[Sorrow] Last post!
Sorrow breathes out; her nostrils flare. There is no true easing of the tension in her frame beyond that breath. Her arms are still loose at her side, but her hands are curled into fists, the blunt nails digging at the meat of her palms, the bracelets she always weathers - leather and suede, knotted bits of sisal and hemp - are pulled taut against the delicate jut of bone.
"I told you that he's strong. Physically, he's strong. He works to keep himself in shape. He can fight bare-knuckled, and knows how to use a gun to defend himself. He's not a fool, like - " she doesn't name them; just leaves the names of their troubled kin hanging in the air. " - he's strong, but he knows that he's not Garou. He doesn't pretend to be. He works security; and he's good at fixing things. He - " This seems such a strange litany, like an ad in the paper for a horse or a nanny, and there's a strange frisson of distaste in her gut. Too much tension remains in her face and brow for her dissatisfaction to with the words to show through. Then, " - I asked him to fix up the bikes. You know? To sell, like Kemp-rhya wanted, to send the money to his kid. He's doing it. No questions, no complaints. No grandstanding."
Still, she changes. It is subtle, but clear - the change in her voice, a sort of quiet. "He respects who we are, Joe. He respects who I am. That makes me stronger, too."
[Joe Holst] Exasperation finally surfaces amid the flux of other emotions painting themselves across Joe's face. He sweeps a hand in a scarred, fleshy arc- palm toward the ground. A minute shake of his head follows as boots crunch against twigs again.
As ever, the urge toward the physical shows itself in his step forward. Invading her space, were she not a packmate.. an urge to force his opinion, as though discussing it were still an alien thing.
He seems.. nearly solemn, for all that distaste wars with open betrayal in his face.
"Nah."
He shakes his head again, brow furrowed.
"I din't mean like dat. I meant like.. What strempf' does he bring ta Fenris' own we aint awready got? Lookit, Kora... yowah askin' me ta be fine wit' yew includin' him an' his ancestahs wit' owah own. Dat aint a small t'ing. Why dew we, as a tribe, need 'im?"
[Sorrow] They are packmates; her space is his. She has a visceral, spiritual sense of his presence beyond the physical, and as he steps closer, into the circle of personal space Americans would otherwise deem near sacred, Sorrow does not step back, does not back down, does not back away. Instead, she lifts her chin ever so minutely to maintain the thread of conversation, to meet-his-eyes without meeting-his-eyes, to hold her gaze directly on his terribly young, terribly brutal, terribly Fenrir features.
Her nostrils flare with a frisson of anger; frustration that answers her Alpha's frustration, expands it, feeds it, feeds from it, expands it in a widening circuit. There's a certain fierceness to her expression, the way her mouth pulls back from her white, too-human teeth, the way her dark eyes narrow, the way her head cants, that faint but always feral gesture, sideling, the way the light in the park cuts down across the plane of her cheek.
"We, as a tribe, don't need him. Somewhere, there's a decent mechanic out there. Somewhere, there's a Fenrir who can fix anything that's broken. Someone, there's a man who is matches him physically. This isn't a fucking - " she rarely curses, but when she does, the words do not sound alien on her lips. " - it's not a salad bar, you know. He's strong enough for me. He's strong enough for the tribe. He'll help us when we need him; but he's a man. He's kin. He doesn't have magical powers, but he's strong and he's brave; he works. He has skills we can use. He can go places we can't. He can use his fists and he can fire a gun. And I want him.
"Look at me, Joe. You know me. You've heard my stories. We fight together; we found our totem together, and we fought in the Battleground together, over and over again. Look at me and see me and hear me, not your damned mentor; not the rest of the Swords. I'm not betraying you; I'm not betraying the tribe. The same way you know that Drew is yours, I know that I want him."
[Joe Holst] "Don't... Don't listen to everyt'ing dat made me. Is dat really what yew jus' said? What in livin' Fuck, Kora!?"
