whatever, man [Brotherhood, Various]

[Kristiana Coleman] "But I don't want to stop shopping...." She looks like she'd readily curl up in a corner, though, between the sandpaper like Joey, and zombie Bridget.

[Bridget] There were people in the room apparently, meaning she's been lying there thinking for a while. There is a lot of noise. She's distracted.

The Fianna returns to her shared room a moment later with the bottle of whiskey she bought from downstairs and hid in some strange place like underneath the couch, behind the TV, or something crazy like that.

She returns and there is a pile of clothes larger than Bridget's entire set of belongings. She blinks, just now realizing what's going on here. She grins, dashes over to the bed with the other two, and leaps onto a corner that may or may not have submerged limbs beneath.

Bridget checks after she lands, then falls over beside the LUMP that is Kristiana. She jostles the liquor bottle back and forth, her eyes lit up.

"You need to stop shopping so you can afford to go out and rock what you've got on the dance floor."

[Kristiana Coleman] "I already can afford to go out. And I don't dance. You guys dance?" She picks up a few things and drops them again. "You guys should take some stuff"

[Quinn] At some point while bodies clogged the doorway to room 8, a stray wandered into the bathroom. The water in one of the showers has been going for about ten minutes and so far shows no signs of stopping. A feminine voice can be heard humming off-key occasionally.

[Cordelia] She looked at Kristiana like she was speaking a completely different language. She tilts her head to the side, and she rubs her head as though she has a headache or like she had been hit in the head with something heavy and blunt. Her hands fold low across her stomach.

"I don't dance," she says, "sounds almost like a challenge. How can you not dance?"

[Bridget] Bridget can't really complain about the offer. She unscrews the cap and takes a swig of the bourbon, then holds it out in offering to either of the Swanlings.

"You own all this shit and you don't dance?"

A grumble comes from the Canadian while she gauges the girl. Finally she takes a deep breath and declares the following loudly:

"WOMAN! Vous avez besoin de faire l'expérience de la vie. Vous avez la joie de vivre, mais vous n'agissez pas sur elle! La vie est précieuse. Un jour, vous clignote et ..." She makes a stroke with her flat hand in the air. "Vous serez trente. Ou quarante. Et vous regarderez en arrière et de penser: «Qu'est-ce que j'ai fait de ma vie»"

[Kristiana Coleman] "I just don't. We go, we let people take our pictures, see what guys will buy us bottles..." She shrugs. Apparently California clubs are different than Chicago clubs. "And I have forever before I'm thirty. Gawd. Pick stuff out so I can bring the rest of it over. And the shoes.

[Cordelia] She accepts aforementioned burbon, holding it loosely in her hand and tipping it back. This wasn't like the whiskey she'd had with Winston. It doesn't make her snort or feel like her lungs are on fire... okay, strike that, it does make her feel like her lungs are on fire, but this doesn't make her eyes water and her fingertips tremble and it certainly doesn't reduce her to a coughing mess.

Metis don't fuck around with their booze.

Cordelia just stares at Kristiana, and takes another long, harsh drag. She hands the bottle back.

"... we party on two different wavelengths."

[Bridget] It was worth a try, anyway. Bridget caps the bottle of whiskey unless Cordelia takes it, then slumps in defeat with an arm across the bundled blonde. Amidst the carnage of chiffon, polished cotton, sequins, silk, and whatever other glamorous gore was spread over here, Bridget breathes quietly for a few moments.

Then it occurs to her Hunter left... in persuit of Howard. Her brows furrow in confusion for a second before it hits her. If Howard is here and hasn't made a grand entry, he's either pestering someone (which is entertaining) or smoking pot (might be what she needs).

So with a bit of a struggle, she gets up and launches off in persuit of something to get her out of the zombified funk, bourbon in tow.

"I'll be back in a bit," she says.

[Hunter] "I know." Is all Hunter says.

The door gets opened by his left hand and swung wide by his left foot before he limps the Theurge down the stairwell. It isn't a pleasant journey, nor is it one that is particularly fast. But here for once, Hunters smaller height is of benefit. Howard can comfortably lean on him and Hunter takes each step first so there is something to support the crippled Fiann as he makes his way down.

Through the common room they go, back out to the corridor and quickly into the bathroom where Hunter lets go of him, letting him rest against the wall near the sinks.

