Unsettled…

Since the earliest hours of Sunday morning, when he’d come stumbling and screaming with her limp, unconscious body through the doors of the brotherhood, Sam has barely said more than a few mumbled incomprehensible words to anyone. After he’d thrown an ashtray at Sampson so hard that tiny bits of it would likely be found in the hardwood’s nooks and crannies for years to come the visitors had slowed. To his packmate though, this small slight ashen-eyed girl whose face he’d turned to what looked like rotting prunes just to subdue her, and who now, thanks to one of the healing talen’s she given him was now in pristine shape save for three scars, one like a wicked ball of hatred right on her abdomen, the one where that thing’s knife had first found her, made her mouth bubble dark crimson.

His head snaps up, like a wolf hearing squirrels in the brush at the edge of it’s territory. His eyelids are nowhere to be seen, opened back along his eyes so far as to make them seas of white with only an arctic glacier floating in the center. The back of one hand streaks across both eyes as he bounds up onto the bed taking her without regard for want or need up between long, strong arms.

“You made it.” He chokes on the words. If he even heard her apologizing he doesn’t register it, doesn’t mention it. Just holds on for a few more seconds before turning back toward the door. “She’s awake! She’s awake!”

The folks in the restaurant have to love that.

“…badly hurt and almost died,” he’s saying as the door opens into the kitchen. “Sam’s pretty shook up. Apparently he had to subdue her after her rageback Frenzy.” Footsteps on the steps now. “Might make him feel better if you healed–”

She’s awake! She’s awake!

Lukas grimaces and picks up the pace, mounting the stairs two at a time. Mind the mortals, Sam. I brought Caleb to fix her up.

With Sam’s bellowing like a madman, Caleb likewise picked up the pace and bounded up the stairs behind the Ahroun. When he had learned the girl that had become more of a bratty kid sister to him than a girl to watch and be wary of constantly had been hurt, he had indeed answered the summons. That, and as a theurge it was his duty to perform such actions.

They’ll likely never cross the lower threshold of the stairway again.

“I…” Okay The voice of an eagle giving address to a higher flying hawk, quiet like it’s miles off in their minds. “I already used the last bandage I had.” He’s still cocked sideways on the bed next to Mrena, one arm still beneath her head as his body cheat away toward the door. The pal mof that hand hold him upfirmly with splayed fingers on her pillow. As if realizing the folly in not even asking, in barely even addressing the theurge who’s prone next to where he sits he does turn and look down at her. His eyes are puffed, red, his whole face seems gaunt and sleepless too.

“I’m so sorry,” It’s all he can say, parroting it right back at her.

“I didn’t get him.”

For her part, she was drained on multiple levels. And there was Sam, sounding smaller than she had ever heard him and something about that hurt. Hurt on an almost spiritual level, really. And so, when pulled into an embrace she didn’t exactly push him away, or try to wriggle out of it. He said that she made it, and he sounded damned near excited. Elated, even.

And for her part, all Mrena could think to do was hold onto Sam for dear life. After awhile, a moment that felt like an eternity, she had to sate her curiousity. [Curiosity gets you dead.] She looked at Sam, and he relayed that he was sorry. Brows knit and she cocked her head to the size in an almost avian gesture.

“…” silence. Sam didn’t get him.

a beat passed.

“… what happened?”

In the meantime, Mrena — healing, unconscious — has been recuperating in her room at the Brotherhood. Her packmates have been by: her Alpha, her Beta, the prospective inductee. They come for five minutes, half an hour, thirty seconds. They leave to attend to patrols, scouting, life, war.

The only constant is Mrena and Sam. They don’t move.

4:23pm, and the back door opens. Lukas and Caleb, returning from … wherever. The conversation had nothing to do with Mrena; they were discussing Caleb’s joining the pack.

“…should induct you properly once Mrena’s back up to fighting trim,” he’s saying as he reaches the Theurge’s door. He raises his hand and raps his knuckles against the wood, pushes it open a second later and walks in.

He finds Sam rumpled and pale, dark circles under his eyes; unshaven; almost certainly in clothes going on 48 hrs old now. The Ahroun gives his auspice-mate a brief look. Then he looks at Mrena.

