The Peanuts are fair game. [Hatchet, Gwen, Eve, Rory]

[Hatchet] [123 NOT IT]

[Howard Ivers] [THIS WASN'T MY IDEA NOT IT]

[Patrick Llewelyn] [YOU BOTH SUCK. FINE. ]

[Patrick Llewelyn] There was something to be said for Fianna-run establishments.

Like the Brotherhood of Thieves, the Winchester, while a newly re-vamped and re-opened location, possessed that certain charm of comfortable homeliness. The staff were friendly, laid back and didn't bat an eye at rowdy behavior. They just hiked a thumb at the door and requested it be taken outside.

The alleyway outside, of course. Not the front door.

The walls had been freshly painted a dramatic blue, and the furnishings had the sheen of the newly installed, even the taps along the bar looked polished though the wooden flooring retained its older, worn out appeal. In one corner there was a small stage set up with a microphone and chair ready for a willing, and brave soul to step up and entertain the drinking masses. Prayers to Broken Stone was acutely aware of this, as he'd been the one to drive the nails into it, and fit the wooden boards into position.

Tonight, he's sitting at the bar, the surface curving in an incomplete U to give it a panoramic view of the entire first floor of the bar. There was a group of young men playing pool in one corner, the balls clacking loudly every few minutes, and a scattering of patrons seated around the booths.

Patrick was alone at the bar; nursing a half consumed beer and making some study of the bowl of peanuts before him.

[Hatchet] You don't operate a business in Chicago run entirely by the Kinfolk of a tribe without very, very quickly gaining a reputation for being a fur-friendly sort of establishment. That doesn't mean it's like the Brotherhood, though -- there's no upstairs open for them to live in. Just like in the dining room of the so-called Bro-Ho (bros before hos, except after... toes, maybe) they have to be aware of the mortal patrons. They have to be aware, period.

A man comes out of the bathroom. He's a tall man, and his nostrils flare with the influx of faint traces of breeding that linger about the place. Kin of Stag. His kin. A single muscle pulls along his jawline, flexing. He swivels his head side to side. He almost looks out of place here, but he looks out of place everywhere he goes. He feels...dangerous. Like even that flexing of his jaw might imply hunger, or anger.

It isn't either. He mostly looks out of place because he's wearing a plain white tee and a pair of green lounge pants. And he is barefoot. Thankfully nobody is staring at the bathroom doors or wondering why they didn't see this man come in the front door. Nobody cares. This isn't the area of town where People Who Care tend to frequent when they want a drink or a game of pool.

The barefoot man doesn't seem to notice or mind any stickiness on the floor. He just pads over to the bar, sits himself down on the stool to Patrick's left, and when he catches the eye of the bartender he asks for whatever is dark with hints of coffee.

Coming right up.

"Thanks," he says, and looks at the Galliard. "I got a new pair of boots," he says, by way of starting conversation, "and I'm thinking I really should dedicate them."

A glass full of stout comes his way, and Hatchet says thanks again. He takes a drink, carefully licks his lip to make sure foam doesn't stick to the hair on his upper lip.

[Gwen Sullivan] Patrick was alone at the bar, and Gwen was doing an excellent job of trying not to draw attention to herself as she walked through the front door. She was dressed warm for the weather, bundled up in a heavy navy blue winter jacket with a red hat on her head, scarf at her throat and gloves on her hands. Her jeans were tucked into black boots that were stained white with salt at the bottoms, mostly the toes.

The place was predominantly empty, save for Patrick and Hatchet at the bar and a few stragglers in a booth. Gwen walked up toward the bar, not recognizing the Fianna for who or what they were because she didn't sense Rage like more experienced Garou did, because she didn't always know what Breeding was, just that she could sense it (and it always seemed to manifest as a scent, something half-tasted and half-smelled between her nose and her throat). She glanced at Patrick, then at Hatchet for only a second before moving to lean against the bar near the very end, out of the way, not sitting but waiting for a tender to have words, apparently with no intent to settle in for a few drinks.

She unzipped the coat to show a loose-cut lilac colored sweatshirt underneath, loosened the bright red scarf at her throat, and peeled her gloves off to stick them into her coat pockets. The bartender nods to indicate they'll be right with her, and Gwen nodded back, leaned comfortably, and waited, leaned up against the counter with her arms folded on top of it. It didn't take long at all for her cool green-gray eyes to find the pair of Fianna, watching openly, unafraid of what might happen if she were caught staring.

Fear wasn't welcome in this house anymore. Apprehension, perhaps, but not the F word.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Buried Hatchet appears beside the young Galliard and settles into a chair, noting as he does that he really needs to dedicate his new footwear. Patrick turns his head, raises a palm to scratch at the back of his neck and then leans back with a lazy movement; bright blue eyes examining the Philodox's bare feet.

"Yeah," he agrees idly, and picks his beer up again, "You kinda do, man."

Patrick had evidently been here for long enough to have taken his jacket off; the worn leather was strung over the back of the bar-stool he was propped on; the T Shirt beneath was black and silver, the design of nothing but some abstract squiggles that caught and reflected the light when it hit the material. His forearms were tanned, due more in part to the type of work he did while the months were hotter than any suggestion of time spent were it was significantly warmer.

For once, the song-keeper did not smell like grease, or smoke or anything but whatever he'd washed his hair with, and the faint trace of some aftershave splashed on his skin after shaving.

It's quiet enough in the Winchester right now for it to be noticeable when Gwen slips in, well, that and she's one of their own kind. You tended to notice that. The Fianna's eyes follow her, and he's still regarding her, tossing a handful of peanuts in his mouth when she stops by the bar and leans against it.

Patrick chews thoughtfully.