"Aight--" He pauses, there's running water. "Who's in here?"
to Howard, Patrick, Quinn

[Kristiana Coleman] "Alright" She watches the bottle of burbon longingly, but doesn't ask for any. Instead, she gives up on sorting clothes and flops back into Cordelia. "Did I tell you that Mattieu took me to dinner the other night?"

[Cordelia] "You did not," she replies.

[Kristiana Coleman] "Oh. Well. He did." She gives Cordie a smile that says she knew damned well that she hadn't mentioned it yet.

[Quinn] The sound of people coming into the bathroom has long since stopped causing the kinswoman to pause and listen and tense. She never went to college, never got to experience shared showers outside of a few times in high school, and then only with other girls. The Brotherhood is full of creatures drawn to the blood pulsing through her veins, and she is perhaps at her most vulnerable in the shower. After all, she can't carry her gun in with her, and she's shit in a fight without it.

Nowadays she doesn't worry about it. The humming doesn't stop until one of the bodies asks who's in here.

"Hunter?" her voice echoes out into the bathroom proper. "It's Quinn," she says after a moment, because he might not recognize her.
to Howard, Hunter, Patrick

[Cordelia] This is an instance where Cordelia is acting like a girl. She looks around, then plops herself down in the pile of clothes as though it's just an incredibly expensive, high-thread-count beanbag. Her legs splay outward to the side.

"So.." she syas, she grins, "what happened?"

[Kristiana Coleman] "He's nice." She's trying to play it cool, and mostly succeeding except for the wide, goofy grin. "He's really nice. He opened my car door."

[Howard] Whatever non-vocal sounds Howard makes are muffled but not entirely obscured by the rushing water in Quinn's shower stall: he crashes into the tiled wall as though he's been dragged ashore, his sunglasses crack into the flat surface a few times as his shivering abates, his sneakers squeak on the floor as he tries to maintain his balance. The Theurge coughs, groans, his breathing taking on a high-pitched stridor, and when he hears Quinn's voice he drags his forehead across the tile to look in her direction.

"Oh Jesus," he announces. "Quinn darlin', earmuff it!"
to Hunter, Patrick, Quinn

[Patrick] It was the ironic thing about the Brotherhood.

You moved out and wound up spending more time back there than you ever did whist an actual occupant within it. Not that Prayers to Broken Stone and his Alpha had really lived there longer than, what had it been, three weeks? -- It had felt like years by the time they packed up their shit and moved it across town.

Now, the only reason why Patrick ventures back is either to locate one of the Kinfolk he's gotten to know, or hunt down his Alpha -- usually, he can find one when he does the other, which was handy. Tonight; he's coming to the Brotherhood directly from a late night at the Garage; reeking of cars and sweat and with a smear of grease across his neck. Beneath his leather jacket is his navy blue overalls, and heavy boots thud with a finality as he stamps them just inside the door.

From behind the counter at the bar, Reuben Coltrane, a grizzled bear of a man glanced up from counting the night's take so far and nodded at the Fianna. "Hey, man," Patrick called with what passed for good cheer from the Galliard. He rubbed his palms together as he crossed toward the man. "You see my Alpha making a nuisance of himself tonight?"

Reuben's lip curled, and he jerked his head toward the stairs. "Last I saw," he growled, and Patrick saluted him, and started making his way toward the stair-well, fingers rubbing off traces of his day from his flesh.

[Bridget] "Oi!" cries the Canadian once she reaches the hallway. "Where did you queerbaits run off to?"

The rooms are empty. The common area is vacant. She sighs in her strange hippie-chic attire, slumped over with a half-empty bottle of Wild Turkey in hand resting against her thigh. They might be on the roof or in the bathrooms.

Just then a noise distracts her: footsteps padding up the stairs from the bar below. She turns to look and spots a tall, broad-shouldered Welshman.

I guess you'll do.

[Hunter] "Oh shit," He whispers to Howard, "Quinns in here!" Like Howard doesn't know, he just TALKED to her. Hunter is a strange one.

"Uh." Hunter says, and takes on a voice that is his attempt at normal-person speech. "We're just, takin' care o somethin's. You just... you just keep on doin' what you're doin'."

A gulp and he hisses at Howard.
to Howard, Patrick, Quinn

[Hunter] There comes muffled sounds from the bathroom and then the voice of Hunter hissing. "Bend over."

