[Kora] The moon is waning toward the new, and the sky is empty of clouds, clear. In another handful of days another spring stormfront will push through, flooding the streets, flooding the senses, washing the city never-quite-clean in a deluge. Tonight, though, there are a handful of stars visible through the constant haze of the city's light pollution in places like this - where the streetlights are broken and rarely repaired, where the fine brick buildings that once housed greengrocers and hardware stores and butchers and dress shops have been empty for thirty years except for a succession of cheap businesses catering to the needs of the city's poorest residences. Check cashing places, payday loan storefronts, pawn brokers, cheap diners serving deep fried soul food in grease that has not been changed since the Reagan administration declared ketchup to be sufficient vegetable for poor kids everywhere.
There are no businesses like that on this stretch of block, blasted by poverty and disarray, turned into an industrial stretch sometime in the 1950s, turned into a wasteland in the recession of the 1980s. There are a handful of tenements, still, cheap apartments tucked upstairs from the storefronts, squats behind shuttered windows. And, mid-block, there's an old, shuttered brick elementary school that once served the neighborhood, closed nigh on twenty-five years in favor of busing the local kids across town to a large facility, surrounded by tall plankboard fence, the sort erected on construction projects to keep out prying eyes and conceal potentially valuable material from would-be thieves. Copper pipes and tubing, cables, drywall, tools and equipment: everything not nailed or glued down.
The school was a construction site three years ago, in the midst of the condo boom in downtown Chicago. Some developer meant to take the fine old ruin of a building and turn it into well-appointed condos for those who wanted the downtown lifestyle, but lacked the means to afford both the space they wanted and a decent neighborhod. Gentrification, they call it. In this case, the developer went broke after he finished the sample, the rest of the loans fell through, and the whole project was foreclosed upon two years ago. Tax foreclosure. City property.
The construction equipment is gone, but the fence remains, listing in places where squatters have kicked it in. Two stores, maybe three, surrounded by a narrow, concrete apron of a yard, the brickfront and stonework outside are crumbling, and the interior is a mess of old school fixtures and construction debris, except for the half-finished model, incongruous, the fixed surfaces made of gleaming things - hardwoods and marbles and granites - everything else looted, down to the toilet and the piping in the walls.
"You can park in back," Kora directs; her directions are low and quiet, clear. They are not the directions of someone who drives, though. This has turned them around twice, faced with turns against traffic or one-way boulevards. She touches his thigh, points toward the alley. The brick building is shuttered, dark, but she can feel the presence of her packmate close. It makes her sit up, somehow, in the bucket seat. Brighter, more clear. In the alley, she climbs out of the passenger's door and walks closer, swinging open the metal gate in a great arc to let his car through. They cut the chain that was looped around the gate three days ago. Someone dumped a bottle of WD-40 on the hinges yesterday. Now it swings open not with ease, precisely, but at least without the terrible screech of metal-on-metal.
After he has parked, Kora swings the gate closed and waits for Trent, falling into step beside him after he's climbed from the car, following the bond of their totem toward her Alpha. She is a taut thing, tonight, alert, her presence sharp, precise, as her voice. Still, she says, "C'mon," and gives Trent the faintest hipcheck as he draws abreast of her, before they head around the yard or into the old brick building. " - this way."
[Trent Brumby] He knows he's coming out here to meet a fellow Get of Fenris; a skinhead, no less. Joe, Kora's Alpha. It's not unlike coming to meet the family, he supposes, but he is surprisingly calm and collected - even after the turns about in the traffic while following Kora's instructions.
At the end of it, the car is parked behind a gate at some boarded up place that really doesn't look at all welcoming. But more then half the buildings in the city are unwelcoming. He climbs out and follows after her, pocketing his keys into his jean pocket. A t.shirt is worn under a simple, dark jacket, and his boots are those walking-hiking kind that can be worn casually. He knew he wasn't heading out to some Italian restaurant tonight and dressed for it.
He gave a half smile at Kora's hip check, and the way that she seems on high alert, but follows silently, hands loose at his sides and gray eyes wandering the grounds.
[Joe Holst] Somewhere in the crumbling walls and lonely bricks, Joe paces back and forth. The 'old assembly hall' the place was likely called, once upon a time. Moth- eaten, thick velvet curtains hang in tatters behind a raised stage, remnants of a day when, like Harlem, Bronzeville was a colorful and vital piece of city.
They find Joe pacing back and forth. A monstrous creature given to bursts of violence and strangely meditative silences. Hellishly scarred long before he'd ever need to shave, brutality- and the graces that come with it, lurk in the hard lines and curves of his form as he stares at the ground, scowling and muttering to himself.
He jerks to a stop when they enter. Face swinging toward them on a thick neck. The motion is animal, lacking only four feet to be appropriate to the situation.
Hands like heavy stones drop into his jacket pockets with a quiet snap, and he chews fitfully on some gum.
[Kora] She likes being under the sky. They're under the sky now, and as they walk, following the certain pull of her pack bond, quiet except for the crunch of their boots on the broken asphalt that was once a playground and is now an empty patch of ground in a destitute neighborhood in the shadow of wealthy city. Spring: there are weeds growing through the cracks smashed into the asphalt, tough little daisies and blistering thistle already thigh-high, violents and chickweed and crabgrass, dandelions already gone to seed, the round heads covered in milk-white fluff.
She likes being underneath the sky, even when the color of it is obscured by the orange haze and the familiar patterns of the stars are obliterated by the constant, pulsing glow of the civilized world all around them, so she gives it one last glance before pushing open one of the heavy doors, grabbing a flashlight, and leading Trent down the wide hallway toward the Assembly Area. There are lights in here, makeshift; and light falling in through the high windows that go all the way up to the ceiling, huge and old enough that the glass is wavy with age.
The circle of her torch flares ahead of them, over the risers leading up to the stage. She is aware of it, careful not to blind herself or her packmate, letting the light pick out the path over the wide oak planks on the floor.
"Hey boss," Kora says, quiet when they are close. She's takes a position close to the kinsman without touching him, and offers her Alpha the corner of her familiar smile. There's tension underneath it, easily evident in her physical stance, in the set of her narrow shoulders. "This is Trent." She lifts her chin between the pair, each to each, then looks back to Trent. "Trent," she continues, glancing from him to the restless modi. " - my Alpha, Joe Holst."
[Trent Brumby] The place feels dusty, even if its not. It's something to do with walking in buildings left abandoned for however long in the middle of the night with torches to light the way. It feels more like a ghost tour then some sort of meet and greet with family; which really puts everything into perspective.
