Ornature

[Joe Holst] Joe will never be a ladykiller. He will be neither a great diplomat of his tribe nor necessarily an exemplary leader, though the kid tries hard to be. What he is though, without a doubt, is a dedicated student of tactics.. nearly a worshipper of the art of War. It colors everything in him... and now colors his mood toward the monolithic building Aesir's Call is considering for a pack house.

He stands near the middle of a weed- choked and overgrown parking lot to the side of the church building itself. His eyes pass from the door in the side to the street, and back again. He'd liked the building itself. The location has him worried. With each swing of his thick neck, Joe grows more and more concerned.

"It is, Kora." He says it again. "Too open from da street. Tew visible an' dat.. I wan' us ta find less obvious ways uh gettin' in. Don't want theah ta be rumors dat squattahs moved in an' dat." His face swings to the pretty blond as he nods, decided.

[Joe Holst] "Oh wait... yew said weah gonna own it?"

[Sorrow] The streets are suggestions, living memories, sleeping spirits, stone and asphalt, amalgam-things, slow - cracked with salt, dreaming of solidity. Every thing has life here - muddled life, stuttered life, dreaming life, sleeping life. The wind tastes of heat and the rain sings when it falls. The subtle signs of the Eagles' territory are clear. Here is a glyph etched into the ghostly reflection of a wall, there is a trophy pole, displaying the slowly disintegrating skulls of those who crossed the Eagles. The advance of the Wyrm into what had been the territory, too - corruption creeps back into the hard fought and hard-won streets the way the forest reclaims even the most stout of stone structures.

The way some remnant of the Wyld has reclaimed the massive church in front of them. Overgrown trees - trashy, invasive laurels, escaped Princess trees, scrubby little hardwoods planted by squirrels or roosting birds - surround the structure in the physical world.

Sorrow stands cross-wise to her Alpha, such that whatever is behind him is perfectly within her field of vision. When Joe turns to consider the massive structure of the abandoned church - solid here, an unmistakeable presence - she tips her pale head back to it too, her dark eyes narrowed, her expression thoughtful. Her hands remain in her front pockets, just the tips of her fingers, really.

"We'll own it," she confirms, quiet. " - as I understand it, it's owned by the city, now as a derelict building. So the kin will make it disappear from the city books, give us the title to the place under some proxy name we'll control. Which is," she continues, the edge of her mouth hooking upward. " - an awful lot of words for saying we'll own it. Maybe there are less obvious entrances from the back. An old parking lot? They would've needed a place to park their cars - or horses - or whatever. Hell, we can enter and exit through the umbra for the most part, but need to have our kin in and out, too.

"Those trees, though. They're thicker than you'd think to look at them, especially at ground level, they're a pretty effective screen. 'Course, in the winter, they'll lose all their leaves."

[UmbralSquash] *The near realm. The penumbra. Cabrini is washed out and diluted even midday. Weaver worn and dismal after many months in the absence of the Eagle's Godi, or any theurge at all to tend the spirits here. Still, some hopeful vibrancy of the wyld flourishes here and there, crabgrass and dandelion spirits shoving stubbornly through webbed cement, choked out by greying cobwebs. The old church looms large beside cracked pavement, Ivy and creeper plant spirits struggling through webs to writhe with strong umbral winds, hungry green leaves upturned to feed on the ambient glare of Helios, sun's brilliance filtered to grim grey by the city's ever present haze of roiling smog. Trees are overgrown, clutching to eroding soil and twinging together for strength and company. Inside the stain glass windows of the upper stone arches, shadows flicker and light flashes metallic.*

[Joe Holst] Joe nods slowly, almost to himself. Here the evidence of Hermodr's claws in the spirit of the pack is even heavier. The boyish Jarl is a nearly bestial, looming thing- solid and harsh. He'd long since forgotten to be thankful for the ability to bind clothing to himself.. the kid has grown past such concerns even were the tattered jeans and thin tee shirt not present.

"Chain link fence, mebbe. Owah a partial privacy fence.. just sumpfin' ta block any light comin' from da door when we open it.. dat oughta do da trick..." He speaks half to himself. Intention and the bits of words that don't spill from his mouth patter their way across the totem link anyway, and he swipes a broad arm between the door and the thought-of-a-street again before moving toward the door.

"...th' fuck is dat flashin', dough..." He says it looking up at the stained glass windows, then listens at the door for a second before opening it.

[UmbralSquash] [ok folks! folly of dial up! I have to get offline for a lil bit so as to let mah sister call her husband! I'll be back in less than an hour I hopes. BE BACK!]

[Sorrow] "When the leaves fall, we'd be happier with some sort of privacy fence," the Skald's dark eyes cut back to her Alpha, " - but a chain link fence could be electrified, right?" That's provisional. She doesn't know the answer to the question, and her pale brows are drawn together with thought. "Hmm. You know, on tennis courts, or at construction sights, they have like - " a pause, distaste for the lack of specificity in her language. " - tarps or something attached to the chainlink, to serve as windbreaks or to keep people from watching the progress too closely. That could work, yeah?"

While Joe opens the front door, Kora looks back behind them, out into the darkened street, studying the shadows for any trailing threat. As he opens the door, she turns, studying the view over the bulk of his shoulder, sorting through the shadows ahead of him before cutting a glance up the vast facade of the church, the vines clinging to its walls, crawling up from the thin, starving soil, to the shadow of the stained glass gleaming in the light.

[Sorrow] (we can pick up when you're back. :) just grab me!)

[Joe Holst] [umbralsquash]

*Faint noises echo through the gutted stone structure, hollow. Ears straining. Alert, the two fenrir are ill prepared for the insistent electronic screech that sounds from the neglected walk light behind them. A small silver spider dangling from a thread, nearly swallowed by the angry green glare of a flashing human figure in its rusted metallic window.*

WAAAAAALK! WALK WALK! WALK! WAAAAAAAALK! WALK WALK! WALK!

*Demands the spider in a tiny tinny voice.*

[Joe Holst] Joe glowers over Kora's shoulder, leveling a half- lidded, angry glare at the demented spider creature.

"Foyst fuggin' ordah uh bidness aftah we secure dis place..."

With that, he heads inside- pausing to look toward the stairs at one end of the hallway, peeking toward the corridor of doors and the doubled ones at the end which must lead to the Sanctuary.

"Lights I saw was upstaihs.." He murmurs, gliding down the hallway with restless speed that belies his size.

[Sorrow] "How else would you know when it's safe to cross?" - Sorrow remarks, her laugh a low rich thread of a thing behind him - a low rich thread of a thing beneath the tension written into her by the sudden assault of the spirit's little demand, mind you. Her spine is straight, her shoulders neat and level, her tall frame taught. She has slid her hands from her pockets, now, and walks with her arms at her stride, hurrying in Joe's wake to match his pace, acutely conscious of the grace with which he moves.

"There's bound to be stairs leading to the choir loft either in the foyer or just inside - " she lifts her chin up to the ceiling, studying neo-gothic bones of the place. "I should've gone to the library, looked up some of the hsitory of the place before we came. I'll do that, next time."

[Joe Holst] [UmbralSquash]

*Further in, the glow of daylight becomes colorful, stained glass windows casting light in a multitude of brilliant shades across debris strewn floor. Dust devils whirl into long looming shadows, cockroach spirits skittering out of sight. A rat gaffling meanders with uncharacteristic laziness, disappearing under a heap of scuttled pews. The noise is louder as they stand in dancing kaleidescope colors, religious figures glaring down at the Fenrir with hard lifeless eyes, too long without the songs of faith in their desert god. A raucous clatter from the steeple far overhead.*

[Joe Holst] He pauses for a moment or two.. coulda sworn John the Baptist just...

..naaaah.

He snorts, and the sound is a small explosion in the near stillness. A thrust through the center of calm, bracketed by the noise from upstairs and the scuttling of the rat. Blue eyes wash quickly back to Kora, then follow the sound coming from upstairs.

Then he pushes his chin at the double doors leading to the foyer, and taps them open. Sure enough, a discreet flight of stairs to the right of the doubled front doors. Joe flashes a gap toothed grin at Kora as he heads toward them.

"Well lookit dat. Was yew a good church-goin' goyl once upon'a time?" The stairs creak a bit as he mounts them.

[Sorrow] There is a moment just within the sanctuary when Sorrow stands still, takes in the dusty swirl of the interior, the ruin, the damped sounds, the scurry of the rat spirit, the click click click of insect legs against the cool floors, the silent eyes of the silent saints of the absent god, without faith to enliven them. Then Joe's snort breaks the bubble of silence, and she cuts a glance back to him, jerking her attention away from the stained glass, the gallery, the dust swimming in the cloistered atmosphere, the great ribs of worked stone holding up the ruined roof.

Joe finds the stairs where Kora siad they'd be. She turns and jogs in his wake, ducks into the closed stairwell, trailing her fingers along the wall. "Never." - she says, in response to her Alpha's cheeky question. She affirms, in a quiet voice that hints at the ironic in its flat-lined undertone. " - I found better things to do in choir lofts."

Silent, then, though she is careful to look behind her regularly as they climb up to the choir loft, following the scuttling sound that draws them closer and closer still.

[UmbralSquash] "ForgiveMeFatherForIHaveSinned-BlessMySonLord-Amen-ShowHerThePathBackToYourGrace-DeliverMeFromThisEvil-Amen-MakeMyMommyComeBack-IHateYouYouFuckerIHateYou-Amen-ShowMe-PleaseLordHearMeINeedYou-GodDon'tLetMeDie-Don'tLetHerLeave-BlessedBeTheLordJesus-SeeUsThroughThisBadYear-Amen-MakeItStop-ForgiveMe-ForgiveHim-Amen-ForgiveUs-PleaseLord-OurFatherWhoArtInHeaven-GodHearMyPrayer-Amen-"

*Murmurs. A whisper's whisper easily mistaken as the scuff of a shoe or the inhalation of dusty breath. The audible impressions of desperate prayer seem to thrum like white noise around the pair as they cross through ransacked aisles to the belltower doors. Are they underscored by singing? Its difficult to tell over the howl of the wind, snatches of reedy organ music lasting time enough for a sliver of thought before fading into nothingness. Church a cavernous mausoleum for stale air and dead faith. The air is staler still as the stairs reach up into a small priest's office and library, a pungent odor of dust and rosehip incense clogging the senses. Scent of the clergy. Books that are moth eaten, scattered and vandalized in the physical realm still line the Father's bookcases neatly here, only a few strew about a dust covered oak table. A narrow staircase twists up to the bell room proper, the ruined roof above it. Fluttering of feathers and a metallic clicking more than clear as the door to the belfry looms large.*

[Joe Holst] A snicker chatters quietly against the close walls of the stairwell, and Joe mutters 'atta goyl..'

Joe's joking stops. Cuts off as though strangled by the heat that begins to spike, to radiate from the furnace of wrath inside Joe's breast. Slowly, the ghosts stoke old, old fury. Give weight and presence to half- memory, and cause a hatred beaten into the Jarl to grow toward the surface, like a wicked plant reaching toward the sun.

Pleading. The monkeys.. they do so much pleading. Thick fingers curl into stinging fists, and Joe's teeth flash white and hard in the dust spackled beams of sunlight. As he moved toward the stairs, his face had swung back and forth with the slow, relentless rhythm of a shark scenting weakness. Reaching out to break it away. Clean it up.

It takes a while, and the boy keeps his own council. Flushing with shame only secretly- he'd kept his face carefully away from Kora during the climb up the stairs. The memories are pressed away now, and all that paints Joe's face as he looks up toward the belfry is interest and anticipation.

He lowers his gaze to the room, and looks out a window toward the ghost of a street outside.. trying to determine where exactly he saw the flashing and shadows.

[Joe Holst] Still looking out the window, Joe raises one heavy hand, a thick finger scribing a slow circle around the room before he looks toward Kora.

"Awright.. dew dat t'ing yew dew ta intraduce yahself ta spirits.."

[Sorrow] Kora feels the spike of Joe's rage. The moon is waning from the full, and tension still rides high in both of them - but the weight of his rage is heavy, a near-physical thing when roused as by the whispers, the remembered pleas of the long-dead faithful, whispering like loss through the echoing interior.