“Good to see you’re back with us.” In contrast to Sam’s unrestrained grief and unrestrained joy, Lukas seems almost detached to the news of Mrena’s reawakening. He’d never doubted it.

His demeanor was as cool as Lukas’ – he knew what stuff Mrena was made of, after all he had been teaching her the use of a sword for some time now. She likely wasn’t near the level of blademaster and neither was Caleb, but at least the Silver Fang could keep her from cleaving off her own foot when things got hairy.

Stepping inside with Lukas, he cast an appraising eye around the room. His eyes first went to Mrena to assess how she was feeling, then to Sam. The Fenrir certainly looked as though he hadn’t slept, the rumpled clothes and red bloodshot eyes.

“From all that I have heard, I for once thought I was going to have peaceful mornings for a change,” he said with a half-curve to his lips as he stepped a bit closer. Their back-and-forth banter by now was likely known to the rest of the Circle, Caleb viewing the incorrigable younger theurge as his little sister to an extent. “Do you require further healing?” he asked.

He swallows hard. “I couldn’t find him. He was gone.”

He stands up running his fingers into his thick blonde hair, parts of it stick off at odd angles after that as the unwashed locks simply stick and tangle with two days without cleaning the blood and sweat and grime from them. “I should’ve had a plan Mrena, it’s my job to protect you-” Perhaps it’s by virtue of their powerful totem, their auspicious formation, but they are a pack who does not see defeat, and it couldn’t be more evident than right at this moment. “-i’m sorry.”

Because Edward doesn’t even get this kind of display. The lanky form of the Fenrir pacing around the room a hair’s width from losing his temper. Rage and breeding and everything Gaia could’ve given ready to snap into a mindless killing machine at a moment’s notice. And not simply because they’d been beaten to at least a stalemate.

But because it hadn’t been him lying there dead.

It is easy to be oblivious to the sudden change in the Common Room’s air pressure, free of bodies or presence (a quick peek had confirmed that).

Pop

Goes the gauntlet. Then the rustle of clothes as a seat is taken

(Placemarker. Will get more involved in a minute..)

It was the best she could really hope for.

“… Oh god, you brought him? Really, Lukas?” She couldn’t help but grin, though it was slight. Something vaguely pleased, and he asked if she needed further assistance. Mrena shook her head; Darkensky knew she was a prideful creature. “I’ll be fine, don’t worry. I’ll be up and about making your life a new shade of awful soon enough.”

Sam swallowed, and for her part looked at him in silence. And she listened. There he was, by her side and not moving or wavering in a quiet state of self-loathing. This was the dance of a battle lost. He blamed himself, he should have had a plan. [She should have moved.] And for her part Mrena seemed desperate to understand what was going through his head.

-I’m sorry.
“Don’t,” she said. “If we have learned something from this, then it wasn’t a waste. We were out-classed.”

It was the best comfort she could offer. God, she was trying though. It had to be worth something.

Which is, in a way, exactly what he is.

“That’s enough,” he says, low. “Pull yourself together, Sam. You’re not doing anyone a favor by falling apart for thirty-six hours. We need you on the front lines, not weeping in a sickroom.” With that, he puts out his hand to Mrena, intending to tug her back to her feet. “Come on, White-Eyes. On your feet now.”

She’s scored a recent shower, and her clothing is clean, her jeans threadbare, but with the addition of another patch under one ass cheek. Otherwise, she is the same as she always is. Not exactly tall, very much too thin, and huddled inside a hoodie that’s at least 2 sizes too big, the hood pulled low to cast her face in shadow. Her pack is slung over her shoulders, her beat to hell hiking boots making little sound as she slides through the backdoor, to the stairs on the way to the room where she slept last.

She’d misplaced something, and has come to find it. Simple enough.

And then Lukas speaks.

And it disappears.

So does Sam.

It even brought a chuckle to his lips, a quiet one. When Lukas bent to help her up, Caleb could only watch on in silence with his arms folded.

She stood and then the theurge, in her diminuitive glory, gave Caleb possibly one of the most startling, bone-chilling glares that someone of her stature could. There was a sound in the common room, an audible pop and she tensed.

