Welcome Home

Such, at least, was the feeling of our Fianna hero. James had just awakened from a short nap in one of the spare rooms, and ventured downstairs to find himself a frosty beverage and a bite to eat. He wore a white t-shirt and a pair of basketball shorts and little else. Still a bit bleary-eyed, he was bent over rummaging around in the fridge.

But there are subtle differences, now. Her hair for one is grown to a shaggily chopped off chin length, and the makeup she once hid behind is all but gone. Gone as well, the constant perfection of silk and satin, though she still owns articles of both. It’s almost disconcerting to see her now, as she walks into the kitchen through the backdoor. She is still stylish – that might never change – but instead of the silk and carefully pressed slacks, she actually wears a pair of jeans – in perfect condition, yet denim just the same. When she peels out of her light leather jacket, it is not silk underneath, but a simple cotton blouse, something cheaper, and far less pretentious. All but the heeled boots – THOSE are the same.

Overall, the effect is no less put together, yet far less… uppity. Proud.

Pale eyes rest on him in the same heavy way, however, as he digs in the fridge. She drapes her jacket over the back of the nearest chair, and across Eagles wings, the voice that they have not heard often in over a year. Hello, Sandman-Ryha.

He’d grabbed one bottle of beer for himself, and snagged another as he smiled and straightened, handing one of the bottles to her if she’d like one. “Welcome back,” he said with a smile. “An’ ‘ow many times d’I ‘ave tae tell ye? Call me James.”

It certainly made things help a bit better, now that they could communicate without the use of that whiteboard she carried around – if she still carried it around. “I see ye’re back tae cause th’ boyos more ‘eadaches.” James grinned. AnneMarie truly was stunning, but alas for the men never seemed able to pin her down. When that day came, James doubted that he’d recognize her.

She would likely scoff at any finding her stunning, as well. But from James, it is almost expected. James, then. She agrees, but it is like as not she will more often call him -ryha.

Slender fingers take the offered bottle, and open it. A swallow is taken, as she turns to lean against the counter. So many things are the same, yet all the subtle differences make it hard to reconcile this woman, this Cliath, this Modi with the cub who left a year ago, her spirit broken.

I have. come back, presumably. To stay – though that is not my call, but Silences.

She has not unpacked completely. There is a reason for it.

“Suren Decker’d ‘llow ye back. Ye left fer y’own reasons, no shame ‘n tha’. I’ve done it a time ‘r two m’self.”

She does not watch him long, always – and perhaps even more so now – mindful of rank, and that it has privileges. Including not being stared at and questioned.

Perhaps, is all she says, however. The slight twitch of a muscle in her jaw gives way to just how worried she is about the meeting with Decker that will surely happen as soon as he has a moment to waste on her. They did not leave things on the best of terms, to say the least.

Who remains? A safer question, that.

Though the truth of the matter was in recent months the only active ones truly were he and Decker. ” ‘S far ‘s th’ rest goes? New faces, a shyteload o’em. Dinnae know all their names an’ only seen a few.”

I saw Evan the night I returned. He mentioned a good many new faces have arrived in the Caern. Unasked, there, the state of the Eagles with the Caern itself.

An amusing thought for the Galliard. It seemed that the Eagles’ warlike ways were even beginning to rub off on those that should remain innocent and not stain their hands with blood. Though he could see Randi’s reasoning: what was she to do, unskilled, should one of them not be around to help her in whatever plight she may have? That said, James would not turn the girl into an iron-hard warrior.

A heartbeat. “So ye know, th’city’s o’errun wi’ Shadow Lords.” Perhaps not the best tidings. James never trusted them.

The city is overrun with shadowlords, and the expression that flicks across AnneMarie’s face is one of disgust, quickly replaced by practiced blandness. That cannot bode well for the City, is her only reply, however.

ShadowLords had been the beginning of her downward Spiral. There will never be any love lost between them.

