[Kora] Storms moved through the city late afternoon - autumn storms, the thunder a background promise, the sky full of cold rain and falling leaves. The front was gone by sunset, a dark bruise of color in the east across the lake, obscuring the horizon, this dark, hazy shadowthing where sky and water seem to merge, like a pair of antique mirrors, reflecting each other's imperfections.
The last rays of the sun score the lingering clouds with fingerling impressions of orange, pink and crimson. Beneath the livid colors, the city's dusking sprawl seems muted somehow - streetlights hazed by the moisture in the cool, sharp air, deepened by the long shadows of twilight.
The storm sewers are full of water, reflecting the dying light in the sky. Wet leaves are plastered to the pavement.
The church is mostly dark. There's an electric lantern on a salvaged table set up just inside the sanctuary, right underneath the choir loft. The wooden doors, iron-banded and solid, are half open. Scattered across the table, the familiar little white Chinese take-out boxes, and a couple of white paper bags, translucent with grease.
The portico is sheltered enough by the roof's overhang that the top three steps are not damp, but the rest are slick with rain, covered in wet leaves driven down from the trees and vines that have grown up around the church in the thirty years since it was abandoned by its human owners. Kora sits on the front steps, cradling a container of egg drop soup in her lap, opening it carefully to enjoy the steam, an aluminum tin of crab rangoon on the next step, sheltered underneath her legs.
[Roman Turner] Singing heralded his arrival long before he came out the door still wiping his hands on a scrap piece of what once was a bath towel.
"Rain makes corn, corn makes whiskey. Whiskey makes my girl a little frisky!"
He paused sniffing in the doorway.
"Fee fi fo fumb, I smell dinner and I want me some."
[Sparrow] That crack in the Prius' windshield is bigger. It's testament to a divorce from some earthly things, because Sparrow's stopped worrying about it. Poor Prius. She'll mourn the little hybrid when it dies, but until then-
She smells soup.
It mingles with the scent of broccoli beef in the litte paper sack she's carrying. The apocalypse is obviously drawing nigh, because Sparrow is maing her way through the church in something Kora has likely never seen- pants. Does Sparrow even own pants? Obviously she... well, they might be Roman's pants. He's filling out better now and she's not grown much. She still has her boots on. The denim's tucked into the pant legs, and they're a little tight. It seems alien on her. She's wearing a white tee shirt, and her tan is fading.
she's not got a billion bracelets on, either. She doesn't jingle. The wirethin burnmarks on her wrists are a little more prominent here.
"Trade you some broccoli for one of your crab thingies," she says as she approaches.
[Roman Turner] "Hey wait a minute."
His gray-blue eyes narrowed as the young face screwed up in a puzzled frown. Roman had grown about an inch since spring, and true it made some of his jeans shorter, but his boots helped with the illusion all was well with the world.
"Are those my jeans?"
He was frowning at Sparrow as he swept chestnut brown hair from his forehead.
[Linus] Autumn storms.
Smell like nostalgia. Old memories of childhood, fragrant runs through mud puddles before stains, smells and the cleanliness of neurotic adulthood found root and ushered out daydreams. Before War became a lifestyle and a contract and a duty. Autumn rain smelled like Chinese and distant times ('You remember when...")
The Church steps are popular tonight, gathering the trio that are the Last Watch Pack under a union of fresh take-out, warm and generous. The powerful smells serve to push the appetite to proper priority while the vague mist that begins to cling to the horizon, during that brief moment before twilight turns to darkness, serves as herald and messenger.
The bond between them is a strong one. Confident, unwavering and firm. A hallowed thing defined by the stoicism and endurance of the Totem they follow. Hermordr is not harmful or monstrous or hungry. He is patience, demand and firmness. A millstone of the steadfast that clears the warped confusion of a War Fog from his path with the snap wave of a standard and the bullish set of shoulders.
This night coming and his horn can be heard, a distant thing, always the affirmation needed to let each know that he is there. The Call to War. The urge to rise. To stand. He brings it with his patronage and with his patronage...
Power.
Duty.
Strength.
Courage.
...And Tonight, this night, something Twangs that silent cord of connection between each packmate, as if a pair of slim fingers had plucked it for the proper note. The proper tune. A humming sound that reverberates through bones, flesh and into the nebulous presence of the Spirit, a gnostic knot at the centre of the gut.
The Horn, distant still, continues to drone. Slowly...building...
[Kora] "There's plenty for everyone," Kora returns, her pale head tipped backward, her long hair caught up into a braid as thick as her wrist, following the line of her spine, moving with a certain sinuous swing of its own - its own mass, its own gravity. The reply is for both packmates, a glance at Roman as when he comes singing through the doorway. She gestures back to the interior, where the rest of the feast is spread out. He'll have his pick of take-out, and a billion little sauce packets to boot.
Sparrow's appearance draws a different sort of eye; the Skald meets the young Ahroun's intense gaze, takes in her new choice of clothing with a faint, perhaps approving curve of her generous mouth. "Wouldn't've guessed it was you, Resistance," the deed-name makes that formal, so does the brief weight of Kora's dark-eyed regard. " - didn't hear you coming."
Then, she nudges the tin container of crab rangoon out from under the protective ceiling of her thighs over to her packmate. "Dig in."
The eggdrop soup is rich and yellow, this thick, nutritious swirl.
This is a meal. This is the kill. There are no deer to hunt here, no elk to bring down. The plastic top comes off, and the rich sent of deep-fat fried wontons is a savory undercurrent to the damp scent of loss that comes with autumn, the promise of winter in the air.
A glance back at Roman, as he questions Sparrow about his jeans. "I'll get you some that'll fit, if you want."
Which means: she'll send her mate shopping to Sparrow's clothes, too. "Or you can try some of my spares, if you'd like." They'll be too long. Sparrow can cut off the bottom inch or three.
[Kora] Then, that twinge - that moment of sharpened awareness makes Sorrow go still. The plastic container of soup is held carefully, neatly between her fingers, her spine straightens, and her awareness of the building, of the night, of the damp, cold wind, sharpens.
[Sparrow] "Maybe," she said.
Yes, her face said.
Sparrow's never been good at lying, so even this was half of the story. She might say more, but she stops. Abruptly, and her thought process is immediately halted. She stops, and it's like she's listening to something. listening for something. Her eyes don't grow distant, instead she is focused. Her attention is back to wherever it came from, though. She has a strong connection to Gaia, something that keeps her sane and focused and tempered.
She put her bag down, and whatever commentary she might have had was gone for now.
[Roman Turner] Nothing got in his way of food; not at his age. While everyone paused, Roman started snagging food and squirting Duck Sauce on everything he piled on his plate. If something bad or good was about to happen, it would happen in the middle of stuffing his face.
[Linus] There is a voluminous pregnancy that creeps into the air of the Church's interior, flooding from wall to wall. Like pushing hands against the stone and woodwork, seeking to bulge out what physics would not allow. It presses gently against breastbone and ribcage, fingers and joints. Cradles without slowing, a familiar thrum within.
The drone continues. Building, without true sound. A memory more than an echo.
Then. With sudden, ear popping clarity:
The world split and the interior table gained a new shadow and a voice...
"FuuuuuUUCCCKKkkkk..." The voice is young. Developed and matured enough to forego teenage uncertainty, but hardly the depth worthy of mid-twenties let alone more.
The Shadow itself is attached to a tall, lean thing, draped in woolen grays. A thick scarf wrapped at the neck and face, while the coat around it all hangs to the ankles. The sleeves are rolled up and tucked to stay in place while bandy arms, sparse of hair and pale from lack of fierce summer suns are shaking as if trying to push some form of cold or shiver out.
The shape stops in place. Spasms once. Then settles into one of the chairs around the Feast Table.
"That was- Fuck me, Dumplings. Awesome." One of the white take-out boxes is plucked up and a pair of eyes under a neatly trimmed, if very short, buzz of brown hair suddenly vanish inside, along with two fingers digging for sustenance.
...The Horn begins to dim, slowly. Steadily.
[Kora] "What the - hell - "
Kora's reaction is sudden and harsh. She has the care and presence of mind to cap her eggdrop soup and set it neatly aside, but she does it quickly and she stands up spinning, booted feet pivoting neatly on the steps leading up the church as she turns around in a lean and deadly arc, taking the top stairs two at a time in a quick sprint toward the interior. The heavy doors are half-open. She pulls them a fraction wider, this spark of awareness about her, barely slowing down as she surges toward the figure resolving itself from the umbra into the nave of the great old neo-Gothic church.
Every five minutes brings a new shade of twilight, and the last spark in the stained glass is almost gone. Inside, there's just the glow from the lantern, maybe an electric light from the old pastor's apartments, the meeting rooms that Roman is slowly making livable, and the dull orange glow from the windows above to break the gloom.
- a spare moment of tension, the pack Alpha is fractional seconds away from attacking the shadow. Her packmates can already feel her moving.
Then the voice arrests her, and Kora goes still.
"What the fucking hell?"
- her voice is the definition of incredulous.
"Linus?"
[Sparrow] "... who the fuck is Linus?"
She's left standing there, confused, and her hands go to her hips, and for a second she is the picture of the confused farmer, stuck with uncooperative crops. Sparrow transfers her weight from one side. She looks at Kora, and then, off to the...
"... huh."
[Roman Turner] He had vanished from sight. Kora reacted, running inside and somewhere in there Roman had simply disappeared. Though his location was known pretty quickly when he spoke from the dark behind Linus.
"Ain't polite to curse during dinner. Now do I shove this here eggroll where the good lord split him, or look for Charlie Brown and Lucy?"
[Linus] "Kor! Sup!"
The White box is hefted in one hand, chopsticks held precariously between the fingers and the material, while the other lifts to pull down the scarf from his features, revealing a scruffy young man below, all teeth and grins. A moment after that and the dumpling he was holding between thumb and index is popped into his mouth and shoved off into the space of one cheek so he can continue talking.
"You 'ave...any fuggin' idea 'ow 'ard it wa-..." Swallows. "-to find your ass all the way out here?! Mom wasn't even any help-...you gotta call her more by the way, I hate getting earfuls meant for you-...and the damn Sept just went and said 'She left'.." He dances his hands around in the air and pulls a 'We're a Big Deal' sort of face to represent the 'Sept' he seems to be talking about.
Legs kick up, thick booted feet planting solidly on the table top, crossing at the ankle and leaning back in the chair, the box of dumplings falling to an inspection again for another morsel.
"...Took me three cuckoos and a fuckin' Stray Dog just to get a fix on your ass and not even you!" He points with almost equal incredulous stance at Kora, eyes flicking unceremoniously toward Sparrow and Roman.
"Did you fucking know she was a Jarl?! 'Cause I sure fucking didn't!" Then a shrug and a stare at the Church ceiling with equal incredulosity. "Who the fuck becomes a Jarl when they're a Cliath?!"
