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."

Read more...

Brawlin' at the Winchester [Quinn, Howard, Night's Reprieve, Rain]

[Quinn] [Quinn] It's a good thing he doesn't get far. It's good that he's Garou, that he's strong enough to catch a kinswoman falling off a bar-top. Almost before she goes over, he's there, hands moving to her hips, catching her. Turning her head, Quinn barely avoids cracking her nose into the solid muscle of his shoulder, slaps it instead with her cheek. Her arms drape over his shoulder and around his other arm, and for a brief second, she's still half-perched on the bar, one leg having unfolded just a little bit too late to stop this whole thing happening in the first place.

The second passes, and Quinn carefully lowers herself to the floor, one sneaker touching down, then the other. Leaning back so that her hands are on his shoulders, she looks up at him, her face a little flushed, her heart racing from a near-catastrophe.

"Thanks," she says with a shaky laugh. It doesn't even occur to her to blame him for it. She shouldn't have been so hasty, should have simply hopped down from the bar like a normal person.

[Night's Reprieve] All these good things combine to create one very bad thing, Night's Reprieve with his hands on the kinfolk. He caught her, of course he did, but now he won't let go or at least it seems like he may have forgotten how to. Thankfully she turned her head in the fall to avoid breaking her nose, so when she carefully slides her feet down to the floor and looks up at him, there isn't blood dripping down her face. No in fact her face looks quite nice, flushed with colour from her little accident.

When she lowers herself, his hands go with her, fingertips and thumbs wrapped around her hips, and the slightest touch on his shoulders makes him forget himself for a moment. There is that, her hands are still on him also though probably without the same intent. Five seconds ago he was going to walk away, now he's about to do something incredibly stupid.

Thanks she says, and laughs a shaken up sort of laugh to which he growls. Or something of a growl. He lets out a low rumbling mmm and tips his head. Why isn't he letting go? Let go you stupid Fenrir. But he's just staring at her, with that inhuman gaze that only a Garou can give.

"You should be more careful."

[Howard Ivers] OH MY GOD I SAID NO BARE ASSES

[Quinn] He helps her to the floor, and for a moment they just stand there, staring at each other. For Quinn's part, there is no nefarious intent involved in her having her hands on his shoulder. The Godi is a solid figure to steady herself on, a place to remain until her nerves have settled. It doesn't take long at all, but Quinn looks up at Night's Reprieve with a look of dawning comprehension. Smiling a bit awkwardly, she pats him on the shoulder.

She clucks her tongue against her teeth. Moving her hands to his, she pushes them away.

"So! Uh, I think it's break time. Guys?" Stepping away from Night's Reprieve, she looks at the kinfolk, staring back at them with wide eyes. Their looks make her laugh despite herself. Going to her bag, she takes out her wallet and removes a few bills. "Can you guys go get food? Just McDonald's or some pizzas or something." Guys. Both of them are expected to go and leave the kinswoman and the Godi alone after that? They look at each other, though, and shrug. Accepting the money, they take off out the door.

This time, when Quinn perches herself somewhere, she sits on the edge of an unfinished table top. "So." One word, and one word only, but it expresses the awkwardness she feels pretty completely. Wrapping her hands around the table's edge, she kicks her feet.

[Night's Reprieve] That's all it takes. Her hands nudging his and he snaps out of it. Oh and how he feels like a complete idiot when he does. Back to work, back to business. The look fades from the Godi and he makes all sorts of promises to himself to keep it that way. If she feels awkward then it's naught but a shadow compared to the awkwardness of the Fenrir. When she steps away he clears back out into that safety zone of being X amount of distance away from said kinfolk who better Garou could make use of. He bends and picks up the fallen sandpaper from the floor and scrubs at a tabletop almost with his back to Quinn.

He really doesn't want to show his face right now.

And how he scrubs, like he's trying to break the damn piece of furniture, like it's done him some horrible injustice and is now being punished for it.

"So." He repeats and the word sound harsh even in his own ears.

Scrub scrub scrub.

If he thought running away right now would make things better he might do just that. But they would run into each other again, and it would be even more awkward because of it.

[Howard Ivers] The combination of having a fairly distinctive voice and an inability to be quiet when common sense and good judgment would dictate that such a thing is necessary makes mistaking Howard for someone else difficult. Even from blocks away, previous packmates and acquaintances have cited the ease with which they've been able to identify him simply based on the decibel level of whatever happened to be coming out of his mouth at the time.