“Ne’er does,” he said with a shrug. Nodding to the kitchen table, he nudged out a chair first for her and then for himself, sinking down onto it and setting his beer on the table while reaching for the pack of cigarettes in his waistband. Pulling one out, he flicked a match and lit one as he put it to his lips. “From what I’m ‘earin’, Kemp’s taken o’er as Wyrmfoe an’ doin’ a decent job o’it.”

He tells her of Kemp as she settles into the kitchen chair, one leg crossing over the other, as fingers smooth the denim across her thigh. She sets her beer on the table before her, and folds her hands in her lap – ever the proper lady, despite the pure animal skin into which she was born.

He was always destined to do well. I am unsurprised to see him take the reigns, despite his moon. Or perhaps, because of it. There is something in her tone, a fondness for the boy, though it was never exactly returned – her being female, and all.

“Always figgered ‘e was born under th’wrong moon,” he said. “But wit’ Decker an’ ye’re lot fer family growin’ up I’m s’posin’ that t’is nae surprise.” James would never want to fight Kemp, but he would if he had to.

“Ye look well,” he said, glancing over her. “Better’n ye was th’last I seen ye.”

He remarks that she looks well, and for her part, pale eyes give herself a quick once over, again smoothing denim over her thigh in an unconscious move to maintain a put-together appearance. Truth be told, Grandmother would roll over in her grave to see the Modi dressed down, as it were. Such things were beat into her early, and well -the need for outward perfection to prove worth in flaws that were not flawed enough. It was not an easy upbringing, one that few would ever know the full story of, let alone understand.

She has a confidence about her now that was lacking before, despite any accomplishment. She has been forced to the bottom of the shit pile once again, and had to fight her way to find stand upright. It is not an easy lesson for any to learn, least of all for her. I learned much while I was away, though the extent of it’s usefulness is yet to be determined.

“We’ll ‘ave tae see,” he said in reference to what she’s learned. It never hurt to be knocked down a peg or six in the right situations, but he still believed what happened to AnneMarie to be a bit.. unfair. Metis always had a harder life than others simply because they are who they are. Fianna, next to the Children of Gaia, tolerated them better than most. “Suren things’ll be better.”

Perhaps. is her reply, though. A lot of it hinges on what Decker has to say of her return. Of why she left, of how she left. As before, much of her worth- perhaps too much – is tied up in making Silence proud to have accepted her as Eagle. She failed him before, miserably. She has vowed not to do so again.

He kept silent then, smoking his cigarette and drinking his beer.

Not only the lessons she must learn from her own mistakes, but also that of those around her. Her very existence is considered by many to be a mistake, and that is something near impossible to overcome. She had fought to do it one way, and was knocked back down again, so she fights her way upwards once more.

[i] One might even think I had made more than my share. Perhaps you can take over that spot now.[i] It’s said with a hint of tease, just a bit of the humor she rarely, if ever, lets show.

Shaking his head slightly, he put out the cigarette and finished the beer. The woman before him believed that she had made mistakes. Who hasn’t? They were to learn from, as he said. But to take the mistakes of others onto oneself is not wise at best.

What ever spot I do take, my dear AnneMarie, I will let you know. Soft laughter here.

She can count on one hand the number of questions Decker had asked about her. She could count on the same hand the number of people who have shown any interest at all in the making of the Modi she’d become. She would not need any more fingers with which to add a friend.

She has a pack -that she left behind for over a year- she had an Alpha she idolized and wanted nothing more than his acceptance, his notice, his approval. She once had a turtle that acted as an attack beast, much to her amusement. But in the end, she only has the same that she started with – herself. Hopelesly flawed and imperfect though she may be.

I know no other way. She pushes herself hard. Even in the lessons she has learned, she still has a drive that would make a world class athlete pale.

When the young, maybe the young garou of the group, walked in he noticed the ahroun sitting at the table, beer in hand and her mind deep in thought.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

He moved over to the stove, looking to see what was left.