A pause then, head falling back down to regard Sparrow and then Roman, chopsticks emerging in his free hand to point at the two.
"...I'm Linus and-" He looks again at Kora, a brow perked quizzically. "What the fuck did he-" Pointing at Roman again "-just call me? Lucy? Or Charlie brown? Are you Lucy, Sis? 'cause I don't wanna be Lucy...."
[Linus] (toward Sparrow and then over his shoulder at Roman^)
[Roman Turner] "Language......"
This fella was lacking manners and then some.
[Linus] "...Sticks were meant for beatin's not for sitting on."
An elbow nudges back into Roman's stomach gently.
"Lighten up!"
[Roman Turner] He scowled and moved out of reach. Way out of reach as in he headed for the door.
"Cursing like that in a church, at meal time. Ain't got no manners."
He lifted his voice from the unhappy muttering disapproval to call out.
"I'm going outside."
[Kora] "My fucking brother."
There's a hint of irony in Kora's tone. She offers the explanation both aloud and over their totem. Other than that, she's quiet, utterly quiet for a good five seconds - this sort of visceral disbelief clear in her expression, wreathing their sense of her over their spirit bonds. The expression Lucy might've had if Narnia had crashed through the wardrobe to plant itself in the real world, and there was Mr. Toonsis in all his goatly glory.
Then that hint of disbelief cracks; instead, this sort of restraint like a mantra - four beats, moving with the movement of her hear. Then another four. Then she's in motion again, tackling Linus like she meant to devour him. Because, as someone wise once said, If it ain't a tackle through a stone wall sort of hug? It ain't Fenrir.
There may be noogies, but those are passing, last minute and just before they are righted and separated again.
"Wait," to Roman, " - hold up, you gotta meet my kid brother. By the gods, Linus. Last person I expected to see. The absolute last person I expected to see."
[Sparrow] "... oh my god, Roman, he eats more than you do," she is just watching in something between horror and fascination. Like she can't look away from what is going on here.
She reaches forward for an egg roll, and just holds it in one hand. She holds it like an over-sized cigar, and pops one end into her mouth. Her eyebrows are up high and she bites down. It crunches, and she idly chews. It's a mindless gesture. At that moment, she looks up and Roman's headed outside and-
"Romi, wait," she turns around to follow him, and the rest of the eggroll is popped in her mouth. She looks back at the table, then her cousin, then-
My fucking brother-
"-ohhhhhh-yeah."
She goes back to pick up another eggroll. And to move. There were Fenrir and noogies being flung. There would be bloodshed.
[Roman Turner] He paused at the door, turning to level that disapproving look back at all the cursing. The gears in his head were turning and they involved liquid soap and dirty mouths; always a good mix as far as his Ma was concerned and right then he was thinking she had something.
"If y'all are gonna spend the night cursing, I'm gonna go buy out the soap in the Dollar store."
[Linus] "Church?!"
He blinks, owlishly even, righting his chair with an audible thwack of wooden legs on stone. He watches Roman move back toward the door, one elbow set on the table, the take-out box and chopsticks joining it so he can point at the retreating Ragabash.
"Is he for seriou-Demon!!" The word is bellowed as he catches Kora and both go careening off the chair and onto the stone floor all laughter and shouts of 'Not the Hair! Watch the Hair!'. This would pass. Quickly enough. A little wrestling that Linus would inevitably lose for lack of power or any martial prowess beyond how to make a fist.
"Alright! Alright! Enough! Mature, be Mature!" He shoves and pushes and eventually rights himself, coat peeled open to reveal the turtleneck beneath, scarf dangling long on either side of his shoulders.
"Gods, indeed, Woman!" He brushes himself down, eyes finally lifting to flick toward Sparrow as she pulls back up to the table for another Eggroll. A slow up and down, followed by a quicker repeat is offered.
"Hotness. What's your name? Wait-" Then eyes, lifting past Sparrow toward Roman "Awww C'mon Bud, I didn't meant nothing profane! Ain't like I knew you still had a soft spot for white beards and Flagellation! C'mon back and have an Egg roll!"
He plucks one of them up and dances it between his fingers, smiling with beguiling and suggestive 'It's finger lickin' gooooddd' written on his face.
"Oh yeah, Sis-" Without moving from his 'Roman Tempting Eggroll' stance "-Your new boyfriend? so very F-...Cool. He's awesome like awesome took lessons from him sort of awesome."
[Trent Brumby] "Hey Roman," the voice comes up the front of the church stairs to where the open doors are. Trent avoids the food left out there by Kora when she had vanished inside to go and meet the other. He can hear other voices inside, which is a nice change. Usually he has bad timing and drops by when it's either Kora or Roman, or both of them. He hasn't even met Sparrow yet, though he's heard a little about her.
Trent, the reliable kinfolk that he is, is bringing beers for the dinner he was invited to. He also has one of those grocery bags that are reusable with him, too. It's got a bunch of variety of fruits for the pack to pick at when they're not devouring take out. There's milk too and water, if beer wasn't their style.
He's dressed in a pair of jeans and a simple t.shirt that strains a little across the back of the shoulders but otherwise fits him well. Some sneakers are chosen over leather loafers this time, since Roman puked on his good ones and he hasn't really had the desire to wear them since, despite being cleaned and polished.
[Roman Turner] He didn't budge from the doorway even with the temptation of food. One reason being he wasn't sure what Linus was trying to convince him was finger licking good, that just sounded perverted. Two because of the white beards and flagellation comment. Trent came up behind him and he made room for him, muttering a question and greeting.
"Hey Mister Trent. What's white beards and flagellation mean? He saying I'm in to gay dudes with gas?"
[Linus] ...There's a sharp bark of laughter at that.
[Trent Brumby] Brows raise and he looks from Roman towards the laughter inside, then back again. He adjusts the heavier bag in his hand. "Well, no. By the sounds of it he means something closer to gay men with Santa Clause fetishes and seeking out all the naughty boys." Trent never knows what to expect when it came to Garou, or Roman, or Kora, or anyone else for that matter. This conversation is just another surreal moment in his busy, somewhat turbulent life.
"You want a beer?" Nodding his chin he lifts the bag as gesture.
[Frost] ((open scene?))
[Roman Turner] "I do, yessir."
With that he took the heavy bag from Trent and reached in for a beer.
"Ya might want to down a couple before ya go in."
[Trent Brumby] [no idea. it's at the garou's pack house.]
[Kora] The last time Linus saw Kora, she was 18 and he was 15, maybe 16 on a good day. Her pale hair was died a matte black. She wore liner around her eyes and smudged black shadow, a half-dozen rings through her ear, all silver, and painted her nails - religiously - black or blue or deep, bruised purple. She was a couple of inches shorter then, still growing, and he was shorter than she - two years younger, with even more growing to do. She had a heavy, olive green backpack on her back, the sort people wear hitching around Europe and a guitar case in hand, and she was going to Germany. And she wasn't coming back.
That was before.
This is now.
Things change. The word turns.
The black dye is gone. Her hair is pale blonde, and long now. It hasn't been cut in six years except to excise the remnants of that old dye job. Her nails are bare tonight. The rings through her ears are gone, the holes closed. There's just one, which hums with life enough that it might be a fetish, this old piece of worked iron struck with runes, hanging from a hoop of iron nipped through the inner cartilage of her left ear.
The wrestling about is rather undignified. Kora lets it go after some passing show of strength. Maybe that's her answer as to how one becomes Jarl while still a cliath. The other answer is rather less pleasant: everyone left except for a Rotagar following tweety bird. Beat him, and it was mine by default.
So - grinning, now this expression that is more quicksilver, brighter somehow, more girlish than her usual half-smiles - Kora lets Linus go and
" - no." corrects him. "My packmates. Hotness - " a hint of asperison. " - is Sparrow, known as Resistance. And that" - her boyfriend "is Roman, known as Fate."
Then Trent arrives, at the door, bearing gifts of beer and fruit. There's a dusky gloom in the church, except in the circle of light from the electric lantern.
"Okay," Kora says, low-voiced as a sort of aside to Linus. "that's the boyfriend, actually."
[Linus] "Roman! Buddy. Lookin' good mate. Resistance I...haaahahaha, ok that one's took easy. I'll spare you the party line- Wait, what?"
He blinks and turns to look at Kora after a moment of back and forth between the two packmates. His features have lost the sudden flush of excitement and brashness that came with his initial greeting and taken on a moment of sharp surprise. Then, he's turning toward Trent and that gaze narrows suspiciously. The Church is a good distance between them, but he is no less offering a steely glare.
As steely as things get anyway.
"...That's the boyfriend? When the fuc-...when did that happen?" Then. More blinking. "I'm getting distracted. Not that boyfriend-" He waves almost dismissively at Trent and turns back to Kora, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at...a nearby wall, eyes rolling.
"Hermodr" The name sounds practiced. Accented near perfectly by the young man and delivered with the same sort of comfort as the word 'Cat'. "Nothing but muscle, frost, a dark black dun of a charger and a War stave that looks like it could crack a Thunderwyrm in half. The Man is Large like lions and Bill Cosby..."
And it isn't until Trent comes into the Church, that Linus' attention actually returns to the moment. Those same suspicious and narrowed eyes cast at the Kin.
"So..." A pause, lips pursing. "...You got a thing for blondes and deathmetal huh?"
[Roman Turner] He actually stepped up in front of Trent, fishing another beer out and handing it to the Kin with a muttered.
"Told ya, ya'd need it.
Then he lifted his voice.
"Show some respect for your sister's Man. This is her Mate. The father to be. Give congratulations."
He tossed a beer through the air towards Linus.
"And toast the man. Try not to barf on his shoes."
[Trent Brumby] "Bad mood?" It didn't sound like Kora was in a bad mood, but he's been waiting for it. He really expected her to be this hormonal crazed lunatic as far as rumours and pregnant Garou women go. So far he's been pleasantly surprised, but Roman's warning has him in this strange hopeful and relieved twisted moment, that has him glancing to where Kora has just finished tussling with another man.
That twisted moment turns to something else that he swallows down. She's smiling in his direction even if not at him really. He's watching them from just inside the front door, his body still turned to Roman, who's stole the bag containing the beer. His eyes are pale gray, his skin has enough colour to it to know he's not completely Caucasian, and the black hair is cropped short enough to stop it from rolling into thick curls, shorter on the sides then the top. He's also got a very solid build to him, to know he's physical in a job or hits the gym, or both.
Let's not forget the Pure Breed which is far from that of Fenrir.
"I wouldn't say I have a thing," Trent replies to Linus, shifting his gaze from Kora to the other directly. He keeps his voice low and measured, but there's this underlying tension to him.
[Linus] (Willpower: Father..to...WHAT!?!)
[Linus] (LOL. Soak!)