Glances at Hatchet as if suspecting a question was forthcoming, he answers to nothing. "No idea who that is, but she's staring so I assume we're meant to find out."

[Rory] It's not Rory's normal hang out. It's not the ideal place to blend in, to hide, to not attract notice. Still, word travels, and the pretty lady who'd said hello at the Broho, and not made fun, owns the place. Which means it must be a safe haven, of sorts, and really - it's cold and she just wants to warm up before heading the rest of the way home.

She tries to sneak in, but one such as Rory doesn't sneak very well, if at all. She stands out, she looks dangerous despite the fact she's very, very, very shy. Achingly so. So much so she doesn't look up when she enters, other than to glance around, and spy the most out of the way spot, where she won't be in anyone's way.

Tattered jeans, beat up tennis shoes, a light jacket and a knit hat that doesn't hold her curls contained very well at all - and you have Rory, in her normal fair. She shrugs out of her pack - which looks a lot lighter than it really is - and sets it on the floor with a clunk and clatter. She slides it under a table with a swift kick, then slips into the booth seat after it.

[Hatchet] She's just a little thing, really. Not in terms of height -- for her age Gwen's actually rather tall. Athletic. She doesn't smell like his tribe, like any tribe, but there's a niggling in the back of his mind as Hatchet glances his pale eyes over at the girl. She stares at them, and he stares at her, his scarred arms on the bartop and one hand loosely holding his beer.

He has no jacket. Nor does he have shoes. Nobody asks him to leave. Nobody, not even the Kin who work here, want to meet his eyes for long. The women -- older than Gwen -- at the Brotherhood skitter and scurry when Hatchet comes into the room. Gwen stares at him.

He sucks on a tooth and takes another sip of his stout as Patrick speaks. "I nominate you to go say hello. After all, you're the songkeeper, dickhe--"

Rory comes in, and Hatchet's head turns as he scents her breeding. He looks at her, manic-red hair and all, and whatever he was going to say to Patrick -- if it mattered -- gets forgotten. "Excuse me," he says, and picks up his beer. He walks directly towards the Ahroun and, after a moment, rather respectfully says to her: "May I?"

[Rory] She unzips her jacket, and peels off her fingerless gloves, and shoves them into her pocket, and rubs her fingers together to warm them.

She feels Hatchet before she sees him, and takes a shaky breath, and peeks up to see who it is - then looks up openly... only to snap her gaze down again, when he asks [asks!!] if he can join her.

She swallows, and then nods, slightly, sending her curls bouncing about her shoulders. She swallows, and reaches up nervously to peel off her hat and try to smooth her hair down. Only then does she peek up at him again.

"-rhya"

[Gwen Sullivan] Hatchet stares directly at her with his trademark thousand-yard stare, and she stares right back. She has no idea who he is, she has an inkling of the Rage but doesn't quite know what that means. It prickled at her back, made her tense, made her seriously consider shrugging off her jacket and getting ready for a fight. She didn't walk over to him to start shit, didn't jerk her chin up and offer challenge. She just observed, and watched even as he turned away from the bar to walk toward a slip of a girl with bold, crazy red hair.

The bartender came over to Gwen, and she explained in full honesty with a hint of a polite smile on her face that she wouldn't be drinking, that she'd just like to order a sandwich and some fries along with a coke. The tender accepts her tender for the meal and goes off to get the cooks started after handing Gwen her change, and the Cub tucks it away into her pants pocket then takes her hat and scarf off, tucks them into separate pockets in her coat before removing that as well and setting it on the stool that set beside her right hip and leaned her left shoulder into the wall.

Under the coat she wore a loose lilac colored sweatshirt, cut broad so that it was loose on her frame, sturdy from sports rather than lean and hungry and battle-ready, and wide at her shoulders so it hung low on them, low enough to show the bold blue tank straps beneath. She had a piercing in her left nostril, a simple sparkling stud, and a matching stud in the cleft of her upper lip. She wore no make-up tonight, though, save for a rudimentary touch of mascara and some chapstick to help soothe winter-chapped lips.

She watched Hatchet and Rory for a moment, then looked back to Patrick, then down to her fingers. Idle motion brought her to work on chipping the rest of the dark purple polish off her already-chipped nails.

[Hatchet] It's something about the way she carries herself that goes deeper than the shyness that's like an aura around her. Or a rock on her shoulders. Hatchet slides into the seat across from Rory, barefoot and in what is basically pajamas and looking thoughtful as he sips his beer. It's not right, that someone like him, a Judge -- the impartial, the fair, the so on and so forth -- should equal an Ahroun in rage. There's something wrong with him.

But he's never denied that.

"You haven't challenged yet," he says, a statement rather than a question, despite the fact that the words are faintly tinged with surprise.

[Patrick Llewelyn] He's nominated to go and say hello, and openly smirks at the name the Fostern calls him, or begins to call him and Patrick is no dunce, he can complete it without Hatchet ever speaking the rest aloud. "I keep trying to forget that," he reminds the other Garou as he spots Rory -- she gets a nod up from the Caldera pack-member and a little toast of his beer -- and heads off in her direction like a hound after a hare.

Prayers to Broken Stone turns his attention back to the girl, raises his eyebrows across at her in a well, then manner and nods at the vacated stool beside him. "You can stare holes into my head at close range."

[Rory] Her rage is something that is second nature. Her will keeps it at bay - but barely. She is used to people avoiding her, and those who know her to be shocked at her actions, her complete submission, her willingness to give everything to the very Nation that tried to break her - over and over and over again.

She wrinkles as he makes his statement, though the surprise garners a look from her - a brief clash of her eyes with his. The fact that she dares it could be declared a minor victory. A shock. A signal of growth - some, anyway - of a backbone.