When glass hits the table, and he asks for her thoughts, a smirk dances across her lips briefly. I fear you would be grossly overpaying.

She uncrosses her legs, only to cross them again the other way, fingers smoothing the denim over her thigh. Even dressed down, she seems dressed up. Some things will never change.

“I highly doubt that.”

He was not so surprised to see her sitting alone. Some things never change and her solidarity was something he was used to seeing. And he pulled at the pasta, seemingly looking to eat. But he was waiting to see if she was willing to respond.

That’s not to say she hasn’t patrolled, for she has. It just is not quite as single minded in purpose as it had been before.

I am still not quite settled. That’s all. I know there is a conversation coming that I am not sure I am prepared for. It occupies my thoughts.

Nothing to pay a whole penny for… or is it?

He took the pasta and some meatballs from the pot and over to the table, just planting himself across from the somewhat silent modi that seemed to be content to just sit there and enjoy her beer. And…. nothing. He just sat there eating. She wasn’t up to the the inevitable conversation, then he wouldn’t put him up.

okay. now that I have had my worth reaffirmed I’m gonna stop cluttering the transcript. *starts posting*)

I did not mean to insinuate that conversation with you would be uncomfortable, Evan. Amusement colors her mental voice, as he avoids saying anything that might make her uncomfortable. Which, if she thought about it, would be an oddity in and of itself, that someone would want to make her comfortable, instead of the opposite. Some things are near impossible to get used too – that’s one of them.

It has to do with doors.

Imogen opens the door to the kinhouse first, steps over the threshold first. Decker takes the door from her before she’s completely within, steps in afterwards.

See? Inconsequential.

AnneMarie and Evan are visible, Evan with his food, AnneMarie with her drink. Imogen looks at them first, before stepping aside, her hands lifting to the buttons of her spring jacket, undoing them with a careful deftness. She is dressed for business – charcoal slacks, a white blouse tucked in at the waist, a wide black belt. She is carelessly fashionable, expensive, every accessory and article of clothing.

“Dinner time fer everyone, it seems,” she remarks mildly as she slides her jacket off her shoulders, folding it over her arm. It was why the Kin and Adren were there – or at least why the Adren was. Imogen has already said that she is not hungry.

“Okay.”

He looked up from his dish towards her, just smiling.

“Well…. I guess you haven’t spoken with Decker yet.”

Evan supposes she hasn’t spoken to Decker yet, and the answer doesn’t need to even be voiced at all – it’s obvious in the way her fingers cease movement, the quick flicker of emotion across her face that is carefully and just as quickly placed behind a mask of calm.

Pale eyes glance at Evan, then slide away again. Imogen is graced with a lift of her chin in hello, before she catches Decker’s gaze, albeit briefly. Just as quickly, her eyes lower again.

Respect.
(…unease…)

But Decker isn’t the devil. He isn’t some huge redskinned monster with horns and goat legs and a spiked tail. He’s just what he is: six feet, six one; grey-eyed; buzzcut; pushing down the hood on his sweatshirt and unzipping the front as he kicks the door shut behind him.

His rage fills the small living room.

Decker dwarfs the redhaired woman in front of him, physically because she is slight and small, but also because he burns with something supernatural and terrible.

His grey eyes pause on Annemarie briefly. If he’s surprised to see her here — and he can’t be that surprised, because her presence has been back on Eagle’s wings for a while now — he doesn’t show it. Then he comes over to the table and looks at what they’re eating.

“Randi make this?” Some things don’t change. The modi’s low, rasp-edged voice is one of them. His southern slur is another. “What is’sit?”

She enters the dining area, but she does not act like she belongs in it; no going to the fridge for a beer, or leaning over Decker’s shoulder to see the food and answer his question. Her thumbs hook into the belt loops of her slacks, her fingers spreading over the tops of her thighs.

“You settled back in alright?” she enquires of AnneMarie, absent.

