith, Savage Dawn, Voice of Carnage, one might very well assume that it's the drive to kill, the will to do some sort've violence, to wreak some pain on the wrongful wound the city's driving into the Mother's heart every single fucking day, and quite a few people avoid him for it. Such as the cab driver, who'd peeled away in a moment of supreme weakwill, rather than let the ahroun in. Well, fine. Fine! Fine! He's walking through Chinatown, cold as hell, and he pricks his head up when he spies Park up ahead, and on the corner between himself and Park, outside the warm (mm warmth) looking noodle shop, Lukas. And you know what? Maybe one of them has a car. He puts his fingers in his mouth and WOLF WHISTLES.

[Lukas] Lukas's head snaps up and around, noodles half in his mouth. Then he spies Keith; slurps said noodles in, lowers the bowl. Waves.

[Rory] She doesn't do much. That's what folks might say about Rory. She's not very bright, she's got no schooling, she's got nothing really to go for her - but damn, she can sure fix stuff good. The nice thing about Chinatown is that here, in the glaring lights and late night life, even in the daytime streets of carts and haggling - there's a barter system that's alive and well, and Rory has skills, skills that can net her a few dollars, and even better, a hot meal.

Which is why she's people watching here, outside the noodle shop. She doesn't attract attention, keeping to herself, with her head down, seated one a bench just across the walk. In her hands, not some tinkering task, not right now, but a container of fried rice. In her lap, between her thighs, another filled with Mongolian beef.

The whistle pulls her attention that direction, red curls flying, and she watches as she shovels another mouthful of rice between her lips.

[Park] The dark-haired woman perks up when she hears that musical ear-piercing call, the instinct of everyone within earshot to do the exact same thing, and it is the looking towards the noise that has her catching sight of the tall Fostern slurping down noodles in the frigid pre-dawn air. With the corners of her lips threatening to tug upward, Park pulls her left hand out of her coat pocket and raises it to wave to the Ahroun.

Her steps have her reaching the other Lord first.

"Lukas," she says, coming to a halt just beyond arm's length of him. Her eyes flick to the Styrofoam bowl in his hand, and she asks, "How are they?"

[Lukas] "Mmm-mm mmm," Lukas says. And gulps. And repeats, "Really good. Four bucks a bowl. Five if you want the seafood variety. I wouldn't though; it's like two shrimp and a clam."

[Keith] Chicago's a weird city. Keith's dad probably didn't expect to send his precious damned Ahroun baby boy there to toughen up and find, instead, he was hanging out with a bunch of damned Shadow Lords all the time, but lo. This, it seems, is pretty much the case. Lukas waves, Park's now next to Lukas, and there's a Rory who's yet to be noticed, but who will be soon, if only for her redred hair and her purepure blood (as pure as any of the lesser tribes get, anyway, which is pure enough). It'll take Keith a while to actually get to outside the noodleshop, so carry on without him while he picks up the pace, rubbing his hands together like the friction is an act of god, will get him warm again. "Hey," he says. "Either of you have a car? I'm stranded."

[Rory] Rory's got her backpack with her, of course. It's leaned against her hip, as she sits there crosslegged on the bench. She's wearing almost everything she owns, as it's damn cold out tonight. She doesn't have much in the way of warm outer clothing - her coat is flimsy at best, and she lost her knit hat, so her head is bare. Her fingers too, slender and pale and fragile looking, are without covering. If not for the pulsating heat of rage, she'd be frozen.

As it is, she's not - and her green eyes watch the meeting of the Fang and Lords just across the way.

[Zeke] Park's Cellphone quite suddenly erupts. Cradled in quick, sudden burps of sound. The voice on the other end doesn't bother to wait for Park to offer a Hello, as soon as the ring is interrupted in response-

"...Seems things are beginning to wind down in the southern districts. I'm on the edge of the Rich zone, hanging on your last whereabouts. Do you need a ride home or are you still out walking?" The tone is casual, comfortable even and if Zeke gives any indication as to what he's talking about, it isn't immediately known.

[Lukas] When Park turns away to answer her phone, Lukas replies to Keith. "Yeah, I'm parked around the corner. Where are you headed?"