[Linus] (Hello and good morrow to you too Kahseeno!! You trollop of a harpy!)
[Trent Brumby] [haha!]
[Kora] "Yeah," Kora says quietly, affirming Hermodr as the other boyfriend. There's not humor in it though, just this quiet sort of rooted strength, right, this underlying confidence in the totem, and the bond she shares with her packmates. "Just me, a pair of kick-ass Coggies, and Hermodr."
"Hey hey - " and whatever she was going to say. Knock it off, or he's mine or something like that now that the flush of color - passing, that, the collision of worlds, the brother, the old world, where she was a kid of 18, and the new one, where she is so far divorced from her old self that it is like stepping out of an alternate world into a new one, remarked and remade - fading from her cheeks. Whatever she was going to say, as she broke away from Linus and crossed the dark stone floors inlaid with marble, tracked with mud and damp leaves and all matter of other things in from outside, toward Trent is pretty well lost.
- goes out the window, as Roman spills the beans. Kora closes her eyes. She's a tall creature, taller than both Sparrow and Roman, and the boots give her another good inch of height. There's tension to her narrow shoulders, in her spine, running like a satin ribbon pulled taut through her body.
A glance at Roman.
A glance at Linus, and a level look, this half-curve of her smile for Trent.
"This is my brother, Linus, baby." The endearment is a deliberate thing, really. Her curving mouth edges briefly wider. She glances back at Linus. "And yeah, he's mine." Maybe the brother didn't hear the rest, damnit.
[Linus] Linus climbs back into his chair again as Trent approaches, a brow perked and face a stoic calm that seems a little bit too put on to be taken seriously. His jaw pushes forward and his gaze slims the closer and closer Trent gets. Then Roman chimes in and earns Linus' attention briefly, confusion flooding his face for a split second.
"Well don't you- WHAT?!"
Linus all but shrieks, face twisting into an explosion of utter shock. Shock enough that Linus forgets he is sitting and attempts to turn on Kora with obliterating accusation. Then, ankles tangle up in wooden chair legs and he goes tumbling off to the side in a slow descent that he seems fully aware of in the moment (If the wide eyed 'Oh Shit' on his face is any indication) but incapable of doing anything about.
There is a loud
Thuwunk
A whoosh of air and then silence from the young man. Followed of course by a soft and pained.
"I'm gonna be an uncle?" Pause. "Ow."
[Sparrow] She smiled at Trent when he came, even gave a little wave. She's wearing pants, though, which is probably far from the description Kora's given. Unless, of course, Kora described her packmate as dark, tan, and intense. Her eyes are pretty, she's not bad to look at, and there's a juxtaposition between her calm demeanor and her distinctively
She blinked, and just watched with wide eyes as the world passed. Maybe it was going too quickly for her. Maybe she couldn't figure out what to say. Or, maybe, that eggroll was just really fucking good.
But now? Now Kora's using terms of endearment, and Sparrow shoves some more food in her mouth. Her stomach growls with satisfaction.
[Roman Turner] He paused for just a moment with the beer nearly to his mouth as Linus fell off the chair. But like all things that shouldn't be funny as hell, it was funny as hell to Roman. He started laughing, pointing with the bottle.
"Fainted didn't ya?! Hold still fella, I'll get ya some mouth to mouth."
He looked at Sparrow, the pointed at Linus.
"Go get'em! Mouth him! I'll jump on his chest."
[Trent Brumby] The way that Kora approaches him, where he's standing just inside the door, and with Roman now in front of him, has him set his remaining grocery bag down. Beers are being tossed by the Coggie, the brother is falling over and calling out, but Trent moves past with a single minded focus seeing the stress lines in his mates features. He knows these things, because he's the one that gets to see the layers - don't go there, perverts.
He has mind to snap at Linus not to be screaming at Kora like that. There's this slow breath he takes to swallow it down, and reaches to touch Kora's arm instead, wanting to embrace her but having this formality that seems to be well disciplined. "I'll give him a moment," he tells Kora quietly, glancing from where Linus is owing, over to Sparrow.
Who gets a small smile and nod from him.
Then to Roman and back around to Sparrow, then Linus.
"I've got some fruit and milk," this to Kora, again quietly, letting the chaos go on around him.
[Kora] "Thank you," Kora says quietly to Trent. He comes up beside her and she leans close enough to inhale his scent, rising to the balls of her feet to plant a chaste, prim sort of kiss on his cheek. The affection is beneath the gesture, more human than the animal physicality of her greetings to her packmates. There's something the brief way she meets and holds his eyes under the tension in her body as that clatter happens behind her, Linus rising and shouting and turning and then going down in a tumble of his wooden chair.
She takes that all in in her peripheral vision, and doesn't break into a smile until her Ragabash packmate starts laughing, openly. Then she turns, "Linus, you oaf." For the clatter, that, a hint of laugher gone rueful underneath, and old affection remembered. "You best not have knocked over by Kung Pao chicken, or I'll have your ass for it."
And, then, a little more quietly, with a hint of that rare self-consciousness that Roman and Sparrow might sense distantly over the pack connection, but which only Trent is close enough to read in her. "Yeah, Linus. You're gonna be an uncle."
[Linus] "...You're a cruel fellow, Roman. A pox on your happiness, I say."
He's wincing as one hand, then the other clap on the table and pull him upright. He grunts with the effort and pulls the chair up behind him, almost tumbling a second time in the process. A few more precious seconds and the chair's finally up and he's finally in it, taking a slow, grimace filled deep breath. A hand touches his side gingerly and then he's looking up at Kora. Directly at Kora, puffing out of his nose with a frank sort of...
"You're telling Mom she's gonna be a Grandmother."
Because if Linus' tone is any indication, that tid bit of news is going to go over like a Freight train at 140.
Then, around toward Trent, puffing out his cheeks.
"All kidding aside, mate, congratulations." A pause. "Ow." Rubbing his side again and leaning forward on the table, one arm stretching out, hand making grabby motions toward the beer in Trent's grasp.
"Beer me, Hubby. Gots me a powerful want a drunk."
[Kora] Linus informs Kora that she's telling Mom, with that direct, frank look on his face. "I think I'll leave that to Roman, yeah?" returns Kora. Dryly, with a direct look at the named packmate.
[Roman Turner] "Sure thing Miss Kora, Ma'am. Just jot down that number and I'll call her first thing in the morning. Maybe send her some flowers to sweeten the deal."
[Sparrow] "... I'mma pray for you, Romi," she says with a mouthful of eggroll, "mamas are dangerous things. I think Sorrow threw you under the bus here."
[Trent Brumby] Nodding his head towards Roman, who had thrown a beer at Linus earlier, but it had probably ended up clattering and skidding across the floor somewhere if it hadn't outright broken, "He has the beer." Since the heavy bag had been stolen by the CoG Ragabash when Trent walked in the door and offered the beer.
"You want one?" he asked Kora, trailing a hand from her upper arm to her elbow before sliding it away and stepping back. Leaving her side he's going to fetch her one anyway. There's that one drink rule apparently. He'll get Linus one while he's there, and one for Sparrow too. He also foresees a second beer run in short order.
I'm the only fucking one happy about this. His own words are screaming at him from the back of his brain; a conversation he'd had with Kora one night recently enough. Try as he might, all this negative association with this pregnancy is not sliding off his back like a water on a ducks.
Having grabbed a variety of beers, he starts dealing them out. "I'll tell her." This, unlike the others, is serious.
[Linus] "No."
A pause. Linus pulls up to his feet to regard the surrounding number. The smile on his face is vaguely wistful. Somewhat...disturbed, but genuine.
"Kid coming's a lot of responsibility. A lot of..." He closes his eyes and there is a curse in his next breath. Nothing audible enough to trigger Roman but it's in his face with the pain of standing. The eyes open and he looks up with a chuff of humour.
"Shit. Who else do you got in mind to take it in after the birth, Sis?" His head is shaking slightly, almost in disbelief at the Jarl of Maelstrom.
[Trent Brumby] Right there.
Linus' remark has him whip his head around and glare at the other Garou. His heart rate shoots through the roof and this stricken look that is overcome only with a sudden flare of anger, rises in the usually very reserved Kinfolk. Pale eyes burn with this glare from one sibling to the other, who happens to be his mate.
In a few seconds flat, his chest is rising with this sudden, deep breathing.
"Who the fuck do you think?" It comes out of his mouth before he stops it, and it's definitely aggressive.
[Roman Turner] "How about it's father? Hello? Fella is standing right here."
[Linus] Linus gaze snaps toward Trent. Narrows slightly. The jaw sets. A flick of a glance is cast at Roman and the lips peel back slightly. Not a grimace. Not a growl. Just a tightening that exposes teeth in vague exasperation. This lasts...a few seconds. He knows moments like these, it's written on his face. He knows them like his own hand print in the snow a dozen times over.
He knows a word right now would spark something vicious, more than likely off his own tongue. That was Fenrir too.
Trent's the Father.
Trent's Kinfolk.
Trent's not Fenrir.
And Linus isn't a Modi.
He flicks his eyes from the Ragabash and the Kinfolk, briefly passes Resistance to test the Ahroun's own waters, before finally settling on Kora with a hand held up in an ambiguous gesture of 'Well?'
[Roman Turner] "As for who tells Miss Kora's Ma, it should be Miss Kora along with her Mate in a show of respect. Ya don't want to break the woman's heart more than life has already bruised it. If she wants support from the pack, she has it. In all things we are as one. And really, do we need to talk about who is going to do the hard work once the child is born? Plenty of time to spend on that when it's not making supper cold and upsetting the proud parents to be."
[Trent Brumby] "With all due respect. Fuck your brother, Kora." That one word does spark a burning fire, and it makes Trent look far from his usual self. He's got this pent up aggression that seems all sorts of eager to come out tonight, considering the points that are being spoken about so openly and rather flippant as to his role in the matter. It's just that, the fear he has.
Roman adds his two cents, and gets Trent looking at him, jaw tight and temple pulsing. "I am going to do the hard work."
"Do you think I turned my back on my fucking Tribe for shits and giggles?" Looking over at them, not so much Kora, but he's really upset right now. "You think they like it? When Kora made me hers, it makes me Get of Fenris whether any of you like it or not."
"That is my mate. My child. I will honour our Tribe and raise it as she or he should be. You don't get to look at me like that, he who just walked in out of fucking no where and start making demands of my mate. You want to come and shut my mouth? You come do it."
"But that child is mine."
[Roman Turner] He had tried to defuse things and instead Trent took it as more of a challenge. Fenrir lived for challenges. Fortunately Roman was not Fenrir.
"Excuse me Mister Trent, I weren't saying ya couldn't do the hard part. I was trying to calm everyone down for supper rather than rush head long in to what's taking on the wrong bent. It's a happy moment when family comes together. It's a joyous thing when a child is conceived in love. But this is turning in to more of a land grab than a celebration. So, with them words to think on, I'm gonna go do my rounds. And by the way, we ain't all Fenrir. Just an FYI."