All at once, Joe lashes out. A display of brute force backed with very little in the way of foresight or self control. White teeth flash cold and angry in the livid, washed blue of the park lights as the young Jarl's fist crashes into the back of the park bench.
"What the fuck da yew WANT me ta say? Ahmean, what did yew w-" The outburst is interrupted by a growl that shudders across the dark expanse of the park. Joe turns away, thick fingers flexing against his palms and spreading again.
It takes a moment, but eventually he turns back.
"Yew really t'ought... WHAT? Ahmean.. what th' hell ah yew even askin' me dis feh?"
[Sorrow] "The Swords didn't make you true-born, War-Handed-yuf." Sorrow bears his outburst of violence unphased except for this: her body tenses, sharp and lean underneath her clothing. She is narrow-shouldered, tall and neatly made, dwarfed not by her Alpha's height, but by his bredth, the width of his shoulders, the sheer weight of his musculature. She holds herself lashed and level. She does not expect him to hit the park bench. She expects him to hit her, and does not shy from it. That expectancy lives around her, grim and dogged and direct - enduring, call it - rather than sharp, like fear. There's nothing like fear in her, not now, not tonight.
Her voice is rich; tense, sure. " - Fenris made you true-born. The Swords didn't make you Alpha. Hermóðr and Kemp-rhya brought us together, but now your own strength make you Alpha." Unspoken, undercurrent, there, the edge of the loss still intense. "The Swords didn't make you Jarl."
Then, low, " - why do you think I came to you?"
[Sorrow] transcript!
to Sorrow
[Sorrow] Hmm. You've popped off AIM! I am thinking you are not here anymore.
hah.
to Joe Holst
[Joe Holst] Nope! I'm here! Just had to turn off AIM for a second. Post coming soon.
to Sorrow
[Sorrow] (grins) aight!
to Joe Holst
[Joe Holst] "Ta TEST me."
He barks it. An uncut demand given from inches away. It isn't quite betrayal that colors the harsh planes of his boyish face.. rather, it is that unhinged paranoia of a cliath harried every step of the way through the brutal Fosterings that color many of the Garou Nation's more dangerous fringe elements.
"I t'ink yew came ta me 'cause dis.. dis.. fuggin' kivling got undah yowah skin. He's tryin' ta break yowah Stremf'. Rob yew uh yowah tribal rights so 'e can give yah stremf' ta his he-bitch mastahs!"
The pace and march back and forth of an agitated wolf accompanies the vicious words. His face never swings away from hers, and his pacing is contained to a few steps right in front of her. The almost- blue lights of the park splinter into shadows that pool in the hollows of his face. Lend the visage of a Fanatic.
His voice though, is calmer. It sounds clearer, no matter how hatred twists his face like a fever. The dichotomy is not a pleasant one.
"Dis aint fuckin' fair, Kora. Yew- we-" One heavy hand bangs against his chest, teeth flash as Joe tries with the words of a human to express what pack means.. instead a burst of raw feeling ripples across the connection between them. The fuller explanation shoved before (love devotion sister brother whole complete)..
..inadequate words.
"Tell me why! Fuck guessin'- yew brought dis fucked up t'ing ta me, an' heah I am tryin' ta make sense of it- its time I got a question. Sah... sah yew ANSAH!"
He thrusts a finger at her. It looks a lot like desperation. To provoke, perhaps. Simplify the problem to the honest, vicious rip of claw and flesh. Not this blasphemous idea. The boy sounds alone though. Bleak. Wanting.
[Sorrow] There is a moment in the midst of his initial outburst where Sorrow's fine mouth twists into the feral rictus of a snarl; but no. No; it passes, she masters it, draws herself back from that physical expression with a confident surety born of abiding will. He paces; she follows his pacing, her pale head turning minutely to follow the contained circuit he defines. The washing light catches out threads of amber and gold in her otherwise pale hair, which frames her sharp features like a messy halo.
