Just a cry for help [Howard, Buried Hatchet, Bridget, Kristiana, Cordelia]

[Ivers] "But I love braidin' other men's hair!"

This, shouted as he stalks through the kitchen like a baby giraffe not entirely certain of how to walk correctly, is nothing that strikes what staff are still around this kind of night as deviant behavior. For the three weeks Howard spent rooming here, he was known for being intensely present for being so short on Rage and so slight in physicality. The staff all know he's a dickhead who, if he doesn't mean well, still manages to possess some modicum of respect for the Kinfolk running the place.

He never made a mess he didn't clean up before Saint Jenny arrived, for starters.

When he moves into the dining room it is without the thunder and the roar that comes with him typically. Despite that outburst, he is not in his typical fighting form tonight. The door politely swings outward instead of being thrust away from him, and unless they're facing him, Howard will sneak up on the two Fang kinswomen when he approaches the bar.

You share with Bridget and a man?

"Fuckin' scandalous," he remarks. No one's behind the bar, so Howard looks one way, then the other, before inexpertly hoisting himself up onto the bar top and hopping down on the other side.

[Kristiana Coleman] She looks over her shoulder when she hears Howard, then twists so that she can keep both him and Cordelia in sight at once. "I don't.... What would people SAY?"

[Ivers] "All sorts of things, love."

The Theurge inspects the contents of the well with a disapproving scowl on his face, hands on his hips, bobbing his head back and forth a few times before deciding that that isn't worth the effort and turning to the shelves behind him.

"You're brazen... you all lack common decency... your ancestors will be shamed until the Apocalypse and beyond... or, most shocking yet probable, of all, no one will give a shit."

He grabs a bottle of Jameson, then turns around and yanks a handful of bills out of his hip pocket.

"I know. I'm scared too."

He doesn't hop, this time, but tosses the bills by the register and ducks under the bridge like a normal person.

[Ivers] [Fuck. Take out that comma after 'probable.']

[Cordelia] "If they know what's good for them, they don't say a thing."

A beat. She shrugs and continues on, "but he is right. Usually, people here don't particularly... well... care. And if they say something, so what? Does it change who you are? No. You're a woman of principles; inaccurate gossip only makes the person spreading it look like a dumbass when the truth comes out. "

[Bridget] Buried Hatchet. Rather poetic considering he makes her skin crawl like she's being hunted. As much as she tries to ignore it, blow it off, she can't. Taggart, which sounds Scottish to her, makes the girl --who spent most of her childhood in that wilderness, who can hunt, trap, and survive out there better than some of the Mounties-- feel like a small animal caught under headlights.

Bridget looks like she could barely be the legal drinking age in the US. She would not have even been an adolescent during his time there. Meuric is called Bear for a damn good reason. He is tall, bitter, and plain damn mean when it comes to people he doesn't trust... which, frankly, tends to be a lot of people. A long time ago, he gave the better part of his heart to his mate, who destroyed it utterly. They don't talk about it in Red Deer. The Galliard wouldn't speak for months after Lily left and took Bridget with her. When he learned Bridget was abandoned with some other kinfolk in Quebec, he lost it.

And decided he'd raise her himself.

Bridget spent a lot of time around Meuric's pack, a lot of time very close to the bawn.

But the Judge sitting beside her makes her nervous as hell.

"I'd like to hear about it, soldier. But you make me skittish as hell. You mind if I--?"

She holds up the harmonica.

[Kristiana Coleman] She looks mortified, eyes on the ground now "I think...that I should go" (Because 6 am comes way too early)

[Cordelia] She looks at her, and purses her lips. The young woman takes a second, a few more, and she nods. She waits for the time being, as if she's testing the air for something. She rolls her shoulders back, "I'll see you around?"

Does she sound hopeful?

[Kristiana Coleman] "I can give you my number if you'd like."

[Cordelia] "Okay," She says, and the blonde is reaching for her phone. Numbers are exchanged. Cordelia's comes in the form of a text message reading It's Cordelia, and this is my phone number. Save it! Followed by something in Spanish that happens to be sans-accents. She frowns at her phone, obviously displeased at the keyboard function at that moment, but we digress.

"I'll call you."

[Kristiana Coleman] She grins, looking genuinely happy. After giving Cordie a quick hug, she manages a shy smile for Howard and scoots out.

(Sleeep! Thanks for the scene guys. Night!)

[Hatchet] (thanks for the rp!)

[Ivers] He doesn't linger in order to further mortify the kinswoman. Given that he derives a considerable amount of enjoyment from causing more cultured individuals to drop their monocles into their champagne glasses, that would be as clear an indication as his relative stillness, as his making particularly cruel threats towards people he has never met before tonight, that he's not exactly in his right frame of mind tonight.

Unless, of course, one takes into consideration the fact that tonight is a waning crescent moon, and that despite Howard's jovial if obnoxious attitude this was the moon that shone weakly down the night he was born. Then it is entirely possible to argue that this, then, is his right state of mind, that every other night is simply an act, a photo-negative reflection of what it is he's capable of.

He would call that bullshit. He is no more like or unlike himself tonight than he is like or unlike himself when he is profoundly inebriated. He's altered; it's a facet of himself. Of course, Patrick Llewelyn has also heard Howard loudly proclaim that all alcohol does is make people less inclined to lie before turning around and, while black-out drunk, deliver the most straight-faced lie the Galliard has ever heard his packmate say.

So, Howard doesn't hang around. He uses his backside to push open the swinging kitchen door, thus catching Kristiana's tiny smile, and he shucks her a salute before easing through the door and taking the stairs two at a time yet slowly. When he emerges at the top, the Theurge pushes his sunglasses higher up on his nose and all but tiptoes to take a seat, not wanting, for once, to interrupt.

He takes a belt off of the bottle before passing it to the newcomer.

[Hatchet] Only a few people know the origins of that name. The full story, that is. The real story. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, down to every throwaway detail. The man does not feel like someone who buries hatchets. He feels, more accurate to the name, like the very hatred and weaponry that has to be buried deep underground for the war to stop.