Her reaction is wholly different: her pale head cants with animal interest, following the threads of prayers dry as powder, struggling to catch the more of the most interesting, listening intently, her mouth still, her eyes fixed ahead of her as if she might hear more of it were she only easedropping.

The scent of incense is sharply familiar. They pass through the priest's quarters, Kora quiet in Joe's wake, quiet as they climb and climb and climb all the way up to the apex of the belfrey, While Joe looks out the window, Kora crosses her arms and studies the closed door, listening for the sounds that might match the flash they saw from below, and the flare of wings against the darkness.

"Sure, boss." - the Skald replies. She wears bracelets around her wrists and around her neck - not metal torques like Joe's - hardly ancient. There is a thin choker of twisted black leather cinched around her neck, and a half-dozen or more dark bracelets on either wrist - a mix of twisted suede, plainted leather, and knotted fiber pieces. The only metal jewelry she wears is a single iron ring pierced through the inner cartilage of her left ear, with a long charm hanging from the hoop the length of a child's fingerbone, as old as Joe's torque. With a thought, the whisper of spirit stuff against the darkness, Kora activates the fetish and -

[Sorrow] - there is no overt change, just in the way she hears the world. Just in the way she can speak to it. Just in the way the whispers change. With a brief look at her Alpha, seeking permission, Kora circles the room to stand in front of the closed door. She lifts her right hand, index finger crooked neatly, ready to knock twice if he gives her permission.

[Joe Holst] Joe's face ducks in minute increments toward the floor. He seems almost to gather.. one hand settling on the back of the Father's chair, which he tips slightly.. testing it for heft. One boot also taps against the surface of his desk. Prepared to throw the chair and follow it through the door, his eyes cut to Sorrow and he nods.

[UmbralSquash] *Strange, the speech of spirits. The faint fluttering of wings, the hollowness of bones, scrabbling clatter click of talons on rafters ringing brassy and strange, a language all their own beyond the closed door of the belfry. It was panic, and it was lazy, as though the two things could exist together. A negotiation kawunging in warbling metallic tones, frantic and meandering and chattering all at once.

We'llTalkWe'llTalkLookWhatIBroughtYouSickGetUpGetUpExplainSickGetUpExplainWhyDoYouSleepGetUpExplainWe'llTalkWe'llTalk -

Kora's Knock causes a sharp clawscratching ruckus, before the only noise is the wind.*

[Sorrow] Kora conveys the strung-together words back to Joe as she hears them. Her voice is quiet, rich and organic as freshly turned earth, as mast settled over the floor of some great dark wood in the deepest days of autumn, a clear counterpoint to the warbling metal speech on the other side of the door.

"The bell - ?" she says after, speculating, her mouth hooking into a neat half-smile at the of it, light finding purchase in her dark eyes, a sort of de light at the prospect. Then, the voice on the other side of the door goes silent, Kora's nostrils flare, and her mouth stills. "I am she who offers sorrow," she says against the door, the shape and memory of it, the sleeping fact of it between them and that which is on the other side. "of Fenris and Hermodr, with my Alpha, War-Handed. We're coming through."

And, as Joe readies himself, Sorrow reaches for the handle, and opens the door.

[Joe Holst] Joe doesn't tense as Sorrow opens the door. That is a trick that takes a lot of practice, and the practice is written into his bones. Instead, muscle slackens across his entire frame and buzzes with energy. Gathering for the throw, and the brutal speed of a charge for the door.

On the other hand, his face looks open. Keenly interested. Imagining a massive bronze icon of western society.. imagining the impressive thing swinging back and forth. Summoning Pavlov's dogs to feed their god, rather than the other way around. What distress could such a thing be in?

[UmbralSquash] *The cause of the ruckus is readily apparent as they enter the belfry proper, wings flapping wildly as a steel grey bird circles wildly over head, red glass eyes glinting as it dives through lightness and dark, coppery beak flashing metallic. Square dimensions of the room make for long shadows on the side of the room opposite the street, obscuring the spirit bird a moment before its diving through a broken window.*

FixIt!FixIt!GetItUp!Explain!

The scab-bird swoops out into the daylight, voice hollow and echoing as it disappears through the ornately arched window. The window pokes jagged glass fingers at the wind, causing a rattling howl that seems to vibrate the entire room with the brassy resonance of a clanging bell. The bell itself sits lopsided, leaning against a thick broken rafter as old as the church itself. Atop the bell, sits a fat Scab-bird spirit. Dull. Flat. Asleep. An echo itself.*

[Sorrow] The door opens. There is nothing at which Joe may throw the chair - just a belfrey with a lopsided, leaning bell and two birds - one dead-eyed, sleeping, the other circling the room wildly. The air is sharp with its raucous demands, and Kora watches the flying bird, her pale head darting to match its precise movements before it dives out through the broken window. The sunlight cuts through the gloom here, but there are shadows too, rich and deep, the sharp contrast between shadow and light is blinding.

When she is sure of her surroundings, Kora walks into the Belfrey, circles it carefully, pausing once to look out of the broken window for the scab-bird, then continues until she stands before the bell. "It wants its brother fixed," she says, as she circles to stand beside the bell, beside the sleeping, echoed, empty bird. "Wants it enlivened, awoken."

[Joe Holst] Joe's form fills the doorway soon after Sorrow paces across the belfry- blue eyes flicker from the sleeping bird to the other, still heard but unseen outside the window.

"Sah.." He says it while narrowing his eyes, sweeping the tip of his tongue along an eye tooth thoughfully. A new battlescar dapples one side of his neck as he leans forward to look out of the window, then back to the bird. He continues to pace around the room, watching the still, sleeping form of the 'sick' weaver bird.

"Bells warn.. bells.. mark time..." He grunts quietly, scowling in thought. "Buh what couldt put it ta sleep? Ahmean.. if it was jus' da building bein' abandoned, why aint da uddah one asleep? Or is just dis one da bell an' da uddah one-" He points to the window. "Sumpfin' else? Like.. one da shell an' one da hammer?"

[Sorrow] Sorrow gives a sharp whistle, then, in the direction of the broken window. To humans, such a whistle - means, hey you! come here! It's the sound of doormen in New York and Chicago summoning a cab, or friends gesturing to friends across the expanse of a park, To weaver-birds -

- well. There is a sharp whistle, and then she calls out after the spirit in its language, lifting her quiet voice, "Hey. Hey. We'll fix it, if you come and tell me who you are. Tell me what happened. We'll make a deal."

[UmbralSquash] *The brassy beat of wings, hollow and light. Perched on a stone buttress outside the window, the smaller weaverbird rests wary. Untrusting, one beady red eye cocked to Kora, then to Joe in turn. A copper beak clicks as the Scab-Bird natters.*

FixItWakeItUpDeal.

*Nervous preening, grey feathers impossibly light for something that looks as though its made of metal filaments. One eye ever on the pair of Fenrir*

[Joe Holst] (paused!)

[Sorrow] "I could be wrong," Kora says quietly from where she stands at the window, looking out at the bird resting on a flying buttress, framed against the brilliantly light webs of the heart of the weaver's domain downtown, where the skyscrapers erupt against the sky, metal and glass wrapped in thick webs that sing with ordered electrical impulses, with the constant workings of pattern spiders, all banked in a sort of drifting

(beginning of next post)
to Sorrow

[Sorrow] They are gathered in an outbuilding near the Caern's heart. The metal hanger once served as a warehouse, storage for containers offloaded from the docks, for smaller vessels drydocked for repairs. Now, it is an expansive space, ribs of metal like flying buttresses supporting the roof, which rises at a steady pitch to a slender metal spine down the middle. The skylights had been burst out, and sections of the metal roof have been pulled away from the skin of the building like bark from a birch tree. Shafts of sunlight dart through the ceiling, down through the close, warm darkness to pool on the concrete floor.

Sorrow waited outside the hanger for Adamidas and the Philodox Elder, her hands in her front pockets, her body a lean, tight line inside her worn old clothes. Her hair is pulled back into a French braid, revealing the sharp planes of her cheek and jaw, the long line of her neck. Her t-shirt is black, impractical for the heat. Midsummer, she will bake in it. It is not quite midsummer yet, but the day is warm enough that a fine sheen of sweat touches her pale features, dampens her cotton tee.

Adamidas arrives first. Sorrow offers the young theurge the edge of a familiar half-smile, and a low quiet - "Hey."

The moon is full. This night last a pair of Fenrir fought in the bawn. It is daylight, and the moon is half a world away - but they can feel it, crawling underneath the skin of the earth, the promise of another full fat moon to come. The greetings are brief. They all know why they are here. In the close darkness of the hanger's expanse, they stand. Sorrow briefs Honor's Compass quickly and quietly on the challenge, and the terms set by Adamidas: the test of judgment, the test of vision, the test of rage.

Both Adamidas and Sorrow listen quietly as Kate offers the test of judgment:

There is a Garou who has been accused by another of holding a Kinfolk against her will. The Kinfolk belongs to the accuser's tribe yet the Garou in question insists the Kin is there by their own free will. The Accusing Garou says the Kinfolk's mental state is unfit to judge as its been abused and altered. How do you sort out who is in the right, how do you extricate the Kinfolk while tending to their best interests?

Whom of the Garou should be punished? How do you judge? Why?

The scenario laid out, Sorrow looks to Adamidas, waiting for her consent or clarification to the test suggested by Honor's Compasse.

[Rain of Brass Petals] She is all strength and composure. It is hard to think of her as such, because these two have seen her remembering and reliving her worst. They've seen her afterward, they ahve seen her grow. They've never seen her conducting tribal matters, but there she is.

She waits with Kora, and she smiles. Her hair is down and comes into ringed spirals, loose curls. She speaks again, "hey."

Familiar. Neither angry nor antagonistic.

Katherine lays the clarification wide. Adam nods.

"That follows the spirit of the matter nicely," she says, she consents.

[Honor's Compass] Honor's Compass looks between the pair. Her fair waves are held back from her face, stylishly scooped in a clip and lain across one shoulder. As ever, the Philodox Elder looks as though she had been called from a country club, her white pearls coiled around her throat, her blouse silk, and as expensive as it appeared.

She stands prim; her hands folded before her as she lays out the challenge stipulations; and when Rain of Brass Petals agrees to the terms, inclines her head and returns pale eyes to Kora. "Proceed to answer, She Who Brings Sorrow."

[Honor's Compass] (er, offers! not brings. ugh. typos.)

[Joe War- Handed] He said he'd be there.

He'd warned Kora.. he's more likely to be on the witch's side. She'd asked again. He swore, he refused, he railed against the Skald. In the end though, battered boots crunch against the shrapnel left in the wake of long- ago rust, and sooner rather than later, Joe's formidable form emerges from the halogen haunted gloom of the dockyards. Face drawn and pensive. Disgust flickers about the edges of savage, and recently battered features.

An oddly deferential note enters the mindlessly confident rhythm of his gait, and as Joe approaches the front of the dockhouse his glacial eyes flick to Katherine and remain there.. his steps slow.. he never looks away from her-

-and the moment her face begins to tighten, indeed, as soon as there is any sign at all in the philodox that he'd come far enough he stops precisely as far away as she indicates, and his attention swings to Adamidas and Kora.

[Sorrow] Sorrow's features are neutral, now. Her eyes are dark, and her mouth is still as she considers both Adamidas and Honor's Compass. "First, free the kinfolk from the one who holds her. As I understand your scenario, he is neither born of her blood, nor has he won her through honorable challenge." There is a brief, twist of her mouth, as if she were tasting the pith of a bitter fruit.

"If you wish to keep peace in the Sept, require the Garou holding the kinswoman to return her to her tribe before moonrise. Bar his access to the Caern until he has complied with the order. If he still refuses to return her, her tribe should find her and claim her, and haul him back to the Sept for swift judgment." The if he survives goes unspoken.


Sorrow glance away, then - over at Joe War-Handed, her dark eyes briefly resting on her the hard lines of her Alpha's youthful features. Here is the edge of her smile, halved, as she turns her attention back to Kate, and then directly to Adamidas, speaking plainly and frankly. "Fenrir have little tolerance for weakness in ourselves or in our kinfolk - we will not tolerate weakness that is bred and borne in the marrow of a creature, but injuries - injuries to the body or the mind that can be healed should be healed.