"No," she says at last, gentle but not soft. Firm as bedrock. "No. I brought this to you because you are my Alpha, you are my packmate, you are my Jarl. You are my brother." He receives back the same wordless sensation; the bonds of the pack sharpened by the loss they have shared; by the gatherings they have witnessed. By the dead they have buried. " - that's why I came to you. It's not a test, Joe. It's - it's - it's that I want you standing behind me when I go to his tribe to claim him. I want you to take him my story when I die."
[Joe Holst] "I aint no fuckin' hypocrite, Kora. If yew go ta da Furies an' dey let yew have 'im, I'll..." Joe swallows, his face twisting in disgust.
"...I'll deal widdit. 'Course I'll back yew.. but I aint dewin' it fah kin. I'm dewin' it cause yowah pack. Dat's it. But I aint gonna act like I t'ink dis is a good idea... an' it aint goin' down at all 'til I meet 'im. When I dew, he proves good enough owah he can take a walk- I aint makin' allowances. Weah takin' on a kin what's worth it, owah we aint takin' him on."
A long exhale of breath before he speaks again. "Da rest we'll figgah out aftah dat."
Joe's teeth grit together, but otherwise he remains motionless. Waiting.
[Sorrow] Her dark eyes flicker over his brutish face; intent, direct. Joe's face twists in disgust, boggled by the grotesquerie she has suggested. Her own mouth is still. She is still standing just in front of the park bench, close enough that she can feel the baking heat of her packmate's fury, the gut-twist of his lancing, visceral disgust, the physical reassurance of his presence. She's tall, Kora, her chin high, her features finer than those of her brother, though pretty is too shallow a would to be papered over who she is.
"Alright," she allows, her chin dipping with the acquiescence. "Okay."
Over the totem connection, a brush of familiarity; the faintest curl of it. Then, audibly, quiet, holding the track of his bright eyes with her own, dark and clear. "Trust my strength too, boss. You've gotta trust my strength, too."
Sorrow breathes out; her nostrils flare. There is no true easing of the tension in her frame beyond that breath. Her arms are still loose at her side, but her hands are curled into fists, the blunt nails digging at the meat of her palms, the bracelets she always weathers - leather and suede, knotted bits of sisal and hemp - are pulled taut against the delicate jut of bone.
"I told you that he's strong. Physically, he's strong. He works to keep himself in shape. He can fight bare-knuckled, and knows how to use a gun to defend himself. He's not a fool, like - " she doesn't name them; just leaves the names of their troubled kin hanging in the air. " - he's strong, but he knows that he's not Garou. He doesn't pretend to be. He works security; and he's good at fixing things. He - " This seems such a strange litany, like an ad in the paper for a horse or a nanny, and there's a strange frisson of distaste in her gut. Too much tension remains in her face and brow for her dissatisfaction to with the words to show through. Then, " - I asked him to fix up the bikes. You know? To sell, like Kemp-rhya wanted, to send the money to his kid. He's doing it. No questions, no complaints. No grandstanding."
Still, she changes. It is subtle, but clear - the change in her voice, a sort of quiet. "He respects who we are, Joe. He respects who I am. That makes me stronger, too."
[Joe Holst] Exasperation finally surfaces amid the flux of other emotions painting themselves across Joe's face. He sweeps a hand in a scarred, fleshy arc- palm toward the ground. A minute shake of his head follows as boots crunch against twigs again.
As ever, the urge toward the physical shows itself in his step forward. Invading her space, were she not a packmate.. an urge to force his opinion, as though discussing it were still an alien thing.
He seems.. nearly solemn, for all that distaste wars with open betrayal in his face.
"Nah."
He shakes his head again, brow furrowed.
"I din't mean like dat. I meant like.. What strempf' does he bring ta Fenris' own we aint awready got? Lookit, Kora... yowah askin' me ta be fine wit' yew includin' him an' his ancestahs wit' owah own. Dat aint a small t'ing. Why dew we, as a tribe, need 'im?"