It's morning, and he's, of course, coming down off of last night's inebriation far too slowly for his brother's liking.

"Oh, piss off, gat!" his voice comes from outside the Winchester as the two inside are trying to regain their footing. Distance and architecture conceal the fact that a thinner body is shoving a larger one. "Maybe you should tell your sister to stop fuckin' ringin' me up, huh?"

[Quinn] With is back almost to her, he can't see the look on her face when she cants her head at an angle, watching what she can see of what he's doing. Mostly she listens.

He can hear her huff of a laugh. "Please don't break the table. I spent every last dime I had on paint and varnish and the risers for the stage. Those kids just took my last twenty, and I hope they come back with food because otherwise I'm screwed until my first tips. I really can't afford to replace a table right now."

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [Son of a... Punch!]
to Howard Ivers

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [Damage + 2 + Volcano]
to Howard Ivers

[Howard Ivers] [Yeah right.]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Night's Reprieve] His head snaps up like she just said something far less polite than she actually did, but his sanding slows in pace to something more relaxed and casual. Finally he drops the sandpaper down and props himself up on the table which causes him to turn to face her. Somewhere outside there is shouting and Night's Reprieve quirks a brow.

"We should just, yeah. Nothing happened." A pause as the shouting continues, the voice is muffled from inside yet it sounds familiar. He looks from the door to Quinn and back again. "You want me to check it out?"

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Howard's voice carries; Patrick's ... not quite as much.

That isn't to say that the very distinct sounds of shoving and -- "Don't talk about sister like that, you dick!" -- THUNK a fist connecting with a face don't carry; nor Patrick's raised voice at that, presently. Outside of the Winchester, there's a fight starting.

Or finishing.

Patrick Llewelyn was shaking out his fist; glowering in he direction of his pack-mate.

[Howard Ivers] Patrick ought to know as well as anyone still living that the Theurge doesn't know when to quit. The Godi inside is starting to get this impression, and this only after only having spent perhaps an hour in his company altogether. It isn't that he's any more strong-willed or convicted than any other Cliath to ever walk the face of the planet; it's that he's stupid, and though he possesses a street smarts that lets him read complete strangers and negotiate with criminals, for some reason he loses this ability when he feels safe.

Which could be flattering, knowing that Howard considers himself safe around Patrick even when the man is capable of beating him into a pulp, but not so much when it enables him to make jokes about Patrick's sister.

They're not screwing around: Howard doesn't yell in mock outrage as he does when Patrick gives him an open-palmed thwap as a warning.

"Oi!" he says, more to get Patrick's attention than to protest the treatment. Of course he thinks this is funny. "Twenty-five is well above the age of consent in all fifty states! At least she isn't fifteen and tryin' to get me to shag her!"

Night's Reprieve and Quinn just hear silence immediately preceding that bit of brilliant logic. They miss the expression on his face, the one that usually comes before he appends a statement with ... again.

[Quinn] Quinn looks up at him, completely serious faced for all of the time it takes her to pantomime locking her lips with a key. Which she then negates with a frown and, "Wait, nothing did happen."

She turns when she hears the sound of people outside fighting, she twists at the waist and looks at the entrance. As if she'd be able to see through the walls to the outside world and see who it is causing such a ruckus out there. Reaching back behind her, she pulls her bag toward her, reaches in and pulls out the Ruger. "Nah, I got this," she says, and rises.

Peering carefully outside, she sees...

Sighing, she sets the safety and holds the gun to her side. Opening the door wider, she stands there, letting the cold air wash over her, and doesn't let it stop her from leaning against the door, arms crossed over her midsection, gun held by muzzle rather than the grip.

"I thought bar fights generally happened inside bars?"

[Night's Reprieve] "That's what I said!" He looks at her incredulously, but she's got this so he just lets out a sigh and goes back to sanding.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [I SAID, don't talk about my sister!]

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Here's the thing about Howard and Patrick.

They're mates. Good mates, over and above the fact that they're linked by Volcano they would likely still be friends even were their totem to abandon them tomorrow. Being packed under such a violent force however, does bring with it some issues. Like the fact that losing your temper seems completely valid when your pack-mate is suggesting your sister, who is the only family member who doesn't spend hours telling you all the ways you haven't succeeded yet should stop calling him for sex.

Or whatever else Howard was implying.

They may not actually mean what they're brawling about; but then again, as Patrick's fist again sails through the air with force behind it; even as it continues past Howard's jaw, he doesn't seem to be holding back as he has when Quinn witnessed them play fighting. But, they were Garou. They didn't care for injuries the same way a human would.