[Howard] "No shit?" he whispers back, as though this is news to him.
to Hunter, Patrick, Quinn

[Quinn] "Earmuff it?" she mutters as she digs her fingers into her hair, working in some conditioner. There is, of course, no one on this side of the Gauntlet to see her frown. But she holds her tongue for now, and decides it's high time to finish her cleansing routine.
to Howard, Hunter, Patrick

[Cordelia] "He is nice," she says. She sits forward and perks up a little.

now, let's put this in perspective. This is Matthieu that Cordelia is talking about. This is the same Matthieu that has very little in common ideologically with Cordelia. This is the same Matthieu that Cordelia, for some reason, can't seem to find three nice things to say to unless she is horribly intoxicated.

"He's fairly optomistic," apparently, though, she doesn't completely despise the poor man.

[Howard] "What! No!" comes the distinct squawking of a certain foreign, antisocial delinquent. He's considerably louder than the Bone Gnawer. "I'm not bendin' over, if you're gonna do it, fuckin' do it!"

[Kristiana Coleman] "He's very sweet." Says the kin, in that 'OMG I like him SO much' voice. "I think he might ask me out again. Maybe. Do you think that people have been spreading rumors about me?" She sits up to look at Cordelia. "Have you heard any rumors about me?"

[Bridget] What a strange development. I mean, they've all joked, but... No, wait. At least Howard's bi, or he's covering damn well. As far as Hunter? Fuck knows! Bridget pads over towards the bathrooms.

"Hold that thought," is all she says to her tribesman.

[Quinn] Yep. Definitely time to get out of here. Quinn rinses out her hair and shuts off the water. And she pauses as she wrings the water from her long dark hair. She wraps a towel around her body and pulls back the curtain and sees...

nothing. Her hand is clapped over her eyes, the other occupied with holding up her towel.

"I'm not looking," she whispers, and decides to leave her bathroom supplies behind for now. "I'm not looking please wait until I'm out I'm not looking," she repeats.
to Howard, Patrick

[Cordelia] She looks at her cautiously... but mostly, her expression just confused. Her eyebrows are knit together, then pushed upward. One eye is a little more open than the other, and her lips are pressed into a line. Her arms unfold and rest on her knees.

"Why... would... anyone..? Eh?"

[Hunter] "I ain't done this before!" comes shouting back. A long pause ended by a sound from hunter that vaguely resembles shocked disgust.

"I can't! It's IN TOO DEEP I CAN'T GET IT OUT. QUINN GET OVER HERE PLEASE HELP ME!"

[Patrick] When Patrick spots Bridget, he almost looks a touch startled. Or was that guilty? It's something and it might occur to the Kinfolk that Howard has either spoken to, or Patrick knows of her time with his Alpha. He is quick enough however, to school away his expression into something far less pointedly aware and cants her a lop-sided, tired half-grin.

"Hey, Bridget." He gestures at the bottle as he comes fully into the common area, glancing in passing at the Silver Fangs gossiping in a corner. He still wasn't sure what to make of that tribe, honestly. "Drinking solo tonight?" Then, there's a distinctly familiar squawking from the bathrooms, and Patrick's eyebrows crawl toward his hairline.

"Uh," Hold that thought. "Bridget, maybe you should wait."

Then, repressing a smile, Patrick rubs the edge of his thumb over his eyebrow. Howard? Whatever you're doing, finish up before you destroy the coping mechanisms of everyone living here.

[Kristiana Coleman] "Just. You know. People telling people that I've done things that I haven't... That sort of thing." She picks up a silky tank top, looking it over before tossing it in the opposite pile.

[Patrick] [Whatever. I can't fucking keep up with you lot. Patrick is where ever he is, ignore that SF Kin. Or... don't. Whatevs, man.]

[Bridget] It's written on Patrick's face. He knows, the bastard gossip hens!! Really, the feral kin couldn't give a hair off Stag's tail about who knows. She just doesn't care. And the bathroom situation is just too intriguing for her to wait. Besides, she's already near the door when he says something.

Pandora. Box. Open Sesame!

[Cordelia] "Kristiana," her voice is stern, "is that a pointed comment or are you actually concerned?"