When they come into the Assembly Area and he takes it in, the surrounding area, the heavy curtains, and the brute of a boy that isn't a boy but a Killing Machine. He looks like one, too. Even if he were human he looks dangerous. The sort that Trent would grab by the scruff and throw out of a pub, or check for ID at the door and try and keep out in the first place. He still looks like a kid, several years younger then Trent (and then some).
Kora introduces them, and Trent, no small man himself, had walked a few steps with his hand extended in offering to shake the others. "Joe," he greets with a small nod. His eyes are a clear gray; they are direct and quiet.
[Joe Holst] The youthful Modi watched as Trent approached. Every step of the way.. and Trent had been around way too often not to have seen that same look before. It hangs in the faces of that rare portion of men he does, from time to time, have to put his hands on. It changes things, generally. At the last moment it makes one's hands twitch for a weapon, or a better angle. Reminds you to clench the jaw- to duck the head just slightly..
..to get ready for a serious storm. The look of one who knows their own body well enough to size up an opponent intimately. It doesn't seem to occur to Joe that it is not the right starting point to build relationships from. But then, the boy may keep himself near two Skalds for just that sort of oversight.
As Trent extends his hand, Joe holds up his own- rather than an insult- it actually seems to demand a pause in the proceedings. A 'this first' to the handshake.
Joe's voice is a horrible, New Jersey bray. Grates against the ears. Shut up, for fuck's sake. Please.
"Who's yah Wardah." It doesn't sound like a question.
[Kora] The interior is dusty, with a damp if not unpleasant scent wormed into the old plasterwork framing the stage, moths infesting the velvet curtains, a handful of school desks and chairs that would have been surplus twenty years ago upended in the corners, rusting. There are other treasures in other rooms; a library somewhere, the paperbacks fanned open from humidity and damp, a stack of blackboards removed from old classrooms by the developer in preparation for further work that never happened, covered by a tarp in the far corner of the assembly area.
Kora stands as the third point in a triangle, leaning against the raised platform of the stage, though not casually. Her dark gaze cuts from Joe to Trent, and back again, her eyes snagging on Joe's hand. "I've heard," she says, quietly, " - that Adamidas lays particular claim to the welfare of her kin. But she's not Alpha of her pack."
Then her attention cuts back to Trent, the familiar planes of his face. She is watching him, something of a question written not into the shape of her mouth, but the set of her eyes.
[Trent Brumby] The others hand, held to halt proceedings, could be taken in any way. It may not be taken in the way it was meant, and that, too, is the problem with Rage and scars and general attitude. Trent steps back, that hand falls back, away. There's a straightening in an already strong spine as he separates himself from the immediate vicinity of the others space.
Warder. The very idea of this has his brows raise. A Warder. Watchmen. A guard. It's kind of insulting to his sensibilities.
"There's a pack of Black Furies in the Brotherhood," he tells Joe. His voice is quiet but there's a steel underlay to it. Kora may not have heard that before, except for that time in the alleyway, right before everything went to hell. "Alek, Adamidas and Irene. The last I spoke to Alek, she told me I'm under the packs protection."
"I assume this is what you're asking?" Warder, indeed. "But if we're being honest, Kora is my Warder. She's the one that's put in the yards and has protected me." It wasn't his Tribe that has come to see him for anything other then dating advice. It wasn't them tearing apart fomor and seeing him to safety.
[Joe Holst] Joe's teeth ram against gum in a strange burst of sudden excitement. Its a vague thing- the boy can't manage subtle even on a new moon, but it is subtle by his standards. A twitching across his shoulders, playing out through his fingers. Response to the steel in Trent's voice. Joe doesn't loom, his presence doesn't suddenly crash like a weight against Trent's calm stoicism. The Fenrir don't seem the sort, in fact.
Instead, wide, distantly manic eyes swivel around Trent's form, as the bullish Modi begins to pace again. To stalk around the Fury in a close arc, his attention swinging to Kora once he stands shoulder to shoulder with Trent.
"Yowah new ta dis den. Ta bein' kin." Its a response to Trent's claim of Kora as his Warder. The idea discarded before the boy has time to chew on it. Joe's face slackens, the planes of his cheeks calm, empty of expression as an idea begins to play out in the back of his head.
[Trent Brumby] "No, I'm far from being new at being kin. The idea of having a warder, to being claimed by something other then family or a prospective mate, or by anyone that doesn't care for me, isn't something that sits well with me." He answers, calmly. He stands still as Joe walks around in restless energy. There's no doubt that he is tensed, in that natural way - a predator is circling him, making adrenalin starting to pump.
[Kora] Her attention is a sharp thing, even in the gloom, her dark eyes swinging back, flashing over the familiar lines of Trent's profile, reading the expression beneath the expression, the play of muscles underneath his features. The creature stands straight up, then, abandoning her lean as Joe begins to circle Trent, her pale brows drawing close, a neat line bisecting them as she reads the easy burst of excitement in Joe's body, on his brutish, expressive face.
When her Alpha's eyes swing to her, when she stands shoulder to shoulder to Trent, he finds her looking back at him, her eyes gaze gone to shadow in the darkness of the assembly area, in the deep shadows. Her pale hair and skin, though, glow faintly in the ambient line cutting through the high windows. Her fine mouth is still, the expression narrow, tight.
[Joe Holst] "Fair enough.." He shrugs slightly. "Shit.. maybe. Nevah knew who I was 'til my uncle came ta get me, myself. Don't got no idea what it means ta be a Kin. Nevahmind a Fury."
Somewhere, water drips against scraps of drywall that had long since collapsed under the slow, steady beating. The drops continuing to mangle, to dissolve, to unmake. The sounds of an abandoned building carry their own sort of magic, as though the walls and ceiling watch the three of them. Wait for something.
"If yew aint woyth th' attention of da 'Furies.." Luminous eyes had remained against Kora, but Joe's thick neck swivels back to Trent, inches away.
"Why would yew be good enough feh us? Feh Kora? Why shouldt yowah sons an' daughtahs be Fenrir?"
The thrum of Rage lashes at Trent as Joe's unhandsome face swings at him. A simple twist of neck turned to something fever- wrought and fierce.
[Trent Brumby] "I'd like to answer that, but I can't, not for myself. I know as much about Get of Fenris as you might know about the Black Furies." He looks from Koe to Kora and back again. There's two Garou, one at each side of him, and each containing a decent amount of Rage and tension. "If Kora thinks I am good enough for her, then, I think that's answer enough. She's a Fenrir, she knows of your Tribe better then I, and qualities I may or may not possess."