He flicks a brass-colored eyebrow up when she calls him 'soldier'. He doesn't argue. When she holds up her harmonica, he shrugs. "Be my guest."

[Patrick Llewelyn] Hey, dick.

You here?

The loving greeting of the boys of Caldera. Rare would be the day you found either Patrick or Howard running toward the other through a field of flowers, or really through anything -- running away from, or from the other however was much more likely. Howard tended to spend no small amount of his time avoiding Patrick if he knew he'd done something that would either a) tick his Galliard pack-mate off or b) require Prayers to Broken Stone to step in and prevent happening to begin with.

The blond haired, broad-shouldered fellow stamping his boots off downstairs could have been mistaken for a Surfer in another city; he had the blue eyes to match sun and surf, and certainly the build for it, though it was harder to tell such when he was wearing layers upon layers topped off with an old leather jacket that was sadly in need of repairs at the elbow and collar.

Prayers to Broken Stone was in possession of no tiny amount of Rage, and he brought it with him like a dark cloud; staining the air around him as he moved through the Brotherhood and headed for the stairs. Most faces he knew by sight got little more than a general jerk of his chin. Keys in the young man's pocket rattled as he jogged up the staircase; and was presently confronted by at least one new face.

"Hey," Patrick, apparently, has no such qualms about interrupting. "You seen Quinn? I got her car ready."

[Cordelia] (okay loves, I gotta get some rest, thank you so much for the scene!)

[Bridget] (bai)

[Hatchet] When Howard arrives, Hatchet's eyes drift to the bottle of whisky. He remembers the beer that he never picked up. He eyes it, but doesn't ask. And moments later, Howard's passing the bottle and Hatchet's taking it with an introduction: "Taggart. Buried Hatchet. Fostern, Stag, Half-Moon."

Then Patrick rumbles upstairs and Hatchet catches a whiff of his breeding and takes a deep breath, then shakes his head. "Fuckit, you tell him," he directs the Cliath beside him, and takes a large swig off the whisky.

[Ivers] An introduction, and Howard is silent a moment, as if attempting to remember what the appropriate response is. Maybe he's forgotten his deed name already.

"Ivers. Heir of the Ruined Day. Cliath Crescent Moon. Alpha of Caldera, under Volcano." He sniffs, then asks, "Is this where we yell 'Well met brother!' and pound each other on the chest, because--"

And there's his brother, asking after a certain capricious kinswoman.

"You fuckin' slut," he says to Patrick, with all the enthusiasm of a bored actor delivering his lines because he's been cued and wants to go home and not because he truly feels passion for the material.

Fuckit, you tell him.

There's room, albeit meager, for the Galliard to respond to the affectionate abuse before Howard either cuts him off or says, "What do I look like, a doorman? Go fuckin' knock."

[Bridget] Bridget doesn't take long before she leans forward with her elbows on her knees, thinking of what she wants to play to take her mind of today's shit. Can't get high every night, now can we?

It takes a while for the song to come floating into something they might recognize. It's because she's playing the vocal part to an unlikely song. She taps her toes to help her keep track of the melody.

If the harmonica had words, it would be saying:
I cheated myself like I knew I--- would.
I told ya, I was trouble--- you knoow that I'm noo good.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick runs his eyes over the new arrival, smells Stag and hears Fuckit, you tell him.

"Alright Precious," he says to his Alpha, nods at Hatchet and calls over his shoulder; "I'll be back in a second, we can do that whole fucking introduction shit if you want, man." Patrick vanishes to smack his fist against Quinn's door like a barbarian on the loose.

"Quinn?" There's a beat of silence. The Galliard re-appears; scratching at the back of his head; he passes Bridget, who is playing her harmonica like her life were dependent on it, and flops down somewhere that isn't occupied by a Garou. There's a moment where Patrick simply listens to Bridget, then seems to recall himself.

Patrick. Prayers to Ruined Stone, Cliath Galliard, packed under Caldera with that guy," he gestures at Howard.

[Hatchet] After taking a drink, Hatchet yawns, and passes the whisky back to Howard. "Thanks," he says, and there's sincerity in that.

Bolstered and warmed by the drink, introducing himself for the third time in as many minutes doesn't seem quite so bad anymore, so he looks over at Patrick and gives him a nod. Nobody is in the room now but those of their tribe, and some of the air of authority, of strength, of power has lessened. The fact that he's a Fostern barely even bears noting aloud, but his manner restrains it. His manner, when they all know he's their elder by rank if in no other way, tells them quite a lot about him, in fact.

"Taggart, called Buried Hatchet, Fostern Philodox of the Fianna." He doesn't mention a pack. He doesn't align himself vocally with Maelstrom. He doesn't have a laundry list of titles after that name, or even more than the one name. "I'd pound you on the chest and yell 'Well met, brother!' --" and this is in a broad, rolling, affected Scottish accent, "-- but I hear you're a slut and don't want you to get the wrong idea," he finishes dryly.

A beat. "Who is Quinn?"

[Ivers] Even if he weren't wearing sunglasses indoors, his expression would be purposefully blank as he looks at the Fostern. Howard sucks on his cheeks, then takes another powerful swallow from the bottle and turns to Patrick. In a stage whisper, he asks, "Who's Quinn?"

[Patrick Llewelyn] There's a brief curl of his lip at that.

"Nah," Idly, to being a slut, "Only on special occasions." Dead-pan, that. He gestures for whoever is hoarding the whisky to pass it across, which happens to be the Alpha he just finished calling that guy and precious in a matter of minutes. Hatchet, who in the Galliard's eyes is still somewhere south of another dick he needs to antagonize but not quite at This Guy at the next drunken celebration he attends, then asks after Quinn.

Howard answers first, because Patrick is taking a rather impressive swallow of alcohol.

"Brunette, pretty, kinda feisty." He wipes a fist over his mouth; leaning back. "She's opening a bar here called the Winchester; she's one of our crew." He sort of makes them sound like a band, doesn't he.

[Hatchet] "Special occasions, eh?" he tosses back, just as drolly and lazy as before. All the while, Bridget plays, and Hatchet hasn't looked at her again. "I'll let you know when my birthday rolls around. Haven't celebrated it in something like a decade, should be pretty special."

