[Sorrow] Sorrow goes still, alert, intent with it as her Alpha's meandering promises - we'll find a good kin for you, someone that's worth it, it won't always be like it is - of some future where there is someone worth of her blood and her tribe, rather than a drunk and a fool, stolen away by the cursed ones not once, but twice - dead now, or corrupted, fallen, used and broken.
- and then the drift resolves itself, jerks himself to alertness; she can see the way the threat coalesces itself in his body. Her own stiffens in answer, the way a boxer's body tenses before the first blow.
There is a sort of concession in the cut of her glance as he cautions her to stop, as he warns her not to take Fenris' name in vain. Kora closes her eyes.
"You're right," she admits, the texture of her rich voice erased by the tension in it. " - I won't. Fenris hasn't claimed him.
"I want to."
[Joe Holst] It takes a few moments for the threat to leak from his form. A few moments, and an act of will. Eventually the formidable Fenrir's hands unclench, settled and still as raindrops drizzle from the tips of them.
The pinpricks of light yet gleam from his pupils, and he takes a step closer.
"How fuggin'... sick dat is. We'ah gonna put it aside. Ahmean.. lets jus' lookit dis logically. Yowah tawkin' about a Fury male. Come'ahn. Its not e'zactly like dey know how ta build a man, is it? Dat's like buyin' a work truck from a Porsche dealer."
[Sorrow] Sorrow's shoulders snap to attention. Still sitting on the top of the bench, she is sitting straighter now, the hood of her jacket fallen back, caught on the knot of her hair behind her neck. It elongates her head, and frames her face in shadows. The pinpricks of light in Joe's eyes are matched by a sudden gleam in her own, which are darker than his, the deep blue of the ocean seen in twilight, of the shadows at dusk.
"He is a man, War-Handed-yuf." Her usually low voice is sharpened, brightened by an undercurrent or rage, clear in the contraction of her muscles, the subtle change in her stance on the bench. "He's strong; I've seen it. He works to keep himself strong. He knows how to fight, and isn't afraid of it. He beat a fomor unconscious.
"He's a good kin. Not a drunk, not a fool. Not a burden. And he is a man." Then, she stands, sliding her feet from the seat of the bench to stand shoulder-width apart on the solid ground. Her hands are no longer in her pockets, but loose at her sides. Her head is head sidelong, that familiar animal cant. "Do you really think I'd settle for anything less?"
[Joe Holst] "Settle? Fah Chrissake- of COURSE yowah settlin'! Dat's a fuggin' given! Heah's anuddah fah yew, den..."
Perhaps it is a reaction to the snap in her voice- but the Modi steps closer. Voice dropping. Solemn. Heated. Threaded with the hints of a learned but sacred hate. Something in him seems terribly alert. Watching for something in Kora even as he raises murderous hands to do no more than help drive home his point.
"Yew carry a T'ousand fuckin' yeahs of us in yowah head. Stories nobody evah wrote. T'ings we need ta pass on. Owah ancestors, an' da proofs of who dey were, what dey learned... an' yowah tawkin' about not dewin' yowah level best ta make shuwah dat gift in yowah blood is passed on ta yowah kids, so's dey can edjucate uddah Fenrir da way yew dew fah me? Dis guy purely bred? Ahmean, does he look Fury? Because unless yew kin guarantee dat yowah kids won't be passin' on stories fah his folk, dillutin' who we ah... what yowah askin' me ta dew is give my blessing fah yew ta commit a crime against yowah Tribe."
[Sorrow] Kora is standing straight through the spine, her hips and shoulders in even, easy alignment, her body tense. She is controlled; more so now than ever before, mistress of her gibbous moon's rage. There is a moment when her teeth snap together and her generous mouth thins to a line so fine it could be dotted.
