Right down till the Bitter End [Simon, Howard, Hunter, Izzy]

 Missing first half! 

[Llewelyn] Patrick is too furious to answer, that much is evident in the manner he just stares blindly at Howard, then looks at Simon. He holds the bottle of whiskey out to the Wyrmfoe in what may pass as a truce of some degree and staggers to his feet. "Be right back," he mutters to everyone and no-one and staggers out onto the road, across the street and toward the nearest trash can.

He then proceeds to throw up.

It's anyone's guess as to why.

[Simon] He shakes his head."I wasn't really headed down here I just happened to be driving by. What the hell happened here and why in the hell are you lying on the floor?"He asks him as he offers down a hand to the Theurge."That cunt was some Fenrir cunt. I forget her name she's a cop though and pissy as hell... Something... I guess she doesn't like that I don't hold much love for cops. Though I think she might be the kinda girl who just hates people because."He says with a nod of his head.

"Your packmate is over there crying... Or throwing up or something. You might wanna see to him."He says with a nod of his head.

[Hunter] The first serious face this evening crosses Hunters face when Patrick begins to hulk out. But it isn't fear that Patrick sees in Hunters green eyes. His head tips and he gives him that wolf gaze that is entirely inhuman. That look that says, I'm not sure what you're doing is such a smart idea. Of course how is Patrick to know that? Hunter is fit for sure, well built but he isn't insanely tall, in fact he's short by Chicago male standards. He doesn't look particularly intimidating, especially when he's drunk as all hell and his rage is lower than usual.

See, Patrick might have all this Rage, but he isn't used to it. It is an abnormality. That level of Rage feels like home to a Garou like Hunter Matthews, so he knows what he's looking at and he takes a toke on the cigarette while he's studying it.

Hunter is used to dealing with Garou like Christian--who thrall if you say their name wrong--he's used to fighting Garou like Joey who has no business being as deadly as she is, what with her freckles and all. Whilst Patrick cuts a fine figure and is impressively hairy when he begins to change -- there's just something missing. He just doesn't seem like he has it in him to lose himself to the beast like that.

At least not tonight.

Hunter lets out an almost inaudible clicking sound with his tongue when Howard moves away to sit down, then tosses his cigarette butt on the ground, stamps it out.

"I'm Hunter." He says to Howard, and his voice says remarkably more sober than it did five minutes ago.

[Ivers] He sits blearily inspecting the held-out hand for several seconds, eyebrows raised in curiosity that would be comically uncertain if it weren't for the fact that he still looks as though he'd been hit by a goddamn bus. The Theurge's face is painted with blood, since-replaced teeth littering the sidewalk, fractures still littering his skeleton, broken blood vessels still littering his internal countryside. That was one of the stupidest things he's done recently, but attempting to explain to a twenty-two-year-old male that jumping off of a fire escape when he's high isn't just lacking common sense but flat-out suicidal is nearly impossible when said twenty-two-year-old male knows damned well that Garou fall into two categories: impossible to kill, or destined to die young.

Howard isn't one for labels, and eventually he claps a blood-stained hand in Simon's and uses him for leverage to get to his feet. He falls against the car again, the THC and alcohol burnt off but pain still hindering his movement, then reaches up to wipe the blood off of his face with his hand. For as perfunctory a solution as it is, it just makes the overall effect worse.

"Hunter?" he echoes, and forces himself to stand upright. He laughs, the sound short and sharp, then claps Simon on the cheek as he starts to shuffle after his packmate. "Jesus Christ... are you bootin', man? The Lords are looking at you!"

[Simon] He rolls his eyes when Hunter's hand claps against his cheek and he sighs in annoyance as the Fianna rushes off in the direction of his Packmate. His arms come to rest under his chest and he pauses to look the two of them over quietly. He kept his smile and yet he remained there in quiet contemplation before glancing over at Hunter.

"You ever had an uncle or a cousin who drank just a little too much and you found yourself asking yourself if it was better for you to sit back and let them make their own choices or to actually step in and intervene?"He asks the man curiously as he stands there. He wasn't sure how to take the situation, but there were obviously thoughts being weighed in the back of his mind right now as he watched the pair.

[Simon] [Change the first hunter to Howard and the second Hunter to Hunter!]