He snagged his hat and waved from the door.
"I hope to find y'all alive next time I come this way. Night y'all."
And he was gone.
[Roman Turner] ((Sleepy time))
[Trent Brumby] "Like you can fuckin' talk," muttered under his breath. Like many, when angry, he see's little reason. He see's only Romans face seconds before the Garou had puked on his shoes when hearing the news about pregnancy. So much for celebration and joy.
[Kora] Kora glances back at Trent, lingering a moment, his fingers on his elbow, before he steps back and away, going to retrieve a beer or two from Roman. Without other outlet for her hands, the Skald slides them into her front hip pockets. "No," Kora is beginning to say, a lingering backward glance at Trent as he breaks away, searching briefly for his eyes. "I should tell her. I will." There's a firmness underlying that, a certain directness and works its way up through her tone, making it iron. And all that's forgotten, really, caught up in this -
The strange quintet are in the shadows of a long-abandoned church. The sun has long since set, and an autumn chill works its way in through the doors, through a handful of broken windows lining the gallery. The tension there - between the mated pair - is quickly devoured by the sudden flash of aggression between kin and Garou. Kora goes still, sharpened, takes a step forward shadowing Trent, but not shielding him. Not yet.
She's a half-step away from interrupting the line of site between Godi and kinsman. Whatever she was going to say dies in her throat. "Fucking hell - " Kora rounds on Trent. She doesn't move, not toward him, she's half-rooted in place on the stone floor, her dark eyes sparking flame, flint against steel, glowering at Trent, this rain of sparks in her dark eyes, the tension in her suddenly and surely sickening.
Then, with a sort of snap to her movement, she turns back to Linus. "Trent's mine, Li. My fucking mate. I'm not giving away our fucking kid to some goddamned stranger." This underlying frustration, deep and abiding. " - for fuck's sake, when I'm dead, I want them to know my fucking name."
[Sparrow] She is watching those gathered, and it's not so much impassive as... ready. If she has an opinion, it's ill-formed. If she has words, she's waiting to use them. Of, conversely, maybe she doesn't have an opinion. She's quiet, though. As she has been most of the night, the Child of Gaia has failed to say much. her attention flickers, and she inhales.
She clenches her jaw, and something starts to flare. perk. Bristle. And is forced down- she's disgustingly calm.
She opens her mouth to say something, and it is interrupted. She takes a step back.
She turns.
And follows her family.
[I gotta get ready for work, sorry for being so quiet!]
[Linus] Fuck your Brother, Kora
"...Brings back memories..." Muttering. He leans back on his heels though as Kora speaks, tenses and flushes the air with ire. The frisson, that ozone smell of Rage peels the air and curdles what little civility might be left. Linus-
-is Fenrir. A Fenrir is a Fenrir. Just like a Shadowlord is a Shadowlord and a Fury is a Fury. He knows the tribe and what it expects and he knows how it's supposed to work. He also knows-
"Bone~Writer." A pause, eyeing Kora evenly. Meeting Trent's gaze right now would probably...be a bad idea. Kora said it. He's hers. They'd deal with it.
"They call me Bone~Writer. Cliath Godi to the Get of Fenris. I come from the Blood Drunk Sept." A deep breath, leaning back again to begin buttoning his coat.
"I talked to Hermodr. I like him. I like what he has to offer. More importantly, I like what he demands in return." Nodding. Matter-of-factly. Assuredly. "He says I'm good. That we're...good. So, big Sis, you and the Family-" An errant hand and finger is left to flap in the air, motioning a circle around at the gathered that were once here in the Church "-Decide how you want to play that. You need a Seer."
And finally, his eye flicks off at Trent. There is no narrowing there. Less than anger. More than sympathy (No such thing). A frankness.
"...In more ways than one." And he sits back down again, the White box plucked up from the table, fingers slipping past the lid.
"So i'll be here when you decide how you want to play this. After that..." Nodding again, a dumpling between his fingers "...I'll tell you why you're wrong." And the dumpling vanishes into his mouth.
"Better catch the other two, Jarl. Gotta keep the rounds."
[Trent Brumby] Kora looks at him, swears at him, knocking him down a few notches while she's at it. He had glanced to her, registered the glowering look, and glanced away again - not towards Linus either, the one that sparked this reaction in the first place. Licking his teeth behind a closed mouth, he swallows any other tirade down, shutting up.
Doesn't mean he's not thrumming with it, this desire to lash out at someone who's trying to get between him and his child - or so he thinks.
Two Garou have already left. He's thinking maybe it's better he leaves too, and let the two siblings work it out. In fact, it's probably the better option really, but he still has this need to stay and defend himself; Kora's choice.
[Kora] There's this flare of her nostrils, this riveted tension written into her spine, screwed into it, making those sinuously articulated joints stand stiffly, the bony prominences clear in matched and marching rows, pricked out against the sort material of her t-shirt, faintly visible through the cotton hoodie, too, fitted to her body as she prefers - still lean. Only Trent is close enough to her to see the physical changes her pregnancy makes to her body, the reaction to the hormones loosed in her blood.
"she who offers sorrow - " the rage is banked again. Just banked, but there underneath, this sort of ungiving wall beneath her skin. " - from Hjaltland before Chicago, cliath and Skald and daughter of Fenris." As if brother and sister were meeting each other for the very first time.
In a sense, they are.
Things are different, now.
For one: no one has pimples.
For two: war machines.
For three: one is pregnant.
"I'm not sure you made the best impression." It is like a papered over wound. There's a sort of weary humor in Kora's voice, which is sharpened by her anger. The spark of her rage, an open thing now, not one or the other, just there, like a flame that cannot be extinguished, just the fire that has to be born. "I want you to run with us. Come fight with us. Right? Show Fate and Resistance that it's not nepotism, me bringing you in." - and that control, over it, steely and sure except where it goes molten, and the wolf shines through.
- there's something glassine about Kora's eyes, some sheen across them when she looks back at Trent, still and aware and conflicted, the spark of rage floating there, not filling her, a sort of compassion that mirrors her brother's frankness there, underneath, but still ungiving. Her hands are fists, Kora. She's angry, but not overwhelmed, holding it inside her, intent on her mate, standing there thrumming with the hot blood of his own temper.
"I have to catch up with my pack." - there's a moment's hesitation, this sharpened but hooded glance at her brother. "I'll see you later."
- and then, - well, then there's her reflection in one of those windows. And then she's gone, just like that, stepping forward, and through.
"
[Linus] He waits. Until she's gone. Until she's off in other worlds (that he's used to). He waits and watches her go and it's only until she's decided to venture off that Linus attention turns toward Trent. There is a directness there. A frankness that is a trademark of the tribe. 20 years, maybe a few more, but nothing beyond that. A war machine and a monster with pursed lips and consideration in mind.
"You're not wrong, you know." A pause. "She is..." Nodding after his sister, leaning forward on the table with the box of dumplings still in hand, chopsticks plucked up to hover inside the lid.
"...But you aren't. You deserve to raise the kid." A dumpling vanishes into his mouth.
[Trent Brumby] She leaves, disappearing just like that, and he's stuck in the same room as Linus. Church, really. He does have the choice of walking out those doors like the others just as easily, but he doesn't. Two hands rake over his hair, as if it will shake out his tension. There's a silence from him while he grapples with the adrenalin, indignation, and righteous fury he's feeling.
It's nothing new, really.
When Linus speaks, Trent looks over, leaving his hands to swing down by his sides. That temper has been slapped back, dampened down and swallowed up. "She made her choices." It's for Kora to defend those, and in a way she had today - which leaves him pleased enough. Then she bailed though, and while he remembers well the last Get of Fenris he met, it cancels out that momentary satisfaction.
"And yes, I do."
"I understand you've got some reservations, plenty do, but I'll do right by her," he tells Linus, still quite serious - he seems that sort, "and I'm willing, and wanting to learn. We all had to start somewhere." So, he's not Get of Fenris. But everyone had to be put through the drill. The kin's not running from it, not even spouting off about the lifetime he had with his blood Tribe. The moment he accepted Kora as a mate sealed his fate.
[Linus] "Trent is it?"
Linus is leaning forward, eyeballing the Kinfolk. There's no skepticism there, nor pity or sympathy for his plight. If anything, Linus' look could be interpreted by a simple phrase:
Are you kidding me?
"Kora's my sister. I haven't seen her in more than five years...seven at this point I think but I know my Sister well enough to know she ain't a slacker. She ain't a half-heart and she sure as shit ain't no coward. She ain't stupid either, else she'd be dead by now and that means whoever she took as a mate? Ain't mine to doubt 'cause that would mean I'm doubting her."
Frank. Straight-forward. Honest. Three turns of the clock different than the Linus of before who is starting to seem more and more like an act and a show at this point.
"I don't have reservations about you. Or her. Or what you two mean to one another or how much you both need that and trust me, you do..." Nodding. Slowly.
"...between the ages of One and Fifteen...how many times did you ever talk to or interact with the True?" It is a serious question. The smile is gone and the brow is slightly furrowed. Curious scrutiny.
[Trent Brumby] The question throws him, making his brow furrow in thought and wondering where this is leading to, but searches for his memory and an accurate number. He really can't come up with one. "A handful, mostly brief." He doesn't go on to explain the complications of being male Kinfolk in a female tribe, that is always mistaken by anyone outside of the said Tribe - wait, he's outside of it now too.
So for the most part, he's left looking at Linus directly, waiting to see where this goes. If this is going to be a don't cuss at Garou deal or something else out of the left field, like this Fenrir's rapidly changed demeanor.
[Linus] "Brief, momentary meet and greets. Distant relatives that come for a visit and you get shoo'ed off into a room or corner and told to be quiet."
Pause.
"Angry aunts and old grandmothers with the sort of stares that strip skin and shit."
Pause.
"Blood stains in the laundry or sudden disappearances and...well...let's not forget that feeling you get..."
He meets Trent's eyes, head tilting forward slightly. They both know the sensation Linus is talking about. The spine shakes. The eyes dart. The room is too small. The air is too full and you're breathing deeper while standing still.
"...And you're a full grown man with an understanding of how that all works. Why it works the way it does. Maybe you even know why we're doing it." A smile. Not unpleasant. Not sad or grieving or ugly. He's smiling and nodding like a friend, waiting for you to catch up to them on the street corner. No rush. No hurry. There's plenty of time.
"...Next time we talk, you're gonna ask me a question and I...am...probably going to answer it." The chair scrapes on the stone floor and he stretches, patting his stomach. The beer is left on the table, unopened. He sniffs and wipes his nose, before re-typing the scarf around his neck and shoulders.