“Pasta, meatballs and sausage. Its an Italian feast.”

He looked back to the pair of women, Imogen questions of Annemarie.

It’s Imogen that questions her, and in reply there’s a slight curve at the corner of her lips that’s not quite a smirk, and nothing near a smile. She lifts a shoulder in a slight shrug, as her hand makes the universally known sign of ‘so-so’. Or ‘sorta’. Or ‘ask me after Decker is done with me.’ All work equally well.

She does, however, turn slightly to take the whiteboard and pen out of the pocket of her jacket from where it hangs over her chair. She sets it in front of her, ready for use, so that she does not exclude Imogen from any further conversation.

Nevermind that she said she wasn’t hungry.

And after a few moments he finished off what was left, dragging his plate back to the sink before joining the rest. It seemed that the conversation was going to be a roaring one.

AnneMarie’s so-so gesture is acknowledged with a nod. There’s not much to add to that.

Then he’s sitting down, and it occurs to him this is the first time he’s sat down to dinner with his packmates since… hell, since that Thanksgiving over a year ago. Strange; he has that as a pleasant memory, despite all the shit that happened during and after.

“So where ya been?” he asks AnneMarie. AM might take this question with a sense of dread, but in truth, it’s just that: a question. Casual, even.

Moments later, Randi attempts to look innocent. AnneMarie’s gaze flicks to her, then back once more to the group at the table. It’s not unusual that she is quiet, though the others being so does not make her aprehension ease at all. She does well to hide it though, lifting her beer bottle to her lips for another long slip.

Then he asks a question, and it’s casual, even. She phrases it carefully just the same. Montana. My home Sept. I needed… a pause. that’s not exactly correct. It was time to reconnect to the past, so that I could move forward. Close enough. It took rather longer than I expected.

She returns to the table with her water – glancing up as Randi comes down the stairs. She pulls back a chair beside Decker and takes her seat.

“Well this is a nice scene. All of us together.”

Trying to ease the tension slightly in the room.

For all that, he doesn’t seem affected by it at all. He wolfs down his meal, pun possibly intended, while AM answers into his mind.

“Yeah alright.” Chewing. “Welcome back.” Pause. “You still a cub?”

One beer went to AM and one to Decker.

Her eyes lift briefly to follow Randi as she doles out beer to the two Garou.

No, rhya. I attained cliath once again a few months ago. There is no pride behind the statement, not as one might expect considering her state of mind when she disappeared.

He moved leaned back as Randi whispered in his ear, it seemed that he was going to have to take care of this guy a lot sooner than he had first anticipated. These landlords could be some real creeps at times, this guy was asking for it now.

“I have a good question, maybe its a bit off-base. But…. why is Beta now?”

I was unsure how welcome I would be. Mostly, however… How she hates to have everything broadcast for the entire pack, as sometimes? it’d be nice to have a bit of privacy. That is never an option with Decker, though, as he hates to read, and she will not ask him to.

…I owe you an apology. I let my feelings get in the way of duty, and the way I spoke to you was completely out of line, as was my reaction to the discipline well-deserved. For that, and for leaving without notice or word, I apologize.

Imogen’s glance is brief.

“There are extra chairs in the basement, I believe,” she observes, lifting her glass for a deep swallow of water. The sediment clouds the glass.

He pauses when AM says (thinks) I was unsure how welcome I would be, though. And his eyes flick across the table to lock briefly on the other Modi’s, intense as they ever are, a touch puzzled.

“Yer my packmate.” As if that said it all. For the rest, he just listens, frowning, and then waves it away. “‘pology ‘ccepted. ‘s fergotten.” And he pushes the big dish, or pot, of pasta over at AnneMarie.

His attention moves on as Evan asks about who the beta is. Decker just shrugs, putting down his spoon for a second to strip out of his hooded sweatshirt, leaving it over the back of his chair. Now he’s in his wifebeater, his arms only beginning to take on what will be, in a few months’ time, a deep summer’s tan.