[Park] Park nods as if there is far more at stake than the salvation of a dollar. "I can live without a couple of shrimp and a clam."

And then: Hey. The Philodox cranes her neck to get Keith in her sights, leaning slightly to see around the much taller Fostern, then takes a step back and says, "Sorry. You need money for the bus? That's the best I can--"

And then her cell phone goes off. Park quickly fishes it out of her pocket, a brand-new piece of silicon that she squints at before inexpertly hitting a green button and bringing it to her ear.

"I'm still out. Where can I meet you?"

[Zeke] "...Give me an intersection. I'll find you." The sound of the car, humming around a corner is easily heard in the cellphone's receiver, Zeke going quiet for a moment, something electronic beeping insistently, then interrupted a half-moment later.

[Keith] "Either of you know her?" The 'her' in question is Rory. Because Keith noticed her, watching them, and clearly Fianna. He's watching her back now, and he's still as he does. Lean and mean. "Home," he says, to Lukas. And then he grins, crooked. "Not the loft. I thought I'd give the pool some time to decontaminate. Thanks again for the trunks." Park offers bus fare, and then she gets a phonecall; he shook his head slightly at the offer of money anyway, because -- well. He didn't actually have any money on him, not even a dime, because he'd given it away to somebody, or forgot it in some restroom, or spent it all on food. But he shook his head because he'd much prefer not to take the bus, if possible, tonight.

[Park] Park rattles off the nearest cross streets, then thumbs the phone asleep and thrusts it back into her pocket, returning to the conversation in time to hear something about the pool being decontaminated. She huffs out a touch of laughter, then says, not having had both ears free to overhear travel arrangements being made behind her, "Zeke's on his way here, if you want to catch a ride back with us."

[Lukas] Lukas peers across the street. "Yeah, that's Rory. Used to be packed with Rises Above, who died last month." He puts his chopsticks down again; waves.

And: "I can give you a lift too, but I'm going to have another bowl first. So if you're in a hurry, ride with Park." Pause. "Zeke is back in town?"

[Rory] She scoops up some more rice, and when Keith notices her watching her, she tips her head slightly. Just acknowledgement that yes, she sees him too. She lifts her chopsticks and waves at Lukas in return, her cheeks splashing with color as she ducks her head, a shy little grin playing across her lips.

Then she continues to eat her meal, scooping it up like she hasn't eaten in days - even though Edwin made sure she was fed well last night.

[Zeke] ...Directions offered and the collective would have time to discuss in brief, Keith's adventures in Lukas Trunks before the Towncar, sleek black and well maintained, quiet and comfortable, rolling around the neighbouring corner at a stalker's pace; slow and scrutinizing.

It rolls to a halt a dozen feet down from the group on the sidewalk, the tinted windows performing adequately in maintaining the secrecy of it's interior. The Car putters to a standstill, the driver's side swinging open and the well-dressed Ragabash climbing free. He faces off toward the opposite side of the street Where Rory stands and watches.

She's given a brief flickering of gloved fingers in the form of a wave, and a lopsided smile on careful features, before he turns, bald of head and dressed in his chaffeur best, to regard the trio on the sidewalk.

"It's a might cold out, folks. One's gotta be all sorts a suspicious about people willing to be in a chill like this..."

[Zeke] ...A pause, those coal eyes turning to regard Lukas, smile evening out into a broad display, as arms rise to lean against the open threshold of the driver's door.

"Lukas. Always a pleasure."

[Lukas] (for the record, the noodle shop everyone's in front of is packed full with plenty of spillover!)

[Rory] From where she sits and watches from her bench, she waves at Zeke too.

[Keith] "Who's she packed with now?" He's very comfortable discussing someone who's nearby just as if they weren't nearby at all. Park says, hey wait, Zeke can give you a lift, and Keith goes: "Who's Zeke?" at about the same time Lukas says: Zeke's back in town? And then not only is Zeke back in town, Zeke is right there, and he's totally Host of Traitors. Keith huffs, then says, "I'm going [some neighborhood that's not great, but not the shittiest shit of all shitastic neighborhoods ever]."

[Park] Zeke is back in town?