"As for the Black Furies, you'd have to ask them that. I won't answer for them." Nor would he stand here and tell what he thought of them. He would not slander them, even if he disagreed with them or thought poorly of them. Not unless directly asked in a very serious charge.
[Kora] Straightened, now, her shoulders level, her feet planted shoulder's width apart, her arms loose at her side. The left hand is curled into a fist. She lacks Joe's brutal presence, his immediacy, his sheer physicality, and the moon has waned past gibbous into the half, half-eaten, half-whole, but there's a certain frisson of tension that ratches the long, lean line of her body straighter, than pulls her taut through the spine.
There's a spark in her eyes; dark, glazed with light when she lifts her chin in a taut gesture. The catches the plane of her face from cheekbone to jaw, washes out the hollow just below the cheekbone. This time, she watches her Alpha steadily as Trent speaks, her hair haloing her sharp, familiar features, illuminated like the plane of her cheek by light spilling in from behind her. Her mouth is shadowed, still until she adds - quiet, sure - after Trent has finished. "He's good enough for me. It's not a judgment - " the words are short, the tone rich, not as sharp as her body language might suggest, " - I make lightly, War-Handed-yuf."
[Joe Holst] "If she wins yew, yew won't be a Fury anymoah. Yew'd be Fenrir. Fenrir fuggin' only, tew. Everytin' yew do will eiddah build us higheh, owah break us down. Everyt'in, Fury."
Joe's attention slides from Kora again, his gaze burning with the light of a fanatic against the side of Trent's face. "Yowah awready gonna be staht'n wit my eye on yew. I'm gonna assume, I'm gonna t'ink bad uh yew, I'm gonna seriously piss yew off. I like pissin' people off dough, so..." Joe shrugs again, speaking through gritted teeth. Trying hard, and failing, to keep it from looking like each word tore at him.
"Try ta make 'er soft. Try ta break, instead uh buildin. Be bad feh my wolves' morale feh even a fuggin' moment- an' I'll scatter yew. You'll be everywheah at once. Sear's Towah, dockyards, dem fuggin' corn fields south uh heah. Yew unnahstan' me, Fury? I love my own. Yew aint gonna be my own 'til yew earn it. Dat all sit ok wit' yew?"
In a way, its simple truth. Giving Trent every hint he has to give, and hoping the man will crumble before it. Dragging every speck of hatred up from the heart of a completely indoctrinated believer and laying it all in the stoic Fury's lap.
[Trent Brumby] He takes it all, and not once does he seem to grow angry, infuriated by Joe's words. There's threats of tearing him apart and scattering him all across the plains and other things that doesn't get to him like it may have intended. Trent appears much calmer then he had before, when testosterone had burned at being circled like some prey. It should, rightly, be burning now too. But it doesn't. Those are Joe's issues, not his.
But there is something he does point out, because he's not cowering and he does speak his mind, just as much as Joe seems to. "No one can make another soft, so if you're insinuating that I'm capable of doing that? Then there's already an issue there. Let's not go down that path. "
[Trent Brumby] Ini + 5
[Joe Holst] (+7)
[Kora] Modi and kin stand shoulder to shoulder in the dim light in the center of a ruined auditorium, Joe's bright eyes a burning, sidelong look. The only sounds other than their breathing in the space is the slow drip of water somewhere, an old leak through the flat roof, damaged by the accumulation of snow over many winters of neglect, slower than a heartbeat, the drip. Slower than the beat of a stately, measured waltz.
Throughout the speech, through each of the threads, Kora's dark gaze remains fixed on her Alpha's face. It is not quite a challenge, but there is something unrelenting about her regard. It doesn't soften throughout the whole of Joe's long, strange love letter to the tribe, and it does not deviate from his face, his brutish jaw, as he dredges the deep muck of his fanatic's soul and throws it all at the man she wants to claim.
"You insult me with the insinuation." This is flat, raw to her Alpha.
[Kora] Init! +6
[Joe Holst] (Kora, Joe, Trent. Kora gets a boost due to forewarning across totemlink)
[Kora] **note: Kora gets +5 for totemlink. so! order for declares
Trent: 10
Joe: 17
Kora: 20
[Trent Brumby] [Trent isn't aware of anything is going south, yet, so that would be a hold on action? Can't quite declare.]
[Joe Holst] 1: Grab Trent by the throat, pull him closer. That 'faces an inch apart' sort of maneuver.
[Kora] Reflexive totemphone.
1. Block. Step between Trent and Joe.
[Trent Brumby] Dodging - stepping back.
[Kora] The contract is brief and sharp, laced with reflexive anger and the sort of protective possessiveness Joe no doubt knows for himself, now. Don't do this.
to Joe Holst
[Joe Holst] A growl rips from Joe's throat as one broad hand lunges for Trent's own. His feet don't move. He remains almost human.
He aint yowahs yet, Kora. Move. Right. Now. slices across the totemlink.
[Kora] Kora cuts neatly between them, interposing her body as a clear physical barrier. Joe lunges for Trent's throat, missing the kinsman entirely. Kora stands between them, bristling, her eyes flashing, her mouth open, white teeth showing between her lips.
"No - " she says, audibly, her chin high, her body still humanskinned. "No. I brought him here. I answer for him here."
[Kora] Totemic: He's mine. Here. Now. He's mine. You want to take it out on flesh, take it out of my flesh. Her mindvoice is direct, clear and incisive. - and if he's not mine, you have no right to lay your hands on him. Joe - you insult me when you say that he would make me soft. Not him. Me.
If that's what you think of me, we need to fight.
to Joe Holst
[Trent Brumby] Standing back, he watches forward, over Kora's shoulder to where Joe's body had been blocked from reaching for him. Its safe to say that his adrenalin was now pumping wildly. A Garou just tried to attack him, become violent. It shouldn't be a surprise, but it is. Kora's Alpha, at that.
[Joe Holst] Just like that, the motion stops. Joe and Kora squared off, only a motion away from tearing into each other. Eyes blaze on both sides.
[Trent Brumby] For the moment he is silent, awaiting for tempers to settle and for them to figure out what they are doing. He had come here to meet a pack-mate, Kora's family, essentially. He expected something, but not to watch them fight between themselves, over him, or because of him. While he had things to say, they could wait. He had patience, even when his pulse was up.