Inside, Lukas grasps Mrena by the forearm, but before he can tug, the Theurge stands on her own. Lukas’s smile is barely visible – a tug at the corner of his mouth. He lets her go and looks her over.

“So? Show me the scar.”

“Yes, let’s see it. You are a tough woman,” he said. “It must of been some wicked blow that nearly felled you.”

shaved bald, sporting a trimmed goatee and cradling his chin in one hand, the elbow resting on a couch arm, he has one ankle resting comfortably on the opposite knee, back slightly hunched and eyes regarding the wall directly ahead of him somewhat lazily.

One might be tempted to call it a moment devoted to finding some clarity.

Yet onwards, anyway.

She steps into the commons room, a quick glance placing the muffled voices, and where Zeek is in the common room. Then it’s back to head down, quick walk, as she moves toward ‘her’ room, not far from Mrena’s.

She’d been stabbed in the stomach,a little to the side, but a solid hit none the less. Something deep, less-than-pleasant looking. It seemed to be the primary concern. “There’s that, and…”

She turned a little showing her side and back to her packmate and company. Something less painfully deep on her back and another, slightly more wicked mark on her side. It was hard to tell what order those blows had come in, but they came none the less. Mrena then smoothed her shirt down, covering up all of her necessities. “Those.”

“Come on. You must be famished. When you’ve eaten we should discuss summoning the Totem sometime soon. In case you haven’t heard,” being unconscious and all, “Caleb’s going to join us.”

“I’ve spoken to Katherine about it,” the theurge said. “It seemed to me that she would of been disheartened if I wouldn’t of ever asked.”

A wolf can never run alone for so long until it finally dies. He had been packed, briefly, but that ended just as quickly. There was still that matter to attend to. He would speak to the two Shadow Lords seperately about it in time.

Oh, yeah, she hasn’t eaten in thirty six hours. And then? A good chunk of Mrena’s calories had come from whatever alcoholic beverages she and Sam had been drinking. “That? Sounds amazing.”

She started to head out of the room and out into the common room. She turned back and spoke to Caleb as she did. “Looks like you won’t be getting rid of me any time soon then, will you?”

The theurge looked to the side, noticing that… this was new. The theurge regarded Maija for a moment, and there was that curiosity again. The kind of thing that had gotten her into trouble before, that had contributed to those scars that she had. The theurge seemed to regard Maija, the sum of her parts, and cleared her throat.

“Haven’t seen you before,” she said.

Ever.
And Garou always ask.

Case in point – there’s the question, that stops Maija in her tracks. Eyes close briefly, before she turns her head enough to let Mrena know she’s heard her. She doesn’t push her hood back, leaving her face in shadows, as she clears her throat slightly. “Ain’t ’round much.”

Simple truth. Always the best policy.

Mrena paused before Maija, and her voice sparked some form of recognition in him. He’d seen her before, but where? Brows furrowing, the too-handsome cajun eyed the shadows of that hood. Not to try penetrating them, but more to try and see through them. As if a face wasn’t important – Maija might feel as though those Falcon’s Eyes were peering into her soul.

Maija has probably seen Lukas now and again. The Ahroun — because that’s what his rage marks him to be — wears the form of a young man most days; dark of hair, pale blue of eye. She would’ve seen him reading on the sectional couch, shaving with a straight razor in the bathroom … coming in at ridiculous hours, staying up all night.

He’s quiet, but it’s not for shyness or lack of confidence. Lukas has that fabled bearing of eagles about him, straight-backed, eyes sharp.

He’s seen her enough that she’s not a stranger to him, but they’ve never spoken. He looks at her curiously, but uninvolvedly — as Mrena stops to speak to the girl, he lays such a familiar hand on the Theurge’s shoulder that they’re marked immediately and indelibly as packmates.

I’ll go see what Saint Jen’s got on the stove, the mental comment, and bring some up.

“Hey, Zeke,” Lukas greets his tribesmate casually, offhandedly, as he’s descending the stairs. His gait is steady and paced, one step after the next, solid and unhurried.

It comes with a nod toward the Ahroun. He seemed to have been expecting the other Thunder to emerge eventually, settling back into the couch with a comfortable clearing of the throat and the words as a reply to the greeting.