"Until then, you keep bringing the booze 'n food. You'll learn. Trust me." Not a threat or a promise.
Just the Facts.
The Godi is there one moment and the next there is a Pop
And he's gone.
The last rays of the sun score the lingering clouds with fingerling impressions of orange, pink and crimson. Beneath the livid colors, the city's dusking sprawl seems muted somehow - streetlights hazed by the moisture in the cool, sharp air, deepened by the long shadows of twilight.
The storm sewers are full of water, reflecting the dying light in the sky. Wet leaves are plastered to the pavement.
The church is mostly dark. There's an electric lantern on a salvaged table set up just inside the sanctuary, right underneath the choir loft. The wooden doors, iron-banded and solid, are half open. Scattered across the table, the familiar little white Chinese take-out boxes, and a couple of white paper bags, translucent with grease.
The portico is sheltered enough by the roof's overhang that the top three steps are not damp, but the rest are slick with rain, covered in wet leaves driven down from the trees and vines that have grown up around the church in the thirty years since it was abandoned by its human owners. Kora sits on the front steps, cradling a container of egg drop soup in her lap, opening it carefully to enjoy the steam, an aluminum tin of crab rangoon on the next step, sheltered underneath her legs.
[Roman Turner] Singing heralded his arrival long before he came out the door still wiping his hands on a scrap piece of what once was a bath towel.
"Rain makes corn, corn makes whiskey. Whiskey makes my girl a little frisky!"
He paused sniffing in the doorway.
"Fee fi fo fumb, I smell dinner and I want me some."
[Sparrow] That crack in the Prius' windshield is bigger. It's testament to a divorce from some earthly things, because Sparrow's stopped worrying about it. Poor Prius. She'll mourn the little hybrid when it dies, but until then-
She smells soup.
It mingles with the scent of broccoli beef in the litte paper sack she's carrying. The apocalypse is obviously drawing nigh, because Sparrow is maing her way through the church in something Kora has likely never seen- pants. Does Sparrow even own pants? Obviously she... well, they might be Roman's pants. He's filling out better now and she's not grown much. She still has her boots on. The denim's tucked into the pant legs, and they're a little tight. It seems alien on her. She's wearing a white tee shirt, and her tan is fading.
she's not got a billion bracelets on, either. She doesn't jingle. The wirethin burnmarks on her wrists are a little more prominent here.
"Trade you some broccoli for one of your crab thingies," she says as she approaches.
[Roman Turner] "Hey wait a minute."
His gray-blue eyes narrowed as the young face screwed up in a puzzled frown. Roman had grown about an inch since spring, and true it made some of his jeans shorter, but his boots helped with the illusion all was well with the world.
"Are those my jeans?"
He was frowning at Sparrow as he swept chestnut brown hair from his forehead.
[Linus] Autumn storms.
Smell like nostalgia. Old memories of childhood, fragrant runs through mud puddles before stains, smells and the cleanliness of neurotic adulthood found root and ushered out daydreams. Before War became a lifestyle and a contract and a duty. Autumn rain smelled like Chinese and distant times ('You remember when...")
The Church steps are popular tonight, gathering the trio that are the Last Watch Pack under a union of fresh take-out, warm and generous. The powerful smells serve to push the appetite to proper priority while the vague mist that begins to cling to the horizon, during that brief moment before twilight turns to darkness, serves as herald and messenger.
The bond between them is a strong one. Confident, unwavering and firm. A hallowed thing defined by the stoicism and endurance of the Totem they follow. Hermordr is not harmful or monstrous or hungry. He is patience, demand and firmness. A millstone of the steadfast that clears the warped confusion of a War Fog from his path with the snap wave of a standard and the bullish set of shoulders.
This night coming and his horn can be heard, a distant thing, always the affirmation needed to let each know that he is there. The Call to War. The urge to rise. To stand. He brings it with his patronage and with his patronage...
Power.
Duty.
Strength.
Courage.
...And Tonight, this night, something Twangs that silent cord of connection between each packmate, as if a pair of slim fingers had plucked it for the proper note. The proper tune. A humming sound that reverberates through bones, flesh and into the nebulous presence of the Spirit, a gnostic knot at the centre of the gut.
The Horn, distant still, continues to drone. Slowly...building...
[Kora] "There's plenty for everyone," Kora returns, her pale head tipped backward, her long hair caught up into a braid as thick as her wrist, following the line of her spine, moving with a certain sinuous swing of its own - its own mass, its own gravity. The reply is for both packmates, a glance at Roman as when he comes singing through the doorway. She gestures back to the interior, where the rest of the feast is spread out. He'll have his pick of take-out, and a billion little sauce packets to boot.
Sparrow's appearance draws a different sort of eye; the Skald meets the young Ahroun's intense gaze, takes in her new choice of clothing with a faint, perhaps approving curve of her generous mouth. "Wouldn't've guessed it was you, Resistance," the deed-name makes that formal, so does the brief weight of Kora's dark-eyed regard. " - didn't hear you coming."
Then, she nudges the tin container of crab rangoon out from under the protective ceiling of her thighs over to her packmate. "Dig in."
The eggdrop soup is rich and yellow, this thick, nutritious swirl.
This is a meal. This is the kill. There are no deer to hunt here, no elk to bring down. The plastic top comes off, and the rich sent of deep-fat fried wontons is a savory undercurrent to the damp scent of loss that comes with autumn, the promise of winter in the air.
A glance back at Roman, as he questions Sparrow about his jeans. "I'll get you some that'll fit, if you want."
Which means: she'll send her mate shopping to Sparrow's clothes, too. "Or you can try some of my spares, if you'd like." They'll be too long. Sparrow can cut off the bottom inch or three.
[Kora] Then, that twinge - that moment of sharpened awareness makes Sorrow go still. The plastic container of soup is held carefully, neatly between her fingers, her spine straightens, and her awareness of the building, of the night, of the damp, cold wind, sharpens.
[Sparrow] "Maybe," she said.
Yes, her face said.
Sparrow's never been good at lying, so even this was half of the story. She might say more, but she stops. Abruptly, and her thought process is immediately halted. She stops, and it's like she's listening to something. listening for something. Her eyes don't grow distant, instead she is focused. Her attention is back to wherever it came from, though. She has a strong connection to Gaia, something that keeps her sane and focused and tempered.
She put her bag down, and whatever commentary she might have had was gone for now.
[Roman Turner] Nothing got in his way of food; not at his age. While everyone paused, Roman started snagging food and squirting Duck Sauce on everything he piled on his plate. If something bad or good was about to happen, it would happen in the middle of stuffing his face.
[Linus] There is a voluminous pregnancy that creeps into the air of the Church's interior, flooding from wall to wall. Like pushing hands against the stone and woodwork, seeking to bulge out what physics would not allow. It presses gently against breastbone and ribcage, fingers and joints. Cradles without slowing, a familiar thrum within.
The drone continues. Building, without true sound. A memory more than an echo.
Then. With sudden, ear popping clarity:
The world split and the interior table gained a new shadow and a voice...
"FuuuuuUUCCCKKkkkk..." The voice is young. Developed and matured enough to forego teenage uncertainty, but hardly the depth worthy of mid-twenties let alone more.
The Shadow itself is attached to a tall, lean thing, draped in woolen grays. A thick scarf wrapped at the neck and face, while the coat around it all hangs to the ankles. The sleeves are rolled up and tucked to stay in place while bandy arms, sparse of hair and pale from lack of fierce summer suns are shaking as if trying to push some form of cold or shiver out.
The shape stops in place. Spasms once. Then settles into one of the chairs around the Feast Table.
"That was- Fuck me, Dumplings. Awesome." One of the white take-out boxes is plucked up and a pair of eyes under a neatly trimmed, if very short, buzz of brown hair suddenly vanish inside, along with two fingers digging for sustenance.
...The Horn begins to dim, slowly. Steadily.
[Kora] "What the - hell - "
Kora's reaction is sudden and harsh. She has the care and presence of mind to cap her eggdrop soup and set it neatly aside, but she does it quickly and she stands up spinning, booted feet pivoting neatly on the steps leading up the church as she turns around in a lean and deadly arc, taking the top stairs two at a time in a quick sprint toward the interior. The heavy doors are half-open. She pulls them a fraction wider, this spark of awareness about her, barely slowing down as she surges toward the figure resolving itself from the umbra into the nave of the great old neo-Gothic church.
Every five minutes brings a new shade of twilight, and the last spark in the stained glass is almost gone. Inside, there's just the glow from the lantern, maybe an electric light from the old pastor's apartments, the meeting rooms that Roman is slowly making livable, and the dull orange glow from the windows above to break the gloom.
- a spare moment of tension, the pack Alpha is fractional seconds away from attacking the shadow. Her packmates can already feel her moving.
Then the voice arrests her, and Kora goes still.
"What the fucking hell?"
- her voice is the definition of incredulous.
"Linus?"
[Sparrow] "... who the fuck is Linus?"
She's left standing there, confused, and her hands go to her hips, and for a second she is the picture of the confused farmer, stuck with uncooperative crops. Sparrow transfers her weight from one side. She looks at Kora, and then, off to the...
"... huh."
[Roman Turner] He had vanished from sight. Kora reacted, running inside and somewhere in there Roman had simply disappeared. Though his location was known pretty quickly when he spoke from the dark behind Linus.
"Ain't polite to curse during dinner. Now do I shove this here eggroll where the good lord split him, or look for Charlie Brown and Lucy?"
[Linus] "Kor! Sup!"
The White box is hefted in one hand, chopsticks held precariously between the fingers and the material, while the other lifts to pull down the scarf from his features, revealing a scruffy young man below, all teeth and grins. A moment after that and the dumpling he was holding between thumb and index is popped into his mouth and shoved off into the space of one cheek so he can continue talking.
"You 'ave...any fuggin' idea 'ow 'ard it wa-..." Swallows. "-to find your ass all the way out here?! Mom wasn't even any help-...you gotta call her more by the way, I hate getting earfuls meant for you-...and the damn Sept just went and said 'She left'.." He dances his hands around in the air and pulls a 'We're a Big Deal' sort of face to represent the 'Sept' he seems to be talking about.
Legs kick up, thick booted feet planting solidly on the table top, crossing at the ankle and leaning back in the chair, the box of dumplings falling to an inspection again for another morsel.
"...Took me three cuckoos and a fuckin' Stray Dog just to get a fix on your ass and not even you!" He points with almost equal incredulous stance at Kora, eyes flicking unceremoniously toward Sparrow and Roman.
"Did you fucking know she was a Jarl?! 'Cause I sure fucking didn't!" Then a shrug and a stare at the Church ceiling with equal incredulosity. "Who the fuck becomes a Jarl when they're a Cliath?!"
A pause then, head falling back down to regard Sparrow and then Roman, chopsticks emerging in his free hand to point at the two.