"Mm," she confirms, about the time the town car is rolling up to the intersection. Park reaches up to swipe an errant strand of black out of her eye, then turns so that she is facing the road as the dark-skinned metis joins them on the sidewalk.

[Lukas] "Zeke." Lukas lowers the bowl and the chopsticks to one hand, stepping forward to clasp forearms, or hands, with the Ragabash. "Good to see you again." A beat. "Mrena died."

[Zeke] (....hooo)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 1, 8, 9 (Failure at target 6)

[Lukas] Oh, and:

"Why don't you ask her?"

That was to Keith.

[Zeke] Zeke blanches as Lukas lays out Mrena's death, the Ragabash's features twisting into an all too obvious frown that is at once pained and all together assessing. No stranger to such things and yet...everytime...

"...That is...unfortunate." Not the word he was looking for to begin with, as he finishes a firm grip of Lukas arm, before releasing. "...I had high hopes for her."

And then, as if to remove the stain of the moment, he turns to regard Keith, the frown taking it's time in fading.

"...That's on my way. I can drop you."

[Keith] "I'm going to take five minutes to say hello," Keith says, maybe being polite and letting the Shadow Lords have a moment. Zeke's expression was pretty -- well, hell. Even Keith noticed it. Appears to have noticed it. "If you're still here, I'd appreciate that, man."

And then he's off to do what he said he was gonna do: say hello to Rory.

[Rory] Keith heads her way, and her eyes widen slightly, before she ducks her head to hide behind her curls, and scoop up the last bit of her rice from the container, as if he might take it away from her - or to just get to the beefy goodness waiting in the second container.

Either way, she peeks up from under her curls, to see his approach, and offer a shy little grin.

[Park] The noodle house behind them is packed, with no room for bodies at any of the tables inside, but Park decides to take her chances with the line at the counter anyway as Lukas steps forward to greet Zeke with a clasp of hands on forearms. She steps back from the group without announcing where she intends to go or when she plans on coming back, ducking inside and out of the cold.

More than a few people filter out of the noodle house after the Philodox enters their midst. It's too crowded in there, anyway.

[Lukas] Unfortunate, Zeke calls it, understating. Lukas nods. "Yeah," he agrees: understating.

They're a tribe that does not abide weakness. Not even about these things. Lukas lets go, raises his bowl, finishes it off and tosses it into a nearby trashcan. It's overflowing from dozens of bowls just like his. Even on a night as cold as this, the doors of the noodle shop are wide open -- held there by people queued up to grab a bowl of hot $4 udon. Or la mien. Or whatever else was being sold by the cheap, apparently pan-asian noodle joint.

"So, you guys are acquainted?" He starts to turn back to Park, but too late: the Philodox is disappearing to get her own bowl. "Hey, can you get me another one?" he calls after her. "Beef!"

[Zeke] "Of course." He nods after Keith, features climbing down from their previous unsettling, brow the last to begin to smooth over as the seconds tick by comfortably. He turns in place, perk a brow up at Lukas whilst casting an eye toward Park as she braves the crowd of the Noodle house.

"...I take it the Circle's had some hard troubles then, what with..." Pause. "...What was his name then? Mjolnirs~Fist-..Heart" Nodding as if to himself. "Mjolnirs~heart and that entire affair and now Mrena."

[Park] "Beef!" she calls over her shoulder, confirming the order before the door slides closed.

[Keith] "You're eating like a 'gnawer," Keith says, the very soul of political correctness. "You okay?"

[Rory] She wrinkles her nose, and lifts a shoulder - one that is most assuredly very thin under those layers - into a shrug. "Hungry."

He couldn't know that she was packed with Gnawers (though maybe he does) or that old habits die hard. She eats like it'll be taken away, like she hasn't eaten in some time, and she doesn't bother with napkins, just wipes her mouth with her hand, her hand on her tattered jeans.

If not for the breeding, she could easily be mistaken for a Gnawer, truth be told.

A beat, and then. "ok." confirmation that it's situation normal. (all fucked up.)

[Keith] He probably didn't know very much about Rory or her former pack. In fact, he didn't. That's why he'd asked Lukas and Park, although Rory didn't know that either. He regards Rory thoughtfully for a moment, for two. "I heard your packmate died," he says, and that's a cheerful way to start a conversation, isn't it? But he didn't have tact. Or he did, but not right now. "I'm sorry to hear that. And I wanted to say hey. I'm Keith. What'cha eating?"