"We all have a choice, Joe. I had a choice when I changed. I was lost. I didn't know the names of the tribe or the meaning of Gaia. I changed in the middle of the Fianna's lands, but I still knew what I was. I knew where I belonged. Do you think - do you - " she breathing harder, now. The words come in a spitting rush with a passion that seems nearly alien in her, on her - who is usually cool and intent, controlled and watchful. Who laughs, sometimes, and lays on the back of ruined cars in the junkyard, counting the stars. Who howled but did not cry when their Alpha. " - do you honestly think that my ancestors would allow any of my children to become something that they're not? To rob the tribe of their memories?" Then, the line of her mouth cracks with a brief, sharp laugh that does little to dissipate the tension in her mind and body.
"They called to me all my life. I knew what I was without knowing it. He's Fury; he's blooded. Not like Silence or the doc - just enough so that I can smell him. But whatever he is, my children will be mine first, not his. They'll know who they are. They'll have the same choice I had. They'll make the same choice I did."
[Joe Holst] "What I think, is that its shit ta make dem dew alla work for yew. Don't yew owe anythin' yowahself? Don't yew gotta respect it? Or is it moah like.." He waves a broad hand back and forth.. bright eyes narrow as he watches her frame. The whip- lean line of her hinting, maybe at a want he can very much identify with. Joe bares teeth in a silent answer to Kora's laugh. "Mebbe dats a story feh anuddah time."
"Sah what yowah sayin.. is yowah gonna have kids, den.. just like.. show 'em us, den show 'em Furies, an' see which dey'd rathah?"
[Sorrow] "No." Kora says, quiet at first. Then, with more passion, "No. War-Handed-yuf. " There's a sort of caution there, too, and all the laughter has leached out of her voice, out of the set of her fine mouth once more. Instead, her voice has a descant intensity - it sounds like a whisper, is shadowed like a whisper, but there is power behind it, a measured counter-song.
"You misunderstand me. I am saying that my blood and my history were enough to make me Fenrir no matter how lost I was; no matter it was Fianna that found me, Fianna who showed me how to shift and how to cross worlds. I was Fenrir, still. My children will not be lost; they will know who they are. I'm not going to raise them to be half-this and half-that. I'm Garou. I'm a daughter of Fenris, and if I have kids - if I live long enough to have kids, they will be Fenrir - they'll be raised to be Fenrir."
[Joe Holst] It had seemed like a test. The words dripping from his mouth to form a line in the sand..
He'd been hopeful. No gleam of that shows until she asserts herself. That the tribe has her and hers as much as she, it. The assertion seems to mean very much to him. Strangely so. Had he thought such things were the stuff of Fenrir who were not Swords? That it is so common to leave behind the Tribe of one's birth? Whether such an assumption would come from his bizarre Fostering or ideas of his own, Joe doesn't expound.
Deliberation slowly slides across bullish features. The planes of his face growing hard and still. The invitation is still there. Unspoken, but no less obvious. They will each fight, and hard, for their beliefs.
"Strength is what Fenris gave us ta strive toward. Strength above all. How does dis..." Jaw muscles bulge under downy cheeks-
"- Fury.. add ta da Strength of owah Tribe?"
[Sorrow] Sorrow breathes out; her nostrils flare. There is no true easing of the tension in her frame beyond that breath. Her arms are still loose at her side, but her hands are curled into fists, the blunt nails digging at the meat of her palms, the bracelets she always weathers - leather and suede, knotted bits of sisal and hemp - are pulled taut against the delicate jut of bone.
"I told you that he's strong. Physically, he's strong. He works to keep himself in shape. He can fight bare-knuckled, and knows how to use a gun to defend himself. He's not a fool, like - " she doesn't name them; just leaves the names of their troubled kin hanging in the air. " - he's strong, but he knows that he's not Garou. He doesn't pretend to be. He works security; and he's good at fixing things. He - " This seems such a strange litany, like an ad in the paper for a horse or a nanny, and there's a strange frisson of distaste in her gut. Too much tension remains in her face and brow for her dissatisfaction to with the words to show through. Then, " - I asked him to fix up the bikes. You know? To sell, like Kemp-rhya wanted, to send the money to his kid. He's doing it. No questions, no complaints. No grandstanding."