"...I'm Linus and-" He looks again at Kora, a brow perked quizzically. "What the fuck did he-" Pointing at Roman again "-just call me? Lucy? Or Charlie brown? Are you Lucy, Sis? 'cause I don't wanna be Lucy...."
[Linus] (toward Sparrow and then over his shoulder at Roman^)
[Roman Turner] "Language......"
This fella was lacking manners and then some.
[Linus] "...Sticks were meant for beatin's not for sitting on."
An elbow nudges back into Roman's stomach gently.
"Lighten up!"
[Roman Turner] He scowled and moved out of reach. Way out of reach as in he headed for the door.
"Cursing like that in a church, at meal time. Ain't got no manners."
He lifted his voice from the unhappy muttering disapproval to call out.
"I'm going outside."
[Kora] "My fucking brother."
There's a hint of irony in Kora's tone. She offers the explanation both aloud and over their totem. Other than that, she's quiet, utterly quiet for a good five seconds - this sort of visceral disbelief clear in her expression, wreathing their sense of her over their spirit bonds. The expression Lucy might've had if Narnia had crashed through the wardrobe to plant itself in the real world, and there was Mr. Toonsis in all his goatly glory.
Then that hint of disbelief cracks; instead, this sort of restraint like a mantra - four beats, moving with the movement of her hear. Then another four. Then she's in motion again, tackling Linus like she meant to devour him. Because, as someone wise once said, If it ain't a tackle through a stone wall sort of hug? It ain't Fenrir.
There may be noogies, but those are passing, last minute and just before they are righted and separated again.
"Wait," to Roman, " - hold up, you gotta meet my kid brother. By the gods, Linus. Last person I expected to see. The absolute last person I expected to see."
[Sparrow] "... oh my god, Roman, he eats more than you do," she is just watching in something between horror and fascination. Like she can't look away from what is going on here.
She reaches forward for an egg roll, and just holds it in one hand. She holds it like an over-sized cigar, and pops one end into her mouth. Her eyebrows are up high and she bites down. It crunches, and she idly chews. It's a mindless gesture. At that moment, she looks up and Roman's headed outside and-
"Romi, wait," she turns around to follow him, and the rest of the eggroll is popped in her mouth. She looks back at the table, then her cousin, then-
My fucking brother-
"-ohhhhhh-yeah."
She goes back to pick up another eggroll. And to move. There were Fenrir and noogies being flung. There would be bloodshed.
[Roman Turner] He paused at the door, turning to level that disapproving look back at all the cursing. The gears in his head were turning and they involved liquid soap and dirty mouths; always a good mix as far as his Ma was concerned and right then he was thinking she had something.
"If y'all are gonna spend the night cursing, I'm gonna go buy out the soap in the Dollar store."
[Linus] "Church?!"
He blinks, owlishly even, righting his chair with an audible thwack of wooden legs on stone. He watches Roman move back toward the door, one elbow set on the table, the take-out box and chopsticks joining it so he can point at the retreating Ragabash.
"Is he for seriou-Demon!!" The word is bellowed as he catches Kora and both go careening off the chair and onto the stone floor all laughter and shouts of 'Not the Hair! Watch the Hair!'. This would pass. Quickly enough. A little wrestling that Linus would inevitably lose for lack of power or any martial prowess beyond how to make a fist.
"Alright! Alright! Enough! Mature, be Mature!" He shoves and pushes and eventually rights himself, coat peeled open to reveal the turtleneck beneath, scarf dangling long on either side of his shoulders.
"Gods, indeed, Woman!" He brushes himself down, eyes finally lifting to flick toward Sparrow as she pulls back up to the table for another Eggroll. A slow up and down, followed by a quicker repeat is offered.
"Hotness. What's your name? Wait-" Then eyes, lifting past Sparrow toward Roman "Awww C'mon Bud, I didn't meant nothing profane! Ain't like I knew you still had a soft spot for white beards and Flagellation! C'mon back and have an Egg roll!"
He plucks one of them up and dances it between his fingers, smiling with beguiling and suggestive 'It's finger lickin' gooooddd' written on his face.
"Oh yeah, Sis-" Without moving from his 'Roman Tempting Eggroll' stance "-Your new boyfriend? so very F-...Cool. He's awesome like awesome took lessons from him sort of awesome."
[Trent Brumby] "Hey Roman," the voice comes up the front of the church stairs to where the open doors are. Trent avoids the food left out there by Kora when she had vanished inside to go and meet the other. He can hear other voices inside, which is a nice change. Usually he has bad timing and drops by when it's either Kora or Roman, or both of them. He hasn't even met Sparrow yet, though he's heard a little about her.
Trent, the reliable kinfolk that he is, is bringing beers for the dinner he was invited to. He also has one of those grocery bags that are reusable with him, too. It's got a bunch of variety of fruits for the pack to pick at when they're not devouring take out. There's milk too and water, if beer wasn't their style.
He's dressed in a pair of jeans and a simple t.shirt that strains a little across the back of the shoulders but otherwise fits him well. Some sneakers are chosen over leather loafers this time, since Roman puked on his good ones and he hasn't really had the desire to wear them since, despite being cleaned and polished.
[Roman Turner] He didn't budge from the doorway even with the temptation of food. One reason being he wasn't sure what Linus was trying to convince him was finger licking good, that just sounded perverted. Two because of the white beards and flagellation comment. Trent came up behind him and he made room for him, muttering a question and greeting.
"Hey Mister Trent. What's white beards and flagellation mean? He saying I'm in to gay dudes with gas?"
[Linus] ...There's a sharp bark of laughter at that.
[Trent Brumby] Brows raise and he looks from Roman towards the laughter inside, then back again. He adjusts the heavier bag in his hand. "Well, no. By the sounds of it he means something closer to gay men with Santa Clause fetishes and seeking out all the naughty boys." Trent never knows what to expect when it came to Garou, or Roman, or Kora, or anyone else for that matter. This conversation is just another surreal moment in his busy, somewhat turbulent life.
"You want a beer?" Nodding his chin he lifts the bag as gesture.
[Frost] ((open scene?))
[Roman Turner] "I do, yessir."
With that he took the heavy bag from Trent and reached in for a beer.
"Ya might want to down a couple before ya go in."
[Trent Brumby] [no idea. it's at the garou's pack house.]
[Kora] The last time Linus saw Kora, she was 18 and he was 15, maybe 16 on a good day. Her pale hair was died a matte black. She wore liner around her eyes and smudged black shadow, a half-dozen rings through her ear, all silver, and painted her nails - religiously - black or blue or deep, bruised purple. She was a couple of inches shorter then, still growing, and he was shorter than she - two years younger, with even more growing to do. She had a heavy, olive green backpack on her back, the sort people wear hitching around Europe and a guitar case in hand, and she was going to Germany. And she wasn't coming back.
That was before.
This is now.
Things change. The word turns.
The black dye is gone. Her hair is pale blonde, and long now. It hasn't been cut in six years except to excise the remnants of that old dye job. Her nails are bare tonight. The rings through her ears are gone, the holes closed. There's just one, which hums with life enough that it might be a fetish, this old piece of worked iron struck with runes, hanging from a hoop of iron nipped through the inner cartilage of her left ear.
The wrestling about is rather undignified. Kora lets it go after some passing show of strength. Maybe that's her answer as to how one becomes Jarl while still a cliath. The other answer is rather less pleasant: everyone left except for a Rotagar following tweety bird. Beat him, and it was mine by default.
So - grinning, now this expression that is more quicksilver, brighter somehow, more girlish than her usual half-smiles - Kora lets Linus go and
" - no." corrects him. "My packmates. Hotness - " a hint of asperison. " - is Sparrow, known as Resistance. And that" - her boyfriend "is Roman, known as Fate."
Then Trent arrives, at the door, bearing gifts of beer and fruit. There's a dusky gloom in the church, except in the circle of light from the electric lantern.
"Okay," Kora says, low-voiced as a sort of aside to Linus. "that's the boyfriend, actually."
[Linus] "Roman! Buddy. Lookin' good mate. Resistance I...haaahahaha, ok that one's took easy. I'll spare you the party line- Wait, what?"
He blinks and turns to look at Kora after a moment of back and forth between the two packmates. His features have lost the sudden flush of excitement and brashness that came with his initial greeting and taken on a moment of sharp surprise. Then, he's turning toward Trent and that gaze narrows suspiciously. The Church is a good distance between them, but he is no less offering a steely glare.
As steely as things get anyway.
"...That's the boyfriend? When the fuc-...when did that happen?" Then. More blinking. "I'm getting distracted. Not that boyfriend-" He waves almost dismissively at Trent and turns back to Kora, hooking a thumb over his shoulder at...a nearby wall, eyes rolling.
"Hermodr" The name sounds practiced. Accented near perfectly by the young man and delivered with the same sort of comfort as the word 'Cat'. "Nothing but muscle, frost, a dark black dun of a charger and a War stave that looks like it could crack a Thunderwyrm in half. The Man is Large like lions and Bill Cosby..."
And it isn't until Trent comes into the Church, that Linus' attention actually returns to the moment. Those same suspicious and narrowed eyes cast at the Kin.
"So..." A pause, lips pursing. "...You got a thing for blondes and deathmetal huh?"
[Roman Turner] He actually stepped up in front of Trent, fishing another beer out and handing it to the Kin with a muttered.
"Told ya, ya'd need it.
Then he lifted his voice.
"Show some respect for your sister's Man. This is her Mate. The father to be. Give congratulations."
He tossed a beer through the air towards Linus.
"And toast the man. Try not to barf on his shoes."
[Trent Brumby] "Bad mood?" It didn't sound like Kora was in a bad mood, but he's been waiting for it. He really expected her to be this hormonal crazed lunatic as far as rumours and pregnant Garou women go. So far he's been pleasantly surprised, but Roman's warning has him in this strange hopeful and relieved twisted moment, that has him glancing to where Kora has just finished tussling with another man.
That twisted moment turns to something else that he swallows down. She's smiling in his direction even if not at him really. He's watching them from just inside the front door, his body still turned to Roman, who's stole the bag containing the beer. His eyes are pale gray, his skin has enough colour to it to know he's not completely Caucasian, and the black hair is cropped short enough to stop it from rolling into thick curls, shorter on the sides then the top. He's also got a very solid build to him, to know he's physical in a job or hits the gym, or both.
Let's not forget the Pure Breed which is far from that of Fenrir.
"I wouldn't say I have a thing," Trent replies to Linus, shifting his gaze from Kora to the other directly. He keeps his voice low and measured, but there's this underlying tension to him.
[Linus] (Willpower: Father..to...WHAT!?!)
[Linus] (LOL. Soak!)
[Linus] (Hello and good morrow to you too Kahseeno!! You trollop of a harpy!)
[Trent Brumby] [haha!]