[Joe Holst] You bring this cast off to me, to see if it is worth MY people. His get worthy to run next to MY sons. And you think this is about YOU? It thinks it gets to scold me, rather than answer a question like a Fenrir- and you think you get to STOP me from making it answer? Oh- we're fighting Kora. You don't get to change the rules just because this kin has clouded your head.
to Kora
[Kora] They haven't moved. Kora stands between them, her arms loose at her sides. Her features are a sharp, almost feral mask as she faces her Alpha, intent. "Trent," she says, her voice quiet, not soft, the strain of her again a livid stain against the tone. " - answer his question." There's a pause, a lacuna. "Then go. We have things to settle between us."
[Trent Brumby] What question?
It took him a moment to try and figure out what goddamn question she was referring to, that she had said it had threw him for a loop in the first place. But it doesn't take him much more then a long pause to untangle the jumble of previous threats to get to the underlying issue.
Was it okay with him? No, not really. But: "I'll do what needs to be done to be Kora's honoured mate."
He'd touch her back with his hand, reluctant to leave her here, but he did as he was asked, giving Joe wide birth as he made to exit the darkness of the school ground.
[Joe Holst] Red veins crackle across the whites of Joe's eyes as he watches Trent leave. Vivid, angry blues remain against the man's back until he's passed from the building completely.
As his face swivels back to Kora, it grows fur.. twists into something brutal and warlike. High Tongue lashing from the lines of posture, the set of his head.
Protecting him from even SEEING consequences... that is not soft?
[Joe Holst] (Joe? 'Going too far', sez your leadership score)
Wits+leadership
to Kora, Trent Brumby
[Kora] "It's wise, Joe." Kora flashes a look back at him, still homid for the moment, speaking English. She's firm and direct in this. "If one of us frenzied, he would be defenseless. That's not a position to put our kin into when we have a choice to make.
"When Connor challenged for Moira, Kemp took us to fight in the umbra. When you and Wrath fought over Drew, you fought in the Caern, away from her."
Her chin rises, watching as he rises into Crinos. She changes, then, too. "Don't call me soft." The last word becomes a snarl.
[Kora] Ancestors!
to Joe Holst
[Joe Holst] The growing tide of violence paints the room into broken fragments. Claws sharper to the vision than anything. Then an ear. Then only an eye.. the vision fragmented and threatening to resolve itself into nothing but red and the giving of pain-
-Then he pauses. His neck arching back as she lists moments of the past. Names- with words- with logic- things that had happened due to raw instinct. Brings them back as memories that were not simply action and reaction.
He blinks, then bows his head slightly. Admitting truth.
"You are.." 'right' seems too difficult. He changes it to an explanation. "It is hard to.. think."
[Kora] In Crinos, the slight different in their heights as humans becomes meaningless. He is still larger, boiling with strength, but she is massive as well, a great, terrible beast with gray fur and a defining pattern of down her spine, along her haunches, tipping her ears dark. The eyes change, from dark, abiding blue to amber-brown, a muted color that sheens bright in the light -
They are huge, the floors sag beneath the weight of their massive forms, sag but hold. There is nothing in this form to distinguish her as female; she is simply a beast. A beast who regards her Alpha steadily, surely, that regard haloed by the shadows of the past as well as the future.
[Kora] Fenrir - it is not Kora's mindvoice, this. It is older and deeper, and the impression of the words is not in English, but in the High Tongue. The only language they share, over centuries. Perhaps the spirit has forgotten his name. He does not sigh if over the shared link. - take what we want. If we are strong enough, we keep it. No kin can make us soft. The strong come to Fenris. The weak fall away. This is our way, War-Handed. This is our way.
The struggle between multiple voices is clear; Kora's is less present; less immediate. It is there, though, emerging from the strongest voice of her ancestors. - would you do anything less if I tried to lay hands on Drew? After you knew she was hers; before you claimed her before all? No. Honor me in this.
to Joe Holst
[Trent Brumby] (ooc: been interesting! Time for me to head out for now. Thanks for the scene.)
to Joe Holst, Kora
[Joe Holst] The first words.. those that come from some grim and ancient place.. those give him pause. Joe's eyebrows carve a deep furrow in the war- face.. knit together in deep consternation as he listens in silence.
The rest. Those thoughts and strident feelings that flicker across the totem link- that has the opposite effect. Suddenly energized, Joe's clawed right foot lands closer to Kora, a hollow boom echoing somewhere through the sub- flooring as he steps as close as he can. Sharing the scent of his breath, the precise angle of jaw and every hint of his growls and snaps. What, in a human, would be the demanding gestures that try to press the point, or make certain that what he says is clear. Thankfully, the raucous Jersey bray is absent in so ancient and half- spoken a language.
I would DIE for you, Kora, as you would me. Would I steal from you, then? Take a kin you've decided is yours? I was not going to HURT him. I was going to teach him. THAT is my duty, and my right. Honor that.
to Kora
[Kora] They do not fight, in the end.
They do not fight each other. Instead, they hunt.
---
The Umbra here is dark, furrowed, full of fell things. They haven't far to go. Within the shadow of the school, they find a nest of banes.
Banes init! +5
[Joe Holst] ((+9)
[Kora] Kora: in hispo - +8
[Kora] Order:
Kora - 18
Joe - 11
Banes A, B, and C - 7
[Kora] Kora: 1a. BITE 1b. BITE; Rage 1 BITE Rage 2 BITE Start with Bane A (hruggling) and move to B when he goes down.
Her attack is +3 for ancestors.
1a. -2
[Kora] Damage!
[Kora] Soak! Bane a 5
[Kora] 1b. -3
[Kora] Damage!
[Kora] Soak! Bane A
[Joe Holst] 1a: bite 1b: bite 1r: bite 2r: bite- start with bane B, C for rage
[Joe Holst] 1a bite: b
[Joe Holst] damage! 13
[Kora] Soak! 5
[Kora]
[Joe Holst] bite 2! MAN THIS IS INTENSE!
[Joe Holst] damage: 14 dice
[Kora]
[Kora] Bane A: Claw KORA!
[Kora] Damage!
[Kora] Soak!
[Kora] Bane B: CLAW JOE!
[Kora] Bane C: Claw Kora!
[Joe Holst] *raspberries*
[Kora] Kora: Rage 1
[Kora] Damage!
[Kora] Bane: Soak!
[Kora] Bane soak!
[Kora] BANE A IS DEAD!
[Joe Holst] rage: bane B. go down, fucker.
[Joe Holst] 15 dice damage
[Kora] Soak!
[Kora] Bane B IS DEAD.
[Kora] Bane C: RAGE ACTION! CLAW KORA
[Joe Holst] rage 2- bane C!
[Kora] I HURTED MYSELF. - sez Bane C
[Kora] Soak MY HURTS!