Still, she changes. It is subtle, but clear - the change in her voice, a sort of quiet. "He respects who we are, Joe. He respects who I am. That makes me stronger, too."
- and then the drift resolves itself, jerks himself to alertness; she can see the way the threat coalesces itself in his body. Her own stiffens in answer, the way a boxer's body tenses before the first blow.
There is a sort of concession in the cut of her glance as he cautions her to stop, as he warns her not to take Fenris' name in vain. Kora closes her eyes.
"You're right," she admits, the texture of her rich voice erased by the tension in it. " - I won't. Fenris hasn't claimed him.
"I want to."
[Joe Holst] It takes a few moments for the threat to leak from his form. A few moments, and an act of will. Eventually the formidable Fenrir's hands unclench, settled and still as raindrops drizzle from the tips of them.
The pinpricks of light yet gleam from his pupils, and he takes a step closer.
"How fuggin'... sick dat is. We'ah gonna put it aside. Ahmean.. lets jus' lookit dis logically. Yowah tawkin' about a Fury male. Come'ahn. Its not e'zactly like dey know how ta build a man, is it? Dat's like buyin' a work truck from a Porsche dealer."
[Sorrow] Sorrow's shoulders snap to attention. Still sitting on the top of the bench, she is sitting straighter now, the hood of her jacket fallen back, caught on the knot of her hair behind her neck. It elongates her head, and frames her face in shadows. The pinpricks of light in Joe's eyes are matched by a sudden gleam in her own, which are darker than his, the deep blue of the ocean seen in twilight, of the shadows at dusk.
"He is a man, War-Handed-yuf." Her usually low voice is sharpened, brightened by an undercurrent or rage, clear in the contraction of her muscles, the subtle change in her stance on the bench. "He's strong; I've seen it. He works to keep himself strong. He knows how to fight, and isn't afraid of it. He beat a fomor unconscious.
"He's a good kin. Not a drunk, not a fool. Not a burden. And he is a man." Then, she stands, sliding her feet from the seat of the bench to stand shoulder-width apart on the solid ground. Her hands are no longer in her pockets, but loose at her sides. Her head is head sidelong, that familiar animal cant. "Do you really think I'd settle for anything less?"
[Joe Holst] "Settle? Fah Chrissake- of COURSE yowah settlin'! Dat's a fuggin' given! Heah's anuddah fah yew, den..."
Perhaps it is a reaction to the snap in her voice- but the Modi steps closer. Voice dropping. Solemn. Heated. Threaded with the hints of a learned but sacred hate. Something in him seems terribly alert. Watching for something in Kora even as he raises murderous hands to do no more than help drive home his point.
"Yew carry a T'ousand fuckin' yeahs of us in yowah head. Stories nobody evah wrote. T'ings we need ta pass on. Owah ancestors, an' da proofs of who dey were, what dey learned... an' yowah tawkin' about not dewin' yowah level best ta make shuwah dat gift in yowah blood is passed on ta yowah kids, so's dey can edjucate uddah Fenrir da way yew dew fah me? Dis guy purely bred? Ahmean, does he look Fury? Because unless yew kin guarantee dat yowah kids won't be passin' on stories fah his folk, dillutin' who we ah... what yowah askin' me ta dew is give my blessing fah yew ta commit a crime against yowah Tribe."
[Sorrow] Kora is standing straight through the spine, her hips and shoulders in even, easy alignment, her body tense. She is controlled; more so now than ever before, mistress of her gibbous moon's rage. There is a moment when her teeth snap together and her generous mouth thins to a line so fine it could be dotted.
"We all have a choice, Joe. I had a choice when I changed. I was lost. I didn't know the names of the tribe or the meaning of Gaia. I changed in the middle of the Fianna's lands, but I still knew what I was. I knew where I belonged. Do you think - do you - " she breathing harder, now. The words come in a spitting rush with a passion that seems nearly alien in her, on her - who is usually cool and intent, controlled and watchful. Who laughs, sometimes, and lays on the back of ruined cars in the junkyard, counting the stars. Who howled but did not cry when their Alpha. " - do you honestly think that my ancestors would allow any of my children to become something that they're not? To rob the tribe of their memories?" Then, the line of her mouth cracks with a brief, sharp laugh that does little to dissipate the tension in her mind and body.