As dry as his tone is, it's hard to tell if he's serious or not. In any case, it dies there, and he describes Quinn. One of our crew, which to Hatchet means nothing but: Fianna. Like that one over there, playing the Harmonica. Like that guy who gave you the whisky and is wearing sunglasses indoors. Like me, cranky as all fuck.

And Hatchet's eyes are on Patrick for awhile til he gets the bottle back, taking a drink and handing it to Howard afterward.

So far he hasn't mentioned being here before. Howard was there when Paul purported to know him, Hatchet seemed know the Coltranes and the Brotherhood and asked after a Joey, but Patrick wasn't there and it doesn't seem to matter that he used to come 'round these parts. Apparently he used to go 'round Red Deer when Bridget was likely just a wee thing herself, the sort of scurrying child kept well away from the rage and unpredictability of wandering packs like the one Hatchet was a part of back then.

He doesn't bring any of that up now, either. "So they're both under your protection?" he asks, then a beat. "Bridget and Quinn, I mean." He is asking this of Howard, apparently, turning his head a few words after the sentence begins to fix his pale eyes on the Theurge. The Alpha.

[Ivers] The bottle is moving up and down the line in a sort of sensical order, passing over Bridget if only because she is using music as a means to keep her mind off the Rage assaulting her senses. Hatchet and Patrick's idle bantering makes the Theurge smirk, amused but not willing, for whatever reason, to burst into laughter, and he drinks when it comes his way. He passes it on when he's done.

Of the two of them, Howard is the less likely candidate for leadership of a ping pong table club, let alone a pack. Patrick has the build, the Rage, the auspice that tends to align most closely in others' heads with their ideal Alpha. He's sardonic and more than a bit depressed, but he looks like a leader. Howard, on the other hand, looks like a fuck-up in every sense of the word between his punk rock attire, the cloud of marijuana and tobacco smoke hovering around him, the untamed mass of curls and the foul language. Theurges rarely make effective Alphas because they're too easily distracted, and this one can't even claim that; he just doesn't fucking care.

He's passing the bottle back to Hatchet when the question comes his way.

"Why," Howard asks; Bridget has disappeared, either gone so quiet she has ceased to exist or excused herself to go to the bathroom, "you want one of 'em?"

[Hatchet] That doesn't even make Hatchet's eyebrow -- a rather expressive portion of his anatomy if ever there was one -- go up. He just looks into those semi-reflective surfaces of Howard's shades and replies, quite simply: "I just want to know that they're protected, Heir. They're my kin, too."

[Patrick Llewelyn] "Yeah, do it. I'll explode out of a cake or something."

Patrick says like they're mentioning something entirely run of the mill and takes another mouthful of whisky when it comes around to him. He un-zips his jacket then and shrugs it off; tossing it over the back of the sofa he's taken over as his own. Beneath it begins one of the many layers Patrick had thrown on in a bid to ward off the cold.

The sweater is charcoal; and he pushes the sleeves up both arms; the hint of a white copy beneath glimpsed as he does.

There aren't any rings, or watches or any necklaces around the Welshman's wrists, fingers or neck to suggest what corner of the globe he hails from. His accent betrayed only time in Boston; he certainly didn't sound Irish, nor attempt it while they're sitting there. Were Bridget not fleeing, or excusing herself to wherever it is she does, she might have farewelled him in another language and received some quiet departing salutation that hinted at his heritage.

But she doesn't, and it doesn't occur.

Instead, Hatchet asks if Bridget and Quinn are theirs, and Howard asks if he wants one. The Galliard is frowning, and running the tip of a knuckle over his brow. "Well, define protected. We're not part of this Sept, we aren't that long here. But when they're around, we'd stop anyone getting on their asses."

A beat.

"But we're not claiming them as ours alone. You wouldn't want us to, anyway."

[Ivers] Body language is a powerful indicator of lupine emotion, but even in one so far removed from his animal nature that it takes a bond to a Wyld totem to infuse him with some appreciation of his other half it says more than his face does. Although he doesn't slump or put a hand to his chest, he does relax somewhat, as though a sharp tension has dispersed.

Patrick speaks, at length, explaining that they're not part of the Sept, and what their terms of protection consist of. The Alpha sighs at his showing their hand, and he idly punches him in the arm before speaking.

"Shut the fuck up." Howard winces and shakes out his thwapping hand. "Lemme put it this way: you know that fuckin' drug dealer outside? What's-his-nuts: the tree hugger. Anyway, he busted up Bridget's lip bein' a right cunt tonight." As if he can feel Patrick's reaction, he turns his head and adds, "I know." Back to Hatchet: "Now, I wouldn't call this protecting, y'know, since I wasn't there? And I can't really kick his ass, because, I mean, look at me."

He gestures to himself, as though Hatchet can judge for himself how effective a fighter this particular Theurge would. There have been scrawny Theurges affiliated with Maelstrom who could hold their own in fights against larger opponents if not win them. Heir of the Ruined Day is not one of those Theurges; he isn't even affiliated with Maelstrom.

"I can, however, convince a spirit what owes me a favor to, say, share with him the joy of venereal infection. Yeah. And then while he's weak... maybe convince bigger--
He looks to Patrick, pointedly, before repeating the gesture with Hatchet. "--stronger Fianna to go bust a few of his teeth out, yeah?"

[Ivers] Body language is a powerful indicator of lupine emotion, but even in one so far removed from his animal nature that it takes a bond to a Wyld totem to infuse him with some appreciation of his other half it says more than his face does. Although he doesn't slump or put a hand to his chest, he does relax somewhat, as though a sharp tension has dispersed.

Patrick speaks, at length, explaining that they're not part of the Sept, and what their terms of protection consist of. The Alpha sighs at his showing their hand, and he idly punches him in the arm before speaking.