“I don’t pick tha Beta. Depends on who kicks whose ass, who outranks who, ‘n whose advice is worth takin’.” While he’s talking to Evan, Evan gets pushed into a chair and Randi sits on his lap. There’s the faintest quirk at the edge of Decker’s mouth, a smirk that’s there and gone so fast it’s nearly imperceptible. He doesn’t look away to give the happy couple privacy. “Guess ‘d be ‘tween you ‘n James right now,” he finishes, and he reaches for his beer, cracking it open.

Imogen says there are extra chairs in the basement. Decker can’t hold back his smirk now, though he looks down at his food to hide it behind a heaping spoonful of pasta.

Chewing, “Why don’tcha give Randi yer chair,” he says, “‘n come sit on my lap?”

Forgotten.

She takes the fork, and the pot, and wit far more elegance than her alpha exhibited, takes a bite, finally twisting off the cap of the beer Randi had given her. Lips curl into a briefly amused smirk at the exchange, and says nothing to suggest she’d put her name into the ring for beta again. She won’t. Not yet, anyway. She must prove herself to herself once again.

“I find the chair more comfortable, thank you.”

“Hmmm… James huh?”

Evan was not so much the brute fighter as the rest of the Eagles, but he was far from able to stand on his own too feet. And within the realm of advice, he could most certainly hold his own.

“Good to see that’s settled.”

“Settled?” A cocked eyebrow. “That mean yer gon’ go duke it out with him, ‘r yer gon’ let ‘im have it?”

Her interest is muted as she glances at Evan for his answer to Decker’s question.

“I guess I am going to duke it out with him.”

He looked towards Randi for a second, pre-emptively calming her before she worries about him being mauled too badly. He was in for a damn hard fight that as for sure.

“Maybe I should get a couple of kegs first.”

A slight smirk. Hell if he was drunk, then maybe Evan stood a shot.

It’s said without prejudice, but decidedly with a note of tease behind it. Of course he’s practiced – she’s been gone a long time. Right? Dryly. Be happy to take you for a couple rounds as warm up… Somethings never change.

Then she leaned in and whispered in Evan’s ear. “By the way, James is teaching me to fight.”

I guess I will make it 6 kegs then.

And as Randi spoke about watching, or maybe not, or maybe so he just smirked. If he won he would certainly want her there, if he lost, well then hell no. Even child of gaia have pride. But what Randi whispered in his ear gave him some mixed emotion. Not saying anything of it right now.

((I have to get up in 4 hours. I just got called into work. I need to go))

…wait, what? Little who? A brow arches slightly as she looks over at Evan, even as she lifts her glass in absent farewell to his mate.

(Night di!)

“Yes, Randi gave birth… to my son. An ahroun.”

He made it a point to add his son’s auspice. A point of him being born true. But he worried about the day that might, however improbable, that his son will have his first change and he will watch as AM and Decker teach him to be a good little, rage-driven full moon.

Evan mentions his son’s auspice, infers that he is born True. The redhead’s eyes cut over to him to rest there a moment, dark eyes even, expression unrevealing.

“Congratulations,” she notes. One imagines she refers to his son’s blood, nothing else; after all, she knew he’d been born.

“D’ya wish he was yer auspice instead?”

Perhaps not the most tactful question; but an honest one.

She takes a swallow, before settling the bottle against her thigh as she rests her hands in her lap. She doesn’t remember if Randi was pregnant when she left – it just goes to show that she has been gone a very long time. Too long.

He adds the auspice, and Decker asks the question that is on the tip of her tongue, so to speak.

He looked at Decker, hopefully one day he too would give birth to a trueborn.

“Wouldn’t you wish to be able to pass along all that you learned as a full-moon down?”

Then, low, “All my father ever taught me was how ta hate him. I usedta pertend like it was ’cause he was a bad man, but tha truth is he’s a better Modi ‘n I’ll ever be. Bein’ a good Modi made him a shit father.