"They called to me all my life. I knew what I was without knowing it. He's Fury; he's blooded. Not like Silence or the doc - just enough so that I can smell him. But whatever he is, my children will be mine first, not his. They'll know who they are. They'll have the same choice I had. They'll make the same choice I did."
[Joe Holst] "What I think, is that its shit ta make dem dew alla work for yew. Don't yew owe anythin' yowahself? Don't yew gotta respect it? Or is it moah like.." He waves a broad hand back and forth.. bright eyes narrow as he watches her frame. The whip- lean line of her hinting, maybe at a want he can very much identify with. Joe bares teeth in a silent answer to Kora's laugh. "Mebbe dats a story feh anuddah time."
"Sah what yowah sayin.. is yowah gonna have kids, den.. just like.. show 'em us, den show 'em Furies, an' see which dey'd rathah?"
[Sorrow] "No." Kora says, quiet at first. Then, with more passion, "No. War-Handed-yuf. " There's a sort of caution there, too, and all the laughter has leached out of her voice, out of the set of her fine mouth once more. Instead, her voice has a descant intensity - it sounds like a whisper, is shadowed like a whisper, but there is power behind it, a measured counter-song.
"You misunderstand me. I am saying that my blood and my history were enough to make me Fenrir no matter how lost I was; no matter it was Fianna that found me, Fianna who showed me how to shift and how to cross worlds. I was Fenrir, still. My children will not be lost; they will know who they are. I'm not going to raise them to be half-this and half-that. I'm Garou. I'm a daughter of Fenris, and if I have kids - if I live long enough to have kids, they will be Fenrir - they'll be raised to be Fenrir."
[Joe Holst] It had seemed like a test. The words dripping from his mouth to form a line in the sand..
He'd been hopeful. No gleam of that shows until she asserts herself. That the tribe has her and hers as much as she, it. The assertion seems to mean very much to him. Strangely so. Had he thought such things were the stuff of Fenrir who were not Swords? That it is so common to leave behind the Tribe of one's birth? Whether such an assumption would come from his bizarre Fostering or ideas of his own, Joe doesn't expound.
Deliberation slowly slides across bullish features. The planes of his face growing hard and still. The invitation is still there. Unspoken, but no less obvious. They will each fight, and hard, for their beliefs.
"Strength is what Fenris gave us ta strive toward. Strength above all. How does dis..." Jaw muscles bulge under downy cheeks-
"- Fury.. add ta da Strength of owah Tribe?"
[Sorrow] Sorrow breathes out; her nostrils flare. There is no true easing of the tension in her frame beyond that breath. Her arms are still loose at her side, but her hands are curled into fists, the blunt nails digging at the meat of her palms, the bracelets she always weathers - leather and suede, knotted bits of sisal and hemp - are pulled taut against the delicate jut of bone.
"I told you that he's strong. Physically, he's strong. He works to keep himself in shape. He can fight bare-knuckled, and knows how to use a gun to defend himself. He's not a fool, like - " she doesn't name them; just leaves the names of their troubled kin hanging in the air. " - he's strong, but he knows that he's not Garou. He doesn't pretend to be. He works security; and he's good at fixing things. He - " This seems such a strange litany, like an ad in the paper for a horse or a nanny, and there's a strange frisson of distaste in her gut. Too much tension remains in her face and brow for her dissatisfaction to with the words to show through. Then, " - I asked him to fix up the bikes. You know? To sell, like Kemp-rhya wanted, to send the money to his kid. He's doing it. No questions, no complaints. No grandstanding."
Still, she changes. It is subtle, but clear - the change in her voice, a sort of quiet. "He respects who we are, Joe. He respects who I am. That makes me stronger, too."
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