“…When you’ve got a minute of course.” As if to indicate that Zeke was aware at least of something pressing occuring down the hall. A rush? No but the tone of his voice seemed to suggest a certain level of…importance? Somewhat. Closer still to resignation.

She hadn’t exactly been conscious for a few days; Mrena was likable at times. The rest of the time she was sharp-tongued, inquisitive, and downright infuriating. Whether this would become one of those times was hard to tell just yet. The theurge looked at Maija and shut her door once all were out of her room.

Mrena was another creature that came and went at strange hours. She usually left before dawn. That was neither here nor there.

“Have a name?”

Because, you see, she would ask. Because those scars had yet to teach her anything about curiosity.

“Yeah?” He considers a moment. “Why don’t you follow me down? I’m just going as far as the kitchen to see what’s on the stove.”

Provided Zeke does, Lukas waits for him. When the Ragabash catches up the Ahroun starts walking again, taking the steps quicker now: a rapid one-two trot to the stone tiles of the kitchen.

She moves to allow her back to press into the wall, as if for all the world she’d become one with it if she could. Caleb stares, and she glances up – just once- then finds something interesting on the floorboards to fix her gaze on – a speck of dust, something.

Mrena asks, and “Yeah,” she answers. It’s automatic, and obedient, if not all together comfortable, or willing. “Maija.”

Mi-yah, she offers, and it rolls off the tongue easily enough that one can assume it’s her real name.

Lukas is half-way through a continuing step down the stairs, as Zeke pipes in quickly.

“This is gonna need to stay here.” His hands gesture down flat, at the Common room “…Given my current state of dress and topic of conversation, I think it best I just wait for you to get back from the Humans only section.” And he does. Or at least seems willing to. Patient and shifting around to get more comfortable.

Nevertheless, Lukas proceeds down alone. And returns alone a few minutes later, bearing not a bowl but a stack of bowls, and an entire fucking pot of stew.

This he sets down on the coffee table, presumably for all. He hands Zeke one of the bowls — in case the Ragabash assumed it was a pack-only dinner. Then Lukas takes his usual place at the bend of the sectional couch, ladling a heaping portion into his bowl.

“All right, what’s up?”

“How much do you and your number know about Threshers?” Unless Zeke had developed a sudden taste for large farming machines, it was obvious he was talking about something else.

Her name was Maija.

“Mrena,” she said. Not Armstrong, oddly enough. Said wtih faith, a truth that it would be pronounced correctly. “Guess you’re my neighbor.”

A beat.

“I’ll try not to have loud sex. I don’t know if you’re a light sleeper or not.”

If she had known Mrena, this would be absolutely hilarious. As that Mrena was a stranger, and seemed to be completely serious, it seemed to be a genuine offer.

Thin fingers – the girl could not possibly be more than 110 if she had a brick in each pocket and was soaking wet – lift to tuck away the strand, baring the line of her jaw, and very, VERY briefly the splash of a bruise faded to almost healed across her cheekbone. “Ain’t no worries, ma’am.” she murmurs. “ain’t here long ’nuff for it to matter much, most nights, an’ sleep heavy ’nuff.”

Her voice is a conglomeration of accents – here, there, and everywhere, a true mix of Americana in bad grammar.

And, deep in the ‘roo pocket, her other hand presses against her belly to still the growl the scent of that stew awakens.

Zeke leans forward to inspect the inside of the pot, face scrunching up in a brief sniff that is ultimately dismissive as the Ragabash leans back into the comfort of the couch.

“Fire’s just one of their little party tricks. Up-close is next to impossible, made up of an assortment of twisted metal, hardly any organics. Things are like tanks. Mow through whatever they find and cut it to ribbons” He plucks at the shredded shirt and pants he’s wearing as if to evidence. “Heavy doses of toxins on the metal. Corrosions and acidics. Eats a path where it rests for too long but…”

Zeke rubs along his right shoulder, wincing ever so slightly at the red raw flesh that is exposed for a moment beneath the ribbons.

“..This thing’s been moving a lot. Hard to keep tabs, except in it’s aftermaths. Spirits are scared of it.” A pause, eyes regarding Lukas.