[Kora] Kora rage 2: BITE BANE C
[Kora] Damage!
[Kora] Soak!
[Joe Holst] 16 damage
[Kora] Soak!
[Kora] Bane C: I IS DEAD.
[Kora] The grotesque creatures fall beneath the packmates' claws. Neither is injured; they cleanse the space afterwards.
Kora: Wits + Rituals
There are no businesses like that on this stretch of block, blasted by poverty and disarray, turned into an industrial stretch sometime in the 1950s, turned into a wasteland in the recession of the 1980s. There are a handful of tenements, still, cheap apartments tucked upstairs from the storefronts, squats behind shuttered windows. And, mid-block, there's an old, shuttered brick elementary school that once served the neighborhood, closed nigh on twenty-five years in favor of busing the local kids across town to a large facility, surrounded by tall plankboard fence, the sort erected on construction projects to keep out prying eyes and conceal potentially valuable material from would-be thieves. Copper pipes and tubing, cables, drywall, tools and equipment: everything not nailed or glued down.
The school was a construction site three years ago, in the midst of the condo boom in downtown Chicago. Some developer meant to take the fine old ruin of a building and turn it into well-appointed condos for those who wanted the downtown lifestyle, but lacked the means to afford both the space they wanted and a decent neighborhod. Gentrification, they call it. In this case, the developer went broke after he finished the sample, the rest of the loans fell through, and the whole project was foreclosed upon two years ago. Tax foreclosure. City property.
The construction equipment is gone, but the fence remains, listing in places where squatters have kicked it in. Two stores, maybe three, surrounded by a narrow, concrete apron of a yard, the brickfront and stonework outside are crumbling, and the interior is a mess of old school fixtures and construction debris, except for the half-finished model, incongruous, the fixed surfaces made of gleaming things - hardwoods and marbles and granites - everything else looted, down to the toilet and the piping in the walls.
"You can park in back," Kora directs; her directions are low and quiet, clear. They are not the directions of someone who drives, though. This has turned them around twice, faced with turns against traffic or one-way boulevards. She touches his thigh, points toward the alley. The brick building is shuttered, dark, but she can feel the presence of her packmate close. It makes her sit up, somehow, in the bucket seat. Brighter, more clear. In the alley, she climbs out of the passenger's door and walks closer, swinging open the metal gate in a great arc to let his car through. They cut the chain that was looped around the gate three days ago. Someone dumped a bottle of WD-40 on the hinges yesterday. Now it swings open not with ease, precisely, but at least without the terrible screech of metal-on-metal.
After he has parked, Kora swings the gate closed and waits for Trent, falling into step beside him after he's climbed from the car, following the bond of their totem toward her Alpha. She is a taut thing, tonight, alert, her presence sharp, precise, as her voice. Still, she says, "C'mon," and gives Trent the faintest hipcheck as he draws abreast of her, before they head around the yard or into the old brick building. " - this way."
[Trent Brumby] He knows he's coming out here to meet a fellow Get of Fenris; a skinhead, no less. Joe, Kora's Alpha. It's not unlike coming to meet the family, he supposes, but he is surprisingly calm and collected - even after the turns about in the traffic while following Kora's instructions.
At the end of it, the car is parked behind a gate at some boarded up place that really doesn't look at all welcoming. But more then half the buildings in the city are unwelcoming. He climbs out and follows after her, pocketing his keys into his jean pocket. A t.shirt is worn under a simple, dark jacket, and his boots are those walking-hiking kind that can be worn casually. He knew he wasn't heading out to some Italian restaurant tonight and dressed for it.
He gave a half smile at Kora's hip check, and the way that she seems on high alert, but follows silently, hands loose at his sides and gray eyes wandering the grounds.
[Joe Holst] Somewhere in the crumbling walls and lonely bricks, Joe paces back and forth. The 'old assembly hall' the place was likely called, once upon a time. Moth- eaten, thick velvet curtains hang in tatters behind a raised stage, remnants of a day when, like Harlem, Bronzeville was a colorful and vital piece of city.
They find Joe pacing back and forth. A monstrous creature given to bursts of violence and strangely meditative silences. Hellishly scarred long before he'd ever need to shave, brutality- and the graces that come with it, lurk in the hard lines and curves of his form as he stares at the ground, scowling and muttering to himself.
He jerks to a stop when they enter. Face swinging toward them on a thick neck. The motion is animal, lacking only four feet to be appropriate to the situation.
Hands like heavy stones drop into his jacket pockets with a quiet snap, and he chews fitfully on some gum.
[Kora] She likes being under the sky. They're under the sky now, and as they walk, following the certain pull of her pack bond, quiet except for the crunch of their boots on the broken asphalt that was once a playground and is now an empty patch of ground in a destitute neighborhood in the shadow of wealthy city. Spring: there are weeds growing through the cracks smashed into the asphalt, tough little daisies and blistering thistle already thigh-high, violents and chickweed and crabgrass, dandelions already gone to seed, the round heads covered in milk-white fluff.
She likes being underneath the sky, even when the color of it is obscured by the orange haze and the familiar patterns of the stars are obliterated by the constant, pulsing glow of the civilized world all around them, so she gives it one last glance before pushing open one of the heavy doors, grabbing a flashlight, and leading Trent down the wide hallway toward the Assembly Area. There are lights in here, makeshift; and light falling in through the high windows that go all the way up to the ceiling, huge and old enough that the glass is wavy with age.
The circle of her torch flares ahead of them, over the risers leading up to the stage. She is aware of it, careful not to blind herself or her packmate, letting the light pick out the path over the wide oak planks on the floor.
"Hey boss," Kora says, quiet when they are close. She's takes a position close to the kinsman without touching him, and offers her Alpha the corner of her familiar smile. There's tension underneath it, easily evident in her physical stance, in the set of her narrow shoulders. "This is Trent." She lifts her chin between the pair, each to each, then looks back to Trent. "Trent," she continues, glancing from him to the restless modi. " - my Alpha, Joe Holst."
[Trent Brumby] The place feels dusty, even if its not. It's something to do with walking in buildings left abandoned for however long in the middle of the night with torches to light the way. It feels more like a ghost tour then some sort of meet and greet with family; which really puts everything into perspective.
When they come into the Assembly Area and he takes it in, the surrounding area, the heavy curtains, and the brute of a boy that isn't a boy but a Killing Machine. He looks like one, too. Even if he were human he looks dangerous. The sort that Trent would grab by the scruff and throw out of a pub, or check for ID at the door and try and keep out in the first place. He still looks like a kid, several years younger then Trent (and then some).