[Llewelyn] It's funny, though not surprising, per say, how much better you feel after vomiting up most of the contents of your stomach. Patrick leans over a foul smelling trash can and empties the last few hours into it, then straightens, wipes off his mouth and turns to curse the fact that he'd handed his whiskey to the Shadow Lord and that it appeared Howard was coming after him in Glabro.

He didn't even have the energy to yell.

He just moved over to perch himself on the steps of an apartment complex and brace one arm over his knees, his head slightly lowered as he -- what, recovered -- dug out that crushed as fuck packet of cigarettes he'd been toting about earlier out and stuck one between his lips.

So much for quitting, hey.

He's struggling with his lighter by the time Howard reaches him; and he stops trying. "You scared the shit out of me just then," he says baldly.

[Hunter] "Uncle or cousin?" He raises an eyebrow. "Don't know nuthin' bout that."

He pauses, this is where he would stay silent if he had grown up more, and the fact that he pauses means he has changed somewhat. He isn't the same Hunter Matthews that left Chicago with a Fostern for a Beta and a super-fly brit-ho in tow. Not entirely different though either.

"Baxter use'ta drink a'lot but fuck intervenin there." He grins. "You try tell a grumpy old fuckin' Metis Fostern Ahroun to stop drinkin' and see how far it gets ya."

He grimaces.

"Not fuckin' very far, I tells ya."

[Ivers] [He totally shifted back into his birth form two posts ago.]

[Llewelyn] [he DID? Totally delete that part of my post. I'm retarded.]

[Ivers] Howard is breathing like an obese man attempting to walk from the couch to the bathroom, still has an arm tucked around his abdomen, and when he reaches Patrick he crashes against the side of the building, using it for the purposes of remaining upright. He wipes his sticky hand on the thigh of his jeans, the blood practically blending in with the black denim, and awkwardly snatches the lighter from Patrick's hand.

"Oh fuck off," he says. An experimental shake reveals the lighter is still filled with fluid; he is about to light the Galliard's smoke when a thought occurs to him. "Thought you fuckin' quit."

[Simon] He shrugs in response to Hunter's."All depends on the problem and what you can do about it."He says softly to himself."They're missing something..."He says softly."Like two scared pups sometimes. Pulled off the teat just a little early, not quite ready to be out from under the wing."He says to himself as he looks from one to the other. Patrick was scared, worried for his packmate. There was love there, a genuine affection shared by packmates that he too understood rather well.

"You get so used to the idea that your job is to kill that you sometimes miss that there's more to war than killing."He tenses his hands into fists as he looks at these two. If they were just smart mouthed pricks he could beat the shit out of them but there was more to them than that and it pissed him off.

[Llewelyn] Howard snatches the lighter out of Patrick's hand and he glares at him, but doesn't stop him. He's about to light his cigarette when he realizes what, and who he's doing it for and asks the logical question. He thought he'd quit. "I did," he protests and props his back against the wall, coughing once. A wash of white air puffs as he does, and vanishes away in the chill.

"I have. You bring the addict out in me, what can I say?" He decrees, with no small amount of sarcasm, and gestures for him to proceed. Regardless of whether or not he does, the Galliard glances across the street and finds they appear to be the subjects of study by the Wyrmfoe and the Bone Gnawer.

"That dick almost pissed on your head, by the way." He says with a nod, then continues: "You on a fucking suicide sprint, or what? Cuz I get it, I'd just like to know so I can, y'know, rent your room."

[Hunter] Hunter rubs a hand over his chin and peers around the street. The cop is gone, his precious bike is lying on it's side in the road. Joey will have a fucking fit about the fresh scratches on it.

"Ain't about bein' more to war than killin, it's bout bein' more to life than just killin'."

"Maybe they just fuckin' do things differently s'all. Don't know fuckin' nuthin' bout em, but they seem aight to me. Gots a fuckin' family together there probs, what's more important? The stocky one could use a bit'a practice with the old fisty-cuffs tho."

And he peers past Simons shoulder.

"Aye friend?"

But there's not much more to say. If he knew more he could comment more, having lived outside of the nation himself for most of his life. He could tell Simon what it's like to have no family all your life and then suddenly belong to a pack. To lead your own pack. War doesn't seem that important when you find something like Howard and Patrick share, it doesn't seem that important when you lose something like they had either.

They'll fight, when they have to. When what they care about is threatened, just like all the rest. They aren't puppies.

"Imma' head home, keep it real boys."