“Migration keeps changing, but it seems to be moving in a box. Certain borders. Traced a few of ’em to see what might be keeping it penned in but I haven’t found any spirit evidence. Leads me to think it might be getting prodded…”

Another heartbeat, Zeke leaning forward with a critical eye at Lukas.

“Milo mentioned you ran into some BSDs not to long ago?”

“Why? You think some Dancers are herding your friend around like cattle?”

“That’s fortunate,” she replied. Not a hint of accent. No origins. No dirty secrets, no tales from the road. Just a young woman with a voice that was high pitched and unadorned.

Her stomach growled unhappily.

Mrena frowned and all but glowered at her rather empty stomach. The look might have been a familiar one; it all but screamed shut up, I hear you, growling isn’t going to get you fed any faster.

“The thing’s bein’ kept on the River’s east side, but seems to be avoiding the Eagles turf by a good three blocks. Follows a line right above their Northern Border, like they know Silence is just waiting there to tear this thing up…” A heartbeat. “…That’s too…coincidental, for my tastes. For the life of me though, I haven’t seen anything that says as much but…”

Zeke’s jaw hangs open slightly, thoughtful, his eyes having found the middle of Lukas’ bowl to concentrate on.

“…East side of the River means it’s got room to breathe. Room to roam and if someone is pushing it?” A minor shrug. “Could cause trouble for the Caern..”

There’s a bit of sauce at the corner of his mouth. He wipes it off on the ball of his thumb, a slight, understated gesture. Then, “Any reason you think we shouldn’t just throw two or three packs at the Thresher and take it down? Are you trying to follow the trail back to the herders and turn up a bigger can of worms?”

Part of her is demanding she go, go NOW, get what she forgot and go hide elsewhere – perhaps near someone’s book case, where other worlds beckon page by printed page. The other part knows better, and stands her ground, back pressed against the wall, as if to keep any more trueborn from showing up behind her. It’s a survival move, one made without conscious thought. It says not so much that she is afraid – as she is more apprehensive than fearful. It screams instead that she has been hurt before, and more than once. It’s in the little nuances of her body, the way she holds herself, the way she shrinks into the fleece, the way she answers obediently, yet carefully.

“Yes, ma’am.” is what she answers, polite, even though the woman before her cannot be much older than herself.

A beat, and she follows the growl of Mrena’s stomach with a soft. “Ain’t meant to interrupt nuthin or keep ya. Jus’ pickin somethin’ up an’ I’ll be on my way agin.” As if Mrena had the right, or need, to know.

He huffs lowly. There is frustration under Zeke’s tone.

“I’m also a little worried at this thing’s power level. Organics are few and far between. Eyes and torso are near it and they’re pretty well protected by the edges and blades. I tried putting some of the Weaver in it’s path. Mowed through and left the spiders behind to clean up it’s mess. Whatever the blades don’t seem to grab, the acidics scare off or weaken. Get the feelin’ we just throw folks at it? We might well get one whole pack up and running out of the survivors.”

A pause.

“Came to you, because the Circle’s got numbers. You’ve got a pack more suited to war then the Shadow and right now our numbers are spread across too many fronts to handle this thing. Even if we weren’t it’s a little too big…and a little too suspicious for me to want to throw things at it. It hasn’t caused any major damage but…”

A helpless little shrug, a shred of his shirt dropping off to drape over the arm of the couch.

A pause, and the theurge studied her mannerisms. They were different. yes, quite different. But something about the younger woman seemed intrinsically pleased with the fact that Maija was apprehensive. And, on some level, she was more pleased by the sheer awareness the younger woman seemed to exude.

Obedient, but careful. Chose her words, didn’t let them choose her.

The theurge started to take a step down the hall to make her stomach (finally) shut up. Lukas was right; she was famished. “You didn’t interrupt anything, I just woke up.”

Understatement.

“What’s Milo say about this?”

It might say something that this is all Zeke offers to Lukas on that particular matter, the Ragabash climbing to his feet, soot falling from his clothes like dust off a weary traveler.

“Had to borrow a Healing talen to put my ass back together after my last recon. Damn thing lit the building I was using on fire, brought it down on me and then proceeded to stomp through the wreckage to get to where it wanted to go…”

Shaking his head, murmuring.