“So naw. I don’t wanna pass that torch on ta my kid.”

He doesn’t even look at Imogen.

I disagree.

Maybe she has something to add after all, though she stops there. She won’t clarify unless asked.

But before he even has anything to say, AM responses. Surprised it seemed.

“Would you care to expand on that AM?”

When Evan speaks, however, Imogen’s eyebrow arches, glancing at AnneMarie. It is a part of the conversation to which she is not privy.

He waits. For her to expand, one supposes.

~I apologize, Imogen. I said that I disagreed. Here’s why.~

When she continues, she slips into the old habit of writing and speaking over the totem phone at the same time. It’s been a while. She does so without complaint, however.

Decker looks at her, and waits, and frowns. It takes a moment for her to gather the thoughts, but she places them without real hesitation. He has never given her reason to hold back her opinion. He may disagree, but she is also free to do the same.

His being a shit father, made you a better Modi then he has any hope of becoming, despite his rank. Though I was hesitant to return, you still consider me pack – no questions asked. Despite my own failings, why and how I left, through all the lessons forced to learn while away – all I wanted to do was get back and prove myself worthy of Eagle, worthy of you once more. I have seen your father. I have seen him lead when we traveled there. He inspires fear and hatred, and respect because of that. I doubt your father is capable of inspiring loyalty to match the fear and hate, no matter what rank he holds. That makes you the better Modi, hands down, that loyalty and respect – and the fact that you do not demand it but expect and earn it. And fuck anyone that says different.

She slides the whiteboard over to Imogen when she is done, and only then does she look up to meet Decker’s gaze with her own.

Her expression is even as she reads the words. She passes it back without comment.

Perhaps she feels it is not her place to speak.

“Hear, hear.”

“Evenin’, one an’ all,” he said casually as he’d find himself a spot to perch. Twisting the cap off the bottle of beer, he tossed that bottlecap onto the bar counter that he himself in fact built for the pack. It didn’t matter who you were: everyone needed a mini-bar.

The Modi is superficially relaxed. He sprawls in his chair. His bowl is empty and his stomach is full. He’s in the company of his pack, including one whose presence has not been felt for some time now, and the one everyone would call his mate, but he calls simply Gen.

He’s not relaxed. His brow is furrowed, a line between his eyebrows; when AnneMarie finishes, and Evan seconds her opinion, his eyes flicker between the two.

It seems to be with some difficulty that he draws a breath, tamps down his instinct to anger.

“Thanks fer tha vote’a confidence,” he says, low, and it could be ironic — but it’s not. “But ‘f y’all think my father don’t have tha love’a his Sept, then that’s ’cause you only done seen ‘im through my eyes. You axe his pack what they think’a ‘im sometime. They’ll tell ya ‘zactly whatcha done said ’bout me.

“He is a great Modi. ‘n he was a shit father. I is a good Modi. ‘n I’d be a crap father.”

And James enters — and Decker looks up at him. Perhaps he’s glad for the intervention. “‘sup, James.”

Instead, she takes the whiteboard, and slides it cross her thigh absently, cleaning the words from before she sits it back on the table before her, and exchanges it for her beer. To James a nod hello, before she tips back the beer for a long slow swallow.

“You are a excellent warrior. I am pretty certain you will one day be a good father.”

That was that. And James comes in, pulling out his bottle of beer and joining the rest of them in the pack house. It seemed it was a good time as any.

Anyone got 2 kegs of beer handy.

He let out a slight smirk before looking over at James.

“Good evening James. I was told you have been acting as Beta of the Eagles. I would like to contest that.”

No better time than the present. No need to ease into it either.

AnneMarie knows this. Everyone knows this. What they don’t know is —

— well. They don’t know. And that’s the end of it.

As though the debate, brief as it is, had stirred his hunger again, he picks a few chunks of sausage and meatballs out of the pot, dumps them in his huge bowl. And eats them.