"Shut the fuck up." Howard winces and shakes out his thwapping hand. "Lemme put it this way: you know that fuckin' drug dealer outside? What's-his-nuts: the tree hugger. Anyway, he busted up Bridget's lip bein' a right cunt tonight." As if he can feel Patrick's reaction, he turns his head and adds, "I know." Back to Hatchet: "Now, I wouldn't call this protecting, y'know, since I wasn't there? And I can't really kick his ass, because, I mean, look at me."

He gestures to himself, as though Hatchet can judge for himself how effective a fighter this particular Theurge would. There have been scrawny Theurges affiliated with Maelstrom who could hold their own in fights against larger opponents if not win them. Heir of the Ruined Day is not one of those Theurges; he isn't even affiliated with Maelstrom.

"I can, however, convince a spirit what owes me a favor to, say, share with him the joy of venereal infection. Yeah. And then while he's weak... maybe convince bigger--"

He looks to Patrick, pointedly, before repeating the gesture with Hatchet.

"--stronger Fianna to go bust a few of his teeth out, yeah?"

[Bridget] (Jesus, guys. I'm sorry about that.)

[Hatchet] They are making steady progress through that bottle, just as Bridget made steady progress from the room and into her bed, or someone's bed, or something resembling a flat surface. Or maybe she got lost on her way to the toilet. Regardless, the room has no more music to it now that she's gone.

With the hood of his jacket back one can only catch the barest glimpse of the ugly scar along the right side of Hatchet's throat, the way it all but clips his earlobe and opens wide until it tapers again to his jugular. There's the notch cut through his eyebrow, but the rest of him is covered and all the stories the scars suggest, with it.

His accent isn't. Sometimes hints of Scottish, lilts of Irish. He spoke a single word of French out on the docks and spoke it with ingrained perfection. His English borrows from every region of the country and its northerly neighbor. Some words he pronounces with a distinct Spanish alternation between tight and loose.

Define protected, Patrick says, adds a note that tells Hatchet a bit about what Patrick thinks of himself, or what he wants people to think of he and his packmate. Hatchet just sits, and absorbs it, and drinks his whisky on his turn. For all his trouble, poor Prayers gets a punch in the arm that wouldn't kill a wayward fly that happened to land on the Galliard's sleeve.

Hatchet's eyes drift back to the curly-headed Theurge. As before he seems to absorb more than react. When that I know comes out of Howard's mouth the corner of Hatchet's quirks a bit, tugs, then relents and lets him get away with not bursting into laughter.

Howard gets to the part about calling in a spiritual favor to give Paul genital warts or firepiss or god knows what, and that restraint doesn't last much longer. By the time the Theurge gets to suggesting-but-not-quite-suggesting that Fianna such as Patrick and Howard pay Paul a visit and 'knock his teeth out', which Hatchet has to hope is just watered-down code for 'feed him his testicles',

the Philodox is turning his head away, covering the lower half of his face with loose fingers, trying not to let go of what would surely be booming laughter. His eyes squeeze shut and mostly he just grins, but there are snicker-like sounds coming from behind his hands, and his chest is shaking slightly for a moment or two.

He sniffs. He regains his composure. He turns back to the two of them. "Well," he begins, "that's good to know. So perhaps it's equally good for you both to be aware that if the current elder of the Fianna in this area is beneath my rank or ..." he pauses, looking for the right word, perhaps to be politic, perhaps to just not be a dick, "found wanting, then it's a charge I'll be taking up again."

Nothing else is said there. No promises, no threats. An exchange of information: you knock teeth out because these girls are your friends, your kin. So, fyi, I might be taking a formalized interest in their welfare. He drinks a mouthful of whisky. It's settling into him. He's relaxed. Relaxing.

"But given the speculative nature of the whole matter, it's really neither here nor there," he adds, a trifle dismissive of what he just said himself. He looks at the bottle, and his hand around it, and shakes his head a bit. If he watched television or knew anything about the internet he'd know exactly how similar he sounds now to a certain black president (not Clinton) when making a supposedly off-the-record statement about a certain black musician (not Whitney Houston): "Paul, he's a... jackass."

Sort of a sigh, that. He passes on the bottle.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Howard socks him in the arm, and Patrick just turns his head and glances down at the appendage, then at his Alpha shaking down his fist. His eyebrows say it for him: What the Hell, man? before Prayers to Broken Stone is leaning back; crossing one leg over the other and settling his fingers over his mouth; elbow on the arm of the sofa.

He listens, then, more than he interjects.

Someone could take that for the obedience of the pack-mate to the Alpha's command, but with Patrick it more honestly comes across as a well I tried, let him do it manner of expression, in body and the manner he studies not his Alpha, or the new come (newly returned) Fostern but some patch of space between the table and floor.

Hatchet concludes that Paul is a jack-ass, and Patrick stirs without removing his eyes from their focus. "He's one of a number I've met that are so far."

[Bridget] The Rage was so strong in the room once she was done, between the Galliard and Philodox, the conversation so intense, that Bridget had to excuse herself quietly and go bugger off in her shared room for a while. She sorts through her things, does some sit ups, changes into PJs, brushes her hair and all that jazz...

...before returning when things "felt better".

Which happens after Hatchet starts snickering, apparently. She heard little or nothing of their entire conversation and emerges to take up a spot near one or both of the Caldera boys (if at all possible), even if that meant sitting on the floor. Bridget wears Calgary Flames pajama pants and a black athletic thank that reveals what neither of the Calera boys have seen.

Scrawled across her back, peeking out from behind her shirt, is the head of a blackbird on her right shoulder. The left has the head of a bearcub. It looks as if both forms are fully illustrated behind the shirt. It is unclear whether or not she has more hidden ink, but it's likely.

Bridget grabs for the whiskey bottle, "Hey, hand some of that over."

[Bridget] (TANK*)

[Ivers] "Oh, come on, they're not that bad."

Ever the oppositionalist, were Howard Ivers.

"I mean... what, just because every single male we've met likes to whip out the old junk and compare shafts... that doesn't make jackasses. It makes them werewolves. Big, beautiful, questionably homosexual werewolves!"