[Howard] [FUCKING IE ATE MY POST FUCK HANG ON]

[Quinn] The outburst startles her into dropping her hand from her eyes to see...oh. Oh hahaha. Oh that's not so bad.
to Howard, Hunter, Patrick

[Howard] Once Quinn turns off the shower head, whatever's going on in the bathroom becomes considerably more audible to the rest of the floor. Even the kinswomen in Room 8, if their door is shut, are not spared. Howard is goddamn loud even when he's calm and sitting still. Right now he's neither.

"Look, man, you fuckin' started this. Don't pussy out on me now!"

[Quinn] "You need a better grip on his hip." Compared to the squawks of the boys, Quinn's voice practically floats out of the bathroom. "Here, put your hand here."

[Hunter] "Put my hand WHERE?" Hunter whines. "And you shut up Howard, you started this. You practically begged me for it."

[Bridget] A few steps into the bathroom provides no clues, so she follows the loud shouting until she finds the source.

"What the fuck is going on?" she asks loud enough to be heard.

[Kristiana Coleman] Cordelia can see the panic starting to seep in. "Why? Are people saying something? Did he tell people that we did something? Because we didn't. I knew he was going to do that. Guys like that always do that. Oh my GAWD, what if Mattieu hears that we did something?!?" She wails, burying her face in a pile of Calvin Klein cardigans and Michael Kors sweaters.

[Howard] "You want me to keep beggin' you? Christ you're sick... here."

He says this, but then he clears his throat. There's a rustling to accompany his speech.

"Please Hunter Jesus I need you fuck!"

[Cordelia] She stands up and sighs. Who would have thought her to play the older sister role. Who would of thought her to be the nurturing, somewhat protective type. Then again, she's proven her metal recently. The young woman sits down beside Kristiana and she pats her on the shoulder. She notices panic, she notices a lot of things. The female pushes her glasses up.

"Calm down, it's okay... breathe..."

She says.

"Did you know my sister's a philodox?" she has a train of thought there.

[Quinn] A few steps into the bathroom, at least from where she's entering, and Bridget gets nothing more than the benefit of the trio of voices echoing off the bathroom walls. If she steps in further, moves around the sinks in the center of the room, she still sees nothing.

Unless she looks down.

There are two, no three pairs of feet beneath one of the shower curtains. One set, which can't be anyone's other than Quinn's, is bare and facing inward. There's a sneakered foot, a booted one right along side it, facing out.

"Now you've got it. Howard, do you need a hand?" One of the bare feet shifts forward.

[Kristiana Coleman] "She is?" That doesn't seem to make her feel any better.

[Hunter] "So help me howard, I'll turn this fuckin' car around." He warns and then there's a bit of silence followed by grunts. "Shit Howard, it's tighter'n'a nuns holy place. Ugh, oh oh there I think--"

A huge sigh of relief and a slippery sound.

"DONE!" Triumphant, proud.

Silence, drip drip drip.

"WE GOT A LEAKER!, QUINN! GET A TOWEL!"

[Howard] [I don't know where the hell Jacqui went but I'm giving her 15 minutes before I post again!]

[Cordelia] "She is," she tells Kristiana, "and some people say that circular, adament denial... especially in the way you're denying... doesn't do well to prove the strength of one's case. Your response is paranoid, and leads me to believe one of two things- one being that something did happen between you and your nameless mister and you are feeling the impact of buyers remorse... or you didn't do anything, and you genuinely are afraid of what the perception of your feminine virtue will say about your family and will decrease your prospects of doing what you were sent to Chicago to do."

A beat passes. She sighs and reaches over. The female runs her fingers through Kristiana's hair. She sighs and relaxes. There's a certain worth in what she says.

"If it is either of those possibilities, then it determines your next course of action."

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She seems to be in a good mood as she opens the door and slides into the main room, a little grin as if she's managed to amuse herself with some private thought. She's shivering under her duster...the girl is used to warmer climates. Thus, the door is quickly shut and she shakes off the chill, rubbing her hands as she glances around.

[Patrick] [SORRY. TYPING.]

[Kristiana Coleman] She leans into Cordelia, sighing. "Is that not how you were raised? A Kin is worth more if they're pure." She chews on her bottom lip for a moment. "It seemed like a really good idea at the time."

[Patrick] Patrick follows after Bridget, more out of expectant amusement than horror. He's well acquainted to Howard's tendency to pick, uh, public places to get amorous and can only trail behind with one arm over his chest, the other resting against his chin. Eventually, Bridget will come upon the three sets of feet sticking out from under a shower curtain.