And says to Evan — as though just now remembering the original topic — “Anyway. ‘s pro’lly better fer yer kid ta grow up with a Philodox father. Kin show ‘im how ta think as well as fight. Most Full Moons don’t do that, ‘n then they end up dead.” A pause. “Plus ya might even live long ‘nough ta watch ‘im grow up.”

Then Evan just opens his mouth up and challenges James, like that. Decker’s surprised, and — Fenrir Modi that he is — damn pleased.

Imogen is a woman who reveals nothing if she does not want to. This is the type of conversation one would think that she would want to be involved in. It concerns her, if only indirectly, concerns the Garou most would call her mate. However, she has not spoken on the subject – and her body posture speaks of nothing, no tension, nor relaxation. She has a graceful countenance, perfect posture, spine straight, shoulders back. Her throat is slender, white, moving as she swallows, and her heart beat beneath her jawline is even.

It is only when Evan speaks again that a flicker of emotion is betrayed – a tightening of her mouth, a line forming between her eyebrows. She would have spoken then, but he turns to challenge James. She thinks better of it. The expression fades to cool restraint.

“James.” His appellation is her greeting to the Fianna.

To Imogen, his eyes fell next: “Im’gen.” Just as short.

Returning AnneMarie’s nod, the older man’s eyes fell on Evan. “Aye, tha’ I ‘ave,” James said. Fenrir love to fight. Fianna love to drink and fight and fuck and kill and.. you get the idea. “Yer challenge ‘s accepted.”

With a large gulp of the beer, he drained half the bottle before placing it on the bar or where ever was handy before rising to his full height.

She might even be a touch impressed that he did so. She doesn’t offer him a keg though, she simply tips back her bottle of beer to finish it off, and watches.

But this was among pack, this was among the Eagles and the protocol was just not as important as the outcome, as the meaning behind it. He stands, moving from the table. There was assured no malice in this challenge. James had beta and Evan wanted to challenge for it. Put himself in a place within the pack once again.

“You are the challenged, your rights to set the challenge and the rules.”

He waited for the rules to be set down.

“Whate’er form yer wishin’, lad,” he continued. “Nae fer thinkin’ we need tae kill one ‘nother. When one o’us ‘s taken more’n ‘nough damage th’ fight’s o’er. No weapons, as ye need tae be able t’ fight wit’ yer own claws first an’ foremost.” At that James released his axe from it’s binding on his skin, that massive half-moon blade with celtic runes and Fianna glyphs alike with it’s top and rear spike. That was handed to AnneMarie to hold onto for him.

“Nae do we want tae see what Gifts we ‘ave, Evan, but since I cannae turn one o’ me own off, ye can use one o’ yer own.”

She half listens as they make their challenge rules, and only looks up once it begins in earnest.

Subject moves on. Evan challenges James, James sets the terms. Her gaze flicks toward the Fianna’s axe as he pulls it from his skin.

From there her eyes move to the living room, the available space.

“Okay. War-form. I think we better go spirit side though, no reason to damage the pack house or let anyone possibly see those forms. Okay?”

And then there was that one choice of gift. He only had one choice in the matter. He had one chance at this. Three choices, only one would work the best.

“For my one gift I will use Luna’s Armor.”

For his part? He’s going to sit at the table and eat some more.

She follows James outside, then sideways as well, to watch the battle, and provide running commentary.

“Do you want another?” she asks, lifting the bottle as she walks toward the fridge.

N1: Claw
R1: Claw
R2: Bite

Her question makes him glance at his bottle. It’s empty. He doesn’t remember finishing it. “Yeah,” he says. “Thanks.”

She goes; she comes back. Somehow, her act of bringing him a beer has nothing in common with the way Randi had done it. He twists the cap off both the bottles, then leans back in his chair. Knocks back a swig.

A pause. Then, “Sorry ’bout tha conv’sation earlier.”

He doesn’t have to specify which part.