"No." The obvious. She rubs the side of her nose, absently, and sighs. "Sot nure who to challenge." There's something there, underneath the words.. there is a reason she has not gone to the Ahroun Elder.

[Gwen Sullivan] Patrick looked back to her, called to her from across the empty bar, and Gwen looked up at him and raised her eyebrows right back. His said 'well, then', hers answered with a 'what do you need?'. It was similar to 'whaddaya want' but without all the cocky teenage attitude that came with. He nodded to the stool beside him, and the teen hesitated for half a moment before grabbing her jacket, folding it over her arm against her stomach, and rounding the bar to stand near the stool he'd indicated to.

Standing near, but not sitting on as invited to do.

"It's only considered staring holes into a head if it's a crowded room and I've picked you out," she clarified upon arrival. "When you're one forth the population here, however, it's just 'looking'." She didn't set the coat down just yet, but lifted her cool-colored eyes to the tender when they came back and set a glass of coca-cola on the counter for her. She gave a muted 'thank you' and took the glass up to her lips, taking a few deep drinks like she'd been thirsty for some time.

The girl didn't look starved, she didn't smell, she wasn't ungroomed, but something about her was edging toward feral. She'd been out and about for some time without a place to land, this was something others who have been there, traveling and wandering without a Home to go to, could recognize.

[Hatchet] His eyes, for what it's worth, are calm. The moon outside is showing its back, like God to Moses, Luna hiding what her hands are doing. Tonight's a night for other auspices, and Hatchet is spared the worst risks of his own temper. His will is strong enough to keep his rage in line. It grows stronger every day. It has to.

Emerald green meets smoky gray, and he half-smiles. Somehow it looks almost sad, sad and amused, but then it's gone. It may have nothing whatsoever to do with Rory. On another face it might even look affectionate.

He can smell Lukas around the Brotherhood, but has not seen him yet. He knows he's still the Ahroun Elder, but he has not seen him at the Caern yet. "There's always other septs, if you decide to challenge. But for what it's worth, I'd just challenge Wyrmbreaker-yuf. You aren't my packmate or auspicemate or charge, though," he adds, shrugging one shoulder. "Ultimately the decision is yours."

Hatchet drinks his stout, and drops that line of discussion. She's not his packmate, though he isn't even sure right now if Rory is packed or not. She's not so much his younger that he can do more than give her a single piece of unsolicited advice before it just steps utterly over the line. He lets it go, because that -- as becomes clear in a moment -- isn't why he came over here.

"From what I've heard since I got back," he says slowly, going down a different path, "the two of us and the Caldera boys represent Stag to Maelstrom." A beat. He meets her eyes. "And, from what I hear, technically the Caldera boys don't represent anything to Maelstrom. But we have a number of well-bred Kin in the city, including Silence-rhya's former mate."

This is a delicate question. He pauses before he asks it. "Are you their formal guardian, currently?"

[Patrick Llewelyn] Prayers to Broken Stone leans to one side as Gwen comes to a stand still beside him and, well, stands but doesn't sit. Evidently that would be too close to obeying a command or stepping over the boundaries of whatever her attitude is intended to be, or something, to the Galliard's initial thoughts.

He looks at her over the rim of his beer, and extends a hand after a beat. If she takes it, it's dry and rough, but warm and he clasps her fingers firmly a moment before letting them go, if she refuses, he returns the appendage to his beerglass without a comment about the refusal. What he does offer her, either way, this blond guy who didn't look more than a few years older than her, is an introduction of sorts.

"Look at you want, though I won't get prettier unless you have a few of these. I'm Patrick, nice to exchange looks with you across an empty bar. Take a seat."

He nudges it with a foot, rolls his shoulders back as if exercising out a kink. "Or, don't. Whatever."

[Rory] He would just challenge Lukas. "No." It's definite, there's no waver in her voice, her chin actually lifts, her jaw sets. There's nothing other than absolute determination. She will not challenge Wyrmbreaker.

She does not offer her reasoning, unless he asks. She rubs the side of her nose again, and then slips out of her jacket, warming quickly now that she's inside. she sets it to the side, and puts her hands in her lap, her fingers lacing together.

She nods, slightly, as she listens. Then, squints an eye, and chews on her lower lip as she considers how to answer the question. "Soctor Dlaughter is still Kora's charge." as much as she is anyone's at all. "Others are new. Stave hepped up at Moots, made known. Been to broho." a pause and... "Hoped Cladera jould woin." she blushes as she admits it. She has no pack to help protect any longer, she has very little of her own, little ability to care for herself, let alone anyone else."

[Gwen Sullivan] The seat was offered once more, nudged out with the Galliard's foot, and Gwen looked at it for a second more before draping her coat over the back of it and sitting down. She was an average girl in most respects-- her hair was shoulder length and mousy brown, bangs cut into it but pinned back with bobby pins to keep out of her eyes and under her hat (when she wore it). Aside from her piercings, her face was plain-- symmetrical but unimpressive otherwise, easy to look over and forget. Her height was average, her build, her stance, her manner of dress... all of it pegged her as a typical Chicago teen and made her easy to overlook. This could be a very good thing.

She sips her coke further, then ducks her head and pinches the bridge of her nose when carbonation bubbles assault her sinuses. She makes a sniffing noise, then sets the cup down and straightens up, hooking the flat soles of her boots on the topmost rung of the stool so her knees stuck out, leaving them apart as was comfortable, unconcerned with what was lady-like or appealing without going out of her way to be over the top and attention grabbingly crude.

"Patrick," she repeated, and stuck a hand out to accept the shake. His was warm and dry, hers was cold instead. The gloves helped to stave off frostbite but they didn't keep them toasty. When she got her hand back she folded the fingers of it into the other hand and let them rest as a single fist right where a belt buckle would be if she was wearing a belt. "Gwen."