Patrick rocks back on his heels a little.

Considers; then says in a carrying voice. "Should I get you three some Vaseline?"

[Cordelia] How was Cordelia raised? She keeps stroking the other young woman's hair, and she thinks about this... she's unsure of how she should act next. She looks down, and Cordelia exhales. Slowly, deeply, and she inhales through her nose. Takes in the air, "you need to define, for yourself, what you are worth and what purity is."

If seemed like a really good idea at the time.
"Why? Did you want to?" she's cautious with this question.

[Howard] Somewhere amongst all that noise there's a sharp, histrionic noise that isn't quite a scream and isn't quite a moan. Coming from most of the other people in this building it would either be stoically muffled, or there would be little doubt that this was genuine pain being expressed.

DONE! Hunter says, and Howard can be heard panting under Patrick's question.

"You're such a bloody stoppered-up twat," he says, sounding utterly indignant. "Don't fuckin' stop, fuck!"

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She purses her lips to the left, eyes narrowing a bit. She's seen all of the downstairs already, and nothing too exciting is going on...time to explore. She pauses a moment, trying to remember the directions she got on the tour of the upstairs, and then shrugs as she trots over to the stairs. They get ascended with every other step skipped.

[Kristiana Coleman] She looks around, slipping into French just to be sure the conversation stays private. "Vous ne pouvez pas dire à personne, Cordelia. Promets-moi. Si Mattiew découvre ... Non pas que je pense qu'il me prend pour un compagnon, mais je voudrais au moins à la date de lui pendant un certain temps. Je ne veux pas qu'on sache que j'ai fait une erreur comme ça."

[Hunter] There's a pause and then a clinking as something falls down on the shower floor. It looks like a claw. "I swear ta' god I'd put it back in if it weren't such a fuckin' hassle gettin' it out." He throws open the shower curtain and storms out leaving a bleeding Howard and a nearly naked Quinn.

[Howard] "YOU'RE NOT EVEN GONNA STAY AND CUDDLE?!"

[Patrick] Patrick watches the progress of the Bone Gnawer as he stalks out of the communal bathrooms, dropping his hand from his face and its adopted pose of nonchalance and tucking both hands into the pockets of his work clothing. Revealed with Hunter's departure is a nearly nude Quinn and a bleeding and somewhat suggestively positioned Howard.

Patrick's face forms itself into something of resigned bemusement.

He glances at Bridget, "it's honestly easier just to accept it at face value than to try and comprehend it."

[Quinn] "Another towel'd be nice," Quinn calls. "We've only got the one and it's, uh, sort of in use."

A claw drops to the floor, the shower curtain is pulled back. Hunter is seen first, then Quinn, her long hair dripping wet, a white fluffy towel wrapped around her body. Until tonight, the only person in Chicago to see this much of Quinn's body had his own burned to his Homelands. Now, Bridget, Caldera and Hunter can see: the trail of birds working around her right forearm, the outline of a star on the inside of her left wrist, claw marks that start at her right shoulder and trail nearly to her elbow and, when she turns, the branch of some tree in blossom, stretched across her upper back.

She smiles at Howard in sympathy. "Are there anymore?"

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] Into the common room she heads, peering around with a swipe of her hand through her hair. She pauses a moment to try and remember which way is what, then just gives up and follows the sound of voices.

[Hunter] It's then he sees Bridget, standing there. He looks at her with raised eyebrows. "Go give em'a cuddle, he's like a big baby."

Then he stops, turns around, looks at Howard and cracks up laughing. "You're fuckin' ridiculous."

A pause.

"I can't believe I just pulled a claw outta'ya ass. I'm hungry, and I need a fuckin' drink. I also wanna' get the fuck outta' this place. Who's comin'?"

[Bridget] The Canadian gawks with a bottle of liquor in hand. She unscrews the bourbon then sips at it.

"What the hell happened?" she asks.

[Howard] Once he thinks he doesn't have an audience anymore, Howard turns his back to the shower wall and doesn't so much let himself slide down as he just collapses. Quinn is close enough to see that his hair froze from taking a shower and then going outside for far too long, that his corduroys--previously yellow--are drenched in blood. It seems to have originated from his left sacroiliac region, but the entirety of his leg and backside has turned a stomach-turning red, and it's stained his torso as well, as though he was lying in blood for a good amount of time. Pain has turned his skin dusky, and there is blood on his hands as well; hand prints coat the walls of the shower, and there's a trail of prints where he was marched across the floor.