And he moves to his bike, lifts it up and slides a leg over. They can hear the 1400CC engine roar to life and it's almost deafening at this close pace. When it quietens down he holds up his index and middle finger to the three of them.

"Peace out."

And he zig zags off down the road and out of sight.

[Ivers] "Did he?" Howard can't see across the street to identify which one of them Patrick is referring to, but he turns his head and squints into the washed out world that exists outside of the dark pockets anyway. "Sick bastard..."

The battered Theurge all but flings himself at the opposite wall, letting his back smack against the frigid, graffiti-covered brick and sliding with a scratch of leather against building so he can sit beside his brother. With the lighter-yielding hand he carefully removes the cigarette from Patrick's lips and implants it between his own to light. A call to keep it real comes from the street, and without thinking Howard holds up his index and middle finger, as well; unfortunately, it's the back of his hand facing the Bone Gnawer, not the palm. There's a pause to light the unfiltered cigarette, a miserable, wet cough, and Howard pockets the lighter before handing the Lucky Strike to Patrick.

"In case you're havin' trouble with your eyes," Howard says, "I'm fine. Yeah? See? Still in one piece."

[Simon] He listens to Hunter and all the while he watches the two of them. He is a Shadow Lord and by now you woulda figured he would have simply lost all interest in the pair and gone his own direction. Yet something caused him to pull over and actually check on the two. It was something he already told himself and more than that it was the fact the Sept has already had more loss than he wanted to discuss. Maybe the deaths that occurred were not his fault but that didn't mean the Full Moon didn't feel a responsibility. After all it's also his job to keep folks asses alive.

He takes in every word Hunter shares and he even nods his head. A slight smile grew when he mentioned life and shared one of those Happy Days moments where the Fonz shouts some cheezy cliche then rides off into the night.

"See now that's what we need more of in this sept... That I can handle..."He mutters to himself before looking back at the two and walking up closer to them."You two need a ride back to the Brotherhood or something? It's cold as fuck out here."

[Llewelyn] "Yeah, today."

There's no small amount of emphasis placed there, as Patrick accepts the cigarette and takes a long, slightly less shaky inhale from it before offering it over to the Theurge. "But if that's how you plan to, I don't even know man, deal with random people we meet dying, you need to tell me right the fuck now."

He stabs at his knee with a fingertip, then glances up, appearing more than slightly rankled by the Wyrmfoe's approach and address to them. His pale eyes snap to Howard, then return. "We're probably good. You still got my whiskey?"

Priorities, you know.

[Ivers] When Simon walks up to the two-man pack, Howard is looking at his brother with an incredulous expression on his face, a cigarette streaming between his fingers, blood still oozing from various orifices. He idly wipes a gloved hand under his nose to sop up the fluid he can feel trickling its way down his face, sniffs and hawks the results against the opposite wall.

He's silent up until Patrick asks if Simon still has his whisky, at which point he decides decorum can go take a flying leap.

"Look, man," he says, then pauses to grimace and roll his jaw around on its hinges until a duet of pops announces that it's back in alignment. "You think booze and pot is all there is out there? Fuckin' adrenaline, man. Wakes your ass right up. This shit doesn't even hurt all that bad, it's like... fwoom! you know? Fuckin' shot of hardcore shit right in the fuckin' kidneys. Urban skydiving, I'm goin' to start callin' it." A beat. "Besides, that metis prick kept stealin' all my lighters. Hard to fuckin' keep stealin' lighters when you're fuckin' dead, aye?"

Drag.

[Llewelyn] "He's fucking dead, Howard!"

Oh dear, Patrick is back on his feet, and he's shouting again, with or without Simon's presence. There's something disturbingly agile to the manner Patrick tosses the cigarette aside in favor of continuing with his spiel as if he'd never taken a moment to do so. It hits the ground and continues to smoke at their feet before the ice extinguishes it.

"Night's Reprieve is dead, and I sat there and I talked to the bastard and I knew his face and he's fucking dead because some dickwads who think it's fantastic to be part of the evil incarnate's side came and kicked his ass and somehow, we're all meant to be okay with that!"

He turns, and kicks the door, hard.
It leaves the imprint of his boot.

"I'm not even part of this Sept, we're not meant to care, but all I can think of, all I see," he rubs furiously at his temple a moment with a manic's intensity. "Is this guy who I saw, who I knew who's fucking dead now and I can't even wander by and pay respects the way I want to because everything I want to say would result in those assholes," -- Simon gets a brief gesture "No fucking offense man" -- "killing my ass for saying so."