Sorrow offers the faintest natural little shrug. "Bring the kinswoman to the ritemistress when she has been recovered from the one who holds her. Bleeding-Heartrhya is a Child of Gaia, a skilled healer, and a theurge of the first water. She above all others would know whether the kinswoman was sick and injured, altered through threat or abuse. She would know whether she could be cured - by gifts, by human medicine, by time - and could, perhaps, cure whatever injuries had been done to her. Or recommend the human treatment necessary to see her whole.

"If the kinswoman has been injured, she should be healed. If she has not been injured or altered, bring her before a philodox and have the truth of it from her.

"If the kinswoman has been harmed, the Garou in question should be punished - and the punishment should be based on the harm he has done - to the kinswoman and to her tribe. Until you know the truth of it, you cannot assign punishment."

"If the kinswoman has not been harmed, the one who held her must still return her to her tribe. If he still wishes to claim her, tell him to challenge her tribal elder to stand as her guardian or as her mate. The accuser could challenge for her as well. The tribal elder has the right to accept either challenge, or both. He has the right to refuse both challenges too, and to hold and care for his kin as he sees fit.

"That is my answer." Sorrow glances first at Kate, then at Adamidas.

[Honor's Compass] The Silver Fang cuts a sharp glance at War Handed as he approaches the edge of the challenge circle. The look is measuring, though there is a degree of warning contained within it as he draws near. When he ceases before crossing it the Fostern's attention returns to Sorrow. She listens, Truth's Meridian, without the flicker of anything near to agreement, or outright disagreement to the Fenrir's response.

When she is finished; Katherine turns and addresses Adamidas.

"Has she satisfied you with this answer, Brass Petals? Has she proven her judgment is sound?"

[Rain of Brass Petals] "Before I have passed my ruling on her judgment as it would please Pegasus, I need to ask a few questions," there's a key phrase there. As it would please Pegasus. Know where the theurge's loyalties and logic lies.

"First: what is harm? What is abuse?"

She takes a second, and she stands and thinks through this delivered testimony. The Fury listens, as though she is a proxy for a higher being. Voice of a higher court, "tell me what weakness is."


[Joe War- Handed] A few yards away, there is a hollow thrumming noise as Joe drops to sit on a ground down chunk of metal. Blinking, he looks from Kora to Adamidas... his eyes are narrowed and he seems intent on their conversation- though its substance seems to escape him for the most part. It seems a cultural barrier, rather than an inellectual one.

...completely absorbed in the proceedings, it takes him several moments to become aware of the stark and abrupt noise he'd made. The youthful Modi's heavy hands drop into his pockets, rummaging for gum as he stares at the ground, face reddening rapidly. Whoops.

He's very still for a time. Church mouse quiet.

[Sorrow] Except for the subtle spasm in a band of tendon that cuts from cheek to jaw, Sorrow's features are still. She looks from Adamidas to Honor's Compass, and then back to Adamidas. This time, the creature's dark eyes - the color lost in the shadows of the vast hanger - are intent, fixed on the smaller theurge.

"Rain of Brass Petals-yuf," Sorrow begins, her features calm and still, despite the pulse of the moon on the other side of the world, somewhere beyond the horizon, somewhere beneath their feet. "Honor's Compass-rhya asked me to answer a concrete question. I have answered it. Told her how I would retrieve the kinswoman, attempting to preserve first the peace of the Sept, and what the step would be thereafter, if such peace could not be preserved, how I would ensure the kinswoman's welfare, and how I would seek the truth underlying the dispute between the accuser and the one-who-is-accused.

"Now you ask me abstract questions - what is harm, what is abuse, what is weakness? They are words, shallow vessels that we use to hold concepts that expand beyond the limits of their containers. Harm has half-a hundred definitions. It has a thousand. If I kick you, if I wound you, if I cut off your arm, I have harmed you. If I slander your name, if I lie to your tribe, if I taint you, or tempt you to dark thoughts or dark deeds, I have harmed you. If I support your weakness, or sap your strength, I have harmed you. If I pull you up when you could have stood straight on your own - when you should have stood straight on your own - I have harmed you. If I inflate your sense of self-worth beyond the reasonable, encourage you to delusions of grandeur, I have harmed you. If I stoke bitterness and resentment in you, I have harmed you. And if I do any of these things - cause you harm - because it gives me pleasure to see you in pain, to see you weakened, incapable of caring for yourself, because it gives me pleasure to see you humiliated, or frightened without cause, again and again, I have abused you.

"There are a hundred more definitions. Unless I know what was done to the kinswoman, I cannot tell you whether she was harmed. Unless I know what the Ritesmistress would say, what the philodox would say, what her story was, I cannot tell you whether she was abused.

"And weakness, weakness is that which saps our strength. Pride can be a strength; overweening pride, weakness. Rage brings us back from the brink of death. When we are ruled by it, it is weakness. Weakness is found both in cowardice, and in overconfidence. Weakness is that which turns us from our duty - which is first to Gaia, to the earth beneath our feet, to the war we fight every day, with ever breath in our lungs and every fiber in our bodies. It is weak to refuse good counsel, and weak to bathe yourself in counsel until you cannot walk out of the room without asking which direction might be best."

"I can tell you a thousand stories of weakness, Rain of Brass Petals, and never get to the heart of it."

[Rain of Brass Petals] She clears her throat, and whatever words she had, whatever tongues she spoke in, were held for the time being. Spirits came, spirits went. Time passed and she considered.

Was she satisfied, though? That was a strong question, a harder question than she had originally anticipated. The Fury looks at Kora, listens to her words, her tone, and notes that she isn't patronizing. That she is right there, in the moment with her questions. And she speaks of abstractions- a language that this spacey creature understands.

She nods, once up, once down.

"She who offers sorrow-yuf, you have answered her question as presented... we can move on to the next part of this challenge," she replies.

[Sorrow] "Trent has no close Garou relatives; not within living memory and although he knows how he was raised and the beliefs of his tribe, he does not know the names or deeds of his ancestors. Still, he descends from heroes.

"It is not an unbroken line. There are names that are lost, and names that forgotten. There are kinfolk who have gone unnoticed and unremembered by the tribe and the Nation, and there are men - trueborn - who have been given over to other tribes, because Black Furies will not accept them in their ranks.

"êüñç ôïõ Ýùò" carefully, Sorrow says the words carefully. The first one sounds like her name, the one her mother gave her. Kora. Kore. The daughter, who disappears into the underworld, who returns changed, and dangerous. Kore. She says the words carefully because the sounds are alien. Sorrow speaks a handful of languages fluently - some learned before her change, when she was a human with the kernal of a monster in her - and others learned after. Greek is not among them. Still, she is a Skald, multilingual, careful with the shape of words, attentive to their formation, and the accent is correct, if perhaps a bit overprecise.

" - Daughter of the Dawn was the greatest of the Garou in his direct line. The spirits do not remember her human name, but they that she was born under the light of the waxing full moon, at the first hour of the morning. That her mother dreamed her greatness, and that - like Cassandra - none of her sisters believed her, for the child rushed to meet her moon, and was born early, sickly and small, and the theurge who performed the rites to determine whether she was born true failed to gleam the truth of it."

The story continues. The particulars are lost in the mists of time, which erodes history until it is cool and white and solid, like bone. Daughter of the Dawn rose to the rank of Adren following a renowned philodox - philodox she says, reminding herself of the shape of the word the other tribes use to name the half-moons among them - who fell. They were sisters, close as the plaits in a braid, close as the chambers of a beating heart, who fought together and bled together and died together. And the legends say that the alpha, whose name has been written out of history - fell, stumbled - that taint entered her body and her mind, coiled itself around the base of her spine, subtle, insatiable, unendurable.

Theurges could not expunge it from her body. Her sisters performed rite after rite of cleansing - to no avail. The pack drifted away. Some were killed fighting to save some mythic beast, some precious hope of a cure, and others left, their faith lost, their hearts heavy. Kill me. Abandon me. Flay the skin from my bones and burn it clean, burn whatever is inside me out until I can sleep beneath the earth, the Alpha told Daughter of the Dawn - leave me here.

Daughter of the Dawn would not leave her sister to die in the dark, without hope of redemption, her soul burdened by the taint that riddled, the dream of her tribal homelands lost. Instead, she dragged her sister to Erebus, and threw her in the silver waters, held her there until she had been burned clean and burned pure, until her shrouded soul was cleansed, until - until the flesh melted from her bones. Until the skin sloughed off the full-moon-daughter's hands, leaving them charred husks, a fusion of skin and blood and bone. She pulled her dying sister from the waters, then, and cradled her as she died, heedless of the way the silver waters ran off her sister's broken body, scored and marked her own skin, held her sister until she died, cleansed, freed from the taint that had engulfed her.

There are more stories, but this is the one that Sorrow chooses to tell. Death and rebirth, faith against all odds - redemption and sacrifice.

[Joe War- Handed] Joe watches, he listens, and remains a silent, stoic bulwark behind his sister. Suspicion remains plain on his face.. his misgivings too. But he plainly doesn't intend to interrupt.

[Sorrow] In the aftermath of the storytelling, Sorrow is falls silent. There is a serenity to her face, a certain stillness as she relates the history and deeds of the long-dead Black Fury.

Then, at last, she shifts and continues, "You asked me, Rain of Brass Petals-yuf, to tell you how the Get of Fenris and Black Furies are different, and how we are similar. The differences are too numerous to name - from the gods we remember to the names we give ourselves, from the spirits we honor to the deeds we deem right and true and honorable. You honor the sacred feminine, remember the rites of the seasons, the tri-partite goddess, mirror it in your selves and in your mythos. We remember the deeds of the northern gods, follow Fenris-wolf who commands of us only strength, strength and honor. You protect the weak and succor the Wyld. We fight in preparation for Ragnarok, the last battle - we fight so that we may win the last battle, defeat Jormungandr, and bring an end to strife in a new age.

"These are hollow words, though. You know them as well as I do, and they are truths so quotidian that they seem little more than stereotypes.

"There are as many differences as there are definitions of weakness. There are more.

"I can tell you," she continues, pausing, quiet. " - rather more succinctly how we are the same, if you will walk with me."

[Rain of Brass Petals] She looks at her, and there is a moment. It's hard to tell what she is thinking, for once. And they need to walk, and they need to talk, and she needs a change of scenery. Her muscles have stayed tense for too long, her grame has remained taut and she has looked, and listened, rather openly. Whether she heard what the woman said might have been a different matter, but that made no difference at that moment.

She was hearing her now.
She was listening, now.
And they could both die tomorrow; now was all they really had.

Will you walk with me? In a roundabout way. She takes a step, and her hips move. She's getting them, now- hips, that is. She had them before, but she never quite seemed filled in. She looks taller, sometimes. Maybe she'll grow another inch or two, top out at five six instead of the meager and average five feet four that she is now.

"Let's walk, Sorrow," she says. There's a tinge of warmth there.

[Sorrow] Sorrow leads them from the hanger, out into the warm afternoon. The sunlight is brilliant, the sunlight - after the deep shadows of the hanger - is blinding. It gilds the length of Sorrow's pale hair, pulls out threads of gold and wheat and amber and emphasizes the northern pallor of her skin. She walks quickly, that long-legged gait confident and sure, leading them from the hanger to the graves.

Some are new. Too many are new. The earth is still mounded, slowly settling back into itself, raw wounds in the torn-up tarmac. Sorrow walks past the newest graves, sparing a single glance for that of her Alpha. She walks past the newest graves, to the top of the row - the oldest graves, the first ones dug into the damp earth of the lakeshore, torn from the cracked, weed-riddled tarmac, stops there and sinks to her haunches, forward just on the balls of her feet. The air smells of the lakeshore here, and sunlight on the turned earth.

She cants a look back up at Adamidas, the sunlight glinting in the dark discs of her eyes. There is a smile on her mouth. It is a ghost-thing, all sorrow.

"Kadin Ignacios," she says, lifting her chin in a gesture toward the nearly forgotten marker. " - kin to the Black Furies. He died raising the Caern. I can tell you his story. And, there - " just beyond this grave, another. "Lexi Jonsen, kin to the Get of Fenris. She died, too, raising the Caern. They fought together, fought an enemy they could not see, for the truth of a thing they could not name. They carried guns against creatures of nightmare, and died for spirits they could never see, died for their faith, the faith we hold in trust for them now. Here are our kin under the earth.