He's still panting as he rests on the wet floor of the shower. To his credit he doesn't attempt to peek up Quinn's towel; with his sunglasses on no one can see he's squeezing his eyes shut.

Quinn wants to know if there are anymore.

"Wha?"

You're fuckin' ridiculous.

"Oi!" Howard snaps, his rancor feigned, before lifting a bloody hand to flip Hunter a bird.

Who's comin'?

All the Theurge does is laugh a high-pitched, almost hysterical laugh and rest his head against the wall of the shower.

[Cordelia] "... Le plus gros problème ici, c'est que vous n'êtes pas s'accepter soi-même et vous n'avez pas à accepter vos décisions. Les gens font des erreurs. Les gens grandissent. You are human," she doesn't chide. Maybe it's the nature of the language, it sounds softer. Something about the way Cordelia handles the language makes it gentle.

She sighs, and her voice drops to the realm of almost inaudible.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She makes a slow walk down the hallway, the grin ratcheting up a touch for no immediately apparent reason. Maybe it's just an involuntary reaction to approaching trouble.

[Kristiana Coleman] She nods slightly, her voice quiet. "Il vient de quitter après. Je n'avais pas honte avant qu'il vient de quitter."

[Patrick] Patrick studies his pack-mate, his mouth thinning with something like distaste for the state of him, then cuts a glance at Quinn. It's short, but considering. He takes note of her scarring, of her tattoos. If ever a man could make you feel at once attractive and an oddity simultaneously, it was the Galliard.

Still; he doesn't leer.
That must be a point in his favor.

"I think there's more towels in the hall closet, if I remember right. I'll get you one." He takes up Bridget's bourbon, first, however, downs a gulp and gestures toward Howard. "Get some into him, he needs it. He looks like something's chewtoy."

Eyes back to Howard.

"What the hell were you fighting with, anyway?" This as he ventures into the hall to return with clean towels.

[Quinn] "No clue," Quinn says in answer to Bridget's question. With one hand holding her towel in place, she carefully squeezes her knees together as she lowers herself to her knees beside the Theurge. Her eyes take in the hair, the sunglasses, and the bloody trousers. Rather than looking overly concerned, her mouth quirks. when she first met Howard, she was both amused and confused. Now, she just looks at him with a kind of sad amusement.

Reaching out to at least attempt to knock a frozen curl back from his forehead, she looks at his face and says in a voice not meant to carry, "I think you'll be okay if you shift. A claw to the ass really isn't that bad."

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She pauses, head tilting as she sees Patrick come out of the bathroom, and gives him a quick appraising look and a grin. "Hola."

[Cordelia] "Pas tous les hommes sont comme ça. Votre point de vue sur le sexe es différent que le sien. Je pense que ... vous recherchez un lien affectif, et que vous voulez quelqu'un pour vous faire sentir aimée," she sighs, and just strokes her hair still, "Je ne pense pas que moins de vous."

[Bridget] There is a huge bloody mess everywhere. The Canadian just blinks. Her sequin top does indeed look ridiculous at this point. That's neither here nor there. Quinn seems quite concerned, so she kneels down to where the Fiann lies on the floor. Patrick instructs her to take him the whiskey and temporarily conviscates it without asking and returns it to her. The girl swishes the liquor bottle into his field of vision.

"You need to stop getting your ass handed to you. I already carried you here once all bloodied up," she says quietly.

And after a moment of thinking about it, she adds, "Are you alright?"

[Kristiana Coleman] "I ruined everything. I should have just listened to you."

[Howard] What the hell was he fighting with, anyway?

"My feelings," he says.

Quinn ducks down next to him, her towel secured, and he doesn't horse around as he tends to, doesn't try to flip her hair into her eyes or loosen her towel. She tells him he'll be fine, and he doesn't argue with her, exactly, but neither is he in any great hurry to get up and haul himself out of there either.

"Oh, no, the ass would've been fine," he says, his own volume dropping so as not to overpower the kinswoman's, "but there's bone, Quinn! So much bone!"

And there's Bridget. Howard draws a breath; the finger of one hand splayed on the floor involuntarily twitches.