There's a beat, followed by: "I heard this place was safe. Open. That was right?"

[Hatchet] "Good to know," Hatchet says, as far as Imogen is concerned. There doesn't seem to be any inclination on his part to challenge Imogen still being tied to the Get of Fenris. He peers at Rory, though, for a moment -- she doesn't quite say that she's formally guarding Quinn and Bridget and the others whose existence is even more fringe than Dr. Slaughter's. She's stepped up at moots, she's been to the Brotherhood. It isn't until she says that she'd hoped Caldera would join the sept that what she's not saying is firmly in his mind.

He already knew. To an extent. Whether he'd hoped that was a part of her growth or not is hard to tell. Whether he hopes to Take Over and Get Power and all those other things that the Unbroken Circle thought of him so very, very long ago is unlikely.

"If you're not opposed, Rory," he says after awhile, quietly, "I've already asked Caldera about their interest in some of our Kin and informed them at I intended to take over their guardianship if I found the current Fianna elder ...wanting."

No beat, here, no pause: "You are a strong fighter and a loyal friend, and if you had answered my question by saying that yes, the eldership is yours and I am welcome to challenge if I think I could do better, then I would have gladly left it in your hands. But that's not what you want, is it?"

[Rory] He understands. Despite her words and the way she messes it up and the careful way she tries to answer - he understands. She lets loose a breath, sighing softly as she admits it with a shake of her head.

"I can't cake tare of myself, let alone kin. I fan cight when they need protected, I can step up with tooth and rage, but I.." she shifts nervously in her chair, sighs again as she falls still. "...be what ney theed."

There is self awareness there, a maturity in admitting she's tried, and she recognizes there are better ones here now for the job. She's come a long way in the past couple years - for all the growth still needed.

"You can."

[Hatchet] He raises an eyebrow to that.

And then he grins.

And then he snickers.

Then Gwen, Patrick, Rory, and the guy at the pool table and the entire staff of the Winchester is treated to the sound of a man who seems more like 7'2" than 6'4" just because he's so damn frightening --

laughing. Hard. Throwing his head back, closing his eyes, chest shaking from it.

[Rory] and....he laughs.

Her brows knit, confused, and - well, to be honest, a little hurt. Maybe more than a little. He's laughing, hard, and she doesn't have the wherewithal to hide her expressions from him, so it passes across her face, easily readable, until she ducks her head and hides behind her curls.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick Llewelyn looked like one of those guys you knew in High School.

You know the sort; athletic, typically ran with the football team or some other school sport that required him to wear a jacket and keep fit. He looked like he'd have been popular, too. His features were the sort that made it easy to label him mindless or dumb but while he was an attractive guy with amazingly bright blue eyes he was not anywhere near the level of pretty of say, the new Fenrir whose Cub name in fact deemed him so.

Quite exactly.

His appeal tended more toward the quite intensity of his being; the manner he could quite easily sit and not move for hours and then quite without warning, stir and get up to leave -- all without a word. Presently, he's not as insular; as surly as he's been known to appear at first glance, at first meeting and he's glancing at the girl beside him as she notes she heard this place was safe.

Patrick twisted, then, as Hatchet roars with laughter at something Rory has said to him, raises his eyebrows at Gwen and turns back. He lifts a hand to scrub over his face. "Right, safe. Yeah, I'm not great with playing the safe words game. This is the Winchester, run by family of mine and that guy over there, pissing himself laughing." He hikes a thumb toward the Fostern.

"Her name's Quinn, she stays at the Brotherhood of Thieves."

He waits, presumably for some sign of recognition, before continuing. "So it's cool. You can hang out here, be yourself." Patrick holds up a finger, downs the remainder of his beer glass then adds, with affected speech. "Officially, I should tell you I'm called Prayers to Broken Stone, Cliath Galliard of Stag, packed under Volcano with my brother Howard. Him you'll know the second you meet him; curly hair, pretty absurd.

Our pack is called Caldera.

The guy you were also eyeballing is Buried Hatchet; he's better than me since he's a Fostern, so assume he knows his shit. He's a Half Moon." A beat, Patrick's tongue rolls over his teeth. "I think that's it."

[Eve Shepherd] There are many things to be said about Fianna run establishments. As much aggravation as Eve may hold for them, when it boils down to it, the Fianna run the best pubs. They have the best restaurants. And, therefore, the Fianna boasted the best garbage and table scraps of any place Eve has lurked. The problem is, though, they haven't thrown out their food for the night yet and Eve was starting to feel a chill settle in.

Nope, tonight she was going to crash in these trashcans. She'd seen a couple boxes, a milk crate, and it seemed relatively dry.

This is only marginally important, though, because right now she's walking in the front door. The front door, mind you. Not the back. Because she has change burning a hole through her pocket and she heard this plce had free peanuts. And possibly little classy bar pretzels. She walks in, and what announces her presence is Rage and cold air. She looks to the left, takes note of whatever half-empty glasses are there, looks left. There's not much to Eve- she's over five and a half feet tall, but her stance is evenly places and she looks bigger and more solid than she actually is. Her fingertips are chapped, but she's wearing gloves. Sort of.

Her coat has seen better days, and sports the same ketchup stain she'd had for a few days. She looks at it and frowns, and picks at it a little. It blends in with the unnamed something higher up on her arm. Her elbow doesn't quite bend all the way. She frowns harder. Then, she shrugs it off. There was beer to be had. Fuck ketchup. She heads for the bar. She misses introductions because she's too busy frowning at ketchup and wondering where the Hell did this come from?

[Gwen Sullivan] Gwen's eyes hopped over to Hatchet as he roared laughter in a way that would better suit a lumberjack with a big russet beard, but returned them quickly enough to Patrick because he was speaking to her, and she had a good habit of paying attention when someone was telling her something.