[Kora] "Yeah," Kora says quietly, affirming Hermodr as the other boyfriend. There's not humor in it though, just this quiet sort of rooted strength, right, this underlying confidence in the totem, and the bond she shares with her packmates. "Just me, a pair of kick-ass Coggies, and Hermodr."
"Hey hey - " and whatever she was going to say. Knock it off, or he's mine or something like that now that the flush of color - passing, that, the collision of worlds, the brother, the old world, where she was a kid of 18, and the new one, where she is so far divorced from her old self that it is like stepping out of an alternate world into a new one, remarked and remade - fading from her cheeks. Whatever she was going to say, as she broke away from Linus and crossed the dark stone floors inlaid with marble, tracked with mud and damp leaves and all matter of other things in from outside, toward Trent is pretty well lost.
- goes out the window, as Roman spills the beans. Kora closes her eyes. She's a tall creature, taller than both Sparrow and Roman, and the boots give her another good inch of height. There's tension to her narrow shoulders, in her spine, running like a satin ribbon pulled taut through her body.
A glance at Roman.
A glance at Linus, and a level look, this half-curve of her smile for Trent.
"This is my brother, Linus, baby." The endearment is a deliberate thing, really. Her curving mouth edges briefly wider. She glances back at Linus. "And yeah, he's mine." Maybe the brother didn't hear the rest, damnit.
[Linus] Linus climbs back into his chair again as Trent approaches, a brow perked and face a stoic calm that seems a little bit too put on to be taken seriously. His jaw pushes forward and his gaze slims the closer and closer Trent gets. Then Roman chimes in and earns Linus' attention briefly, confusion flooding his face for a split second.
"Well don't you- WHAT?!"
Linus all but shrieks, face twisting into an explosion of utter shock. Shock enough that Linus forgets he is sitting and attempts to turn on Kora with obliterating accusation. Then, ankles tangle up in wooden chair legs and he goes tumbling off to the side in a slow descent that he seems fully aware of in the moment (If the wide eyed 'Oh Shit' on his face is any indication) but incapable of doing anything about.
There is a loud
Thuwunk
A whoosh of air and then silence from the young man. Followed of course by a soft and pained.
"I'm gonna be an uncle?" Pause. "Ow."
[Sparrow] She smiled at Trent when he came, even gave a little wave. She's wearing pants, though, which is probably far from the description Kora's given. Unless, of course, Kora described her packmate as dark, tan, and intense. Her eyes are pretty, she's not bad to look at, and there's a juxtaposition between her calm demeanor and her distinctively
She blinked, and just watched with wide eyes as the world passed. Maybe it was going too quickly for her. Maybe she couldn't figure out what to say. Or, maybe, that eggroll was just really fucking good.
But now? Now Kora's using terms of endearment, and Sparrow shoves some more food in her mouth. Her stomach growls with satisfaction.
[Roman Turner] He paused for just a moment with the beer nearly to his mouth as Linus fell off the chair. But like all things that shouldn't be funny as hell, it was funny as hell to Roman. He started laughing, pointing with the bottle.
"Fainted didn't ya?! Hold still fella, I'll get ya some mouth to mouth."
He looked at Sparrow, the pointed at Linus.
"Go get'em! Mouth him! I'll jump on his chest."
[Trent Brumby] The way that Kora approaches him, where he's standing just inside the door, and with Roman now in front of him, has him set his remaining grocery bag down. Beers are being tossed by the Coggie, the brother is falling over and calling out, but Trent moves past with a single minded focus seeing the stress lines in his mates features. He knows these things, because he's the one that gets to see the layers - don't go there, perverts.
He has mind to snap at Linus not to be screaming at Kora like that. There's this slow breath he takes to swallow it down, and reaches to touch Kora's arm instead, wanting to embrace her but having this formality that seems to be well disciplined. "I'll give him a moment," he tells Kora quietly, glancing from where Linus is owing, over to Sparrow.
Who gets a small smile and nod from him.
Then to Roman and back around to Sparrow, then Linus.
"I've got some fruit and milk," this to Kora, again quietly, letting the chaos go on around him.
[Kora] "Thank you," Kora says quietly to Trent. He comes up beside her and she leans close enough to inhale his scent, rising to the balls of her feet to plant a chaste, prim sort of kiss on his cheek. The affection is beneath the gesture, more human than the animal physicality of her greetings to her packmates. There's something the brief way she meets and holds his eyes under the tension in her body as that clatter happens behind her, Linus rising and shouting and turning and then going down in a tumble of his wooden chair.
She takes that all in in her peripheral vision, and doesn't break into a smile until her Ragabash packmate starts laughing, openly. Then she turns, "Linus, you oaf." For the clatter, that, a hint of laugher gone rueful underneath, and old affection remembered. "You best not have knocked over by Kung Pao chicken, or I'll have your ass for it."
And, then, a little more quietly, with a hint of that rare self-consciousness that Roman and Sparrow might sense distantly over the pack connection, but which only Trent is close enough to read in her. "Yeah, Linus. You're gonna be an uncle."
[Linus] "...You're a cruel fellow, Roman. A pox on your happiness, I say."
He's wincing as one hand, then the other clap on the table and pull him upright. He grunts with the effort and pulls the chair up behind him, almost tumbling a second time in the process. A few more precious seconds and the chair's finally up and he's finally in it, taking a slow, grimace filled deep breath. A hand touches his side gingerly and then he's looking up at Kora. Directly at Kora, puffing out of his nose with a frank sort of...
"You're telling Mom she's gonna be a Grandmother."
Because if Linus' tone is any indication, that tid bit of news is going to go over like a Freight train at 140.
Then, around toward Trent, puffing out his cheeks.
"All kidding aside, mate, congratulations." A pause. "Ow." Rubbing his side again and leaning forward on the table, one arm stretching out, hand making grabby motions toward the beer in Trent's grasp.
"Beer me, Hubby. Gots me a powerful want a drunk."
[Kora] Linus informs Kora that she's telling Mom, with that direct, frank look on his face. "I think I'll leave that to Roman, yeah?" returns Kora. Dryly, with a direct look at the named packmate.
[Roman Turner] "Sure thing Miss Kora, Ma'am. Just jot down that number and I'll call her first thing in the morning. Maybe send her some flowers to sweeten the deal."
[Sparrow] "... I'mma pray for you, Romi," she says with a mouthful of eggroll, "mamas are dangerous things. I think Sorrow threw you under the bus here."
[Trent Brumby] Nodding his head towards Roman, who had thrown a beer at Linus earlier, but it had probably ended up clattering and skidding across the floor somewhere if it hadn't outright broken, "He has the beer." Since the heavy bag had been stolen by the CoG Ragabash when Trent walked in the door and offered the beer.
"You want one?" he asked Kora, trailing a hand from her upper arm to her elbow before sliding it away and stepping back. Leaving her side he's going to fetch her one anyway. There's that one drink rule apparently. He'll get Linus one while he's there, and one for Sparrow too. He also foresees a second beer run in short order.
I'm the only fucking one happy about this. His own words are screaming at him from the back of his brain; a conversation he'd had with Kora one night recently enough. Try as he might, all this negative association with this pregnancy is not sliding off his back like a water on a ducks.
Having grabbed a variety of beers, he starts dealing them out. "I'll tell her." This, unlike the others, is serious.
[Linus] "No."
A pause. Linus pulls up to his feet to regard the surrounding number. The smile on his face is vaguely wistful. Somewhat...disturbed, but genuine.
"Kid coming's a lot of responsibility. A lot of..." He closes his eyes and there is a curse in his next breath. Nothing audible enough to trigger Roman but it's in his face with the pain of standing. The eyes open and he looks up with a chuff of humour.
"Shit. Who else do you got in mind to take it in after the birth, Sis?" His head is shaking slightly, almost in disbelief at the Jarl of Maelstrom.
[Trent Brumby] Right there.
Linus' remark has him whip his head around and glare at the other Garou. His heart rate shoots through the roof and this stricken look that is overcome only with a sudden flare of anger, rises in the usually very reserved Kinfolk. Pale eyes burn with this glare from one sibling to the other, who happens to be his mate.
In a few seconds flat, his chest is rising with this sudden, deep breathing.
"Who the fuck do you think?" It comes out of his mouth before he stops it, and it's definitely aggressive.
[Roman Turner] "How about it's father? Hello? Fella is standing right here."
[Linus] Linus gaze snaps toward Trent. Narrows slightly. The jaw sets. A flick of a glance is cast at Roman and the lips peel back slightly. Not a grimace. Not a growl. Just a tightening that exposes teeth in vague exasperation. This lasts...a few seconds. He knows moments like these, it's written on his face. He knows them like his own hand print in the snow a dozen times over.
He knows a word right now would spark something vicious, more than likely off his own tongue. That was Fenrir too.
Trent's the Father.
Trent's Kinfolk.
Trent's not Fenrir.
And Linus isn't a Modi.
He flicks his eyes from the Ragabash and the Kinfolk, briefly passes Resistance to test the Ahroun's own waters, before finally settling on Kora with a hand held up in an ambiguous gesture of 'Well?'
[Roman Turner] "As for who tells Miss Kora's Ma, it should be Miss Kora along with her Mate in a show of respect. Ya don't want to break the woman's heart more than life has already bruised it. If she wants support from the pack, she has it. In all things we are as one. And really, do we need to talk about who is going to do the hard work once the child is born? Plenty of time to spend on that when it's not making supper cold and upsetting the proud parents to be."
[Trent Brumby] "With all due respect. Fuck your brother, Kora." That one word does spark a burning fire, and it makes Trent look far from his usual self. He's got this pent up aggression that seems all sorts of eager to come out tonight, considering the points that are being spoken about so openly and rather flippant as to his role in the matter. It's just that, the fear he has.
Roman adds his two cents, and gets Trent looking at him, jaw tight and temple pulsing. "I am going to do the hard work."
"Do you think I turned my back on my fucking Tribe for shits and giggles?" Looking over at them, not so much Kora, but he's really upset right now. "You think they like it? When Kora made me hers, it makes me Get of Fenris whether any of you like it or not."
"That is my mate. My child. I will honour our Tribe and raise it as she or he should be. You don't get to look at me like that, he who just walked in out of fucking no where and start making demands of my mate. You want to come and shut my mouth? You come do it."
"But that child is mine."
[Roman Turner] He had tried to defuse things and instead Trent took it as more of a challenge. Fenrir lived for challenges. Fortunately Roman was not Fenrir.
"Excuse me Mister Trent, I weren't saying ya couldn't do the hard part. I was trying to calm everyone down for supper rather than rush head long in to what's taking on the wrong bent. It's a happy moment when family comes together. It's a joyous thing when a child is conceived in love. But this is turning in to more of a land grab than a celebration. So, with them words to think on, I'm gonna go do my rounds. And by the way, we ain't all Fenrir. Just an FYI."