And here comes Bridget, who by now has to be used to the accusations of gaiety being tossed around in the presence of the Fianna. Howard accepts the bottle, takes a long belt, and is about to pass it to the kinswoman when she grabs for it. He holds it back out of reach, his long arm disabling her retrieval process, and lifts his heavy eyebrows until they're visible over the rims of his sunglasses.

Drink has loosened his affect somewhat. He tries so very hard not to smile.

"Oi," he says, restrained laughter staining his voice. "Whaddaya say?"

[Ivers] ["... make them jackasses," not "make jackasses." Sheeyit.]

[Hatchet] During a lot of this conversation, Hatchet's been giving Patrick long looks. It's not that big of a deal, he looks long at anyone he looks at. He's considering. He's thinking. And it's hard to tell what it is he's thinking. Some people react defensively, quickly, if you keep your eyes on them for more than a second or two. Some just ignore it. Some return it. But it's not a test. It's not a gauge of who they are. He watches people while he talks to them or while they talk to him, and he just happens to sometimes look at Patrick when he is neither talking not listening to Patrick.

That's all.

Bridget comes back and again, Hatchet's eyes are on her before her feet make it past the threshold of the common room archway. There's still light in his eyes from the brief laughter, still a faint curl to his mouth. He glances at the ink as she sits back down, and as Howard plays keep-away with the whisky.

Eventually he does look back at Patrick, though. Surprise, surprise. Another considering look. In the end he doesn't say whatever it is he's thinking, he just cocks a half-smile and looks at Howard. The smile turns into a huff of laughter, a bit flat, and he shakes his head. "Yeah, but I bet when you two act like jackasses, it's just endearing."

[Bridget] "Please," she gives a word, looking over her shoulder at him from her spot on the floor.

She blinks a few times very slowly with a smile. Paul did something very similar not but hours ago. Hatchet says something that makes her laugh despite of him just being there.

"Jesus. It's like he knows you two already or something."

The kin looks to Patrick when she says this, but soon enough she puts Howard back in her sights. She debates for some time what she wants to do about it before she decides just to raise herself up by his knee and stretching across his personal space for it.

"I've already had one of you try to get me to take my shirt off tonight to get what I want, so don't think it's going to work for you either just because you're my kinsman."

Well, at least she knows how to handle her own. Its like she's been raised with a bunch of rowdy brothers or something. Oh, wait...

[Ivers] Luckily, Bridget does not compare him screwing around with a bottle of whisky to Paul using her harmonica as a means to extract sexual favors from her. She says 'Please,' and he thinks about it, and then he takes another shot from the bottle rather than handing it over immediately.

It's like he knows them already.

He's about to respond when the female is clambering over his insubstantial lap to grab the bottle back. A sharp yet tamped-down laugh is bottled up in his throat, but it dies when she mentions 'one of you' trying to get her to take off her shirt. The Theurge leans back on the couch, sniffs again, and says, "Oh come on, if I was gonna try to get you to take off your shirt I think I could come up with a way to do it that wouldn't be confused with sexual harassment--" He pronounces it HAIR-ess-ment. "--by a person who wasn't thinkin' with his cock."

[Hatchet] "Wait, what?" Hatchet says when Bridget mentions 'one of you' -- and he doesn't know she means 'Garou', she doesn't mean 'one of you two, here, now' -- tried to get her to take her shirt off. It isn't rage that lashes through the air but attention, but even that is sudden and sharp and crackles in the air.

His eyes are on Bridget.

[Ivers] And right after his diatribe:

"Tree Hugger. Jackass. Paul. The one who's gettin' a visit from the Disease-spirit, yeah?" A beat. "Oh did I leave out the part where he took her harmonica and--ohhhh. Yeah, there was more."

[Ivers] [Empathy+Perception: DON'T LAUGH]

[Patrick Llewelyn] Prayers to Broken Stone is accustomed to being looked at.

Of course the type of looks, and their scale and diversity are worth discussion for they did vary quite a bit. There were the sort of long, unwavering ones full of disappointment from his elder brothers; the fond exasperation from his sister; the eye-rolling, shoulder-punching from Howard; the curious ones from Kinfolk and Strangers alike.

And then ones sort of like those Hatchet is giving him, those ones that hinted at notions about Prayers to Broken Stone and his tendency toward instant, and long-lived silence. To concentration on very little little before him but everything in the bigger scope; the bigger sense. The insanity of this place, this world, this fight.

A world of despair can all but be seen swirling behind those pretty baby blues.
Sometimes; he doesn't even bother to hide it.

Right now, he's not so bad, he's just not paying close enough attention; though when he does re-focus on what's happening its to hear that Paul the Tree Hugger Jackass tried to get Bridget to take her shirt -- "Son of a Bitch," Patrick expresses with little anger and more mild determination.

"I'm going to break his face on principle." That was Patrick; the voice of abrupt violent solutions.

[Ivers] I SAID DON'T LAUGH

[Bridget] [dex athletics. you'll see why]

[Bridget] Howard doesn't give her the bottle back immediately, which means she's stuck in that awkward position when Hatchet starts staring at her. He draws her attention, so she studies his face for more than a terrified split second. The most important part was that Hatchet wasn't about to split tables, not directing that ungodly rage.

Bridget said once that watching them was sometimes like having a private audience with the Metatron. It's not a stretch, by any means. But for now she says nothing and stares at the Philodox like she half expects to find herself on the edge of a volcano, in the middle of a hurricane, tossed like a fucking ragdoll. Some combination of all those.

Howard clarifies. Patrick swears. Hatchet watches the kinfolk and she returns the look quite literally like a deer in the headlights. She grows more and more tense until she can't bear it anymore. A shiver goes up the arm that is bracing her and she nearly falls into Howard's lap.

Surprisingly, she doesn't hurt herself or him, but manages to pull her fall in such a way that she misses anything important.

"Jésus-Christ, aide-moi."

[Ivers] "Jesus Christ," he echoes in English, amused rather than alarmed. "The fuck're you doin', we have guests."