[Zeke] "Yes, acquainted would be the best word for it, really."

Zeke's gaze flicks into the Noodle place, jaw rolling off to one side, all traces of news on Mrena, fading swiftly from his features, the last lingering presence that of a few lines between his eyes that vanish before his next words are done.

"Interesting thing really. Met her in New Orleans. Showed an interest in Chicago and it's depths. Wastes. Wyrm and Warriors. I obliged with what info. I had, though-" A modest shrug "-Months old, really. Offered to be her driver and introduce but she's taking to the life admirably, really."

A pause, gaze flicking back up to Lukas, though his head remains oriented toward the Noodle shop. A passing thing, Ragabash art ensuring his eyes don't find the Fostern's own. Ragabash art and Metis training.

"Congratulations by the way."

[Rory] She hesitates with a bite partway to her mouth, shadows passing over her vision, her eyes closing briefly, before she nods, slightly. And then confirms - but corrects. "Alpha."

She stirs the beef up with the chopsticks as she peeks up at Keith again, curious, though she never meets his gaze for long, dropping them immediately. Respectful. "Rory." Her name - and single words are easier - as evidenced by the rest. "Bongolian Meef. Want some?"

She doesn't seem to notice the mistake - hearing what she intended to say rather than what she did, as she tips the container toward him.

[Lukas] "Mrena's loss hit us pretty hard," Lukas admits. "We lost Sampson too not long after. After that we reorganized and rethought our direction a bit. We're a little more pragmatic now, you might say. These days we go by the Unbroken, under the aspect of Thunder, Perun.

"You'll remember Kate and Edward from the Circle; Caleb too, when he's out of the Umbra. Sinclair and Theron run with us now too. I don't think you've met either of them, though Theron's a Tribesman. He's expressed interest in holding a tribal moot. With you back in the city that makes at least six of us, so it's a consideration."

Then, a nod. "What's with the chauffeur getup? Your side job?"

The congratulations surprises Lukas, but only briefly. Rank and dominance are more than words; they infuse every facet of the being. Lukas doesn't stand, speak, look or even smell the way he did nearly a year ago. "Thank you," he says, simply.

[Keith] "Bongolian Meef, huh," he echoes, and he doesn't seem to notice that there's much of a difference either. At least, not yet. The words are close enough and, to Keith, who's just listening to the basic shape and sound of the word, not how they're crafted, who's just listening to what Rory says as so much noise while he stares at her, eyebrows pulling together, furrow appearing between his eyebrows, grumpy Ahroun, it's all one. "Yes," he says. "Thanks." And he'll take off one glove, and pick a piece of Mongolian Beef out of her container, popping it into his mouth as quickly as he can before it's so damned cold his hand falls off 'fore he gets the glove back on. Chew, chew, chew. "Who're you running with now?"

[Zeke] "Best way to pay the bills, keep the monkeys from guessing and ensuring the veil, really." About his 'side job'. "That and my ride provides some very easy solutions to some very unpleasant problems, more often then not." His glance narrows briefly, eyes trailing toward his car, brief and appreciative.

"I recall Katherine. Edward, not as much." A twist to his features. "Don't think we ever met, really. Caleb either, though I recall the name some." A pause, a breath sucked in. "A Moot would be beneficial, if only to ensure the Tribe's representation is clear to everyone, new and old." A flick of curiosity in that quizzical glance now.

"I have to admit. I never thought you'd step back from a Totem with such power and esteem as the Talons, much less convince a pair of Kings and Queens to stand with Thunder in any aspect. Consider me impressed."

[Rory] She tips her head, slightly as he says it backwards, and waits for him to say something about it. When he doesn't, she relaxes slightly. He takes a bite and pulls his gloves on, and asks his questions.

She straightens her shoulders, slightly, with a bit of pride that she found another pack, that she was accepted so readily. "Bogeymen."

Odd, she doesn't look at all like a monster that hides under the bed - currently, anyway.

[Keith] "Who are they?"