Sorrow straightens, then, dusts off her hands on her thighs, touches the meager marker for the nearly forgotten kinsman with a passing them, and circles the rest of the graves. Here is Fierce Hammer. Here is Eyes Like Flint. Here is Lights Out. Here is Bones to Dust. Here is Gossamer Wing. Here is Truth-in-Frenzy. She points out each grave, speaks each name with a quiet sort of reverance as she passes them.

They complete a full circuit of the graves, returning to the first: Kadin Ignacios, kin to the Black Furies. Sorrow finishes, then,

"This is how we are the same."

[Rain of Brass Petals] She knows these Furies. Knows Lights Out because Joey had loved him, once. Knows him because his pack had loved him, once. Knows bones to Dust as just that- dust, but a daughter of the wyld. Wonders about her sometimes- wonders if she was anything like Irene. Just like she wonders about Lights Out.

She doesn't know that they have similar eyes. Similar hair colors and skin tones. Doesn't know that, if she stood next to the deceased metis that he could have been her brother. She would have found it chilling.

There is Truth in Frenzy, who she had paid her respects to- another name she had never known, but treated with reverence. Adam comes by sometimes. Picks weeds by his name marker, as though the body would appreciate it. It's best that Alethea Adamidas never knew these fallen few. She doesn't know about Gossamer Wing, has no idea that she might have liked her. Might have respected her, even, had the fates been more kind. Another girl. Another edging close to high achievements as such a young, young age. She listened to Kora, completed the circuit, as all things do-

A Cycle. A circle. Back to the beginning. To Kadin and Lexi. Kinfolk. Arguably, the beginning.

Quietly, she speaks, as though she is afraid of waking the dead.
"This is sufficient," she says, "we have a third task to complete."

A guide through a journey. Virgil Alethea guides them on.

[Sorrow] "We do," Sorrow agrees, her voice is always low - the tone saturated, alive with color, the pitch deep, the volume quiet - and so it is now. She turns and matches her pace to Adamidas' own, for all that she is head and shoulders taller than the younger girl. Her stride is long, her gait easy, comfortable, she lives easily inside her own skin, her worn clothes, the echo of voices of the long-lost past in her head, lives inside herself easily, as if there were no other way to live.

The sun has shifted in the sky. The pattern of sunlight amidst the dark shadows has changed inside the large hanger where they met as the day has worn on. The moon is moving, beneath their feet, on the other side of the world, the rhythm of it written into the beating of their chambered hearts.

They end where they began, in the challenge circle, with Honor's Compass standing as witness and guide. Sorrow stands before Adamidas, ready.

"The test of rage," Sorrow says, her eyes on Adamidas, ready.

[Sorrow] Facedown: roll 1!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 8, 10 (Success x 1 at target 5)

[Rain of Brass Petals] [Aaand 3-2-1-LOOK!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 7) Re-rolls: 1

[Sorrow] Facedown: roll 2!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 3 at target 5)

[Rain of Brass Petals] [Again again?]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 4, 5, 5, 7, 8, 8, 8 (Success x 4 at target 7)

[Sorrow] Roll 3!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 6, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 5)

[Rain of Brass Petals] [One more time!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 7)

[Sorrow] Roll 4!
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 5, 10 (Success x 2 at target 5)

[Rain of Brass Petals] [*covets Kora's WP*]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 4, 5, 5, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 7)

[Sorrow] (covets adamidas' intimidation and charisma!)

[Sorrow] The Black Fury and the daughter of Fenris stand in the middle of the challenge circle, and lock eyes. This is a test of will and control as much as rage - a test of dominance. Both stare intently for long moments. The seconds tick by, marked by the beating of their hearts, the rhythm of breath, the tick of something in the wall, somewhere. Something released by the heat of the sun, something lulled by the motion of the lake against the shore. The seconds push themselves together, fuse. They stare and they stare - there are no sparks of rage, no suggesting of spiking fury as too often happens in such contests - and there is a moment - a singular moment - when each finds that she must start digging into the stuff of herself to hold the others' gaze, that she must expend herself to hold the eye contact, push herself beyond, force herself to keep going by will alone.

It is a close thing. Both are breathing more heavily, now, tension riding in their shoulders and spines. Sorrow's hands curve into fists at her side, but they remain still.

Adamidas looks away first. The gesture is subtle, minute, just a flicker of her deep brown eyes away. Sorrow grits her teeth, molars grinding against molars, and remembers, in that moment, to breathe, remembers the function of her lungs - stares a moment longer, then looks away, too, breathing heavily now, for all that they were stock-still throughout the facedown.

[Rain of Brass Petals] “I chose this challenge for its cultural significance,” she says, “because every cub who petitions Pegasus must undergo challenges that test their judgment as an avenger, their vision, and their fury. Your judgment, I have found, is sound but very much that of a child of Fenris.”

A beat.

“I do not view this as a bad thing.

“You answered, first, by answering exactly what was asked of you. You used the information presented to you, as it was presented to you. You did not ask for more, and you did not ask for clarification. Sometimes, we are given limited means in which we can establish truth and dispense justice. You acknowledged that what damages are done should be healed, tried to hand it off to someone who could do the job.

"What troubled me in this portion of the challenge, however, was that you never said that you would check claimant garou's motives or intentions. The blame was solely placed on the accused- not very balanced or seeing to the heart of a matter. Though, you did state that you wished to see to the heart of the matter, which I do applaud.

"What troubled me more, though... was that you never once in your answer acknowledged the wishes of this particular kinswoman, nor did you ever ask her if she was alright or any of her testimony on the matter. Instead, throughout this, you allowed this woman to become the victim instead of a survivor. And your answer did not, in my opinion, sufficiently address the potential danger this woman could be in not just now, but in the future as well."

She takes a second, and muses. Oh, does she muse.

"However, when I asked my questions, it became more clear to me that you understand the concepts and ideas that are vital to exercising judgment that would not offend our totem. Your answer demonstrated that you know that harm is many things, real or perceived. Harm is damage, real or imagined, intentional or unintentional, done to a being. You understand that its definition depends on the situation, on the individual. You knew what weakness was, and that it is just as flexible as harm. That it is different from injury, that it can be intentionally tended or unintentionally tended. You understood that. All of it.

"Which is what made it troubling to me that your answer was lacking in the way that it was. Whether or not the kinswoman was harmed, in your answer, seemed to rest solely on the perception of others and not herself. What you might not have seen as harmful? Could have been the thing that injured her the most, and could not have been healed. Could have bloomed into weakness. Could have taken the potential for strength. Your understanding of a Fury's judgment is strong, but the application is lacking... Your judgment was soundly that of a daughter of Fenris."

[Rain of Brass Petals] She takes a second, and she smiles. It's genuine.

"You found his ancestors. You told a beautiful story... you made me proud. What's more important, however, was that you not only found his garou ancestors, but mentioned that there were trueborn males in his line. That there were kinfolk forgotten, and the understated.

"You and I both know what kind of tragedy that is," more solemn there.

"And you are correct, we have differences, many differences. I believe you were wrong, however, in some of these differences that you've seen and a perception of this tribe. We protect the helpless, not the weak. The helpless are not weak. We teach the weak, so that they may be strong. So that they may stand on their own. That we may make survivors out of victims. Do you not do the same? It's not a hand up for you, it's a kick in the ass- stand up and do better. Do Fenrir not also protect their young?

"Do Furies not prepare for the end of days? Do we not fight the wyrm? Does Pegasus not also demand strength and honor? Is Gaia not so sacred that Fenris commands his followers to lay down everything for her?"

She takes a second, she looks at Kora. The Fury wears blasphemy well- bitter tribal feuds aside, the Fury standing and saying we aren't that different.

"Our priorities are different. To dumb it down... which is, I believe, the heart of what you were saying."

The Fury thinks, again, and responds, "our differences only scratched the surface, and I believe that time and experience will reveal the similarities and differences more profound than the ones just mentioned. A Galliard once told me that tribe is more than accident of birth. It's important to understand what a Fury holds true and dear to her heart to understand where your mate came from, and what his children could be born to.

"It's important to know how we are the same, to know what common thread you hold. What values are universally sacred."

[Rain of Brass Petals] There's silence.

She grins.

"You didn't flip your shit."

She looks at her again.

"I wanted to know if you would persist. And you did. I wanted to know if you would stand your ground, but I wanted to know if you could control your rage, or if it controlled you. There are times that you will be faced with great adversity, around those you care about. You could trip on a roller skate in the middle of the night, you could come back from battle or a fight and your mate just tweaks that one wrong nerve... or pushes you the wrong way, or says the wrong thing.

"And you could hurt them.

"And you could kill them. We all could. It's a valid concern. One moment, bliss, the next we're picking our loved ones from our teeth. Or your packmates, and it's imperative that others know that you are the one who controls your rage. That you are the one who makes the decisions, not a waxing moon in the sky or an invisible voice that whispers nasty, terrible things in your ear."

A beat.

"I don't need to tell you that, but that was the purpose. To show that, even if you didn't have mastery over your rage, that your will was strong enough to combat it."

[Rain of Brass Petals] "What it comes down to, is this: you are who and what you are. And there is no fault in that, and no greater prestige in that. You have done what you must, and you have challenged for someone outside of your tribe...

"I find your judgment questionable. I see a schism in you between that which is humane and that which is practical, and I believe you may mistake mercy for coddling. And that you may confuse an unforgivable act for a passing mistake... I believe, however, that you understand a Fury's role as an avenger on a conceptual level."

A beat.

"We can work on that."

She continues.

"I found your unstanding of Trent's lineage to be exemplary, and inspiring. However, the correlations between our two tribes were lacking and spoke of a lack of understanding.... your control, however, is astounding.

"I do not fear you losing your temper and hurting him as I would others."

She pauses, and tastes her words as she says them. it is not bitter, it is not sweet. It is what it is, and that flavor is hard to describe, "your reason for challenging upset me incredibly. You have protected him, as though his sisters and his tribemates could not and do not. You said that you would die for him, but would not say that you loved him."

She drops her voice, and it is quiet and still for a second or so.Whatever she says is for Kora's ears alone.

"You would not say that you love him, and said that, instead, love is a human thing as though this is bad... but we are partially human, as we are also partially wolf, part flesh, part spirit and blood, and it is all the same. There is a schism in you between these parts- one embraced more readily than the other by means of rejecting something so vital. You would not ignore your spirit, and you would not leave your wolf to starve... do not forsake your humanity because you are different now.

"You are whole now. Embrace it all."

She stops for a second.

"If there is one thing that would bar you from this challenge it is that you are fragmented. The lost can recognize their own, Kora. Endeavor to change this, and I will anchor myself more readily and solidly in the physical realm. Just as you must be reminded you are part human, I must remember that we are all half flesh."

She stops, and speaks more openly now.

"I am giving you this man under these conditions, and if you fail to meet them, expect me to challenge accordingly. First, your answers in your test of judgment and your test of vision relayed that, while you understand what a Fury does, you do not fully understand where he has come from, and I admittedly do not understand enough of Fenrir culture to know exactly what I am agreeing to.

"As such, I will instruct you on matters regarding Trent's cultural heritage and I expect that you should do the same for both of us."

She looks at her, and she smiles, but there's something in there, ticking and touching the edges, bleeding into the fine print, "may you have many true born sons, Kora."
Because it would break my heart should you have daughters.

[Rain of Brass Petals] "Do you accept these conditions?"

[Sorrow] Sorrow stands with her arms cross low over her torso, her spine straight, her posture tense, alert. Her dark eyes remain on Adamidas' face as the Black Fury gives her judgment. There is a sort of unyielding patience in Sorrow as she listens well and listens long. As she listens, her mouth closed, her features still.

In the end, Sorrow offers Adamidas a brief, sharp nod. "I accept the conditions, Rain of Brass Petals-yuf."

[Rain of Brass Petals] [What are you thinking, Koralove?]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6) [WP]

[Rain of Brass Petals] "Then we are settled," she says, she announces loud and projects well. She nods again and this time, she sounds almost... tired, "I'll tell my sisters the news."