Kora introduces them, and Trent, no small man himself, had walked a few steps with his hand extended in offering to shake the others. "Joe," he greets with a small nod. His eyes are a clear gray; they are direct and quiet.
[Joe Holst] The youthful Modi watched as Trent approached. Every step of the way.. and Trent had been around way too often not to have seen that same look before. It hangs in the faces of that rare portion of men he does, from time to time, have to put his hands on. It changes things, generally. At the last moment it makes one's hands twitch for a weapon, or a better angle. Reminds you to clench the jaw- to duck the head just slightly..
..to get ready for a serious storm. The look of one who knows their own body well enough to size up an opponent intimately. It doesn't seem to occur to Joe that it is not the right starting point to build relationships from. But then, the boy may keep himself near two Skalds for just that sort of oversight.
As Trent extends his hand, Joe holds up his own- rather than an insult- it actually seems to demand a pause in the proceedings. A 'this first' to the handshake.
Joe's voice is a horrible, New Jersey bray. Grates against the ears. Shut up, for fuck's sake. Please.
"Who's yah Wardah." It doesn't sound like a question.
[Kora] The interior is dusty, with a damp if not unpleasant scent wormed into the old plasterwork framing the stage, moths infesting the velvet curtains, a handful of school desks and chairs that would have been surplus twenty years ago upended in the corners, rusting. There are other treasures in other rooms; a library somewhere, the paperbacks fanned open from humidity and damp, a stack of blackboards removed from old classrooms by the developer in preparation for further work that never happened, covered by a tarp in the far corner of the assembly area.
Kora stands as the third point in a triangle, leaning against the raised platform of the stage, though not casually. Her dark gaze cuts from Joe to Trent, and back again, her eyes snagging on Joe's hand. "I've heard," she says, quietly, " - that Adamidas lays particular claim to the welfare of her kin. But she's not Alpha of her pack."
Then her attention cuts back to Trent, the familiar planes of his face. She is watching him, something of a question written not into the shape of her mouth, but the set of her eyes.
[Trent Brumby] The others hand, held to halt proceedings, could be taken in any way. It may not be taken in the way it was meant, and that, too, is the problem with Rage and scars and general attitude. Trent steps back, that hand falls back, away. There's a straightening in an already strong spine as he separates himself from the immediate vicinity of the others space.
Warder. The very idea of this has his brows raise. A Warder. Watchmen. A guard. It's kind of insulting to his sensibilities.
"There's a pack of Black Furies in the Brotherhood," he tells Joe. His voice is quiet but there's a steel underlay to it. Kora may not have heard that before, except for that time in the alleyway, right before everything went to hell. "Alek, Adamidas and Irene. The last I spoke to Alek, she told me I'm under the packs protection."
"I assume this is what you're asking?" Warder, indeed. "But if we're being honest, Kora is my Warder. She's the one that's put in the yards and has protected me." It wasn't his Tribe that has come to see him for anything other then dating advice. It wasn't them tearing apart fomor and seeing him to safety.
[Joe Holst] Joe's teeth ram against gum in a strange burst of sudden excitement. Its a vague thing- the boy can't manage subtle even on a new moon, but it is subtle by his standards. A twitching across his shoulders, playing out through his fingers. Response to the steel in Trent's voice. Joe doesn't loom, his presence doesn't suddenly crash like a weight against Trent's calm stoicism. The Fenrir don't seem the sort, in fact.
Instead, wide, distantly manic eyes swivel around Trent's form, as the bullish Modi begins to pace again. To stalk around the Fury in a close arc, his attention swinging to Kora once he stands shoulder to shoulder with Trent.
"Yowah new ta dis den. Ta bein' kin." Its a response to Trent's claim of Kora as his Warder. The idea discarded before the boy has time to chew on it. Joe's face slackens, the planes of his cheeks calm, empty of expression as an idea begins to play out in the back of his head.
[Trent Brumby] "No, I'm far from being new at being kin. The idea of having a warder, to being claimed by something other then family or a prospective mate, or by anyone that doesn't care for me, isn't something that sits well with me." He answers, calmly. He stands still as Joe walks around in restless energy. There's no doubt that he is tensed, in that natural way - a predator is circling him, making adrenalin starting to pump.
[Kora] Her attention is a sharp thing, even in the gloom, her dark eyes swinging back, flashing over the familiar lines of Trent's profile, reading the expression beneath the expression, the play of muscles underneath his features. The creature stands straight up, then, abandoning her lean as Joe begins to circle Trent, her pale brows drawing close, a neat line bisecting them as she reads the easy burst of excitement in Joe's body, on his brutish, expressive face.
When her Alpha's eyes swing to her, when she stands shoulder to shoulder to Trent, he finds her looking back at him, her eyes gaze gone to shadow in the darkness of the assembly area, in the deep shadows. Her pale hair and skin, though, glow faintly in the ambient line cutting through the high windows. Her fine mouth is still, the expression narrow, tight.
[Joe Holst] "Fair enough.." He shrugs slightly. "Shit.. maybe. Nevah knew who I was 'til my uncle came ta get me, myself. Don't got no idea what it means ta be a Kin. Nevahmind a Fury."
Somewhere, water drips against scraps of drywall that had long since collapsed under the slow, steady beating. The drops continuing to mangle, to dissolve, to unmake. The sounds of an abandoned building carry their own sort of magic, as though the walls and ceiling watch the three of them. Wait for something.
"If yew aint woyth th' attention of da 'Furies.." Luminous eyes had remained against Kora, but Joe's thick neck swivels back to Trent, inches away.
"Why would yew be good enough feh us? Feh Kora? Why shouldt yowah sons an' daughtahs be Fenrir?"
The thrum of Rage lashes at Trent as Joe's unhandsome face swings at him. A simple twist of neck turned to something fever- wrought and fierce.
[Trent Brumby] "I'd like to answer that, but I can't, not for myself. I know as much about Get of Fenris as you might know about the Black Furies." He looks from Koe to Kora and back again. There's two Garou, one at each side of him, and each containing a decent amount of Rage and tension. "If Kora thinks I am good enough for her, then, I think that's answer enough. She's a Fenrir, she knows of your Tribe better then I, and qualities I may or may not possess."
"As for the Black Furies, you'd have to ask them that. I won't answer for them." Nor would he stand here and tell what he thought of them. He would not slander them, even if he disagreed with them or thought poorly of them. Not unless directly asked in a very serious charge.