[Hatchet] No one is explaining to Hatchet what happened, and for many Garou, this would send them into an interminable, furniture-smashing fury. Garou with half his rage don't like feeling confusion, are uncomfortable with ambiguity, and frustrated easily with unanswered questions -- at least, if they're Philodox. Hatchet doesn't suddenly lift the coffee table and throw it across the room

but to be honest, he looks like he could. He looks like he wouldn't think twice about it, wouldn't flinch from it. Wouldn't. Fucking. Hesitate.

The truth is that he's probably the most dangerous wolf in this room right now on sheer physical terms. He's not lived through all he has by being weak, and worse than that, he's sharp. He hasn't lived through all he has by being foolish. Granted, some of it has been sheer luck. Some of it has been the right allies at the right time. A lot of it has just been an utter unwillingness to give the fuck up when everything around him suggested that no, really, that might be the best tactic.

His attention lashes towards Bridget like a strike of lightning, and the poor thing freezes. He still has no clear picture of what happened, and has to put it together from pieces, which takes a bit longer than usual after about a third of a bottle of whisky. Paul busted her lip up by being a cunt, okay. Paul tried to get her to take her shirt off. Paul took her harmonica. Hatchet starts to slide the pieces together, fits tabs and slots, and then his mind slowly cycles back to one

very

important

word:

tried. Paul tried. He managed to cut her lip but there's no bruising, he would have been able to tell if she'd been outright struck. As it is, her mouth just looks like it got bit, or she let it get too dry, or something. It isn't swollen, as it would be from a right hook or some such. And Paul just...tried. Which means he didn't succeed. And by degrees, Hatchet re-settles. The hackles go down, the wolf circles a couple of times and then reclines once more.

His eyes close and open in a slow blink as Bridget 'falls' onto Howard's lap and Patrick promises a sort of lifeless violence. He watches Howard react to Bridget and just...

quirks an eyebrow. He turns to look at Patrick. "I could tell you the snitfit he will throw is not worth your time. I could tell you that if you attack him with fist or spirit and he plays tattle-tale that it will be a whole lot of trouble coming your way for no real good, and he'll just keep on going the way he always has. I could tell you that you might want to consider either letting this one go and filing it away to add to the charge for when he really fucks up -- not to mention secure you more firmly in the appearance of having some kind of moral highground -- or maybe think very carefully about how to proceed with calling him into account if you decide not to let it go."

He holds out his hand for the bottle, and takes it right from Howard's hand, giving him one extra to help him deal with Bridget on his lap. "But I ran a moonbridge from Salt Lake City to Chicago tonight and I think I'd just rather pretend I never had an opportunity to tell you anything because this conversation never happened."

He takes a swig. "Bridget, I do have two things to tell you, though, so listen up." He looks over at her, knowing that meeting his eyes will likely send her into a tizzy all over again. "First, if you are already that drunk --" as though that had anything to do with it, "then you shame your entire tribe. Second, don't be coy. You're too pretty and he's too horny and there are only so many layers of thin, thin cotton between your genitals."

The bottle goes to Patrick, Hatchet leaning forward until the Galliard takes it.

[Bridget] "I'm not, and I haven't had a fucking drop since Monday. Just give me the damn bottle already!" she cries like a true lush.

Don't you know what it's like being in a room with all of you? her countenance and posture say it when she can't bring her mouth to.

She's done her best, really. But the whole thing with Hatchet and then her arm giving out completely against her will just broke the poor girl's resolve. Finally, she shoves off Howard and moves towards the stairs in a fury. Really, she's terrified and hates the feeling like nothing else. What Hatchet said didn't really embarass her. She can handle that. It's just the overwhelming force of his presence that has gotten under her skin, having to deal with Paul today already had her feathers a bit ruffled.

So Bridget pads down the stairs and stalks around the vacant tavern floor until she can remember how to breathe like a normal human being again. Until her heart stops pounding in her throat like she's a goddamn rabbit. She pours herself a glass of wild turkey and makes a mental note to stuff the money for it in the register when she had a chance to go back up to her room. She needs to cool down. She needs to curl up on a windowsill, cling to the frosted glass, and just forget the insanity of the last week.

"What the fuck is wrong with you lately, Bridge?" she says to herself.

[Hatchet] Bridget wails, and then, well... she stomps out. Downstairs and all.

Hatchet presses his lips together. Puts his fingertips to his mouth. Is trying, hard, not to laugh. Or even smile. When he gets himself together, he looks at Howard and says, quite sadly: "My deepest apologies, Heir." A beat. "I owe you a hooker."

[Ivers] Now, Howard isn't the smartest person to ever roam the face of the earth... but compared to guys like Paul, he's a goddamn PhD candidate. He doesn't possess a good deal of respect for a lot of people, but that's due to his inability to sit still for longer than two minutes on a typical night more so than an inherent refusal to submit to authority. Hatchet caught him on what is one of his quieter nights, and while he still fires off quips and occasionally busts out with a comment that is entirely uncalled for and, beyond that, inappropriate, this is nothing like how he normally is.

The idea of retaliating against Paul wouldn't have entered his mind three days ago. It will be gone in another three.

When Bridget pushes off of the couch, Howard grunts, as though she's inadvertently jostled him; there's a scowl present when she takes off, akin to the scowl that is on his face when Patrick storms off, only this time he doesn't yell after her or ask those in attendance whether or not he ought to follow her. Hatchet contains his mirth, insincerely apologizes, and the younger Fiann sighs a deep, put-out sigh before conspicuously adjusting the crotch of his jeans.

"You owe me like three hookers," he mumbles, his irritation half-hearted, and stands up. "I'm gonna go home and wank myself off now, it was nice meeting you. Patrick tell him where our fuckin' house is, nuestra casa es su casa and all that shit."

And down the stairs he goes.

[Patrick Llewelyn] He takes the bottle when the Philodox leans over to hand it to him; and sits back with it, the neck dangling with what you'd imagine to be a dangerous amount of lax care from his musician's fingertips. There was still grease under Patrick's fingernails from working at the Garage, banging bullet holes out of a Kinfolk's car door.

This was evidently not a man who put too much stock in being perfectly groomed.