The Galliard grunts when he misses, and swings for his pack-mate again.

Howard is already bleeding from Patrick's first blow; and neither man seemed ready to give up just yet.

"Yeah, well at least other Garou haven't tried to mac on my face."

[Howard Ivers] Quinn comes outside to see what the hell is going on on her property, leads with a joke, and Howard--sunglasses covering his eyes, lip split from where Patrick socked him the first time--barely turns his head as he holds up a finger.

"One sec, love."

Pointing that same finger at Patrick, he acquires a tone of mock indignation.

"You leave that poor, sweet... garbage-scented Rat out of this! Who cares that she had like one tooth left her whole head? All she wanted was love! Is that so wrong?"

He can't keep this up. The thought is too nauseating.

"Your sister, however..."

[Night's Reprieve] While the fighting goes on outside, and Quinn goes to investigate, Night's Reprieve has a little chat with himself while he scrubs at the table.

"She's a lesbian, what did you expect you idiot. Duh. Rain is way hotter than you. You're not even allowed at slumber parties." A pause and he looks up into empty space. "Fuckin' slumber parties."

[Quinn] [perception, diff +2 (distracted and mostly outside)]

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Patrick's eyebrows crawl up to next in his hairline.

He shakes his head slightly from side to side and inches forward like a cage-fighter; Howard gets to "Your sister--" and Prayers to Broken Stone is on him; plowing his full body weight into the other Garou with the force of a freight train. Strapping lad, was Patrick.

"That's it!" He's yelling, as he tackles Howard.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [Nest, not next. Tsh.]

[Quinn] ...at least other Garou haven't tried to mac on my face.

At that, Quinn rolls her eyes skyward, as if asking the clouds overhead to grant her strength. Without another word to the kids brawling in the street, she steps back inside and shivers. Luckily for the Godi, Quinn's attention while he had his little chat to himself goes completely unnoticed. At least by her, anyway, and the walls aren't talking. At least not so that Quinn can hear them. "It's colder than a witch's tit out there."

It's probably the most colorful thing Quinn's said within anyone's hearing in Chicago, except perhaps Rain, who had the benefit of spending the night downing beers with the Fianna woman.

The gun goes back into her bag, and while Night's Reprieve continues sanding away at a table, Quinn once again uses a bar stool as a boost up onto the bar itself, swings her legs over, and hops down onto the other side. Much more gracefully than the last time she came down from it. Picking up her own scraper once more, she begins peeling away the finish. What was on there is yellowish and faded and chipped and worn. The new finish should be significantly classier.

"Ah. I should call the guys and tell them to use the back entrance," she says, fishing her cell phone from her pocket and dialing the number. She flashes Night's Reprieve a lopsided grin and rolls her eyes, shakes her head. When they've been duly warned, she sets to work again.

"So. How'd you get to Chicago from Nawlins?" she asks, her accent on New Orleans laughably exaggerated. She moves forward from that strange moment of...something...easily enough. Quinn's good at moving forward from things that are uncomfortable to talk about.

[Night's Reprieve] He spins around when he hears Quinns voice again. Colder than a witches tit and he almost spits. That's the second time this morning that he hasn't been entirely sure that he heard her correctly. Maybe grandpa fenrir's senses are going in his old age. She doesn't talk about what's going on outside, and Night's Reprieve stares at the door for a few moments after she has closed it. But he doesn't ask, not until she mentions something about using the back door.

She rolls her eyes, shakes her head, grins at him and he grins right back but it's a nervous kind of should I be grinning? I am confused, type of grin.

"Greyhound." He says, thinking that she means literally how did he get here. "What's going on outside?"

[Howard Ivers] [WHAM!]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Howard Ivers] [DAMAGE]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Quinn] "Boys letting off steam right in front of my meal ticket," she says with a forced smile. Then she shrugs. "Patrick and Howard," she continues in a way that says that should explain everything. "Those two always seem to be going on about something."

Putting her elbow into it, she continues grinding away the layer of finish on the bar. Her hair is pulled back into a ponytail, the hair swinging side to side with each scrape of the counter. She's dressed as she usually is, in a t-shirt layered over a long-sleeved shirt. Today's is an old Poison shirt with a skull and cross-bones. Hidden by her place behind the bar are the words Hardcore Rock 'n' Roll. The tattoo on her right forearm is clearly visible, the birds wrapping up from her wrist and disappearing beneath her rolled up sleeve.