[Sorrow] By the time they are finished, it is dusk. The shafts of sunlight have moved, cutting bands across the floor, sinking the hanger into an even deeper gloom. Adamidas says that they are settled, that she will tell her sisters, and Sorrow looks up, once - nodding agreement without remembering entirely why.

There is a glance for Honor's Compass, a quiet thanks. One follows to her Alpha, still watchful, still furious over her choice. Then, still quiet, "Thanks, Adam." her voice bruised - from use, or being. Or tension, or emotion. "I'll tell him."

[Joe Holst] Restraint, at best something the hard- faced youth has only a tenuous grasp on, was an even less present thing when the moon hangs broad and heavy in the sky. His mood is not necessarily sour. Only his control of it. Happiness looks like mania in his face. In his step. While his anger during these times is the very heartbeat of nightmares. It becomes an awful, bright sort of wrath.. and his joy in that bloody guise skates too closely to the surface of his skin for the boy to be out in public.



At least he knows it.



So, Joe stalks the perimeter of the Bawn. Watchful, his eyes lash with the shine of an animal in the dark as he gazes out from the chainlink. Careful to duck further into the fenced off dockyards whenever a passing car would light his savage form with its headlights. Recent injuries on his head and arms are crusted with a patina of blood. Now and then he picks at a scab, or scratches something under his shirt.



A new battlescar is apparent as well. Chicago at night too hot to wear more than necessary, the jagged marks of giant rat teeth trace their way up the opposite side of his neck from the older wound. The boy will be a barber pole one day, at this rate.

[Karl Holds the Line] Full Moon.



For most Rotagar, it is no more then another phase of the moon, at the far end from their own. The rage that is normally so weak in them compared to others are not roused easily. Not so for the Norse No moon. Enough rage to match many Modi, he seeks refuge in the caern as well during nights like this. A shadow among deeper shadows, he stops as he nears the mouth of an alley, staring out across the street to the worn down chain-link fence. Glacial blue eyes catching the weak light. Too much of a wolf tonight. Not enough human.



As the young Modi passes this part, the Rotagar steps out, moving across the street to the fence. Strong hand coming out to grab at the metal, fingers curling through it as he looks to Joe. No chance that the two Get miss each other. Not on a night like this.



“War-Handed.”



Voice low and deep. That pale gaze locked on the form of the other.

[Joe Holst] It had taken little more than a twitch of movement from the oppsite alley to start getting a response. The boy is keyed up. In a human it would look like frantic paranoia. In a Garou under a full moon- its just simple watchfulness.



The stalking has iron in each step. Wrath boiling through veins swathed in heavy, swift muscle. Big in the way lions are big, Joe stops on a dime. There is little of slowing down or ponderous cessation of movment.



One moment he's walking. The next he is all but frozen. Nostrils flaring as the shining eyes snap across the street. Joe relaxes, his face spreading into a welcoming, half crazed grin as the No Moon approaches. A cut in the boy's lip spreads open. The scab cracking apart to allow a bit more bleeding. He doesn't seem aware of it- just favors Karl with the gap- toothed grimace.



"How's t'ings, Karl?" The transition is smooth. From watching the perimeter to watching for any observers, Joe's thick neck swings up and down the street.



"It's cleah. Hop on ovah." He says, indicating the high fence.

[Karl Holds the Line] (It’s Cleah)

The Rotagar grins a little, reaching up and grabbing the edge of the fence. Not the largest or strongest of men, but the Rotagar is surprisingly agile. In fact, it is damn near inhuman the way he flows over the high fence. Joe has seen him before, and he has always had an animal grace in him. Now, it is impossible not to notice it. A change in him for sure.



“Not bad, all things considered. Not bad at all.”



He lands without any noise, despite the gravel underfoot. No one is supposed to be that agile, that light on his feet. Something is clearly off.



“How about yourself? I've not seen you for a while. You look as if you have been keeping busy?”

[Joe Holst] Karl vaults the high fence like mist. Seamless in his form and graceful.. and Joe, being a smart kind of warrior.. takes note. His eyes widen in surprise, then travel up the jagged surface of the chain link fence, and down the other side. His gaze narrows again as it sweeps back to Karl.



"Dat was a new trick."



He tongues the cut at his lip, then turns his head and spits almost meditatively.



"Pretty." He says it with a nod. The word means more coming from his mouth. 'Pretty' is something that follows application. An awareness. Respect and something strangely like anticipation coloring his voice. A bloodthirsty thing, is Joe.



"Yeah.. pretty busy. Silence clearin' out left a nasty hole in t'ings a bit south uh heah. I'm lookin' inta fillin' up da gap. Looks promisin." He glances at the fence again, then quirks an eyebrow at Karl.



"Still need a Rotagar, dough. Thomas still approves of yah."

[Joe Holst] "Aint asked Kora yet..." Joe's brutish voice trails off as his chin swings slowly to the side. Chill blues snap in turn to each path that may lead to this section of fence. A comfort prickles along his spine. An approaching presence that can blunt the knife- edge of him when needed. Strangely, that seems a comfort too.

[Karl Holds the Line] Karl glances back to the fence, then looks to Joe, rolling strong shoulders slowly.



“Yes. Silence-rhya surprised me a little as well.”



That seems all the Rotagar has to say on that subject. Eyes burning pale as he looks around, following Joe’s gaze to search out the different paths.



“I do appreciate that you would consider me for Aesir’s call War-handed, but I have found a place with a war-pack.”

The Rotagar looks to Joe, reading the man. Joe is a dangerous guy at the best of days, and during the full moon even more so. That Karl walks so easily beside the young warrior, so relaxed despite what they are and who they are is an indication of something. Trust perhaps.

[Sorrow] Sorrow finds them by feel - the tug of the familiar bond, the one that lives beneath her skin, that extends her skin beyond her physical stuff, the one that stretches, now, a thing attenuated, to whereever Thomas is questing, a mute differential now in the back of her mind. She jogs across the darkened street, cutting past the potholes that opened up over winter and never have been filled in - finds one of the gaps underneath the fence, cuts a glance over her shoulder to be sure the coast is clear, then pulls it up, out of the way, enough that she can squeeze her tall, narrow frame through the chain link.



The fence rattles a metallic song in her wake. She pulls the rent back together as she straightens, a kind of crude surgery, this, fitting the diamonds together as best as can be managed in the shadows. The full moon is rising in the east, somewhere out over the lake, now, shrouded in mist. Sorrow glances up, finds it unerringly, and offers Luna a faint half-smile by way of greeting. The world fits better around her skin within the bawn, the gauntlet lessened, here, the division between spirit and flesh lessened. They are closer here to being whole things again.



Her greeting to Joe is wordless and keen, more felt than seen. She falls into step beside him with a subtle brush of her shoulder against his, cuts a look over at Karl by way of greeting, in time to catch his words - a place with a war-pack.

[Joe Holst] Joe's posture opens with a seamless ease. An old instinct that belies the boyish killer's relative youth.. its done differently by all of them. One allows the addition. Another simply assumes. Joe is too rough around the edges for either of those. Joe's posture demands. Nearly threatens. Insists on that space being for Kora from the earth and shadowy hulks around them.



His return of her greeting is swift. A subtle thrum through his bulk. Once Kora is close enough to join the conversation, Joe's eyes narrow.



"Aesir's Call...is a war- pack." He quirks an eyebrow. Watching Karl's face closely. He might have been mistaken as to the Rotagar's meaning.. but the moon above them clouds such things- sometimes dangerously so.



A breath later he continues. A touch crestfallen. "Aw damn..." Real regret in his voice. The youth's mouth cast in a pugnacious line.



"Who'd yew pack up wit?" Clearly the Jarl is thinking of Mattias- and can't quite believe it.

[Karl Holds the Line] ”Did not mean it was not War-Handed. But Aesir’s call already have some of the finest warrior’s in the city.”



Yes, complimenting them. They are Fenrir after all. There are no finer warriors in the nation.



“I have joined with a couple of Bone Gnawers under Hummingbird. Mama Ankle-Biter leads us.”



His pale gaze settles on Kora for a moment, giving her a nod in greeting before his attention returns to Joe once more.

[Sorrow] Sorrow is dressed in clothes that are by now tediously familiar to her packmate - jeans, old and worn, well-fitted to her narrow frame, calf-high Dr. Marten's, black and dusty, now, the finished dulled by mud and wear, and a black t-shirt that says PIXIES in white letters across her chest. The t-shirt clings to the whip-lean lines of her torso, the hint of sweat evident at the collar, down the lines of her spine.



Her hands are tucked neatly into the front pockets of her jeans, and she walks with them just like that, an easy gait, her shoulders forward, her elbow just swung outward, her legs swinging from the hip in a long, sure stride. She responds to Karl's nod of recognition with a curving half-smile, an attractive twist of her expressive mouth.



Then Karl reveals that he has packed with Bone Gnawers under hummingbird. There's a moment when her eyes glint - but her body stills, and the burgeoning humor in them sparks and dies. The line of her gaze slants back to Joe, and she bumps shoulders with him again, casually familiar.

[Joe Holst] "What?"



Surprise. Open surprise. Joe's brutal face swings from Karl to Sorrow, then back again. He blinks- at a loss for something to say- but the awful Jersey bray returns with a vengeance.



"Wha- did sumpfin' kick yew inna head? Urrah, feh fuck's sake?"

[Karl Holds the Line] Karl gives a short bark of a laugh, nodding at joe’s surprised statement/question.



“Yes, they are indeed. That was my reaction as well until I gave it some thought.”

Another slow roll of his shoulders. A glance to Kora, still noting her silence, but he continues talking with Joe.



“Then the tactician in me raised it’s ugly head. Who better to fight with in a city like this? I can learn a lot about the scab from them. Learn how to best fight the Wyrm here where it hides everywhere. They can make good use of my skills in battle. They give me something I need, and I provide something they need.”



It seems Karl has given it some thought at least. Then he grins a little.

“Besides… Mama has made her home right in between Bronzeville and Chinatown, so it will let me continue to keep an eye on that place, and give word if the Furies decide to act up. So one of your flank’s is covered by someone you can trust.”



He had given his word to Joe that he would help keep an eye out after all, and the Norse Rotagar seems to put great weight in his word when it is given.

[Sorrow] "And hummingbird?" Kora's voice is pitched low - both in tone and in volume - for a woman's voice, but there is an underlying resonance there, a richness that serves as a tattered velvet counterpoint to Joe's joisey bray. Her features are otherwise still - not because she is unreadable, but because she is reserved, because she is watching Karl with her eyes, which are dark blue, intent behind the frame of blond lashes.



The subtle thread of inquiry brings her voice up a fair fifth at the end. The question is genuine, largely neutral as yet, though there is a sort of sketicism embedded around the edges of the tone.



She watches Karl, patient and sure and considered as he contemplates his answer.

[Joe Holst] The grind of Joe's teeth is audible. His face swings belligerently between the path they walk and Karl. His blocky shoulder brushes Sorrow's now and then. The moment of contact as natural as it gets.



"We buried da last Get what fought wit' Ankle- Bitah. He died feh dat bitch, an' I don' recall 'er leavin' no grave goods widdim. Be shuwah she aint linin' yew up feh da same t'ing."



When he says it, his voice is stone cold and solemn. The words more than just a burst of hate. He believes them. To the bone.



When Kora's rich voice curls among them, Joe's attention swings to her. Then back to Karl.

[Karl Holds the Line] Kora joins in, and Karl offers her a ghost of a smile.



“It suits my moon quite well. It favors speed and surprise above brute strength, and for scouting and advanced assaults, its abilities are near enough unmatched. Ferocious and hungry. Like myself. A surprisingly good fit.”



But Joe’s word silence the Rotagar for a moment, and it takes him a while to respond. When he does, there is no humor in his voice. It is just low and deep.



“Garou fall much to frequent, with or without others there. Are you saying that she let him die, that she sacrificed him? Are you saying that she is at fault?”



His gaze is direct. It is hard. Karl is a very intimidating man, from the intensity of those eyes, backed with the purity of his blood and lineage. He is not challenging Joe, but he is not bowing for him either. Not now. The Rotagar waits to hear what Joe has to say, and the choice Jow makes now might be very important.