He explained who he was, gave his Name, his Tribe, his Auspice, and his pack and packmate. Howard, he said, absurd with curly hair. She knew him. They'd nearly gotten in trouble with a couple of crooked cops, and a mix of luck, timing, and one loud-mouthed Godi pulled them out of the pot before the water began to boil too hot. He'd walked her home when she had a home to walk home to.

He explained who Hatchet was, and she looked over her shoulder to catch a peek of the Fostern again before humming something like bland interest and curiosity all together in one. Another drink of soda was taken, and she turned to look back to Patrick once more.

"Half-moon, I haven't met many other of those." Her tone turns slightly more thoughtful than informative, and then snaps back when she realizes that this new guy, this Prayers to Broken Stone, didn't have a point of reference to go off of with that. "I'm Philodox. Tribeless. The only others I've met have been Fire-Claws and, briefly, Bellamonte."

[Hatchet] Rory has no idea why he's laughing. She's fought alongside him but she doesn't know the way he seems to almost enjoy death, or near-death, the way he reacts to it with a sort of dry, dark amusement. She's hurt, and that's... well, sadly, no big surprise.

It passes. He's not ashamed of his laughter, he doesn't have any tears to wipe away. He just chuckles at her. "Glad someone thinks so," he says, and drinks from his stout.

The truth is, he doesn't say much beyond that. No comfort offered, no encouragement, no denial of her self-deprecation. It is, in the end, no more his job to make her better than she is than it is her job to make him kinder. She is very damn nearly his rank, his equal. His expectations of her seem to match that, though it may look at the moment that he just doesn't notice -- or just doesn't care -- that his laughter upset her.

better than me, Patrick mentions, and assume he knows his shit, and poor Gwen -- the man Patrick's referring to just busted out cackling. He's wearing pjs. He's barefoot in a bar, for fuck's sake. There are scars down his arms that look like they could only be there if they were intentional. There's a scar around his throat that looks like it should have killed him. Everything about him seems to imply that he is out of his fucking mind.

He toasts Rory with his stout, silently, and takes another drink. "You know, this is such a better way of doing things. Planning ahead and all, instead of just making up my mind at the last minute." He scoots his seat back. "I'm going to go introduce myself to that girl with the wandering eyes now, I have this feeling poor Paddy is going to be faltering or grousing any moment now. You should join us for a drink. Silly to sit all by yourself."

And with that, he gets up and heads back to the bar.

[Rory] He doesn't try to make her feel better, doesn't let her know that the laughter isn't really so much about her, but about him. He just calms, toasts her, and invites her for a drink.

She furrows her brows, slightly, and rubs at the side of her nose absently, as he gets up and heads toward the bar. It may be silly to sit by herself, but it's... well. safer. Less confusing.

Easier.

She sighs, softly, and tucks her hair behind her ear, where it falls free almost immediately. She bites her lower lip, and then... with a sigh, she gets up and grabs her things, and heads toward the bar, holding her pack against her belly, protectively as she moves - for all the world like a nervous cub, despite her almost rank.

[Patrick Llewelyn] The Fianna leans into the bar, and taps his palm lightly to grab the bar-keeper's attention. He holds up his empty glass to signal he'd like a refill and cants Gwen what must be a strange look, without context to back it up as she notes what her auspice is and that she hasn't met many other of those. It's something a little strained, maybe, a little reluctantly amused.

"I've met one too many," he says without malice, clearly she is not the one to many Philodox.

Or maybe she is, and this Fianna is just a prick, plain and simple. Though he doesn't seem like a prick, he just seems a touch resigned; maybe even sad. It's there in the shadows under his eyes; in the manner he falls back into silences so easily when he's not on call to be whatever he's meant to be in the moment. Still, when his beer arrives, he clinks the glass against Gwen's and adds: "Join the Fianna, we have beer and Pubs. What more do you need?"

He asks, stretching wide his arms.

When is about when he notices Eve, and Hatchet pads back, with Rory in tow.

[Hatchet] "That's a shitty recruitment line," Hatchet tells Patrick, coming up alongside him and the girl. The very line tells him what he needs to know. He's a sharp one, he is. He looks at Gwen, beer still in hand. "Cub?" Sips.

[Eve Shepherd] There's a small crowd forming at the bar, which is to be expected. It's a bar. Eve, however, hears her stomach make an unhappy sound. She matches it, high to low, and the sound isn't quite human. Her eyes are starting to sting, so she blinks. And notices the peanuts.

"Hey," she says to Patrick, "you gonna eat those?"

Priorities, she has. Food. Garou. Cubs. In that order.

[Gwen Sullivan] He gestures for a refill, and it comes along with Gwen's plate-- a philly cheese steak sandwich, warm and slathered with onions and cheese, and a heap of french fries. The girl doesn't tear into the meal like she's been starving, her cheeks weren't sunken and her figure wasn't wasting-- as previously mentioned she was sturdy, it showed not so much in the breadth or strength of her core but rather in how her shoulders were built, not broad but strong anyways. It came from softball.

Rather she picks up a couple of french fries and pops them into her mouth, chews, then decides to clear room to add some ketchup to her plate. While she's chewing, Patrick clinks his glass to hers and the other couple of Fianna come over to join them. He coaxes her to join their tribe because they have booze. This earns him a flat stare that did nothing more than prove her Auspice. The same lack of humor that a stern judge on a stern granite stand would have.

Regardless, she picks up her glass and takes a drink, parts her healing lips to speak but quiets when Hatchet comes near and speaks up. He asks if she's a cub, and her answer is a simple nod, a lingering gaze while she assessed his face, the scar at his throat, and the ones that streaked down his arms. Green-gray eyes turn back to Patrick and she answers the line with something indirect, but declining none-the-less.