"And I mean, why? Why did you come to Chicago? Seems a bit of a jump, don't you think?"

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [Ack! Soak!]
to Howard Ivers

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [er, add a dice to that. Derp, derp.]
to Howard Ivers

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [BLAMMO! Dex+Brawl]
to Howard Ivers

[Howard Ivers] [THUMP]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Howard Ivers] [DAMAGE]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [OW, YOU DICK THAT HURT.]
to Howard Ivers

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [SOCK!]
to Howard Ivers

[Prayers to Broken Stone] [Daaaamage your face]
to Howard Ivers

[Howard Ivers] [ACK!!]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Howard Ivers]
to Prayers to Broken Stone

[Howard Ivers] Howard lets out a yelp as Patrick tackles him, the two of them crashing to the frigid, slush-covered sidewalk with a thump of meat and bones, and although Patrick is the one who initiated this rumble on the concrete, he isn't the one who throws the first punch: the Theurge smacks him in the side of the head with a left hook that does little more than further piss off the Galliard, and a second later they're both throwing punches.

The Galliard is bigger and stronger than his brother. Although they tend to be, this fight is short by even their standards: Patrick clocks Howard in the nose, at which point the smaller man realizes he is pretty well and fucked if he keeps fighting.

So he starts making a scene.

"Stop hitting me!" he yells, equal parts terror and amusement in his voice. So Patrick hits him again, the smacking of fist against flesh producing a half-scream, half-sob. "Jesus Christ get off me you big ape you're squishing my organs!"

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Patrick knows his brother's dirty tactics when they're brawling, so he says nothing while Howard starts bellowing about his organs getting squashed and just sits there atop him, effectively pinning the smaller, slighter male beneath him until he gives up the goat and quiets.

Prayers to Broken Stone may well turn into an icicle waiting for the day.

"You gonna talk about Addiena again?" He demands, while they both bleed all over the sidewalk; Quinn was going to kick both their asses.

[Howard Ivers] "Am I gonna talk about Addiena again..."

As if that's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard, as if he would never in his entire life dream of continuing to wheedle Patrick for something that he clearly did not find remotely amusing. Howard lies back, one eyebrow then the other rising as he considers this, and then he does something that might make Patrick wish he had thought to hold down at least his left arm if he was going to sit on top of him.

It's called a nut tap.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Patrick let's out a strangled curse in Welsh when Howard hits him right in the groin and rolls to one side; lying beside his pack-mate and panting something out between grit teeth. "Gonna..." Gasp. "Kill... you." Groan. "For ... that."

He reaches over once he's suitably recovered and wrenches the Theurge's sunglasses down his face.

"Dick."

[Howard Ivers] It's funny for the ten seconds or so that his packmate can neither move nor form coherent sentences; if he was truly thinking, if he had done it to escape and not just to get him off of him, Howard would have thought ahead and would be ready to get to his feet and run as fast as is humanly possible, but he wasn't, and he hadn't, so he doesn't. He crows, once, and then starts to get to his feet. It's slow going, the ground cold and his face throbbing from where he'd been hit two or three times, and he's partway to his feet when Patrick yanks his sunglasses down.

"Augh!!" he yells, for effect, bringing his hand up to his eyes to shield them from the sunlight. That rattles his glasses completely off of his face, and he ends up ducking his head and squeezing his eyes closed as he gropes around for the nearest solid surface. Getting to his feet, he shuffles forward like a drunk, holding onto the side of the building so he doesn't lose his orientation.

What comes out of his mouth next lacks the underlying amusement that tends to tell people he's just screwing around; he sounds legitimately concerned, but muted rather than amplified. It's just as loud as anything else, can still be heard by the kinswoman and the metis inside, but his tone isn't a caricature like it usually is.

"Fuck me, I can't fuckin' see!"

He catches himself. As he continues ranting as he stumbles towards where he remembers there being a door, he's joking.

"Jesus Christ, man, that was fuckin' devious. Think you're so fuckin' smooth. I'm onto you. First fuckin' sunny day we've had, 'Let's go out for a walk, Howard! It'll clear your head, Howard! We need to learn the city, Howard!'"

He finds the door, and tries the handle.

"Wanker!" is his rant's conclusion before he stumbles inside.

[Rain] There's a bus stop not too far from here that connects to a bus stop not too far from the Last Watch's packhouse. Rain spent a good half hour sorting out her route via public transportation, since her car's permanently in limbo. Even if she'd gotten it back, it still wouldn't run right now. She's new enough to town that she reads every passing street sign, and checks it against the notes she'd scribbled down before leaving the Church. They'd been a lot more legible before they'd gotten wet.