He stops, breathing hard.

"Quinn came and hugged me today. She just -- she hugged me, like I would make it better, somehow. What am I meant to do here? Pretend it doesn't matter? Pretend I'm not angry, pretend I don't hate them all, for walking into their own demise?"

He drops his arms, turns and punches the wall, dropping a fist and leaning against it heavily.

[Ivers] Despite and throughout his brother's outburst, Howard just sits on the cold ground, legs akimbo, body visibly battered, staring at Patrick with eyes that are still that horrific red color. He looks young without his sunglasses on, the lack of wrinkles on his face and the still-burning light in his green eyes all the proof the world has that he hasn't become the burnt-out shell they believe his brother to be.

Yet his brother, for as Harano-bound as he is, still reacts. He still admits when something hurts, when something sucks. Howard jumped five stories and broke nearly every bone in his body but didn't scream; Patrick nearly panicked, nearly frenzied, because even if Howard wouldn't admit the implications of his actions, Howard wasn't the one who had to witness his brother plummeting to what could have been his death. Patrick rants and lashes out when someone they were affiliated with through virtue of camaraderie has been killed; Howard makes jokes about him stealing his lighters.

"Nobody is gonna 'kill your ass,'" he says, the last three words spoken with flat American inflection. It disappears a moment later. "And if you run around callin' everybody names and shit, they're goin' to get offended. That's what people do. I bet you five bucks this guy--" He gestures to Simon. "--has the grandaddy of all lectures stored up for you. He's just waitin' for the opportune moment."

[Simon] He nods his head at what Patrick says and shrugs his shoulders."Suit yourself..."He says turning as if to walk away and the two go on, however something snaps inside Patrick and that... brings Simon to a dead halt. He doesn't turn, though somewhere inside he almost formed a little smile as he heard the Galliard shout. He listened to every word... You see it was hard for Simon to deal with folks who just didn't fucking seem to care. However the outburst showed that there was something there and that showed that there was, indeed, still something left inside the Galliard to save.

"I'm going to find them... And I am going to kill them."He says back to them as he turns around."I am going to kill them and I am going to put their nasty fucking heads on poles where their brothers and sisters can see them. Then I am going to find their friends and I am going to kill them. I am going to call the fucked up monstrosities they call a sept... Or whatever twisted word they use it and one by one I am going to rip the life from their bodies. I am going to hunt them down, and I am going to give them something so terrifying that their sorry asses will have to huddle in their caves like the cowards they are and wait for death to finally come and burn their sorry fucking asses out."He says back to Patrick in a strong and firm voice.

"Night's Reprieve is dead... But I am not. That will be the last, and worst mistake they made. Same thing goes for any member of this sept, members or not... Not a single death will ever be in vain. Not so long as I live and breath."He finally mutters back to the pair."I just need to find them first."

He then turns and walks directly towards Howard."And this! Is for being a shithead!"He says throwing a sharp and powerful punch directly down at the Theurge. Something he has been wanting to do for a long long long long time.

[Dex+Brawl]

[Simon] [Dmg: Str+3]

[Ivers] [Ack!]

[Llewelyn] [Don't HIT MY ALPHA! Dex + Brawl]

[Llewelyn] [Damage]

[Simon] [Soak!]

[Llewelyn] Perhaps he does still care.
Perhaps that's what his rant is about.

The burning amber of his desire to care again, to want to fight the good fight once more. Patrick had never stopped caring for humanity, for people in general, or even for his fellow Garou. What he had lost faith in was the War. Was the reason for all of this. He didn't see it as some great and noble sacrifice -- he saw it as the long told company line that everyone believed because it was simply easier that way to believe it.

Not to fight for independent evaluation for why they were still at war, after all this time.
Was it needed.
Was it necessary.

He certainly hears what Simon has to say -- right up until the point when he kicks Patrick's Alpha in the head, and then the Galliard is less receptive. Then, he's in the Shadow Lord's face with his fist. And this time, unlike the last with Hunter --

he doesn't miss.

"I'm glad you're hunting them down." He bites each word off. "But do that again and I'll do more than give you a blood nose."