"Well, tell ya the truth, Hunter's a tad selfish. Didn't exactly give me a reach-around just now. Sooo, unless you're offerin' to finish the job..."

[Patrick] He has to duck his head around the side of the closet door to glimpse the Hispanic woman who addresses him at random. Patrick was a tall guy, though not as tall as many of the male Garou in Chicago at 5'11. He had quite vividly blue eyes and a head of blond hair to match that was kept short no matter the season.

Currently, he was also covered in car grease, his overalls soiled from time spent beneath vehicles.

The stranger grins at him; and the Galliard, who in truth almost matched some Ahrouns for sheer force of Rage turned, shutting the door with his back. His arms were full of towels, and voices carried from the bathroom. "Hey," he replied with a quiet, somewhat restrained tone.

He hesitated a beat. "You lost, or? If you're looking for a place to sleep," was he about to offer to share a bed with her? "I think the owners are downstairs. Ask for a Jenny." Then the broad-shouldered Welsh-man vanished back into the showers in time to hear Howard's final words. He offered a towel to Quinn, and tossed the latter at Howard's head.

[Bridget] An eyebrow turns upward, a sigh escaping her. He's joking, so he's fine. But he does not take the bourbon, and instead kind of lashes out at her with his brilliant sense of humor. She takes a long swig of the bourbon and sets the bottle down on the floor of the shower stall.

She's in a strange mood today. Howard is okay, so the cabin fever rolls back over her like a heavy cloak. She'd do for a good night's worth of sleep, but that will never happen here it seems.

"Nice," is all she says before rising back up to her feet.

[Cordelia] "No," she sighs, and she hasn't taken her hand off of Kristiana's hair, "no, you did what you thought was right and you made your own decision. All you can do now is learn from it and move on. If you don't want me to say anything, I won't say anything."

[Kristiana Coleman] "Don't. Please. I don't want people to know." She reaches up and pats Cordelia's hair too. "You can take whatever clothes you want."

[Quinn] She quirks a brow, tilts her head, and she smiles. There are things she could say. Questions she could ask.

But just like that night on the roof, Quinn doesn't close that distance. For one thing, they're not really alone in this stall. There's an audience, just over Quinn's shoulder. For another...well, who knows.

She pats his shoulder. "Finishing what he started means he started something. I thought you weren't into men's manly muscles." Rocking back, she rises to her feet just after Bridget. She shakes her head to the offer of another towel. "Thanks, but I'm covered." Hah.

"Hunter, I'd be super happy to head out with you if you'll give me a couple minutes to put some clothes on? This extended leave of absence crap is making me crazy."

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She opens her mouth to answer, but just grins when he's gone quicker than she can do so. She reaches out and opens the door slightly so she can get her response out. "Ain't you ever seen the bumper sticker? Not all who wander are lost. Think it's in some kinda book, too. But no, I'm just explorin' a bit. Thanks, though."

[Hunter] He sighs, looking at Howard, and then makes a blergghh face.

"Jesus H Christ." And he steps back into the shower, grabs him by the front of the shirt and pulls him to his feet.

"C'mon dick face." He says to Howard. "Quinn, I'll meet ya' downstairs, bring a coat."

And begins manoeuvring the stubborn Theurge out of the shower and hopefully out of the bathroom, back to his brother.

[Cordelia] "I'll hand it to him, Ivan Press is nothing if not discreet. So, if you don't say anything, he won't... and I gave you my word."

[Howard] By the time Hunter gets back to Howard he has quite literally curled up on the floor of the shower stall to cuddle with the bottle of bourbon Bridget left behind to keep him company, as if he's just planning on going to sleep in a pool of bloody water. His momentary respite from being asked if he's alright is interrupted by a meaty hand grasping the front of his drenched shirt and hauling him to his feet.

"Whoa!" he shouts, louder than is absolutely necessary, not grabbing the Ahroun for support this time. "What! No! Fuck! Where are we going!"

He's limping, but he can actually assist in the walking task now, his left Converse squelching with blood every time he steps off of it.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] Hearing people approaching the door, she lets the door close the crack that it had been opened and takes a few steps back, simply so as not to block traffic.

[Kristiana Coleman] "I was worried about that. Good." She pulls away to stand. "I should go back to the hotel and get the rest of my things." (Which is Angelina for "I'm exhausted and it's past my bedtime")

[Cordelia] "You need to get rid of some of this," she chides. Her heart's not in it; she can't stop grinning, "go get your things."