She rounds the corner and heads for the Winchester, with her guitar case in town and a small messenger bag besides. Rain's wearing all black under her coat, and her hair's pulled back in a low ponytail, but for now the brown of her coat and striping on her scarf break up the monotony.

Rain's a moment too late to see Howard stumble into the Winchester, but she'll discover his presence soon enough. Hopefully without a spear-toting Godi running him down, this time. If Patrick's still laid out on the front walk, he'll get a worried and wary look before Rain pushes open the door, peeks her head inside, and then heads for wherever Quinn is in the dust and chaos of the mid-process remodel.

[Quinn] For a few seconds, Quinn just smiles up at him, and an understanding passes between the kinswoman and the metis. It's all either of them can do right now, understand that this is as far as Quinn goes when she opens up. There's something there, something that hurts, that lurks beneath that cheerful, upbeat surface. It's in all of them, really. They've all suffered in a world of darkness, the trick is to get to tomorrow. Then the next day, and the next, and the next. It'll get sorted for Quinn, in time, that is.

Things fall into a lull outside. Not true quiet, not peace and silence, but they seem a bit calmer. Howard's loud groans are not followed by the noises of some Wyrm beast, so Quinn at least knows she isn't needed to offer some level of support. At least not of the combative sort.

Wanker! they hear, and then the door is swinging inward, bringing with it a rush of cold air the space heaters are temporarily unable to combat. Quinn looks up from where she stands behind the bar, has to lean to the side and look past Night's Reprieve's shoulder to see if it's Howard or Patrick or some wayward stranger looking for a place to rob. When she sees who it is, she quirks a brow. She lets her lean become a step to the side, and she goes to pull down a pair of pint glasses and begins filling one with the cheapest beer she has on tap.

"Hopefully Tuesday?" The date is posted on the door that opens again to let in a particular songbird, along with the announcement that the tavern is under new management. Without a Godi blocking her view of the entrance, she sees Rain enter, smiles and gives her an upward nod of greeting. Her blue eyes flick to Night's Reprieve briefly. The first beer gets set on the counter and pushed in Howard's direction if he's on his way to the bar, and Quinn begins filling the other.

[Night's Reprieve] Wanker!

That has Night's Reprieve turning around at about the same time as Quinn is peering past his shoulder from the other side of the bar. Oh it's just Howard, being Howard. It looks like he lost the fight. Night's Reprieve isn't exactly surprised, Howard doesn't look like the type to hold his own in a brawl.

Hopefully Tuesday.

He turns again to face Quinn and raises an eyebrow. That is awfully soon, and there is still a lot of work to be done. But if the kinswoman says Tuesday, then Tuesday it is.

"Let me know if you need any more help, I'll try to fit in some hours here around my work at the --" But her eyes flick to someone else, and then back to him and he turns his head to look over his shoulder and he gulps. Rain. He looks from Rain to Quinn and then quickly shuffles further down the bar to give the two of them room.

"Something strong if you please barkeep." He calls down the bar to Quinn.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] The blond haired Galliard isn't laid out on his back by the time Rain comes upon Howard staggering around yelling about how he can't see; he's sitting on his ass on the ground, wiping his bleeding lip with the side of his hand and smirking outright in Howard's direction as he retreats inside. Patrick raises a hand and salutes the Kinswoman and sits there for another minute before wrenching himself to his feet.

There's a wince, and he smacks snow and dirt off his jeans and begins what might best be described as a ginger walk inside the Winchester. Patrick's eyes take a few moments to adjust, and then he's wandering over, raking a hand through his hair and hopping onto a bar-stool next to his beaten up Alpha. "Hey, Quinn. Can I get a beer," he glances sidelong at Howard.

"And a gin and tonic for the lady."

[Prayers to Broken Stone] He sets Howard's sunglasses in front of him wordlessly, and smacks his shoulder.

[Rain] When Patrick salutes her, Rain offers him a warm smile. Bloody lip and all. Brawling Fianna and warring Fenrir are some of the first things in the Nation she learned to avoid.

Rain seems to have found good reason to give Howard wide berth, so she moves around him if needs be on her trajectory into the pub. She spies the table where Quinn's coat rests, and heads over to lean her guitar case against the same and toss her jacket over one chair. Her messenger bag and scarf get piled into the seat of that chair, and she's suddenly so much lighter. It's easier to move around without all that stuff.