He finally looks away from Rory for a moment, to check out the Lords. How their conversation is progressing, and all that. His attention is still mostly on Rory, though.

[Lukas] "I'll see about making arrangements, then."

As for the Talons: "It wasn't an easy choice. We'd followed the Talons of Horus for years. But ultimately our visions and purpose were starting to diverge from that of the Talons. As for Kate and Ed -- they don't really hold to traditional Fang views in some respects. Not all, though.

"Speaking of which. You might want to watch out for Dirge of the Covenant. He's as hardline Silver Fang as they come. He has no love for our tribe and less scruples."

[Rory] "The bonsters under the med." Clearly. Or not, exactly. It's said with a little grin, and then she rubs the side of her nose with a cold finger, absently, and nods.

"Edwin, Delmar. Others."

[Keith] "What's that, some new kind of drug?" He frowns, sidelong, at her. The frown is in response to her first remark, not the names she's giving, names which he just files away, because they don't mean much to him at all. He says: "Glad you've got people, though. You seem ...nice."

[Zeke] "....Mmmm, Dirge of the..." A pause, frowning. "...Name sounds vaguely familiar." And almost as easily, a dismissive flicker of a gloved hand. "I'll keep the name in mind. Easy to avoid those with loud voices. Just gotta listen for the cringing in the crowd."

He tugs his gloves on tighter, fingers lifting to pluck at his nose, a faint tinge of red creeping into his nostrils as the night's chill climbs further below.

"I suppose that makes sense. Chicago's always been a haven for free methods of thought and loose on it's stringencies." A beat. "...but then, that might be part of the issue." A glance up at Lukas again. "Park tells me you've had a rash of deaths lately?"

[Rory] She wrinkles her nose, her brow furrowed, as she tries to make sense of what he said, what confused him - and then she realizes she must have made a mistake, and sighs. Her shoulders slump, and she tries again. "Bogeymen. Monsters." a beat, and hopeful that she managed it by going slowly. "Get it?"

Then she flushes, as she smiles a little, glancing up at him and back down again. How someone with so much rage can be so shy, so controlled, so... nice... is an oddity she couldn't begin to explain, even if she really wanted too. "Who do you wack pith?"

[Keith] He scowls. "I know what 'bogeyman' means." And then he blinks. "I wack lots of people. I've never used a pith before, though; that's a helmet, right?"

[Lukas] The topic makes Lukas frown faintly, his eyes flicking past Zeke to the street, then back.

Quieter, "The Children of Gaia were nearly obliterated recently. The Bone Gnawers and the Furies took a hit too. Rory," he nods across the street, "just lost her Alpha not too long ago. A Bone Gnawer. Bones-to-Dust died too, if you've met her. And Evan Judgment-of-Sterling Silver, who's been with the Sept since long before I got here.

"There's no real pattern; it's not any one Wyrmling with any particular M.O. It's a combination of bad luck and lack of cohesion."

[Park] She isn't gone long, comes back on the combination of bad luck and lack of cohesion. When she returns from the line she's carrying a plastic bag with red THANK YOU lettering emblazoned on the side. The plastic rustles as she moves, and as she comes abreast of Lukas she reaches into to pull out the Styrofoam container marked B.

"Here you go," she says, passing the container off to the Fostern.

[Rory] She gets flustered, it's obvious. She drops a piece of the beef on her thigh, plucks it up and shoves it into her mouth, before she closes the container, and tucks it back into her pack. She then lifts her pack - which clanks and clatters - to sit in her lap, and hugs it close.

She doesn't look at him again. Then, softly, admits, "I don't talk go sood. Sorry."

[Lukas] "Thanks." Lukas passes Park four bucks to cover it; for a moment, passing cheap food and meager cash back and forth, they seem less a group of fearsome monsters and warriors, more a cluster of college-ish kids.

[Zeke] "...Bad Luck? Lack of cohesion?" Zeke stares up at Lukas frankly. Openly.

"A Few deaths, maybe, Lukas. Just a few." And Park creeps back into their little collective, Zeke interrupting his own speech to offer a flick of a nod toward the Rage heavy Philodox. "...But Orders are followed. Mistakes are learned from. Packs take care of one another. We've been doing this for enough millennium to know how to work it better."