[Simon] He takes the punch with startling ease and finds himself facing Patrick. His attention on the man as he brings his fist to his nose and looks down to see that Patrick has managed to draw blood."So you can fight... It's nice to see you've still got that somewhere inside you. I could use your help in tracking these guys down, Howards as well... And you can sure as hell bet the Fenrir are gonna want in on this. If that's all you have in you to fight for then that's all you can give, but I am not about to turn my back on anyone who still has something left in them to give."He didn't seem bothered or even phased by the punch. He gets beaten within inches of his life on a regular basis and sometimes dies a little... No biggie really.

"You're Volcano's chosen... And I look forward to the day I can watch in awe as you erupt and crush our enemies beneath your feet. We're not men... We're forces of nature and when we're unleashed nothing can stand in our way."He then smiles a little and looks down at Howard.

"Howard is fine... I'll help you get his ass home if you like."He laughs a little."He has totally been asking for it though. Like... Totally asking for it."

[Llewelyn] Patrick glances back at his pack-mate, then back at the Ahroun. His arm snaps out to block any easy access to Howard.

"I'm fine, I'll take care of him."

Then, after a beat, he calls out to, or simply speaks depending on how far Simon has ventured before Patrick reaches out, at least verbally, to the Shadow Lord. "Tell me why you do it. Why you care.

And don't feed me a fucking for the good of Gaia line. Be honest."

[Ivers] [PU+Wits: WAKE UP]

[Ivers] Howard knows damned well why he received a broken nose; the first words out of his mouth when he regains consciousness aren't pleas for comprehension or mercy. That punch had not hurt nearly so bad as hitting the sidewalk, but it knocked him out and left him with a concussion on top of everything else that continued to linger after he jumped. For several seconds all he can do is lie there, nearly bereft of Rage and with the world spinning. He groans, thoroughly disoriented, the press of Rage from his brother a reminder that he's still alive.

His blood-red eyes are loose in their sockets, focusing on nothing that he points them at, and he's oddly quiet now that Simon's punched him so hard his ancestors could probably feel it. All he's capable of doing is dragging himself a few inches so he's behind Patrick's legs, and then he collapses on the ground, his respirations high-pitched and whistling through his nose.

"Pa, verskoon my, stop slaan my," he slurs into the pavement before falling silent again.

[Simon] He shrugs his shoulders and his eyes meet Patrick's directly. You see that question was complex on one side and simple on the other."There's women out there right now at this second screaming for someone to help them. They're being raped or beaten or stabbed or even tortured... No one will find them, no one will get to them in time, they are going to die. There's kids, little kids out there and they are screaming for someone to help them... No one will find them and no one will help them. There is death and misery and suffering. People are starving and being tortured and being chopped up for their parts. Buncha fucked up shit that happens every day... And somewhere we caused every last inch of it. Not you and I, but our ancestors, our most ancient and wisest of heroes. We were put here on this planet to protect humanity. To keep THIS from happening... And we fucked up and now we're suffering too. I'm not doing this for something my Elders talk about though. I'm fighting for all the people who died praying for someone to save them. I am fighting for all the misguided fools who thought there was some benevolent force out there watching over them when they were tortured to death. I am fighting because someone somewhere out there actually gives a shit or gave a shit... Some girl is rotting in a ditch right now and the least I could do for her is keep fighting. Cause she did... Right down till the bitter end."He says this wit that flaring intensity locked on Patrick's eyes."I fight for everyone who ever needed someone to stand up for them, and for everyone who will need someone who will stand up for them."It was surprisingly romantic that a Full Moon, and Shadow Lord would have such strong opinions to share.

[Llewelyn] Howard drags himself a few inches, so he's behind Patrick's legs and his pack-mate is careful, then, not to take a step backward and crush his already broken face. He does pay attention however, to what the surprisingly eloquent full moon says to him; him with the bleeding knuckles, and the bruised head and the scent of vomit and beer and weed hanging about him.

He listens, then his mouth twists with a bittersweet expression disguised as a smile.

"I wish I felt that way," Patrick admits, and then nods as if to set Simon free of them both for the evening. He turns; twists, and drops to his haunches over his Alpha. "How the fuck are you feeling?"

[Simon] He nods his head and shrugs before looking down at Howard and then back up to Patrick."With any luck one day you will."He shrugs."But it's way too fuckin cold, and I need to warm up. You, get him outta the cold soon."He points at Howard and heads for his car. Setting himself off as soon as the car can start up.

[Ivers] [FADE AND SHIT]