She casts an odd look toward Night's Reprieve, somewhere in the process of checking out Quinn's space, and something she finds in either the pub or the Fenrir's countenance sends her to sit nearer to Caldera's packmates than the Godi. Maybe she's had her fill of Godi for the week, and their very odd questions.

"Hey, everyone," she chimes, letting that stand in for proper personal greetings. "'S a lovely place, Miss Quinn. I mean, good bones and all. Looks like you're well on your way to fixing up the rest of it."

[Howard Ivers] Howard picks his way across the considerably less well-lit interior of the bar, slowly, stepping around whatever tables and chairs are in his way to find a stool. His lower lip has stopped bleeding, but his nose still oozes somewhat. Slush and dirt cover his backside, and his clothes are bedraggled from the scuffle that took place just now. His hair is as big a mess as it usually is, and he's squinting as if trying to see what's right in front of him, but hearing Quinn addressing someone else, hearing Night's Reprieve's voice, has his bitching returned to the shelf.

He sits down without comment, green eyes flicking around in observation, and when he realizes the beer is for him his mood brightens considerably. Being as his mood doesn't seem to darken even when it's clear he doesn't want to discuss whatever is being discussed, seeing a difference is difficult.

"Oh, hey, cheers!" he says, and after a beat, reaches into his jacket pocket, the effort producing a crinkling sound, to produce a set of rumpled bills. Howard slaps them in Quinn's general vicinity, then finds the pint and brings it to his lips about the time that Patrick is sitting down next to him.

Sunglasses clatter on the bartop in front of him, and the Theurge scowls before snatching them up.

"Prick," he mutters, and pushes them onto his face without another word.

[Quinn] Quinn is already setting a pint before Patrick as soon as she sees which stool he's aiming for. She looks at him, looks him over, at the way he walks into the bar and across the dusty floor to sit at a space.

She grins over at Night's Reprieve, in that way that spells trouble for the Godi, but she's true to her word. She says not a thing about his drinking choices and even decides not to embarrass him utterly in front of the Fianna. Instead, she finds a bottle of Jack and pours him a shot before walking it down the bar to him. If things were further along, she might slide it to him, but there are patches on the counter that have been sanded down.

"Thanks, Rain, and thank you for bringing up an excellent point," she says, smiling beatifically at the Theurge and the Ragabash. Blue eyes drop to the crumpled bills. Stepping toward them, Quinn pushes them back toward Howard. "Drinks are on the house. If."

She waits until she's sure she has their attention. Then: "If you help out. I've only got the weekend to finish cleaning this place up, and I can't afford contractors, so I need all the help I can get to prettify this place. Work is simple, just sanding and refinishing the wood-work, painting the walls, and seeing what can be done about building a little performing area over there," she tips her head toward a corner that's been cleared of furniture. Large wooden planks litter the floor over there.

"It doesn't have to be perfect, it just needs to be nice enough for customers. Who's interested?"

[Rain] "Anytime, hon." She tosses Quinn a winning smile, before moving on to the topic at hand. As to manual labor, she's quiet, but there's a good chance that Rain will pitch in with anything she's asked to do -- menial, messy or otherwise.

"Building a stage?" she asks, and she leans back so she can look past the Fianna True to the area Quinn had set aside. "I know some people. They're not family or anything, but I bet I could barter favors."

[Night's Reprieve] Quinn comes his way with shot of Jack and Night's Reprieve eyes like a kid on Christmas eve. He takes the shot, but he doesn't down it in one go. That would mean Quinn would have to come back and pour him another. Instead he nurses it slowly, taking a sip or two at a time and savouring the light burn on his lips. Rain gets cast a glance or two along with Howard and Patrick and he waves a hand at them, though with his elbow on the bar it's more of a slight wiggle than a wave.

Dear god have mercy someone needs to put him out of his misery. But for now he sits there and thinks he's going to see Rain and Quinn start making out every time he looks down the bar. It doesn't happen, which he finds strangely disappointing. He isn't sure why but the thought of Rain and Quinn hooking up isn't exactly.. unpleasant..

How odd.

"If that doesn't work out we can sort your stage out for you if you would like Quinn, I have a stack of shipping crates at the Bawn that would do nicely with a few decorative touches."

The fenrir is talking aesthetics.

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Patrick raises his beer to his lips, winces, and then takes a sip.