...His hands vanish into long jacket pockets, the tie adjusted briefly just beforehand.

"That many? I'd be looking in Seer heads for omens for a solid week by now.."

[Keith] "Oh," he says, frowning. "It's okay; I don't do patience so well. Everything else, sure. Not patience, though." He doesn't say that like it's a joke. He is, after all, a Silver Fang. "And it's really damned cold out here, so I'm going to go back across the street and see about the status of my ride home. You should come join the rest of your people, if you want." And with that, Keith's re-joining Lukas and Zeke and Park.

[Rory] She glances up at him, and then across the street, and then nods. A moment after he stands, she does too, hesitating a moment before she makes a decision and heads toward the group as well, slipping her pack on her back as she does so.

[Keith] ooc: I think I'm going to have to bow out in another post, y'all. Keith can just stand around all quiet-like until either Lukas or Zeke are ready to go, and then he'll ride on with whoever. Just a warning!

[Lukas] Lukas exhales a laugh, humorless. "Now you're the idealist, Zeke, if you think we still live in a world where a dozen deaths a year could only happen if the Wyrm were doing something drastically out of the ordinary.

"If you want to consult the Theurges, though, start with Gossamer Wing. She's a Fostern of the Fenrir, and the current alpha Theurge in the city." He pops the top off his second bowl of udon and starts to eat.

[Zeke] "...Ideals are for visionaries. Paranoia, on the other hand..." A 'tsk' sound escapes his lips, though less for Lukas and more a 'What're we gonna do' mention. Lukas offers a name: Gossamer Wing and Zeke offers a nod in return, the register of a Fenrir not bothering to awaken anything special in Zeke's regard. Instead, he turns to glance across the street at Rory and Keith's approach.

"...Park, you want that ride back home, it better be soon, this face and these hands were not made for cold bones and hard winds."

An eye at Rory, smile creeping into something less Shadowlord. More genuine.

"How are the new digs treating you?"

[Park] A crinkle of paper have the bills being crammed into Park's right barn coat pocket, the transaction occurring all but wordlessly as Zeke speaks of deaths and orders and mistakes, of a search for reason and explanation as to what she can only assume is the reason they're here: the rash of deaths that have been spoken of as far away as the west coast.

She has nothing to say about the matter. She tightens her grip on her bag, then sniffs moisture out of her sinuses. Before she can comment on the weather, Zeke does for her.

"I haven't been out of California long enough for fifteen degrees to be tolerable," she agrees. "Enjoy your dinner, -rhya."

With that, she opens up the back door of the town car and, perhaps before or perhaps after Keith, clambers into the back. It's not much warmer in the sleeping vehicle, but there is no wind, and that's good enough for her.

[I require sleeps! Thanks for the RP, fuckers!]

[Keith] "I'm catching a ride with whoever's leaving first," he says, determined to get somewhere warm, it would seem.

ooc: and with that, I'm out. thanks y'all!

[Rory] She smiles shyly at Zeke, relaxing a little with a familiar face and genuine smile. "Good. Mave hy own room!"

Someplace warm to go home too - sometimes it's the little things. "And got to keep cy mat."

[Lukas] (iiii'm gonna have to head bedward too!)

"California," Lukas says, laughing quietly. "My sister lives out there. She's forgotten how to live in the cold too."

He puts the lid back on his noodles, then, dropping his chopsticks in the bag with them. "I think I'm heading out too. I'll be in touch about the gathering, Zeke. See you around."

[Zeke] "...Good to hear."

Zeke's gaze flicks to Keith and Park, creeping into the open and running Towncar, before returning to Rory. He pulls a gloved hand from his pocket, a slim card, etched with minimal writing: His Name (Zeke), his Number (Cellphone), his occupation (Driver), all in small letters barely visible from anywhere but two feet.

"You need help or want something to do, give me a ring. I can point you in some good directions."

And with that, he offers a nod to Rory, then a glance up to Lukas as he makes to depart. "...Enjoy the noodles, Lukas." Then he is around the hood of the car toward the Driver's side, plucking the car open and climbing in. The towncar would head off toward various drop off points.

(Alas, After 4 AM and I'm dead in the head. Bed calls.)