[Kora] Straightened, now, her shoulders level, her feet planted shoulder's width apart, her arms loose at her side. The left hand is curled into a fist. She lacks Joe's brutal presence, his immediacy, his sheer physicality, and the moon has waned past gibbous into the half, half-eaten, half-whole, but there's a certain frisson of tension that ratches the long, lean line of her body straighter, than pulls her taut through the spine.
There's a spark in her eyes; dark, glazed with light when she lifts her chin in a taut gesture. The catches the plane of her face from cheekbone to jaw, washes out the hollow just below the cheekbone. This time, she watches her Alpha steadily as Trent speaks, her hair haloing her sharp, familiar features, illuminated like the plane of her cheek by light spilling in from behind her. Her mouth is shadowed, still until she adds - quiet, sure - after Trent has finished. "He's good enough for me. It's not a judgment - " the words are short, the tone rich, not as sharp as her body language might suggest, " - I make lightly, War-Handed-yuf."
[Joe Holst] "If she wins yew, yew won't be a Fury anymoah. Yew'd be Fenrir. Fenrir fuggin' only, tew. Everytin' yew do will eiddah build us higheh, owah break us down. Everyt'in, Fury."
Joe's attention slides from Kora again, his gaze burning with the light of a fanatic against the side of Trent's face. "Yowah awready gonna be staht'n wit my eye on yew. I'm gonna assume, I'm gonna t'ink bad uh yew, I'm gonna seriously piss yew off. I like pissin' people off dough, so..." Joe shrugs again, speaking through gritted teeth. Trying hard, and failing, to keep it from looking like each word tore at him.
"Try ta make 'er soft. Try ta break, instead uh buildin. Be bad feh my wolves' morale feh even a fuggin' moment- an' I'll scatter yew. You'll be everywheah at once. Sear's Towah, dockyards, dem fuggin' corn fields south uh heah. Yew unnahstan' me, Fury? I love my own. Yew aint gonna be my own 'til yew earn it. Dat all sit ok wit' yew?"
In a way, its simple truth. Giving Trent every hint he has to give, and hoping the man will crumble before it. Dragging every speck of hatred up from the heart of a completely indoctrinated believer and laying it all in the stoic Fury's lap.
[Trent Brumby] He takes it all, and not once does he seem to grow angry, infuriated by Joe's words. There's threats of tearing him apart and scattering him all across the plains and other things that doesn't get to him like it may have intended. Trent appears much calmer then he had before, when testosterone had burned at being circled like some prey. It should, rightly, be burning now too. But it doesn't. Those are Joe's issues, not his.
But there is something he does point out, because he's not cowering and he does speak his mind, just as much as Joe seems to. "No one can make another soft, so if you're insinuating that I'm capable of doing that? Then there's already an issue there. Let's not go down that path. "
[Trent Brumby] Ini + 5
[Joe Holst] (+7)
[Kora] Modi and kin stand shoulder to shoulder in the dim light in the center of a ruined auditorium, Joe's bright eyes a burning, sidelong look. The only sounds other than their breathing in the space is the slow drip of water somewhere, an old leak through the flat roof, damaged by the accumulation of snow over many winters of neglect, slower than a heartbeat, the drip. Slower than the beat of a stately, measured waltz.
Throughout the speech, through each of the threads, Kora's dark gaze remains fixed on her Alpha's face. It is not quite a challenge, but there is something unrelenting about her regard. It doesn't soften throughout the whole of Joe's long, strange love letter to the tribe, and it does not deviate from his face, his brutish jaw, as he dredges the deep muck of his fanatic's soul and throws it all at the man she wants to claim.
"You insult me with the insinuation." This is flat, raw to her Alpha.
[Kora] Init! +6
[Joe Holst] (Kora, Joe, Trent. Kora gets a boost due to forewarning across totemlink)
[Kora] **note: Kora gets +5 for totemlink. so! order for declares
Trent: 10
Joe: 17
Kora: 20
[Trent Brumby] [Trent isn't aware of anything is going south, yet, so that would be a hold on action? Can't quite declare.]
[Joe Holst] 1: Grab Trent by the throat, pull him closer. That 'faces an inch apart' sort of maneuver.
[Kora] Reflexive totemphone.
1. Block. Step between Trent and Joe.
[Trent Brumby] Dodging - stepping back.
[Kora] The contract is brief and sharp, laced with reflexive anger and the sort of protective possessiveness Joe no doubt knows for himself, now. Don't do this.
to Joe Holst
[Joe Holst] A growl rips from Joe's throat as one broad hand lunges for Trent's own. His feet don't move. He remains almost human.
He aint yowahs yet, Kora. Move. Right. Now. slices across the totemlink.
[Kora] Kora cuts neatly between them, interposing her body as a clear physical barrier. Joe lunges for Trent's throat, missing the kinsman entirely. Kora stands between them, bristling, her eyes flashing, her mouth open, white teeth showing between her lips.
"No - " she says, audibly, her chin high, her body still humanskinned. "No. I brought him here. I answer for him here."
[Kora] Totemic: He's mine. Here. Now. He's mine. You want to take it out on flesh, take it out of my flesh. Her mindvoice is direct, clear and incisive. - and if he's not mine, you have no right to lay your hands on him. Joe - you insult me when you say that he would make me soft. Not him. Me.
If that's what you think of me, we need to fight.
to Joe Holst
[Trent Brumby] Standing back, he watches forward, over Kora's shoulder to where Joe's body had been blocked from reaching for him. Its safe to say that his adrenalin was now pumping wildly. A Garou just tried to attack him, become violent. It shouldn't be a surprise, but it is. Kora's Alpha, at that.
[Joe Holst] Just like that, the motion stops. Joe and Kora squared off, only a motion away from tearing into each other. Eyes blaze on both sides.
[Trent Brumby] For the moment he is silent, awaiting for tempers to settle and for them to figure out what they are doing. He had come here to meet a pack-mate, Kora's family, essentially. He expected something, but not to watch them fight between themselves, over him, or because of him. While he had things to say, they could wait. He had patience, even when his pulse was up.
[Joe Holst] You bring this cast off to me, to see if it is worth MY people. His get worthy to run next to MY sons. And you think this is about YOU? It thinks it gets to scold me, rather than answer a question like a Fenrir- and you think you get to STOP me from making it answer? Oh- we're fighting Kora. You don't get to change the rules just because this kin has clouded your head.
to Kora
[Kora] They haven't moved. Kora stands between them, her arms loose at her sides. Her features are a sharp, almost feral mask as she faces her Alpha, intent. "Trent," she says, her voice quiet, not soft, the strain of her again a livid stain against the tone. " - answer his question." There's a pause, a lacuna. "Then go. We have things to settle between us."