[Sorrow] They are packmates; her space is his. She has a visceral, spiritual sense of his presence beyond the physical, and as he steps closer, into the circle of personal space Americans would otherwise deem near sacred, Sorrow does not step back, does not back down, does not back away. Instead, she lifts her chin ever so minutely to maintain the thread of conversation, to meet-his-eyes without meeting-his-eyes, to hold her gaze directly on his terribly young, terribly brutal, terribly Fenrir features.
Her nostrils flare with a frisson of anger; frustration that answers her Alpha's frustration, expands it, feeds it, feeds from it, expands it in a widening circuit. There's a certain fierceness to her expression, the way her mouth pulls back from her white, too-human teeth, the way her dark eyes narrow, the way her head cants, that faint but always feral gesture, sideling, the way the light in the park cuts down across the plane of her cheek.
"We, as a tribe, don't need him. Somewhere, there's a decent mechanic out there. Somewhere, there's a Fenrir who can fix anything that's broken. Someone, there's a man who is matches him physically. This isn't a fucking - " she rarely curses, but when she does, the words do not sound alien on her lips. " - it's not a salad bar, you know. He's strong enough for me. He's strong enough for the tribe. He'll help us when we need him; but he's a man. He's kin. He doesn't have magical powers, but he's strong and he's brave; he works. He has skills we can use. He can go places we can't. He can use his fists and he can fire a gun. And I want him.
"Look at me, Joe. You know me. You've heard my stories. We fight together; we found our totem together, and we fought in the Battleground together, over and over again. Look at me and see me and hear me, not your damned mentor; not the rest of the Swords. I'm not betraying you; I'm not betraying the tribe. The same way you know that Drew is yours, I know that I want him."
[Joe Holst] "Don't... Don't listen to everyt'ing dat made me. Is dat really what yew jus' said? What in livin' Fuck, Kora!?"
All at once, Joe lashes out. A display of brute force backed with very little in the way of foresight or self control. White teeth flash cold and angry in the livid, washed blue of the park lights as the young Jarl's fist crashes into the back of the park bench.
"What the fuck da yew WANT me ta say? Ahmean, what did yew w-" The outburst is interrupted by a growl that shudders across the dark expanse of the park. Joe turns away, thick fingers flexing against his palms and spreading again.
It takes a moment, but eventually he turns back.
"Yew really t'ought... WHAT? Ahmean.. what th' hell ah yew even askin' me dis feh?"
[Sorrow] "The Swords didn't make you true-born, War-Handed-yuf." Sorrow bears his outburst of violence unphased except for this: her body tenses, sharp and lean underneath her clothing. She is narrow-shouldered, tall and neatly made, dwarfed not by her Alpha's height, but by his bredth, the width of his shoulders, the sheer weight of his musculature. She holds herself lashed and level. She does not expect him to hit the park bench. She expects him to hit her, and does not shy from it. That expectancy lives around her, grim and dogged and direct - enduring, call it - rather than sharp, like fear. There's nothing like fear in her, not now, not tonight.
Her voice is rich; tense, sure. " - Fenris made you true-born. The Swords didn't make you Alpha. Hermóðr and Kemp-rhya brought us together, but now your own strength make you Alpha." Unspoken, undercurrent, there, the edge of the loss still intense. "The Swords didn't make you Jarl."
Then, low, " - why do you think I came to you?"
[Sorrow] transcript!
to Sorrow
[Sorrow] Hmm. You've popped off AIM! I am thinking you are not here anymore.
hah.
to Joe Holst
[Joe Holst] Nope! I'm here! Just had to turn off AIM for a second. Post coming soon.
to Sorrow
[Sorrow] (grins) aight!
to Joe Holst
[Joe Holst] "Ta TEST me."