So, pretty much, he was every twenty-two year old you're likely to meet who also turned into a Raging Monster sometimes and killed shit. When Hatchet informs him of what he could be telling him about going after Paul, Patrick runs his tongue over his teeth and looks across at the Fostern. His expression is what you'd call attentive; he's hearing him, and certainly his level of inebriation hasn't shut off his capacity to understand English.

Good start.

"Or, you know," he says with a shrug, the careless sort. "I could admit I don't care enough to really follow through on that." A beat, Bridget exits. Patrick sort of silently huhs to himself and offers the bottle to whoever wants it next. Then Hatchet is sorry, and Howard is --

"Dude, do it before I get back and not on anything to Christen it."

-- Off Howard goes; Patrick sits forward, hugs the bottle to his chest. "I'll just keep this, then."

[Hatchet] "You'll be lucky if I can ever afford the one," Hatchet replies blandly to Howard, as the Theurge goes downstairs, presumably to his own packhouse, away from this silly place.

Which leaves him with his new grumpy best friend, Patrick. No one else to look at now. Just Patrick. Funnily enough, Hatchet's fingernails are cleaner than his, even after running across the country via a moonbridge. He has a beard but his neck is cleanshaven and his hair is longish but the ends aren't split to hell and back. He takes care of himself. The roughness of his appearance comes from the ferality of his features, the rage like lightning behind the stormclouds his eyes are so similar to.

Bridget and Howard are both gone. So only now does he say, and with a certain dark seriousness: "From the sounds of it, Bridget can handle herself just fine in the situation she found herself in. If not, she needs to learn. Nothing about her demeanor suggested she was ever genuinely afraid of being taken advantage of by Paul."

There's a pause. "She seems like a good cat in general, but there was a bit too much light in her eyes at the thought of the three of us defending her honor." He leans over, holding his hand out for the bottle. "I just don't want to see wolves of my tribe running themselves stupid around the little fingers of coy kinswomen. That's the only reason I said something." A faint smirk. "And the main reason I called her out and made her storm off in a tiff."

[Patrick Llewelyn] "She's alright, yeah," Don't lavish too much praise out there Patrick, though for what he says, there's an amount of prior thought behind it; yeah, the Galliard has had to have come to the conclusion for whatever reason earlier on, Bridget, she's alright.

"Kind of, I dunno," Patrick hands the bottle over after another swig and then sits back; tucking the thumbs of each hand under his arms. "She's got this aura of confidence and all. Great voice, performer but she just," she lifts one hand, scratches the back of his head and gestures at the abandoned couch. "Y'know, that stuff. I mean," there's dry amusement threaded through in the Galliard's voice now, his young-but-cynical, his care-but-not-about-my-shit voice.

"Howard, he doesn't care but sometimes I see it and I wanna ask them why they do it but I just don't," He cracks his first true smile so far in their very short acquaintance.

"Not much point."

He's thoughtful for a minute; his silence usually is, honestly. It's driven more by preoccupation than a lack of anything to say. "You'll meet the others though, Quinn says here, and there's this shy little Ahroun called Rory runnin' around somewhere."

[Patrick Llewelyn] [She? Look I'm switching gender here. Ahem. He.]

[Hatchet] "You know, Patrick," Hatchet says thoughtfully, leaning back with the whisky, "you are a prime example of the fallacy behind the notion that poets and artists do their best work when intoxicated somehow. I mean, y'knowm, like, kinda, I dunno, yeah."

There's no malice in the teasing, for whatever that's worth. Some people don't like it directed back at them even if they can dish it out. Some people don't like it, period. There's a relaxation of boundaries in the room right now, because Bridget is gone and because nobody else but them two Fianna are around and because they're sharing a bottle of whisky and that covers most of the multitudes of sins it inspires.

"Well," he goes on. "One or the other of them will either do something about it and find something else to be irritating with, or they won't, and it will be the same old familiar irritating." He shrugs. Patrick talks about the others; no real use talking about Bridget or Any Of That Shit, and Hatchet seems of a like mind. "I know Rory," he says, with a small nod. "I've only been gone about... eight months, I guess."

[Hatchet] [-m!]

[Ivers] [HAPPY FUCKIN' NEW YEAR I'M OUT OF HERE]

[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick makes a noise; it's something shy of an actual laugh. "I'm not a prime example of anything but the disaffection of the youth of today, man." There's nothing short of blunt sarcasm there in his voice as he leans to one side and sets first one, then the other boot on the coffee table and stretches. "Didn't you know?"

"I can't speak, I suck at poetry, and I might be a passable musician."

He gestures for the whisky, or its passed back and Buried Hatchet mentions he hasn't been gone that long. "Long enough, though. Time enough for dicks like me to blow into town." At least he's open about it.

[Hatchet] "You're an old fart in our world, Patrick," sayeth Hatchet, who is just a few years Patrick's senior, if that much. He seems older. Rank, maybe. The spirits that carry such news, the sort of spirits that Galliards talk to, tell stories that make him sound like he should be well beyond Fostern by now. It's just something about him, too, that makes him seem like an old, old soul.

"Dicks like you, dicks like any other. We make a lot of noise about how big they are but really, they're all pretty much the same in the end."

No more whisky now. He lets Patrick have it. "You seem to work pretty hard at making it clear that you just don't care. There a reason for that?"

[Patrick Llewelyn] He raises his eyebrows.

"Is there a reason why I don't care, sure. I got reasons I can hand you, but I'm not sure I should since you're a Philodox." He gestures at Hatchet with the whisky bottle. "Or is this off the record, or whatever the right word is for all of this shit that we go on about."

Patrick sits up; and infers his point by framing the fingers of his free hand on the coffee table; he's kicked his feet down now and for all that he's probably half way to drunk; he speaks his points quite well, for all that a few minutes ago he bumbled about his ums and likes like a sixteen year old girl on the phone to girlfriends. "I think the War is bullshit, is what I think.

Bunch of us, running around, headed off into combat every day that ends in a T so, what, we get the fucking privilege of staying around on the Earth a bit longer? My entire family tells me that I'm going through a phase, that I'll snap outta my funk. But I tell you what I told that Simon guy the other night, the Wyrmfoe for this Sept, yeah?