[Sorrow] "He is saying that an Adren Get of Fenris - " Kora interposes, her voice smoldering now, a neat coil of a thing, which curls around them the way smoke curls on its way up to the sky. " - who fought to raise the Caern in which you now stand died to defend her in battle. She brought him no grave goods. She did not attend his gathering."



The edge of her mouth twists, but it is not a smile. There is a deep anger behind the words, richer than rage. The mounded earth is settling into the grave. In another handful of months, the curve will be faint, and then it will fade away altogether. Just a monument. Just the memory of a corpse. Just the words that they have offered each other, and the spirits that flock around the Caern's heart.



Her dark eyes linger on Karl's face as he explains his choice of hummingbird. Speed and strength. Ferocious and hungry. The sense of something withheld, there - which is written into the surface of pain and anger over the loss of their former Alpha - a sort of provisional watchfulness as she weighs whether to remain silent, or to speak.



"None of Fenris' brood suited you?" A sidelong look at her Alpha, familiar, that - " - or were you concerned that Fenris' own would not accept the urrah with whom you are packed?"

[Joe Holst] Joe's boots crunch to a stop, and he turns toward Karl like a warship tacking under sail. Hard eyes land against Karl's without an ounce of hesitation, the moon reflected fever bright in his eyes.



"What I'm SAYIN... is when someone dies fah yew- fah yew specifically... yew owe 'im. Yew owe 'im at least yowah respects ta go widdim tew da next woyld. An' if yew don't show yah respects, yowah eithah an ungrateful piece of shit.. owah yew caused 'is death an' yew know it.."



The other boot crunches against gravel. Both toes pointing at Karl. Joe's eyebrows rise against his forehead, and the bullish Modi's cheeks bunch as jaw muscles boil and clench.



"Ga'head Karl. Tell me I'm wrong."



That was a challenge. The boy waits to hear Karl's response.

[Sorrow] (actually! delete the bit about hummingbird. assume joe talked over her? otherwise, the thread of conversation goes weird. :) )

[Karl Holds the Line] Karl stops as the others does. He looks from Kora to Joe, meeting the others gaze evenly enough, If without a challenge. Yet with the moon the way it is, the tension in Joe and Karl both with their rage, things can go from bad to worse in moments.



“I have seen a fair share of death’s among our tribe and others. Enough to know not to judge others with customs that seem strange to me. Truth in Frenzy dies for us all War-Handed. I never knew him, nor the raising of this caern, but I have visited his ashes. How many others here that knew him have done the same? Many I think, but not all.”



A slow roll of his shoulders again, working the tension in them. He does not let his gaze wander from the Modi in front of him. That freight train heading his way.



“I don’t know what happened in that battle. I most likely never will. Neither do you. It is not my place to judge. Not Mama, and not you. But have no doubt War-Handed… It is my place to question. If I find that she did cause his death? I will deal with it. If not, then my question will not be for her, but for you.”



What he means by that, he does not expand on for the moment, instead he squares up, eyes narrowed at Joe. The moon does not cause his blood to boil now, but it speaks to the wolf in him still.

[Joe Holst] Joe shakes his head slowly. His eyes remain narrow, but through the thin veneer of wrath and boiling desire to loose it, the paws of the Bannerman remain firmly on the head of his child. Giving focus and a thin line of clear thought. He leans toward the other male, each word slightly less clear for the accented delivery.



"I do know what happened. Me an' my pack went ta da Battlegroun's ta see it and experience it feh owahselves. Ovah and ovah again. He died fah her- an' she gave 'im no grave goods. Jus' like Kora said."



Joe's chin swings toward Sorrow, but his eyes don't leave Karl.



"Now listen. Yew be careful. Whatevah else she is. She aint woyth loosin' anuddah uh my wolves. Sah yew watch yah back, an' yew make shuwah yew ain't gettin' used, owah set up. Yew hearin' me now? Wha' me an' Kora boff told yew aint questions. Dey aint speculations. Its what we seen wit owah own eyes."



The challenge is still there. The fury as well. Ankle-Biter herself all but disregarded. Treated as little more than a circumstance. Joe's attention only for the tribe.

[Sorrow] "Attending the funerary rite of a Garou who died deflecting a blow that would have killed you - " Sorrow replies, her anger in the moment unchecked, a bright line through the rich amber tones of her Skald's voice. " - is not some strange tribal custom of the children of Fenris."

When Joe lifts his chin in her direction, she affirms his statement quietly, the bright burst of anger subsumed in memory. Her voice is backgrounded, quiet, insistent, this tattoo of sound, like the drumming of raindrops on a tin roof. " - five times. We fought the battle five times, Karl. I know what happened the way I know the workings of my own body. I performed the rite, too. I know who stood here to honor him. Who watched us light the pyre, who watched it burn. Who brought offerings, and who brought us nothing more than a corpse."

- this is somewhere between I do know, and Joe's cautions to Karl. Sorrow does not interupt again thereafter. She remains where she stands, her hands still in her pockets, her pale hair loose about her face. In another light, in another life - she would be a pretty girl, the curve of her mouth, the richness of her eyes a fair counterpoint to her lean, boyish frame. She isn't a girl, though. And she isn't pretty - such a paltry word, particularly when the easy edge of her engaging smile has filtered away, and left her features stark with remembered grief.

[Karl Holds the Line] Karl takes a deep breath, and slowly he relaxes. A nod, lowering his eyes just a fraction. He takes the time to ignore the pull of the moon, fighting it down. He seems to accept Joe’s words for what they are. Not a challenge towards his pack alpha, but care for one of his own tribe.

“You have my word War-Handed. But I do trust her not to betray me. She has given me no reason not to do so, but your warning, and caution is appreciated for what they are.”

Brutally honest. It is a fault in the Rotagar, and goes against what many consider the no moons to be. At least what many that are not Fenrir considers the No moons to be. His gaze goes to Kora then, focusing on her. He does not know her as he knows Joe (Even if knowing Joe is to go far really)

“Truth in Frenzy was a great warrior. If he choose to stand between a theurge and those that tried to reach her, was that not by his own choice, for some cause? Were they alone in the battle? Be careful with how you put these things out. Truth in Frenzy acted by his own will, under his own strength. Will you lessen his sacrifice because of your own bitterness?”

Something tugs at his attention then. It is brief, a if trying to focus on something that is not really here, just beyond sight.

[Mama Ankle-Biter] The gauntlet pulls open easily, the black and gray speckled form of the lupus-born slips through it. An ear flicking back along her skull as she can feel the presence of pack nearby. Tail flicking, paws set to the gravel path, the small wolf begins to wind her way through the caern towards the edges of the bawn. Head lowering to the ground, nose twitching gently to pick up the different scents that tickle at her nose, trotting downwind as she draws closer. Ears plucking out the sounds of voices, words not comprehensible from the distance that is still between her and the trio of Get of Fenris. She follows the familiarity of pack, the connection of the feral-minded has with one of them.

[Joe Holst] A deep, brazen roar boils up from Joe's chest. It demands attention. Splits the night that mutters with the distant sounds of planes, trains, and automobiles. Joe steps closer. His posture subtly different, though the weight of the frenzy- inducing moon makes the gesture seem a wanton desire for violence and little else.

"ROTAGAR!" It follows quickly after the roar itself. Joe turns from beside Kora to form a triangle of bodies. Kora to his left, Karl to his right.

"We only listen to KINGS more carefully den SKALDS. Sah yew needa SHUT UP a minnit, an' LISSEN ta what Kora's fuggin' SAYIN. Jus' lissen tew da woyds. Lissen careful. I ain't gonna ask 'er ta repeat 'erself again! Fuggin' SHUSH."

Joe's thick neck, veins thick with the thrum of blood, turns toward Kora again.

"Give it anuddah try. Get yah point across."

[Sorrow] "This is a very simple story, Holds the Line-yuf. If I have led you astray with rhetorical flourishes, I apologize. I will strip it down further, to the bones of the thing. I will strip it to the marrow - listen well," the Skald remarks, her dark eyes now fixed on the Rotagar, an undercurrent of anger evident in her body, the livewire coil of it hot against the darkness. "Truth-in-Frenzy-rhya died taking a blow that would have killed your alpha, defending her so that she could summon a spirit to cleanse the Wyrmhole in the basement of the community center. Not once have I blamed her for his death."

Her head is cast aslant, pale hair gleaming in the light of the full moon, like running water. "Listen, then: twice I've told you this part of the story. Mama Ankle-Biter, Kire Moving-Mountain, Iona Banshee, sklora-Myrgen, and Muerte Fria brought his body back to the Caern and to his pack. They brought his body back: only Banshee offered him gravegoods, to see him on his way to Valhalla. Of those who were saved by his sacrifice, only Banshee stood before his pyre and leant her spirit to the Gathering for the Departed, to ensure that he can return to us as an ancestor spirit, when the tribe has need of his wisdom and his skill.

"Mama Ankle-Biter lives because Truth-in-Frenzy died to save her, but she did not offer him anything to see him to the next world. She did not give the least of her possessions to him for his journey to the lands of the dead, and she did not stand witness at his pyre. She did not lift her voice then, that the spirits would know his sacrifice for her."

[Mama Ankle-Biter] The softest of sounds carries on the winds, it toys through the thick pelt of the Gnawer as an ear cocks to the Skald's voice, she can hear the recanting of a tale she lived through by the sacrifice of another. The roar of the hot-tempered Modi does not make the wolf flinch. The little speckled wolf's gaze retains their blue hue, carrying to any form she takes. As for now, she remains in the skin that she is most comfortable in.

Her tail flicks along the inner thigh of her hind legs, head cocked to the side. Head angled to lift higher as her nose scents their smells, pink rough tongue washing over her muzzle tastes the air, drinks in War-Hand's anger. This little Gnawer would know how to read the emotions - so openly expressed. She grunts softly.

'Someone spits a Gnawer's name to the winds, eventually they's gone hear about it.'

Air chuffs from her nose, regarding the triangle of Fenrir thoughtfully, 'Ways of Fenris' Children in how they tend to their dead ain't the same as the Ways of Rat's brood. Ya think cuz Mama didn't show up at a Fenrir's funeral that she's defaced the honor of one of Maelstrom's best warriors?'

[Karl Holds the Line] The roar grabs the rotagars attention, like a flame would grab the attention of a puddle of Gasoline. His eyes snap to Joe, narrowed. There is a small shift in his step as he angles his body to fit the triangle, to keep both Fenrir in view. A breath drawn in, ragged. A rumble, deep in his chest that never quite forms into a growl.

But he turns his attention from Joe to Kora, focusing that cold gaze on the woman. Joe has a point, and the Rotagar is willing to give it a another chance. If there is a lesson there, and not just the bitterness of loosing a respected elder, the Rotagar will try to decipher it. So he listens close, gaze even.

The Skald tells the story again, more fully this time. She gives information that had not been made available to the Rotagar before. About what the battle was about, about the others involved. The Skald does her job well. Before the Rotagar has a chance to reply, if he ever intended to do so, The Wolf in question joins them.

The glacial blue eyes turn on Mama, then to the others to gauge their reactions. Mama said in her own words what Karl had been trying to impart on the two Fenrir. Not all honored sacrifices the same way, and Karl knows enough to know exactly how little he truly knows about the affairs and dealings of the Crescent moons.

[Joe Holst] Joe growls again. They'd been so close. His attention lands hot and hateful on Mama, and his reply is off the cuff.

"I don' give a shit abaht yew owah yowah opinion, owah Rat's fuggin' brood. All I wanna know is whethah owah not Karl gets da point Kora was makin. Sa' shut up a minnit owah fuggaf, Urrah. Dis is tribal bidness heah."

With that, Joe looks back at Karl, waiting.

[Sorrow] Sorrow cuts a look to Mama as the Bone Gnawer arrives; as she chuffs out a handful of words. The creature's dark eyes linger there, the spark of a passing moment. If she were going to reply to the Bone Gnawer, her Alpha's words cut her off, draw her attention directly back to Joe and to Karl. Her features are still, her eyes fixed once again on Karl, waiting, watching.

[Karl Holds the Line] Karl snaps his gaze to Joe when he snaps at Mama. She might not be Fenrir, but she is fostern. She has earned her place with Glory, Honor and Wisdom of which the likes the cliaths can only hope to attain before the war turns them to ashes and dust. Of course, he also just told Karl’s alpha to fuck off. Neither sits well with the Rotagar. He bares his teeth at Joe, lips pulling back with a growl that is only started deep inside the Norse fenrirs chest.