“I’ll keep tabs on it and let you know more when I’ve got it. Meantime, you talk to your people and see if they can’t dig anything more up. Say you’ve been fighting a fairly regular presence of Spirals? Get me some info. on any Theurges that you took out if you’ve got any. Same goes for your Packmates.”

A nod down at the Ahroun, the No Moon preparing to depart.

Of course, 9 times out of then her 2 bucks buys a 5 buck meal, but those details need not be quibbled over. At least she tries, and in her mind, that is the important thing.

She just woke up. “Yessum. Glad yer better.” Everyone had seen Sam’s worry, and whispers told of the state of the young theurge when she was brought in. Maija has always been acutely aware of her surroundings – to miss that would have been a gross oversight.

Lukas laughs aloud at that. It’s open, nothing held back, a good hard laugh. It’s also not mean-spirited, and perhaps that’s rare for a Shadow Lord.

“We’ll keep an eye out and let you know.” Zeke gets to his feet and Lukas joins him. This is courtesy, and Lukas has no shortage of that. “Thanks for the heads-up, Host-of-Traitors.”

A Reminder to Lukas. If his expression, slight as it may be, is any indication, the Ragabash was not terribly attached to the formality of his deedname.

“…And anytime.” It’s just as Mrena ’rounds the corner, that Zeke lifts a hand to wave at her, a half an ass grin on his face and then…

Pop

He’s gone.

It actually gave the young lady something of a smile. It was contentment written on her face. A silent sort of pleasure that came in knowing that she lived through something that should have damned near killed her, that would have killed her had she been alone. And, for a moment, maybe the gravity of what just happened hit her.

And maybe, for a moment, she started to realize exactly how hard this might have hit Sam.

And, for all that she was, Mrena felt a pang of something horribly unfamiliar and right in front of the Bone Gnawer she looked ever so briefly confused. The look was then discarded. “Yeah, me too.”

A pause.

“Keep somewhere well-lit. Streets aren’t too safe right now.”

Maija’s a streetrat though, and shadows are much easier to hide in. Alleyways may not be the safest, but often the easiest to disappear into when one doesn’t want to be found. There are dangers everywhere, and oftimes those shadows of the unknown are far safer than the evil one knows.

“Yessum.” is what she says, though, agreeing verbally to the request (It’s never a request, not from the trueborn. A statement, an order, an expectation that the ‘advice’ be followed to the letter – all of these things, yes. A request, no.), though she has no intention of following it once she leaves the relative safety of the Brotherhood’s walls.

A pause, and then it was as though something seemed to dawn on her.

“… and Mrena works fine. You don’t have to call me ma’am.”

Those thin fingers lift gain to push her hair back, followed immediately by a tug at the front of her hoodie to pull it back into place, to keep her face hidden in shadow. It’s not so much as she believes that Mrena could not mark her now by sound, sight or even scent, it is simply habit. She hides from her past, not necessarily from those she could not hide from ever, should they wish to find her.

Lower lip is pulled between her teeth, briefly, sliding free as she risks another glance up at the small Theurge, before finding that spot in the floor highly interesting once more.

To say, however, that a Shadow Lord was ever truly satisfied was something to be thought about. The theurge took a few more steps away, content to see that she didn’t have to turn her back to Maija just yet and then headed down the stairs. Her gait was slow, she was getting her bearings back again. Getting used to physical movement, but it didn’t seem to do her too much good.

The theurge headed off to get something to eat. Now that she wasn’t in view she could take her sweet time in movement, and she had no reason to hide that she was seething vengeance.

It takes a moment, two, then a third before she pushes from the wall, and slips into the empty room, grateful once more that her bunkmates have not returned. She moves to “her” bed and starts the search, under blankets, sheets, even diving under the bed, and wriggling to the far back corner before she comes up with what she’d lost/forgotten.

A $10 bill. All of that to find her very last ten bucks that had fallen from her pocket. She shoves it into the front pocket of her backpack, before reslinging it over her shoulder. There’s a longing look at the bed – the encounter and all of the rage flowing has her exhausted and so very much on edge. But she opts to stand again and retrace her steps – back down the hall, to the stairs, heading out through the kitchen and into the night once more.