[Trent Brumby] What question?
It took him a moment to try and figure out what goddamn question she was referring to, that she had said it had threw him for a loop in the first place. But it doesn't take him much more then a long pause to untangle the jumble of previous threats to get to the underlying issue.
Was it okay with him? No, not really. But: "I'll do what needs to be done to be Kora's honoured mate."
He'd touch her back with his hand, reluctant to leave her here, but he did as he was asked, giving Joe wide birth as he made to exit the darkness of the school ground.
[Joe Holst] Red veins crackle across the whites of Joe's eyes as he watches Trent leave. Vivid, angry blues remain against the man's back until he's passed from the building completely.
As his face swivels back to Kora, it grows fur.. twists into something brutal and warlike. High Tongue lashing from the lines of posture, the set of his head.
Protecting him from even SEEING consequences... that is not soft?
[Joe Holst] (Joe? 'Going too far', sez your leadership score)
Wits+leadership
to Kora, Trent Brumby
[Kora] "It's wise, Joe." Kora flashes a look back at him, still homid for the moment, speaking English. She's firm and direct in this. "If one of us frenzied, he would be defenseless. That's not a position to put our kin into when we have a choice to make.
"When Connor challenged for Moira, Kemp took us to fight in the umbra. When you and Wrath fought over Drew, you fought in the Caern, away from her."
Her chin rises, watching as he rises into Crinos. She changes, then, too. "Don't call me soft." The last word becomes a snarl.
[Kora] Ancestors!
to Joe Holst
[Joe Holst] The growing tide of violence paints the room into broken fragments. Claws sharper to the vision than anything. Then an ear. Then only an eye.. the vision fragmented and threatening to resolve itself into nothing but red and the giving of pain-
-Then he pauses. His neck arching back as she lists moments of the past. Names- with words- with logic- things that had happened due to raw instinct. Brings them back as memories that were not simply action and reaction.
He blinks, then bows his head slightly. Admitting truth.
"You are.." 'right' seems too difficult. He changes it to an explanation. "It is hard to.. think."
[Kora] In Crinos, the slight different in their heights as humans becomes meaningless. He is still larger, boiling with strength, but she is massive as well, a great, terrible beast with gray fur and a defining pattern of down her spine, along her haunches, tipping her ears dark. The eyes change, from dark, abiding blue to amber-brown, a muted color that sheens bright in the light -
They are huge, the floors sag beneath the weight of their massive forms, sag but hold. There is nothing in this form to distinguish her as female; she is simply a beast. A beast who regards her Alpha steadily, surely, that regard haloed by the shadows of the past as well as the future.
[Kora] Fenrir - it is not Kora's mindvoice, this. It is older and deeper, and the impression of the words is not in English, but in the High Tongue. The only language they share, over centuries. Perhaps the spirit has forgotten his name. He does not sigh if over the shared link. - take what we want. If we are strong enough, we keep it. No kin can make us soft. The strong come to Fenris. The weak fall away. This is our way, War-Handed. This is our way.
The struggle between multiple voices is clear; Kora's is less present; less immediate. It is there, though, emerging from the strongest voice of her ancestors. - would you do anything less if I tried to lay hands on Drew? After you knew she was hers; before you claimed her before all? No. Honor me in this.
to Joe Holst
[Trent Brumby] (ooc: been interesting! Time for me to head out for now. Thanks for the scene.)
to Joe Holst, Kora
[Joe Holst] The first words.. those that come from some grim and ancient place.. those give him pause. Joe's eyebrows carve a deep furrow in the war- face.. knit together in deep consternation as he listens in silence.
The rest. Those thoughts and strident feelings that flicker across the totem link- that has the opposite effect. Suddenly energized, Joe's clawed right foot lands closer to Kora, a hollow boom echoing somewhere through the sub- flooring as he steps as close as he can. Sharing the scent of his breath, the precise angle of jaw and every hint of his growls and snaps. What, in a human, would be the demanding gestures that try to press the point, or make certain that what he says is clear. Thankfully, the raucous Jersey bray is absent in so ancient and half- spoken a language.
I would DIE for you, Kora, as you would me. Would I steal from you, then? Take a kin you've decided is yours? I was not going to HURT him. I was going to teach him. THAT is my duty, and my right. Honor that.
to Kora
[Kora] They do not fight, in the end.
They do not fight each other. Instead, they hunt.
---
The Umbra here is dark, furrowed, full of fell things. They haven't far to go. Within the shadow of the school, they find a nest of banes.
Banes init! +5
[Joe Holst] ((+9)
[Kora] Kora: in hispo - +8
[Kora] Order:
Kora - 18
Joe - 11
Banes A, B, and C - 7
[Kora] Kora: 1a. BITE 1b. BITE; Rage 1 BITE Rage 2 BITE Start with Bane A (hruggling) and move to B when he goes down.
Her attack is +3 for ancestors.
1a. -2
[Kora] Damage!
[Kora] Soak! Bane a 5
[Kora] 1b. -3
[Kora] Damage!
[Kora] Soak! Bane A
[Joe Holst] 1a: bite 1b: bite 1r: bite 2r: bite- start with bane B, C for rage
[Joe Holst] 1a bite: b
[Joe Holst] damage! 13
[Kora] Soak! 5
[Kora]
[Joe Holst] bite 2! MAN THIS IS INTENSE!
[Joe Holst] damage: 14 dice
[Kora]
[Kora] Bane A: Claw KORA!
[Kora] Damage!
[Kora] Soak!
[Kora] Bane B: CLAW JOE!
[Kora] Bane C: Claw Kora!
[Joe Holst] *raspberries*
[Kora] Kora: Rage 1
[Kora] Damage!
[Kora] Bane: Soak!
[Kora] Bane soak!
[Kora] BANE A IS DEAD!
[Joe Holst] rage: bane B. go down, fucker.
[Joe Holst] 15 dice damage
[Kora] Soak!
[Kora] Bane B IS DEAD.
[Kora] Bane C: RAGE ACTION! CLAW KORA
[Joe Holst] rage 2- bane C!
[Kora] I HURTED MYSELF. - sez Bane C
[Kora] Soak MY HURTS!
[Kora] Kora rage 2: BITE BANE C
[Kora] Damage!
[Kora] Soak!
[Joe Holst] 16 damage
[Kora] Soak!
[Kora] Bane C: I IS DEAD.
[Kora] The grotesque creatures fall beneath the packmates' claws. Neither is injured; they cleanse the space afterwards.
Kora: Wits + Rituals
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