The cut has already clotted, and is more an annoyance than anything right now. The Galliard strips himself of his wet jacket and shrugs it over the back of his stool; glancing around at the interior of the place Quinn has appropriated as her own. He's thoughtful as he considers her offer, his keen eye taking in all that was left to be done, tonguing the inside of his cheek.

"Yeah," then he looks across at her, his demeanor post-tussle with his pack-mate relaxed, bordering on upbeat, for Patrick. He actually offers her a smile, which is somewhat amusing given his cut mouth. "I can help out, I mean, it's not a car but I'm pretty handy with a hammer. If it's basic grunt work."

[Howard Ivers] "Don't tell her we know how to build houses and shit, man," he tells Patrick, as though they're alone. "Next thing you know it'll be 'Oh, the bathroom just needs a little remodeling' or 'Hmm, you know, could use a new roof.'" He takes another swallow as he returns his bills to his pocket. "Be gettin' paid in liquor, though. Not a bad deal." Turning back to the bartender without having given his packmate a chance to chime in, the questionable Alpha of Caldera says, louder, "Quinn, love, we're in."

[Prayers to Broken Stone] "We're Fianna," Patrick says, lazily amused this evening. "The sons of immigrants and thieves, all we're good for is growing potatoes and building houses."

Look everyone, Patrick made a funny.

[Howard Ivers] Even when he's got beer in his trachea and sunglasses covering his eyes, it's obvious when Howard has something to say. His eyebrows rise, he makes a noise low in his throat, and he sets his beer glass down to hasten the repartee process.

"You forgot: makin' little baby immigrants and thieves."

[Quinn] The endearment from the southern lass earns her a look of not-terribly-subtle close scrutiny. Though she doesn't find an answer she's looking for, Quinn still looks at Rain like she's just answered all her Christmas wishes. "That would be fantastic!" Happily, Quinn claps her hands together.

And then there's Night's Reprieve, offering...crates. The blue-eyed kinswoman looks at him and, without any part of her body moving to do so, looks around the tavern. What she sees is what it's going to be, not what it is. And what it's going to be is not a place with crates with "decorative touches." Sucking in a breath, Quinn grits her teeth like she's so sad to be delivery this news, but, "Nooooooo, hon, but thanks. My uncle actually has some neat pictures upstairs that I'll be hanging on the walls."

To Patrick, "Oh, yeah, I'm not looking to make anything fancy. Just...nicer. Less ragged around the edges. It's not really going to be a stage," she says, looking to Rain, "just...a place standing out from the rest of the bar sort of thing."

That settled, she listens to Howard's little rant, her thumbs hooking into the pockets of her jeans. Stepping forward, she leans her stomach into the bar between the Caldera boys.

"And drink beer. Never forget the beer. And guys." She lays her hands on the bar, palms flat. Tipping her chin, she fixes first Howard, then Patrick, with a stern look. "I know you're going to fight. It's in the blood and it comes with the territory. What I'd appreciate, is if when you two get the need to pummel each other's faces in, you do it in the alley out back. Not. Right out the front where my customer base can see and be scared off. Got it?"

[Night's Reprieve] Night's Reprieve looks at his drink.

[Rain] Rain and Quinn exchange looks in some sort of muted feminine equivalent of telepathy. The Gaian's eyes narrow, slightly, and she shakes her head either at whatever Quinn's pointedly not asking her about or whatever is the Fianna just collectively said.

Between the thoughts of furnishing a stage with crates and Fianna only being good for a choice few things, Rain's mostly just biting her tongue right now. Neither topic is particularly safe to touch.

"I've gotta sing for my supper tonight, but I'm in for the weekend," she tells the other woman, completing the full count of offers to help.

[Howard Ivers] "Hey, you know what we could do?"

This ought to be good... and stupid.

"Take those crates Grandpa was talkin' about, build a fuckin' boxing ring in the middle'a the bar, yeah? Gamblin's legal in this country, right? Patrick can beat the shit out of me and you can make a bit of scratch while he's doin' it. Everybody wins!"

[Quinn] Quinn actually laughs. "Have you ever actually won against Patrick before?"

[Night's Reprieve] Night's Reprieve ponders this, of course it's the first time he has been called Grandpa before and it makes him frown. In fact, the frown deepens more the longer he thinks on it.

"I have no grand children." He says, and he narrows a gaze at Howard like the boy has lost his god damn mind and it isn't amusing at all. "And I fail to see how you win in this situation."

[Howard Ivers] "Em..."