"I've got a mentor. But I appreciate it."

Eve sidles up, Gwen glances at her, but doesn't say anything. A brand new face, a brand new woman. She's know if she'd seen her before. She doesn't bother herself with the fact that she was asking for peanuts, just dipped more of her fries in ketchup and eats them.

[Rory] She follows Hatchet to the bar - in tow, as it were - but not too closely. She settles to a barstool a little down from them, so as not to intrude, and eyes Gwen's meal as it arrives. She tears her gaze away, and instead watches everyone else, quietly, without actually meeting any of their eyes. She is the utmost in respectful, truth be told, and very little will ever change that.

When the bartender asks her what she wants, she just offers a little shy grin and asks for "Water."

[Hatchet] "Mentor's not the same thing as a tribe," Hatchet says, but it seems offhand. He finishes his beer and leaves it at one. Rory takes a seat -- not really with them, but near them -- and his eyes flick at her before he gives his attention back to those in his immediate vicinity. "But usually is. I was a lost cub once. Mentor was a Fiann. And lo, look how I turned out. You're better off with whoever is helping you cultivate that spinster-face." He isn't the type to give flat stares. He isn't the type to -- obviously -- have a severe lack of humor. At least for the moment, nothing that is coming out of his mouth seems terribly serious. Or meaningful.

Apparently Gwen is. Hatchet doesn't ask about her mentor, doesn't ask her what tribe she plans on joining based on that. He doesn't ask for another beer, either. He leans on the bar, not sitting down, and glances over at Eve.

[Patrick Llewelyn] "Hey, you leave me to do the introductions, you take what you get, man." Some Garou might reconsider speaking to their elder that way; apparently Patrick wasn't one of them. Well, that and the way he says it leaves very little suggestion he means to be insulting. He's just -- Patrick.

How very zen.

Gwen meanwhile gives him the flat stare that earns many a Philodox their street cred and he leans to one side; examining the expression as her food comes. "Oh yeah," he says then, straightening and passing the bowl of peanuts to the unknown female asking after them. "You're definitely a dox. You got that Vulcan death stare happening."

The Galliard slides from his stool, Rory gets a brief shoulder squeeze as he wanders, one assumes, toward the bathroom.

[Hatchet] "You are full of shit," Hatchet says after Patrick. If he still had a drink, one could imagine him toasting the Galliard. He looks back at Eve. "I think the peanuts are just... fair game. He didn't crouch over them and snarl at passing squirrels so you should be safe."

[Patrick Llewelyn] "Not for much longer!" He calls back, and vanishes through the door. His Alpha would be so proud.

[And Jacqui needs to cook! BRB.]

[Rory] Patrick slides a hand over her shoulder and squeezes, and she goes very. very. still. There's a brief moment where she expects to be hurt, expects to be kicked out. It passes in that quick moment, and she manages to lift her gaze to offer him a little smile, brief but there, before she ducks her head to hide the stain across her cheeks.

It reminds her that she has to practice when she gets home, too.

[Eve Shepherd] [WP: Because I'm not shy, not at all!]

[Gwen Sullivan] Rory takes up a seat a few stools away from her and Patrick, Hatchet settles in the space between, and Eve looms waiting for peanuts. Both of the Fianna that seem inclined to speech commented on the way she'd stared so flatly at Patrick and his sales pitch for the tribe, one told her her 'spinster-face' was worth sticking to her current mentor, she was better off with them, the other says that her 'vulcan death stare' confirms that she's a Philodox.

Patrick stands and walks off without acknowledging the Metis (though Gwen had no idea that she was one), perhaps toward the bathroom. Gwen switched her eyes from his retreating shoulders to Eve's face, then shrugged and reached out to slide the bowl of peanuts toward the Bone Gnawer. Her attention returned to Hatchet, and she swiped more fries in the ketchup, apparently oblivious of how Rory had eyed the food.

"Like you said, I feel like they go hand-in-hand. I have a difficult time believing someone would learn from a.... say.... Bone Gnawer, and then go on to become a Shadow Lord instead." Those fries were popped into her mouth, her hand was swiped on the thigh of her jeans to clean it of salt, and once she was finished chewing she extended the hand to Hatchet.

"Gwen Sullivan." That she gave her last name as well said something, she hadn't given it to Patrick. Perhaps that she was showing respect for rank, perhaps that she was more invested in the Fostern because they shared a moon and she hadn't met many that do. Perhaps trying to cover her ass for what could be perceived as 'talking back'. Whatever the reason, that's all she had to introduce herself with-- no tribe, no pack, no Name. So it's what she gave.

[Hatchet] "It'd be a pretty dick move, yeah," Hatchet says when Gwen tells him it's hard to believe someone would learn from one Garou and then turn their back on that tribe, those teachings, that... way of learning. He takes her hand -- there are scars, notches, callouses, all over his -- and he gives her a firm but brief grip before letting go, drawing his hand back.

"The truth is, though, tribe is so much more than blood. You've no more trace of breeding on you than I do. And if the tribe who is teaching you now doesn't fit what your soul is telling you, then you shouldn't submit yourself to their totem spirit for acceptance. And if you choose your tribe just because they're the only ones that were around or the only ones that stepped up to offer you fosterage, then... well, that's just as much a slap in the face to the spirit, I think. An uninformed choice is never going to be a good one. At best it's going to be a lucky one."

He shrugs one shoulder. The very motion implies the firmness of the muscle, the fluidity, the control he has over its flexibility and its strength. "You like your mentor? What you learn from him, how he teaches you -- it feel right?" It's a serious question. He's watching her now, Eve momentarily forgotten, Rory silent. Patrick taking a shit.