You wanna run off and play superhero, than fuck, man, do it.

I'm not saying you shouldn't, if you wanna. I'm saying I don't care. If we lose," he shrugs, leaning back. "We lose. In my opinion, the War was lost a long time ago. We're being bred like cattle for the butcher's display window because we've been instructed to run out and fight."

He draws a line through the air; there's passion to Patrick now, it's just underlined with a realist's zeal.

[Patrick Llewelyn] [I just realized I wrote ends in a T, LOL. I know I meant to write Y. Ahem. Carry on. This OOC note brought to you by Jacqui's inability to type.]

[Hatchet] The thing is -- and this was forgotten quickly because of all the time he spent in the middle of a challenge circle or tracking down assholes who poached his kin or defending himself against god knows how many whiners at moots and everyone learned that he can speak at great length -- Hatchet is a superb listener. He leans back in the sectional, he's comfortable, and he's got his hands over his abdomen, his eyes liquid with alcohol, his mind emptied by a long, wearying trip full of long, loping steps of long, tenacious legs.

The thing is, you can learn a lot about a lot by just sitting back and shutting up. You don't even have to ask a lot of questions to tease out the answers, the deeper layers, the real reasons. Ask the right one and just...

sit back. Shut up. Pay attention.

He gives a small nod with a wry tilt to his mouth when Patrick mentions this being off the record. It isn't really a question, and Patrick doesn't really wait for an answer before he goes on, but Hatchet nods anyway. The guy's drunk, or getting there. Some Garou -- maybe not all Fianna, but plenty of Half-Moons -- would rise up and give Patrick what is known affectionately in the South as a Come To Jesus Talk, after hearing him say the War is Bullshit. Lambast him, fire up his ears, bend him over his knee and give him a whoopin' for such blas-phee-min'.

Hatchet just listens to the (let's be honest, let's be blunt: clearly harano-prone-as-all-great-fuck) younger male without seeming to have much of a reaction or even opinion of what he's hearing. He listens without seeming to have any sort of judgement of it at all. Patrick finishes and Hatchet is sitting there much as he was at the start. For what it's worth, he doesn't look bored or detached. He's looking as thoughtfully, consideringly, at Patrick as ever before.

After a few moments: "Actually, I was wondering if there was a reason for why you put so much effort into making sure everyone knows you don't care," he says, and -- if Patrick isn't imagining this, though it's doubtful that he would imagine such a thing -- it almost sounds gentle.

[Patrick Llewelyn] "Ah," Patrick sounds moderately surprised that he so completely missed the point but then, he's more than slightly wasted by this point and just spent a good few minutes regaling his elder with his rendition of Why The World Sucks by Patrick Llewelyn. He sits back, tonguing the inside of his cheek a minute and then shrugs again as if he's helpless to do anything but.

Hatchet's voice is almost gentle; Patrick's finds its mirror in the Philodox's and quietens; he's not so much gentle as he's abruptly; decidedly resigned.

"Makes it easier." He downs more whisky, makes some study of the bottle. "Set them up for what they're in for from the start."

He's quiet then, Prayers to Broken Stone either because he realizes that he's just opened his mouth and told a Philodox of all Auspices that he doesn't give two shits about the greater good, or because he's wondering exactly what he did just tell the Half Moon sitting across from him. He doesn't really so much as frown as he just -- detaches -- he's there in body, turning the bottle over and over in his fingers -- but in thought -- in mind -- he could be anywhere.

Howard has seem him do it before; seen his pack-mate all but drift mentally and then abruptly return and shove people, even his Alpha away from him with far too much aggression before he seems to comprehend what he's just done. He's apologetic, but he doesn't always seem like he knows what he's saying sorry for, Patrick.

The fact that he'd drifted away.
Or that upon realizing it, his first instinct is one of aggression.

[Hatchet] Patrick is baring his soul -- the surface layers of it, or just-below-surface layers of it -- to not just a Philodox but a Fostern Philodox of his tribe. A Fostern Philodox whose very presence ignites instincts that say he's of even higher rank. He was once -- twice -- the Master of the Challenges here, placing werewolf after werewolf into positions of leadership that they either excelled in or failed miserably at. Or died, while holding. He has stated -- however privately, however 'off the record' -- his intent to take over leadership of the tribe in Chicago, and with it the guardianship of all otherwise unclaimed Kin. Like Quinn, Patrick's... friend, maybe. Like Bridget, who wants to fuck Howard, who won't pursue her.

Prayers to Broken Stone doesn't know a whole lot about this Buried Hatchet fella, but he's learning already that the man is a thinker, and that it might not be a bad idea to watch his mouth around him, because it's so very hard to tell what those thinks he's thinking are.

A few minutes ago he said something about tucking away this little transgression of Paul's, saving it for later. Wait til they have a veritable laundry list of sins to call him up for. And look, we let this go. And then we let this go. No more! The man has a manipulative streak, or at least an understanding of how such things might work. He has more honor than anyone in this building, and yet.

One hears that, and has to wonder.

Few remain in Chicago who remember what he did to a female of his tribe who ran away, rather than die for her own kin and the kin of other tribes. Those who remember, those who hear about it, still count it to his credit. And it was beyond brutal, beyond bloody. The one Garou who knows some of what he has shown himself capable of doing under a waning half moon is long, long since gone from this place, long since gone from his confidence.

Patrick detaches after that not surprisingly simple answer, and Hatchet doesn't press. He doesn't start to lecture. He wasn't waiting to hear what Patrick had to say, while writing his speech in his head. Or if he was, now isn't the time to give it. He doesn't know, has no way of guessing, that Patrick typically comes back in a vengeful fury. But he rises to his feet, which may or may not snap the Galliard out of it.

"Watch out for the ones who think it's just a cry for help," he says simply as he passes Patrick by, with a tone walking so deftly on the border between pointedly sarcastic and obtuse in its sincerity that it's nearly goddamn impossible to tell which side the piece of advice really falls to. "See you around, Patrick," says Buried Hatchet, heading for the archway, and the hallway, and eventually his 'new' room. "We'll talk again."