He scratches his chin as he thinks, brows disappearing behind his shades with the furrowing that indicates deep thought. Luckily, the Fenrir pipes up and thoroughly distracts the Theurge from actually having to answer the question.

"Well, obviously I win by helpin' Quinn here--" He gestures to her with an open palm. "--keep her bar open."

[Rain] Rain just looks at him like he's a bit crazy. She doesn't even have a beer to sip at as a merry distraction. The look only twists further toward incredulousness when Howard explains how he wins.

Rain opens her mouth to say something. Then shuts it.

[Night's Reprieve] He makes no sense, there are so many flaws with his plan that it's hardly a plan at all.

"If you want them, use them."

And he downs the rest of his Jack.

[Quinn] "Well," Quinn steps away and goes to find another glass, "from what I understand, this neck of the woods is pretty rough." Pulling a glass out, she gestures toward Rain, asking without words if she wants a drink. "So why would anyone pay to see what they can see for free just around the corner?"

[Rain] Rain's smile broadens a bit at the offer of something to help all these stellar moments of Howard brilliance go down. "They're prettier than most of the street brawls I've seen, for one," she concedes, whilst gesturing diffidently with one hand.

"But that may not be the sort of atmosphere you want t' cultivate. "

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Quinn asks if Howard's ever actually won a fight against him before and the Galliard simply raises his eyebrows and maintains a fairly clear silence on the matter; his slight smile behind the pint of beer however, says a great deal. Then he starts in about a boxing ring, and Patrick is shaking his head and scratching a hand through his hair.

Night's Reprieve doesn't understand the Grandpa remark.

Patrick's shoulders convulse a little with silent laughter, then he clears his throat. "In all seriousness, yeah, we'll try and keep our brawling to the alley out back and not turn your doorstep into Fight Club."

[Howard Ivers] Howard drains his beer, then stands up. For a second it appears as though he's going to authoritatively slam down the empty glass, but he stops himself. After a mental reboot, the Theurge gently returns the glass to the bartop, going so far as to slide it towards the well rather than leaving it on the business end of the counter, then tugs on his lapels and steps back.

"Semantics, Grandpa," he tells the Godi, jumping back to a prior point of misunderstanding without warning. All the way to the door, he rants, intermittently waving his hands. "Or... biology. Whatever. So you haven't got any grandkids. You still act like one. You're all wise and shit." The door is hauled open, and as a parting gift, he calls, "Besides, I give people shitty nicknames as a show of affection. Don't take it too fuckin' seriously, you'll just blow a gasket."

And out he goes.

[Night's Reprieve] It's like the bag of dicks sketch. Howard goes and says something completely out of the blue and then walks off whilst NR is left sitting there with so many questions. What does that mean Howard? He'll blow a gasket? Howard has affection for him?

"Wait up." He says and waves a hand to the rest of the bar. "Thanks for the Blowjob Quinn. You should give Rain one, she would love it." And rushes out the door after Howard.

[Rain] "I..."

Rain's brow creases as she watches Night's Reprieve hurry off.

"He means the drink, right?" That's the only likely explanation here.

[Quinn] "Thank you, Patrick," Quinn says, lifting her hands palm up toward the Galliard like finally SOMEONE understands her language. She grins with it, though.

Howard leaves, then Night's Reprieve, but not before thanking Quinn for a blowjob. To which she inclines her head graciously and twirls her hand in a mock bow. And then she laughs. "Ahahahaha I bet she will." Winking to Rain, she says, "Yes, he does."

[Prayers to Broken Stone] Patrick is swallowing the rest of his pint when the Fenrir speaks, and almost chokes to death.

He coughs for a good minute, and then calmly sets the pint glass down on the bar; sliding from the stool almost regretfully, though that might just be because he's been left in the wake of Howard's path of destruction -- yet again. The handsome blond is threading his arms back through his jacket, wincing a little at a sore spot he'd bruised tackling his Alpha and nodding with his chin at the door.

"I better go play chaperon. I'm not sure those two should be anywhere unsupervised."

He's headed for the door when Rain finally regains her senses, and just grins. "Let me know when you want me, Quinn," he calls over his shoulder. Outside, they can hear Patrick calling after his pack-mate: "Hey, you with the 'fro."

[Rain] Let me know when you want me, the Galliard says. Rain scrubs one hand over her face and then looks back at Quinn with a smirk.

"They're all just walking innuendos today, aren't they?" she asks, when the last True had cleared the doorway. There's a measure of amusement to her features, peppered lightly with exasperation.

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