[Eve Shepherd] Eve shoves a hand full of peanuts in her mouth like a rage-imbued squirrel. It's timed at about the point where Hatchet said crouch over them and snarl. She chews whatever she just shoved in her mouth, and the other Philodox (because they congregate, you know. Like magnetic sand). For now, she's happy to not jump in. Instead, she hooks one leg around the other and eats peanuts like they might run away from her. Or, god forbid, like an entire meal can consist of beer and peanuts.

[Gwen Sullivan] "Yes, sir."

The answer is resolute, and there's a flash in those bog-colored eyes that suggests hints of zealous energy. She seems very even-tempered, even her voice suggests that she would be-- it rasps just a little, like sand over stone rather than laryngitis. It would've made her a highly popular lounge singer several decades ago. Her posture is comfortable, muscles relaxed, and with the moon absent from sight her Rage was just a quiet hum of warmth, it did not exceed what she had come into the Nation with. Her eyes, for a moment, spoke of the spirit that made Garou what they were.

"He knows a lot, and more important than that it's not that he's studied it and knows it-- it's that he lives it, believes in it, has duty and faith to it. He's taught me to fight, to win and what it is to lose too." She picks up the sandwich, sticking her elbows out and holding it with thumbs scooped under so the contents did not spill out. "He's Wolf-born. I think that's helping me learn to be Wolf as well as Girl and balance out the Monster more effectively." And that said she bites into the sandwich.

[Hatchet] He shrugs again. "Well, there you go," and that's about all the opinion he seems to have on it. Whether Gwen turns out a Fianna or Bone Gnawer or Shadow Lord or whateverthefuck seems to matter a little less than not at all to him. If he had a bottle of beer he'd be gesturing with it, using it to shrug instead of his shoulders.

"So who is this amazing, duty-and-faith-living wolfborn whose teachings resonate with your soul?"

[Gwen Sullivan] She doesn't try to talk around her food or jam it all into one cheek in order to speak. Her parents might have been the exceptionally laid back sort (which could easily explain her demeanor and mannerisms, nurture and nature and all of that), but her mom insisted on food being chewed and swallowed with the mouth closed before you tried to talk. It grossed her out to see half-masticated anything rolling around on peoples tongues while they tried to communicate with her. If there was one thing she'd eradicated from her children it was that-- piercings and crazy hair color she could handle, though.

"Fire Claws," she states when her food is cleared. She doesn't have any first name to give, she doesn't offer his full introduction because it's not hers to howl. Plus, for some reason, she has it in her mind that the higher your rank the more your responsibility is to know everyone who lives in your city, in your Sept. She presumed, and while that tended to make fools more than not, she went ahead and did it anyways, in favor for another bite of philly cheese steak.

[Hatchet] "Haven't met him yet," Hatchet has to say about Fire-Claws. He leaves out: haven't heard much about him, either. "Glad to hear you have someone you have faith in teaching you, though. Good luck to you both."

He'd toast, but he hasn't got anything to toast with. He looks over at Eve. "And who are you?"

[Rory] Fire Claws. That gets her gaze to lift up, her eyes on the girl talking to Hatchet. She tips her head, slightly, and then turns to thank the bartender softly when he delivers her water. She lifts it, and takes a sip, and settles more comfortably in her seat.

She finally sets her pack down - it hits the floor sounding far heavier than it looks, than she makes it look - and drapes her coat and gloves and hat atop it. She reaches for another bowl of peanuts, and takes a small handful, and simply listens.

[Eve Shepherd] "He's a damn good hunter," she says. It's an immediate response, and one that's surprisingly reverent, "he makes sense."

She swallowed her peanuts, only to realize that she needs a beer. So, she waits her turn, waits for the bartender to look like he isn't busy and like he feels like dealing with her and isn't afraid that she's going to bite him in half (which, let's face it, doesn't happen. There is always a chance Eve will snap something in half.) She orders a beer, though, and she pays him in quarters.

She finishes ordering a beer just in time to get and who are you?

"Eve Shepherd," she says, "Inconvenient Truth, Gnawer Philodox, Cliath."

[Gwen Sullivan] Eve introduces herself after speaking up for Fire Claws, stating that he's a damn fine hunter. He was, speaking good of her mentor had Gwen's attention in the first place. Not many outside of Last Watch seemed to have heard of the Lupus, and she hadn't seen him in a little while. He didn't warn when he left, but she knew he would be back, that he had business, that she was not his sole responsibility. She would be fine in his absence, but that didn't make that strange bitterness of missing someone go away. It was nice to hear good of someone you missed.

When Eve gave her name Gwen's attention pinpointed on her, and not because of her Name, but because of her name. Eve, and a Philodox. This was recognition now, connections from what she's heard and what she's seeing now. Gwen finished another bite of her sandwich before speaking with a nod to Eve.

"Rain spoke highly of you. It's nice to meet you."

[Hatchet] Rory knows Fire Claws, and Eve knows Fire Claws, and now Hatchet knows Eve. "A pleasure to meet you, Eve," he says, without obvious explanation for why he chooses the mortal-sounding name over the Garou one. He looks over at the bathrooms as though wondering if Patrick has died, but then his attention is back on the females he's currently hanging out with.

And that's all it seems to be: hanging out. He's finished his business with Rory, because luck brought her in tonight. He isn't trying to recruit Gwen, he isn't trying to catch up on the news that have passed while he's been gone. He isn't getting drunk and he doesn't seem hungry. He's just here because it's a Fianna-run bar and because, apparently, he just wanted to spend some time in the company of others mid-patrol.

Hatchet doesn't ask who Rain is. He just listens, and goes ahead and finally orders a second drink: a glass of whisky, this time. Whatever the bartender likes. He doesn't care.