[Kristiana Coleman] She scrambles up, leaning to kiss Cordelia on both cheeks before heading out.

[Bridget] As for bloody messes, she's seen it before a few too many times to get all worked up right away. Bridget knows Howard is fine now, so she retreats back into the original pensive, quiet state she was in prior to all this. Part of her is sick of the city, sick of being cooped up like a goddamn bird.

Hunter marches past her into the stall to go have another potentially-homoerotic-themed spat. Bridget blinks, then follows. She just keeps walking past all the mess and straight into room 8, where she shuts the door behind her. The girl doesn't even look at the two blonde kinswomen before she does an epic swan dive onto her own mattress.

She could actually get out of here for the night, but frankly she's kind of tired of the Garou antics. She's exausted, homesick, and tired of the big city and all it's unwild mess. Rotting, Simon had described it.

So the kin mumbles into her pillow, sounds like singing, but it's half-hearted.

"Shu shu shu shu shu shu, Sugar town."

[Quinn] Quinn goes back into the shower she'd used just a bit ago. When she comes out she just smiles, doesn't even pause to tell Hunter Adoy. Of course she'll be bringing a coat. It snowed today for Christ's sakes. Quinn will be going out in full on tundra gear, hat, scarf, gloves, sweater and leather jacket, jeans. And she'll leave her heeled boots behind in favor of shoes with traction.

The tall kinswoman disappears into room 4 to make that outfit happen.

[Patrick] Sarita follows after Patrick a few steps to respond to him, but the Galliard's focus has by this point been drawn back to the scene at hand before him. He watches Hunter drag Howard up and out of the showers by his shirt front; the latter leaving bloody foot prints in his wake and glances around, then at the towel in his hand.

"Yeah, whatever."

He mutters to the air, and moves over to turn the facet on in the stall Howard had curled up in; blood begins to wash down the drain, and Patrick leans his body against one side of it, towel slung over his shoulder. The Galliard does not follow after his Alpha and the others just yet.

He watches the water turn pink, then clear.

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She just leans against the wall in the hallway, arms crossed as she watches the various people emerge from the bathroom head in their own directions in their various physical and emotional states. She looks more bemused than anything else. "It's like watching a clown car empty," she says quietly to herself.

[Cordelia] Cordelia looked at the pile of clothes on her bed, and then at the pile of clothes on the floor. The female sighs, and she starts to strip out of whatever it was she was wearing. Cordelia rummages through her drawers to find something to throw on. Alas, the female doesn't find anything.

Bridget's closet yields better results. The female ends up sleeping in a tee shirt that isn't hers and a pair of camoflage underwear. Given that there's a giant pile of clothing on her bed, she blends right in.

[Hunter] "You got a car? Need'ta sleep man." He asks Howard.

"Either that or you're growin' some fur, either way ya' gettin' better for'I'leave."

[Bridget] The noise picking up in the bar and carrying through the floor makes the Canadian glare angrily into the dark. She watches a naked Cordy raid her closet, turns her head, and sighs. She plays at trying to sleep some more, but it won't come easily. After staring for a while, she drags herself to her feet and goes back out the door. She tiptoes out and closes the door quietly, then slumps down with her back against the wall, just staring.

[Patrick] At some point, whenever the next to arrive does so in the showers; they find them quite deserted and empty. Patrick had never re-emerged after the others, and there's a clean towel neatly folded beside a stall that smells, faintly, of recent blood. The coppery tang lingers in the air.

There was, of course, an abundance of mirrors.
One can only assume where the Cliath had vanished to.

[Howard] Howard is not exaggerating the difficulty he's having with walking; if anything he's attempting to downplay the fact that he doesn't have the Gift necessary to ignore his wounds nor the constitution of a man who can endure being stabbed by just grinning and spitting in his attacker's face. As he's shuffled down the hallway, he keeps clutching the bourbon bottle to his chest; being asked direct questions has even less effect than usual.

"Your concern is touching," he says, "really, it is."

[Sarita Ecos de la Risa] She tilts her head as she sees Bridget come out and then sit against the wall, glancing around before she shrugs and approaches. "Hola. Y'okay?"

[Patrick] [Thanks for play, all! :D]

Read more...

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]

Read more...

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.

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