He barks it. An uncut demand given from inches away. It isn't quite betrayal that colors the harsh planes of his boyish face.. rather, it is that unhinged paranoia of a cliath harried every step of the way through the brutal Fosterings that color many of the Garou Nation's more dangerous fringe elements.
"I t'ink yew came ta me 'cause dis.. dis.. fuggin' kivling got undah yowah skin. He's tryin' ta break yowah Stremf'. Rob yew uh yowah tribal rights so 'e can give yah stremf' ta his he-bitch mastahs!"
The pace and march back and forth of an agitated wolf accompanies the vicious words. His face never swings away from hers, and his pacing is contained to a few steps right in front of her. The almost- blue lights of the park splinter into shadows that pool in the hollows of his face. Lend the visage of a Fanatic.
His voice though, is calmer. It sounds clearer, no matter how hatred twists his face like a fever. The dichotomy is not a pleasant one.
"Dis aint fuckin' fair, Kora. Yew- we-" One heavy hand bangs against his chest, teeth flash as Joe tries with the words of a human to express what pack means.. instead a burst of raw feeling ripples across the connection between them. The fuller explanation shoved before (love devotion sister brother whole complete)..
..inadequate words.
"Tell me why! Fuck guessin'- yew brought dis fucked up t'ing ta me, an' heah I am tryin' ta make sense of it- its time I got a question. Sah... sah yew ANSAH!"
He thrusts a finger at her. It looks a lot like desperation. To provoke, perhaps. Simplify the problem to the honest, vicious rip of claw and flesh. Not this blasphemous idea. The boy sounds alone though. Bleak. Wanting.
[Sorrow] There is a moment in the midst of his initial outburst where Sorrow's fine mouth twists into the feral rictus of a snarl; but no. No; it passes, she masters it, draws herself back from that physical expression with a confident surety born of abiding will. He paces; she follows his pacing, her pale head turning minutely to follow the contained circuit he defines. The washing light catches out threads of amber and gold in her otherwise pale hair, which frames her sharp features like a messy halo.
"No," she says at last, gentle but not soft. Firm as bedrock. "No. I brought this to you because you are my Alpha, you are my packmate, you are my Jarl. You are my brother." He receives back the same wordless sensation; the bonds of the pack sharpened by the loss they have shared; by the gatherings they have witnessed. By the dead they have buried. " - that's why I came to you. It's not a test, Joe. It's - it's - it's that I want you standing behind me when I go to his tribe to claim him. I want you to take him my story when I die."
[Joe Holst] "I aint no fuckin' hypocrite, Kora. If yew go ta da Furies an' dey let yew have 'im, I'll..." Joe swallows, his face twisting in disgust.
"...I'll deal widdit. 'Course I'll back yew.. but I aint dewin' it fah kin. I'm dewin' it cause yowah pack. Dat's it. But I aint gonna act like I t'ink dis is a good idea... an' it aint goin' down at all 'til I meet 'im. When I dew, he proves good enough owah he can take a walk- I aint makin' allowances. Weah takin' on a kin what's worth it, owah we aint takin' him on."
A long exhale of breath before he speaks again. "Da rest we'll figgah out aftah dat."
Joe's teeth grit together, but otherwise he remains motionless. Waiting.
[Sorrow] Her dark eyes flicker over his brutish face; intent, direct. Joe's face twists in disgust, boggled by the grotesquerie she has suggested. Her own mouth is still. She is still standing just in front of the park bench, close enough that she can feel the baking heat of her packmate's fury, the gut-twist of his lancing, visceral disgust, the physical reassurance of his presence. She's tall, Kora, her chin high, her features finer than those of her brother, though pretty is too shallow a would to be papered over who she is.
"Alright," she allows, her chin dipping with the acquiescence. "Okay."
Over the totem connection, a brush of familiarity; the faintest curl of it. Then, audibly, quiet, holding the track of his bright eyes with her own, dark and clear. "Trust my strength too, boss. You've gotta trust my strength, too."
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