“Watch your tongue War-Handed…”

Warning in both posture and tone, but the Rotagar does not let Joe respond before he continues.

“She who offers sorrow makes the point clear enough. Mama Ankle-Biter-rhya did not join the rite. Her choice for not doing so is between her and the spirits. While I do not claim to understand he reasoning for staying away, I do not try to stand in judgment for it.”

He draws in a breath before going on. That glacial blue gaze is affixed to War-Handed, burning now.

“Truth in Frenzy-rhya sacrificed himself for Mama Ankle-Biter-rhya. He sacrificed himself for the caern and all of us who now walk alive. I do not know enough about the ancestor spirits to say if Truth in Frenzy is among them or not, but I doubt that his honor in the afterlife is determined by those who remain alive. Perhaps I am wrong. I am young enough to not have uncovered the secrets of such things. How about you?”

[Joe Holst] (Guys! We gotta pause! Cause we need to go to combat, but I'm starting to drop. Do you guys mind if we pause?)

[Karl Holds the Line] She gets up, pokes him and teases him, and it brings out a wide smile.. No, a grin from the Rotagar. When he speaks, he cant really hide the hopeful tone in his voice.

“You bringing the paint with you?”

He watches her go, then, biting his lower lip in thought, he follows after the kin, hands going into the pockets of his jeans.

“Moira?”

[Karl Holds the Line] ((LOL!
Talk about dropping a psot in the wrong window haha and yeah, ))

[Mama Ankle-Biter] (ROFLMAO)

[Sorrow] (pause is good for me. I'm tired!)

[Joe Holst] ((Alright! By popular opinion, this scene doesn't happen until after the fight is over with. So from start to finish, everyone put this script in the box in your head that says 'hasn't happened yet'! And thanks for everyone's patience.))

[Mama Ankle-Biter] (Aight)

[Gina McClaren] *Ghosts. Everywhere ghosts. It seemed they haunted the Pikey wherever she wandered. They hung about the Brotherhood like an oppressive fog. Even here, in Whitey's, amidst faded pictures of Marilyn Monroe and 50's kitsch, there are memories to push from the corners of a harried mind. Tawny features are lit Pink-Blue-Pink from the flashing neon of the jukebox, a straw circled idly in a triple thick strawberrry milkshake. Indian woman dressed in denim daisy-dukes and a faded tanktop, shifting in the fake leather booth so as not to stick to it in the sweltering heat.*

[Roman Turner] (( I really hate to do this to you guys and appreciate the offer of play more than you will know, but I am so damned tired I really just want to go to bed. I hope you will forgive me.))
to Gina McClaren, Kora

[Kora] The warm day dovetails into a warm night. The air is humid, heavy with moisture. Whitey's has air conditioning, a pair of huge window units nevertheless unequal to the task of cooling the interior of the old-fashioned diner, with its gleaming metal siding and its open flame grill and its huge griddle in constant use. Both wheeze like an elderly man with emphysema, pushing warm, damp air around, reducing the temperature by a few spare degrees, squeezing some of the moisture from the air.

The front door opens. The night outside is cooler than the air inside, warmed as it is by the ovens and the grill, by the bodies pressed together in the sticky vinyl booths, and the breath of nightair is a welcome relief to those near the door. The newcomer is tall and blonde and lean. Her hair is pulled sharply back from her face, secured at the nape of her neck by a pair of number 2 pencils, yellow against the pale coils of her hair. She's dressed in worn jeans and an old t-shirt, which clings to her torso at the shoulders, down the line of her spine, dark with sweat. Just inside the door, she pauses, takes in the diner in a slow, even survey. There's a moment of stillness, a sort of surprise, when she catches sight of Gina, and the faint undertone of pure breeding about her.

Then, the stranger is ambling down the central aisle, pauses at Gina's booth, standing, one hand on the edge of the table. "Mind if I join you?"

[Gina McClaren] *Kohl rimmed eyes slide from the pink confection in its sweating metal container. Kin still as a burnished fawn sensing a predator, laying motionless in the grass and hoping the wind is just right so as to conceal her existence. Finally, the sense of familiar danger, rage a controlled and tempered thing, barely pulsing from the whip lean norsewoman. Gina licks her lips and responds quietly.*

Aye loves. Take a seat effen yer inclined.

*Her voice is as unexpected as it is enchanting. A one two punch of guttersnipe accent and sweet singsong melody. Soothing as lemonade on a hot day, welcoming as a hammock and a soft breeze. Gina's bangles clink as she moves over slightly, gesturing across from her.*

Ye frem round ere?

[Kora] "Thanks."

The creature folds herself into the opposite bench seat - the gesture is easy and economical, lean and sure. She slides in until her back is against the wall, and sits cross-wise so that she can keep the greater part of the diner in full view, then nips the menu out from where it is tucked between the napkin dispenser, ketchup bottle, and salt and pepper, not yet opening it.

"I've been in Chicago for some moons, now - " she allows, with a neat little twist of her narrow shoulders and the edge of an engaging half-smile written around the generous line of her mouth, " - though I'm not a native." There's a pause as she looks down at the menu, then looks back up at Gina. "What about you - " quiet, underneath, her voice is low and rich - though not so musical or engaging as the kinswoman's singsong patois. " - passing through?"

Then, the hook of her half-smile widens. " - I'm Kora, by the way."

[Gina McClaren] *Long hair is swept over her shoulder as she gathers her milkshake closer, leaning back to regard Kora through dark lashes. A smile quirked around her straw as she sucks up a mouthful of strawberry heaven. An eyebrow darts upwards as the conversation veers to moons and plans. Gina swallows and sets her glass down with a dull clunk, shaking her head.*

Stridin' en circles round the cety. "ave folks wha need me tae stay, sae ah make meself dizzy.

Ah'm Gina McClaren.

[Kora] The creature's shoulders shake with a subdued sort of human. The only sound of her laughter is a faint huff of air, a slightly sharper breath formed by a brief contraction of her diaphragm. The suggestion of it lingers in her tone, though, and in the glint of her fine dark eyes as she cuts a look from the menu back up to Gina.

"I hope those folks appreciate the sacrifice you're making," she replies, at last. " - and have smelling salts on hand, against the chance you might pass out from vertigo. It's a pleasure to meet you, Gina." The smile remains, curved across the expanse of her mouth. She sits easily, her shoulders against the wall, narrow but straight and level, her dark eyes lingering on Gina, watchful and intent. The words It's a pleasure do not sound empty when she offers them. They sound full. They sound meaningful.

"You've been in Chicago for some time, I take it?"

[Kora] (subdued sort of humor!)

[Gina McClaren] Aye, bout a year now reckon. Now, ah'm nae certain exactly who ye are, sae ye'll excuse me effen ah'm a shade rude. Who the fook are ye exactly, sides frem Kora?

*A quirk of her eyebrow, Gina reclaiming her milkshake and squeaking her fingers down the wet container as she watches the predator across the table. Friendly didn't mean an ally necessarily, and Gina'd rather find out when there were people about than later alone. A knee comes up, arm resting there as she glances about the diner. A pudgy waitress in her checkered apron breezes past them on the way to another table, setting down a water for Kora, wordless.*

[Kora] Gina's remark earns her a direct look. It not quite hard, but there is a sort of stiffness underlying it, the sheen of the wolf beneath the young woman's skin. The moon is waxing full somewhere above them, and tempers - no matter how well and truly leashed - are shorter as a consequence.

Kora looks up as the waitress walks by, reaches out for her glass of water, already sweating on the peeling veneer of the tabletop, then cuts a dark-eyed look directly back at Gina. "I apologize, kinswoman." Her voice is low, carefully modulated to the interior of the diner. " - I did not know that you wished more than a name, when you have already guessed at the affiliation.

"My kin call me Kora Eyjólfsdóttir. I'm a Skald. If you knew Kemp Oates, I followed him until his death. Now, Joe Holst is my alpha. Does that answer your concerns?"

[Gina McClaren] *The strider kin earns herself a stern look, and might surprise the Skald in meeting it for the span of several moments. Seconds crawl, each an eternity of rising challenge, before the dusky kinswoman breaks eyecontact with a tilt of her head. Bangles jingle and light toffee colored palms slide upturned across the table. Submission and the brazen intimacy of requested touch. Her eyes slip to the yellowing tabletop as she singsongs.*

Saerry peaches. Nae everytheng wha scents Owl on me es friendly like, smilin oor nae.

Ah kain Kemp. Came 'ere wi' em frem time tae time. Friends wi' Joe n' Thomas tae. Helped em when they found Drew, aye?

Good tae see they've another folk runnin wi' em.

[Adamidas] Food.

Food food food food.

Food.

Looking at her, listening to her, getting a good feel for her right now, people wouldn't know that Amanda Carrick spent a good chunk of her life in a situation that one could consider privileged. Like, for instance, people may or may not know that she went to private school. Had tutors after that stopped being a practical option. People paid to keep secrets and teach her all the right things.

People wouldn't know it to look at her, or to meet her, but Amanda Carrick hadn't been allowed to frequent places like Whitey's.

It is fortunate, however, that this girl isn't Amanda Carrick, because Adam freaking loves places like Whitey's. She makes her way through the door, comes in because her stomach has decided to assert its dominance, and it won. So, there she is, making her way through the front door. hungry, but pleased.

Food food food food foooooood.

[Kora] "Apology accepted," the young woman replies, her voice low, tension still living in the set of her shoulders, in the shape of her body against the wall of the diner, in the careful way she holds herself, still but not still - waiting, watchful - but writing itself out of her expressive mouth and her fine dark eyes.

She is older than most of their kind. Which is to say: not a child. Not a teenager. The babyfat is gone from her face; her features even and adult, if young. She looks not like a high school student - more like a graduate student, the sort who would take a major in philosophy or religion or literary theory rather than something practical, feet-on-the-ground solid.

There is a black choker at her neck, and bracelets, woven leather and knotted cord, marking either wrist, evident when she unlaces one of her hands from the sweating glass of water and stretches it across to meet the kinswoman's palm. Her fingers are wet and cool from the glass. The nails are blunt, painted black sometime in the last two weeks, for all that it has mostly chipped away by now.

"Your caution is admirable," Kora replies, her eyes darting from Gina's hand to her face. " - particularly given the attacks on our kin recently." There's a pause, then, the reasserted curl of a half-smile at the edges of her mouth. " - though if I were a cursed one, or one of their twisted allies, I suspect I'd lie.

The front door opens again, little bells ring out, a narrow, tinny song. Kora, seated with her back to the wall, her left hand on the table, her right stretched out along the spine of the booth, looks over and lifts her right hand by way of greeting, offers the Black Fury the faint curl of a smile along with the gesture.

[Gina McClaren] Ah suspect ye'd lie. An ah'd hopefully catch ye en et, make nice, n' call en the cavalry soon as ah could. Mayhaps even yer Joe. had a bit o badness meself lately, reckon ah'm a shade punchier than ah was.

*For once, the kin's hand is warmer than a garou's. Fingers curling in hello under Kora's before the presence of another wolf has her attention split. Adamidas's recognition of the Fenrir serving to put her further at ease. *

Lo loves. Small world.

[Adamidas] She and Kora are not physically similar.

Adam does still have babyfat. She doesn't look like a woman yet. The Fury is in the awkward space between woman and not. Girl and not. She still has a little bit of babyfat in her cheeks. She has a small mouth, dark eyes and dark hair. She might be growing still, or she might be done at five feet four inches tall. She doesn't wear tall shoes anymore- the platforms are left at home today.

She sees people she knows, and the not-quite-a-girl-but-not-a-woman-and-certainly-not-entirely-human female starts to head over in that direction. To Kora, to Gina, to a familiar face that she knows of but doesn't know yet. Lukas had introduced her as Alethea. She had seemed surprised.

The Fury waves, not a pageant wave, either.

[Kora] Gina's second greeting tugs the Fenrir woman's attention back to her. The creature's eyes are dark. In the right light, it is clear that there are a dark blue - some twilight shade, a fully saturated blue - but otherwise, in the artificial lights of the diner, with the night full of bright lights and deeper shadows outside the windows, they are merely dark. The new greeting earns Gina a different sort of regard. Slower, now - more careful, alive to the minute details of flesh and bone that define the kinswoman.