He snagged his hat and waved from the door.
"I hope to find y'all alive next time I come this way. Night y'all."
And he was gone.
[Roman Turner] ((Sleepy time))
[Trent Brumby] "Like you can fuckin' talk," muttered under his breath. Like many, when angry, he see's little reason. He see's only Romans face seconds before the Garou had puked on his shoes when hearing the news about pregnancy. So much for celebration and joy.
[Kora] Kora glances back at Trent, lingering a moment, his fingers on his elbow, before he steps back and away, going to retrieve a beer or two from Roman. Without other outlet for her hands, the Skald slides them into her front hip pockets. "No," Kora is beginning to say, a lingering backward glance at Trent as he breaks away, searching briefly for his eyes. "I should tell her. I will." There's a firmness underlying that, a certain directness and works its way up through her tone, making it iron. And all that's forgotten, really, caught up in this -
The strange quintet are in the shadows of a long-abandoned church. The sun has long since set, and an autumn chill works its way in through the doors, through a handful of broken windows lining the gallery. The tension there - between the mated pair - is quickly devoured by the sudden flash of aggression between kin and Garou. Kora goes still, sharpened, takes a step forward shadowing Trent, but not shielding him. Not yet.
She's a half-step away from interrupting the line of site between Godi and kinsman. Whatever she was going to say dies in her throat. "Fucking hell - " Kora rounds on Trent. She doesn't move, not toward him, she's half-rooted in place on the stone floor, her dark eyes sparking flame, flint against steel, glowering at Trent, this rain of sparks in her dark eyes, the tension in her suddenly and surely sickening.
Then, with a sort of snap to her movement, she turns back to Linus. "Trent's mine, Li. My fucking mate. I'm not giving away our fucking kid to some goddamned stranger." This underlying frustration, deep and abiding. " - for fuck's sake, when I'm dead, I want them to know my fucking name."
[Sparrow] She is watching those gathered, and it's not so much impassive as... ready. If she has an opinion, it's ill-formed. If she has words, she's waiting to use them. Of, conversely, maybe she doesn't have an opinion. She's quiet, though. As she has been most of the night, the Child of Gaia has failed to say much. her attention flickers, and she inhales.
She clenches her jaw, and something starts to flare. perk. Bristle. And is forced down- she's disgustingly calm.
She opens her mouth to say something, and it is interrupted. She takes a step back.
She turns.
And follows her family.
[I gotta get ready for work, sorry for being so quiet!]
[Linus] Fuck your Brother, Kora
"...Brings back memories..." Muttering. He leans back on his heels though as Kora speaks, tenses and flushes the air with ire. The frisson, that ozone smell of Rage peels the air and curdles what little civility might be left. Linus-
-is Fenrir. A Fenrir is a Fenrir. Just like a Shadowlord is a Shadowlord and a Fury is a Fury. He knows the tribe and what it expects and he knows how it's supposed to work. He also knows-
"Bone~Writer." A pause, eyeing Kora evenly. Meeting Trent's gaze right now would probably...be a bad idea. Kora said it. He's hers. They'd deal with it.
"They call me Bone~Writer. Cliath Godi to the Get of Fenris. I come from the Blood Drunk Sept." A deep breath, leaning back again to begin buttoning his coat.
"I talked to Hermodr. I like him. I like what he has to offer. More importantly, I like what he demands in return." Nodding. Matter-of-factly. Assuredly. "He says I'm good. That we're...good. So, big Sis, you and the Family-" An errant hand and finger is left to flap in the air, motioning a circle around at the gathered that were once here in the Church "-Decide how you want to play that. You need a Seer."
And finally, his eye flicks off at Trent. There is no narrowing there. Less than anger. More than sympathy (No such thing). A frankness.
"...In more ways than one." And he sits back down again, the White box plucked up from the table, fingers slipping past the lid.
"So i'll be here when you decide how you want to play this. After that..." Nodding again, a dumpling between his fingers "...I'll tell you why you're wrong." And the dumpling vanishes into his mouth.
"Better catch the other two, Jarl. Gotta keep the rounds."
[Trent Brumby] Kora looks at him, swears at him, knocking him down a few notches while she's at it. He had glanced to her, registered the glowering look, and glanced away again - not towards Linus either, the one that sparked this reaction in the first place. Licking his teeth behind a closed mouth, he swallows any other tirade down, shutting up.
Doesn't mean he's not thrumming with it, this desire to lash out at someone who's trying to get between him and his child - or so he thinks.
Two Garou have already left. He's thinking maybe it's better he leaves too, and let the two siblings work it out. In fact, it's probably the better option really, but he still has this need to stay and defend himself; Kora's choice.
[Kora] There's this flare of her nostrils, this riveted tension written into her spine, screwed into it, making those sinuously articulated joints stand stiffly, the bony prominences clear in matched and marching rows, pricked out against the sort material of her t-shirt, faintly visible through the cotton hoodie, too, fitted to her body as she prefers - still lean. Only Trent is close enough to her to see the physical changes her pregnancy makes to her body, the reaction to the hormones loosed in her blood.
"she who offers sorrow - " the rage is banked again. Just banked, but there underneath, this sort of ungiving wall beneath her skin. " - from Hjaltland before Chicago, cliath and Skald and daughter of Fenris." As if brother and sister were meeting each other for the very first time.
In a sense, they are.
Things are different, now.
For one: no one has pimples.
For two: war machines.
For three: one is pregnant.
"I'm not sure you made the best impression." It is like a papered over wound. There's a sort of weary humor in Kora's voice, which is sharpened by her anger. The spark of her rage, an open thing now, not one or the other, just there, like a flame that cannot be extinguished, just the fire that has to be born. "I want you to run with us. Come fight with us. Right? Show Fate and Resistance that it's not nepotism, me bringing you in." - and that control, over it, steely and sure except where it goes molten, and the wolf shines through.
- there's something glassine about Kora's eyes, some sheen across them when she looks back at Trent, still and aware and conflicted, the spark of rage floating there, not filling her, a sort of compassion that mirrors her brother's frankness there, underneath, but still ungiving. Her hands are fists, Kora. She's angry, but not overwhelmed, holding it inside her, intent on her mate, standing there thrumming with the hot blood of his own temper.
"I have to catch up with my pack." - there's a moment's hesitation, this sharpened but hooded glance at her brother. "I'll see you later."
- and then, - well, then there's her reflection in one of those windows. And then she's gone, just like that, stepping forward, and through.
"
[Linus] He waits. Until she's gone. Until she's off in other worlds (that he's used to). He waits and watches her go and it's only until she's decided to venture off that Linus attention turns toward Trent. There is a directness there. A frankness that is a trademark of the tribe. 20 years, maybe a few more, but nothing beyond that. A war machine and a monster with pursed lips and consideration in mind.
"You're not wrong, you know." A pause. "She is..." Nodding after his sister, leaning forward on the table with the box of dumplings still in hand, chopsticks plucked up to hover inside the lid.
"...But you aren't. You deserve to raise the kid." A dumpling vanishes into his mouth.
[Trent Brumby] She leaves, disappearing just like that, and he's stuck in the same room as Linus. Church, really. He does have the choice of walking out those doors like the others just as easily, but he doesn't. Two hands rake over his hair, as if it will shake out his tension. There's a silence from him while he grapples with the adrenalin, indignation, and righteous fury he's feeling.
It's nothing new, really.
When Linus speaks, Trent looks over, leaving his hands to swing down by his sides. That temper has been slapped back, dampened down and swallowed up. "She made her choices." It's for Kora to defend those, and in a way she had today - which leaves him pleased enough. Then she bailed though, and while he remembers well the last Get of Fenris he met, it cancels out that momentary satisfaction.
"And yes, I do."
"I understand you've got some reservations, plenty do, but I'll do right by her," he tells Linus, still quite serious - he seems that sort, "and I'm willing, and wanting to learn. We all had to start somewhere." So, he's not Get of Fenris. But everyone had to be put through the drill. The kin's not running from it, not even spouting off about the lifetime he had with his blood Tribe. The moment he accepted Kora as a mate sealed his fate.
[Linus] "Trent is it?"
Linus is leaning forward, eyeballing the Kinfolk. There's no skepticism there, nor pity or sympathy for his plight. If anything, Linus' look could be interpreted by a simple phrase:
Are you kidding me?
"Kora's my sister. I haven't seen her in more than five years...seven at this point I think but I know my Sister well enough to know she ain't a slacker. She ain't a half-heart and she sure as shit ain't no coward. She ain't stupid either, else she'd be dead by now and that means whoever she took as a mate? Ain't mine to doubt 'cause that would mean I'm doubting her."
Frank. Straight-forward. Honest. Three turns of the clock different than the Linus of before who is starting to seem more and more like an act and a show at this point.
"I don't have reservations about you. Or her. Or what you two mean to one another or how much you both need that and trust me, you do..." Nodding. Slowly.
"...between the ages of One and Fifteen...how many times did you ever talk to or interact with the True?" It is a serious question. The smile is gone and the brow is slightly furrowed. Curious scrutiny.
[Trent Brumby] The question throws him, making his brow furrow in thought and wondering where this is leading to, but searches for his memory and an accurate number. He really can't come up with one. "A handful, mostly brief." He doesn't go on to explain the complications of being male Kinfolk in a female tribe, that is always mistaken by anyone outside of the said Tribe - wait, he's outside of it now too.
So for the most part, he's left looking at Linus directly, waiting to see where this goes. If this is going to be a don't cuss at Garou deal or something else out of the left field, like this Fenrir's rapidly changed demeanor.
[Linus] "Brief, momentary meet and greets. Distant relatives that come for a visit and you get shoo'ed off into a room or corner and told to be quiet."
Pause.
"Angry aunts and old grandmothers with the sort of stares that strip skin and shit."
Pause.
"Blood stains in the laundry or sudden disappearances and...well...let's not forget that feeling you get..."
He meets Trent's eyes, head tilting forward slightly. They both know the sensation Linus is talking about. The spine shakes. The eyes dart. The room is too small. The air is too full and you're breathing deeper while standing still.
"...And you're a full grown man with an understanding of how that all works. Why it works the way it does. Maybe you even know why we're doing it." A smile. Not unpleasant. Not sad or grieving or ugly. He's smiling and nodding like a friend, waiting for you to catch up to them on the street corner. No rush. No hurry. There's plenty of time.
"...Next time we talk, you're gonna ask me a question and I...am...probably going to answer it." The chair scrapes on the stone floor and he stretches, patting his stomach. The beer is left on the table, unopened. He sniffs and wipes his nose, before re-typing the scarf around his neck and shoulders.
"Until then, you keep bringing the booze 'n food. You'll learn. Trust me." Not a threat or a promise.
Just the Facts.
The Godi is there one moment and the next there is a Pop
And he's gone.
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