[Eve Shepherd] He chose Eve, and she doesn't ask. Doesn't press. Doesn't even seem anything other than... grateful. Because, let's face it, Eve's not starting global warming. Has no connection to Al Gore. Doesn't seem too terribly inconvenient. Whatever got Eve that name is something she doesn't feel like talking about, and isn't something that gets brought up too terribly often.

"What'm I supposed to call you?" she asks the Fostern.

Whatever the answer was, she continues on, answers whatever Gwen said to her. It makes her seem surprised. Her eyebrows shoot upward, and the corners of her mouth pull inward. They press out into a a half smile, one that only barely curves upward on the sides. Her teeth aren't exposed.

"Yeah," she says, "she's somethin'. Get her to play guitar, she's amazing. Sold a song in Nashville."

There is something to be said about the way she says the word amazing. There is wonder in the word, like the meaning of it isn't entirely lost on her. It's reserved for special occasions, and apparently Rain's guitar playing is one of them.

[Rory] Well, Rory has met him, at least once. It wasn't exactly pleasant, but it was - oddly enough - what got her searching out the kinfolk of Stag to begin with. She had thought there were others still in charge, but she was mistaken.

Now, however, there is.

Slowly, the ache in her shoulder eases, the tension bleeds away slowly, though it is always near, always ready to come back. She listens as they talk and lets her gaze wander around the establishment. She chews her lower lip, absently, and when the bartender asks if she wants more water, she simply nods.

[Gwen Sullivan] "I'll have to do so."

This is to Eve. She finishes her sandwich, swipes the last few fries in the ketchup and pops them into her mouth, then slides down off the stool and jams a five dollar bill into the tip jar on the counter. She pulls her coat off the back of the stool and excuses herself while she pulls it, the hat, scarf and gloves all back on. "It was great to meet all of you." This with a glance to Rory, even though she didn't get a name or introduction for her she was something of a caboose in the conversation, there, recognized, noticed, but not adding to what was being said. "Thanks for the hospitality from you and your Kin.

"I should be on my way, though. Goodnight." Once all zipped up and secured against the cold, Gwen would take her leave back out onto the sidewalk. Places to go, people to see. Or at least she could make it seem that way.

[Hatchet] "Right," he says, when it's pointed out that he neglected to offer his own introduction. Receiving his glass of amber-colored liquid, the Fostern offers his free hand to Eve. "Buried Hatchet, Fostern Philodox of Stag." No mention of pack, of title, of any of it. No mention of mortalish name.

He looks over at Gwen as she gets ready to depart, giving her a nod. "I'm in Room 9 at the Brotherhood," he tells her. "Stop by anytime if you want to talk."

She is, after all, of his moon. And her little thanks to the hospitality makes him smile. A real smile. "Have a good night, Wise Little Monster." Another look, another tone, and that appellation could be rude as hell. He could be insulting her. Something about the way he voices it, and the way he looks at her, it almost seems like respect. Toasts her with his whisky, and takes a sip as she leaves.

[Gwen Sullivan] On her way out the door, Hatchet wishes her farewell. This is met with a two-fingered salute from the brim of her bright red beanie. She heard, she understood.

Wise Little Monster was answered with a small smile, something subtle on her spinster-face, before the door shut behind her.

[Eve Shepherd] She looks at his hand, and for a second she doesn't quite know what to do with it. It takes a split second before she does, and shakes it once up, once down. Yes. We've clasped hands now and performed the ritual. The end. Eve's not good at shaking hands. Her grip is firm, but the entirety of the gesture just seems alient to her.

"Mmn," is all she says about his name. By this time, she's got a beer, and down the hatch it goes.

[Hatchet] He downs the whisky, this barefooted Fostern, and then he gives up on Patrick. He summons the bartender over and talks for a moment to them, and, simply enough, the bartender isn't inclined to argue. A message is taken for the owner, and the Half Moon then steps away from the bar.

He looks to Rory first. "I'm glad we talked," he says, sincere. "And for what it's worth, your support means a lot to me."

Then his eyes hit Eve. "Like I told the girl, I'm in Room 9. You're welcome to come talk, too. Anytime, just knock.

"But I'm going to head out again. I need to remember the city." Not re-familiarize himself. Not explore. Remember. He gives a nod to the two of them, and heads towards the bathroom. Maybe Patrick sees him there, a moment before the Philodox vanishes through the mirror over the sinks.

[Rory] Rory isn't one who speaks much. Anyone who's heard her speak understands why. Her shyness, her quietness, the fact that she flinches when anyone goes to touch her, the fact she never expects anything at all - but pain - all of this makes her a product of her upbringing. Simple as that.

Hatchet turns to her, first, and she nods, slightly. Then, offering a bit of her own, quietly. "Chinatown. If you meed ne." Not her pack, just her. She's as alone as he is, perhaps more.

Then he's gone, following Patrick to the bathroom that apparently causes Fianna to disappear. She will not be using it, for sure.

[Eve Shepherd] She finishes off her beer, and she smiles. Eve wears an expression of genuine pleasure at that. It was a good beer, it seemed. She even inspects the label and starts to peel it off. She starts with the top left corner. Gets enough of it off that she can start peeling.

"I'll swing by," she says, and nods upward. She's going for her pockets again, because it wasn't right not to tip the poor bar tender. He gets a dollar thirty two. It might have been insulting, but we digress. People can look at Eve and guess what kind of resources she has, "keep safe."

[Hatchet] [Thanks for the RP, guys! I had a lot of fun.]

[Rory] [danke! :) ]

[Eve Shepherd] (thanks for playing, y'all!))

[Rory] She finishes her water, and reaches down to grab her coat, and slip it on. It's followed by her pack, and then hat and gloves. And then, just as quietly as she arrived, she slips through the crowd and to the door, and out into the night.