"Hello, Gina," Kora replies, quiet, touching hands and then withdrawing her fingers. Adamidas approaches, and Kora folds her long legs down from the seat to spare room for the young Black Fury, greeting her - "Adamidas. Join us, yeah?" - when she is close.

Then, her attention cuts back to Gine. "The trouble you had," provisional, that, careful with words, something tugging at the back of her mind. " - was it in this neighborhood? Close?"

[Gina McClaren] Nae.

*A shake of her head, Gina's eyes drifting to the table. Memories she'd prefer remained buried begin unearthing themselves from the careful layers of "I'm Alright" she'd smothered them over the course of the past month. Lips purse, and her head shakes again.*

Nae. Days wander outside Chicago. Felly's are dead now. S'aulrecht. I'm aft tae the Loo.

*Rising from her seat abruptly, Gina offers a quick smile to Adam/Alethea, and makes for the washroom, bangles clinking.*

[Adamidas] Join us?
She heads over, and takes a seat.

The Fury only catches part of the conversation, and part of what was going on. The Fury doesn't have context tow hat is going on, Kora mentions trouble that the pikey had been facing. Goes on to ask if it was in this neighborhood. If it was close. And Gina answers, abruptly, to powder her nose go to the loo?

She blinks once... twice...

"... huh."

She starts to shift a little in her newly found seat.

"... what was that about?"

[Kora] Kora's eyes are fixed on Gina - her attention a close thing, the weight of it cut by the flush of her pale blond lashes, by the way she watches Gina not directly, but sidelong - not the eyes, but the shape of the kinswoman's mouth, the way it I'm alright clashes with the unasked for, unbidden surge of memories.

"I think," Gina excuses herself; Adamidas asks waht it was about. Kora's dark gaze remains fixed on the place where the kinswoman had been sitting, now empty but for the half-finished strawberry shake - for several seconds after Gina has vacated her half of the booth. Then, the Fenrir woman looks up, back to Adam, the twist of her mouth on the bitter side of bittersweet. "I inadvertantly hit a nerve. Dredged up some less-than-ideal memories when I asked where her encounter with the enemy had been."

There's a pause, then. "Give her a few to compose herself."

Or skip out on the bill. Kora doesn't say that bit, though.

[Adamidas] Lips draw in at the sides, at the corners, and she inhales. There's air in her lungs, and it tastes like cooking grease and and pancakes on her tongue. The fury things about this. Did not catch enough of the context to know, but Kora-

Kora...

She's always been good at conveying the message. The Fury's an easy read, at that moment- whatever flickered through her thoughts came across on her face, relayed by the twitch of her muscles, how such praise came slower, now. The Fury exhaled, let the napkins on the table rustle a little.

She put her hands in her lap, sat up straighter.

"... what kind of encounter?"

[Gina McClaren] *Mickey had skipped out on his hefty beer tab in this very diner, leaving Gina no choice but to do the same. That had been almost a year ago, when the windy city had been fresh and full of new faces, instead of crowded with ghosts and bad memories. The pink door to the lady's room swings shut behind her, Gina doubling over the sink to scrub at her face. A deep breath as she looks at herself in the mirror, an ashen reflection of herself staring back forlornly.

She looked like a pasty replica of herself, and she hated it. Scowling at the helpless looking kin in the mirror, who scowls back. Better. Pull it together Pikey. Gina's eyes slide shut as she lets the water burble chill over her fingers, a clean sensation to banish remembered horror and filth. *

[Marni] Someday, there might be a time when Marni isn't hungry. Someday, there may come a time where the very thought of food sends her running to the alley to lose what little she already has in her belly. Someday, there might just be a time where she doesn't want to eat everything in sight then go back for seconds... thirds... tenths. Today? Is not that day.

She's scrounged, she's begged, she's bartered, she's found enough to get her something to eat that's actually cooked and greasy and fattening and omg so fucking good... and a milkshake. Yes. That would be perfect...

And so it is one streetrat is slipping into the diner, dressed in cut-off shorts and a tank top, a pack on her back and flipflops on her feet, and curls atop her head that defy explanation, as does the little mischivious grin that plays across her lips as she makes her way toward the counter and starts emptying her pockets of change, so she can count it.

She has enough.
She has to have enough.

[Kora] "The violent kind," the Skald offers, with an even sort of deadpan that suggests she believes that definition is the best of poor circumstances. There is a faint curl of a shrug that follows, a neat little gesture, lifting the Fenrir woman's narrow shoulders beneath the cotton of her black t-shirt. " - that's an assumption, of course. I mentioned the losses we've taken, the attacks on kin and Garou within the past months. Just this week the doc and I found a pair of cursed ones of their base kin stealing bodies from a mortuary."

Kora pauses, leans and looks out the window, squinting into the darkness, gauging. " - maybe a half-mile from here, perhaps less. Then there was Oliver, and - " the creature looks back to Adamidas. " - well, the retelling would be endless, and you know the worst of them, I think."

Marni enters. The bell rings, quiet, tinny. If she looks up from counting change, she'll find the Skald's dark eyes on her. If she flashes a look of recognition, she'll get a little join us wave.

Kora turns back to Adamidas, then, her voice still low. " - this neighborhood, though, big chunks of it used to be Eagle territory. Since the beginning. We're looking to see what can be salvaged and held, to protect the north flank, you know?"

[Eddie Vaako] Two last puffs wait to be tasted in the stub of a thin brown cigar that smells faintly of the sorts of spices one can never really name. The fingers of one hand pause, hooked like the talons of a hawk against the door as Eddie's lean, tall form turns in a slight nod to propriety. He smokes the rest outside and flicks the butt away.

The lanky detective is hard faced. The angles and planes of his features severe- something that could be handsome under the right light, but that was more than a little while ago. bags bracketing pale green eyes seem only to augment them, and the chill orbs move restlessly. Lashing against the interior of the diner with an old professional's confidence.

For all that he seems just another part of the Chicago around him, Ed's clothes set him a bit apart from the neighborhood. Tastefully dressed in a charcoal mock turtleneck that does its part to favor a physique as savagely slim as his face, broken up only by broad shoulders and a stylish leather jacket that hangs to his thighs. The snakeskin boots might be a bit much. Expensive rather than classy. slacks complete the picture, and the hints of an ancient line of Furies in face and form are also jarring. This one has little right to be alive, really.

Exhaustion that cloaks the broad shoulders seems strangely held off by something. A false sort of energy that thrums along his long form. He's on a stool at the bar with a brief hop. Powerful, long fingered hands flick against his jacket in an old grooming ritual that seems stamped into his bones, adjusting himself as he looks up and quirks an eyebrow at the waitress.

That's when he remembers to take off the sunglasses. Sheesh. Its midnight. No wonder things were so dark.

As the bit of plastic clatters to the counter, he looks around again- then does a double take. Hey. That's Addie.

[Adamidas] "There's enough people in Chicago to cover it, take people out of the Brotherhood, , get some spiritual backup, ask the cockroaches for consistent information. lets rats patrol, perform a spot-defense. Find out who is taking part of the north side and get their asses to expand," she says. Maybe there's a tactical mind behind those brown curls. Maybe she's got a lot going for her. Maybe she would be great.

Maybe was a lot to ask, but this Amazon of Diana's concern wasn't on the war first... not the war that people think of. More sacred duty. More of what she was born for.

Her eyes aren't on the outside, they're on the bathroom door. Or, rather, in the direction of the bathroom.

"We don't have time to be reactive," she continues on the thought, "that's going to be prime real estate. Losing that territory is going to be some kind of triumph for them. Spirits will filter through before spirals do."

She starts to stand up. And she does stand, looks over her shoulder to see0

Oh hey, it's Eddie. She looks at him and gives him an upward nod.

[Marni] she gets the piles of change into some semblance of order, and then looks around - feeling someone watching her. Not all together unusual, of course, but this is different - it has a weight and intensity. There is recognition, and she flashes a little grin and nod, before she turns to finish counting and then make her order.

"Ok. I got $6.82. I need the biggest burger that can buy, with fries on the side, and all the fixings and oh my god bacon, can you do that? And a chocolate shake... if there's enough, pleaaaaaaaaase tell me there's enough... if not? I'll do dishes, or sweep floors, or whatever.."

The waitress just shakes her head, chuckles and puts in the order. It might be enough, or she might make it up from her tip jar. Marni in cute mode is hard to resist... just wait till she's got a babybump to work the cute factor with. Unstoppable.

..and then she turns and makes her way toward Adam and Kora, her belly audibly rumbling as she flops into a seat and shakes free from her pack. "Oh my god I think I could eat a whole COW if it wasn't moving too fast - and I chased it through a grill, or something."

[Gina McClaren] *Smeared kohl is touched up, Gina pushing out of the washroom one hip at a time, that soft swagger of the truly hippy. Her hands are wet, and there's the noise of jewelry clinking raucous as she shakes moisture from her fingers. Air dry. Denim daisy-dukes are tugged down caramel thighs, as though that would make them any more acceptable.

It would seem Kora's attracted company, a full moon bringing out all sorts of beasts tonight. Including one Detective Eddie Vaako. Freshly glossed lips quirk wry as she moves past the man on his stool, voice a teasing lullaby.*

Detective... This yer beat?

[Eddie Vaako] Anger. At that table over there. Where Addie is. Sure, he'd probably have eventually found his attention drawn there.. much as some of the other patrons may even now be casting the occasional very worried glance toward those who would once have been among Man for very different reasons...

But the Fury being there, well- it changes things more than a little. Ed's attention remains on Addy. His gaze cast over one shoulder. Adamidas, Kora, Marni.. one can hear the well oiled brain reaching the obvious conclusion.

All at once, the rangy cop turns back to the cheap laminated countertop, his fingers spread and braced against the surface as he stares at the space between his hands and thinks. On the one hand- its not real safe over there, just now. On the other, who knows what rules govern this kind of encounter.. maybe not going over is rude. Rude is also not safe.

In the end he settles at the uneasy comfort of, at the very least, not having the bunch of them behind him if they decide to do something intense.

A brief nod to himself and fingertips chime against the nondescript porcelain of his coffee cup as he sweeps it from the table. He nods to the waitress and points at their table. Ed's voice is impossibly deep. A sub vocal thrum that batters its way inside the chest.

"Guess I'm gonna be with them, toots." A long finger thrusts toward the table of... things.. and Eddie slides from the stool like a snake.

Then the hips came by. The sort that makes him feel naked without a pair of bongo drums. A stark black eyebrow climbs its way up the tall detective's forehead and his face tracks those hips like an aircraft gunner. Pure, lecherous precision. At least it doesn't seem a conscious act. Her voice jerks his face back up to hers.

"Wh- huh? Oh. Yeah.. yeah sorta. How's it goin... uhhhh... Gina? Right?"

[Kora] "I'm familiar with a good chunk of it," Kora replies, her voice low, her mouth twisting into a half-smile that is as much a container for loss as it is an expression of her good nature. "Kemp and I lived not far from her. We patrolled around Silence's territory. Now that Silence is gone, Joe and I - Thomas, when he's back - are moving up here."

Marni arrives, and Kora offers her a quick half-smile, reaching into her back pocket and pulling out a handful of bills. She hadn't ordered anything and given the state of her clothing, she cannot have much more money than the Bone Gnawer. There's just a glass of water on the table. Nevertheless, the Skald pulls out a pair of crumpled bills - two fives - and tosses them onto the table. "It isn't enough for a whole cow, but - "

Then, sliding out of the seat, she gains her feet and stands tall - taller than most in the room, with the possible exception of the detective - , stretching her body through the spine, expanding the space between the vertebrae. " - it'll get you closer. Sorry, though. I've gotta run." She taps her temple lightly, " - see you soon, yeah?"

---

And with that, the Skald takes her leave. She passes Eddie and Gina, offering the former a brief, "Detective," and Gina a quiet, " - good to meet you," before she pushes open the door and heads out into the warm dark night. The last they'll see at her is her pale hair gleaming in the darkness as she disappears into the alley opposite, her narrow frame swallowed by the shadows.

[Kora] [apologies darlings! bedtime for lizes was an hour ago! :) ]