She heads into the kitchen – the sound of her opening and closing the fridge door, audible, the glass bottles clicking together as she lifts them. When Imogen returns she passes him a bottle, pausing only as he reaches out to remove the cap, tilting her beer his way. “Ta,” she says. If he looks at her now, it would be the first time their eyes have met in some time.

Her gaze is just as direct as it always is.

She returns to her chair and sets her bottle down. When he speaks again, apologizing, she turns her head to look at him. Strands of hair have fallen against her cheek – she lifts a hand to push them back. When the corner of her mouth twists up, there is no humour in it.

“I don’t recall you directing the conversation that way.”

He’s not eating more after all. Two meatballs and a clump of italian sausage sit in his bowl, along with some pasta. He drinks his beer and she pushes her hair back, and almost out of instinct — and because her chair is next to his, and therefore in reach — he reaches out to smooth the strands back.

His fingers touch hers. That’s probably not accident. When his hand drops away, though, it comes back to his own thigh.

Idle comment, once the first flurry is through. Evan has drawn blood – more than once. James has not. a pause, and one can almost see her head tilt, slightly. He has learned much while I was gone. It is said with a quiet sort of pride, respect. She remembers well the times she sent him tumbling, only to help him up and do it again.

“Don’t be sorry for me.” As if it were a conscious decision. “It’s not necessary.”

His rage makes him ageless, but his changing blood makes him paradoxically resilient to time. He’s twenty-five years old, which is young in anyone’s book except, of course, a Fenrir’s book. He lives his life largely outdoors, without the benefit of expensive soaps and creams and lotions and butters, but his skin is unroughened by the elements, unlined by worry.

Decker seems older than he is. Stripped of his rage, though, and stripped of his customary scowls, his glares, the terrible weight of his eyes, he may very well look younger.

“I weren’t sorry fer you,” he says. “‘m sorry ya had ta–”

but he’s just going around in circles. And he falls silent for a moment. Then, “Ferget it.” AM’s voice on the totemphone. The modi shifts his weight, the chair creaking slightly. “They’s comin’ back soon anyway. Looks like Ev managed ta whup James.”

A soft chuff issues from his muzzle as he eyed Evan before him standing victorious. Congratulations, Judgement-of-Sterling-Silver-yuf. You bested me. This time. His words in the High Tongue, pure from a Fianna Galliard, issued from him.

She silences herself before any words are spoken, her jaw tightening briefly.

“Good for him.”

But that was a sliver of a moment before he regained his composure. The battle was not over until someone would relinquish their challenge, until someone would expose their neck to the other.

And he banished that thought out of his mind, banished that thought completely from his head. He had only the task at hand and nothing else. And even with the speed of James claws, it seemed that he was taking the younger garou lightly. Maybe it was his age, maybe it was his looks, maybe it was his tribe. But for whatever reason hos strike came and glanced off, a half of a split second, a millionth of a second.

Tonight it seemed that everything went right for him, everything did. His fur matted with blood, just not his own. He had been lucky tonight and he knew it. But for the moment he enjoyed the victory. And a howl of defiance went out from him. He had thought of how his brother would fight, how he would fight his own kin and best him.

And then he was back in the moment, looking at James as he had sunk to one knee. His breath coming deeply, the rage spent from his body, his mental state drained. But he was happy.

~HT~ You fought well today, Sandman-yuf. I thank you for this fight.

He reached down to help his packmate up, to see what wounds needed to be tended to.

~HT~ Do you wish my aid in healing?

Decker just looks at her for a moment. They’re on the edge of an argument. He gets to his feet instead, grabbing his beer off the table. The bottom of the bottle scrapes along the wood for a distance, then drops off the edge.

He walks away from the dining room, toward the door and the outside where, sooner or later, his packmates would slip back across the Gauntlet.

Aye. I’ll take your healing. James almost, very nearly snorted. Fought well? Perhaps. Then again, this was not a do-or-die situation either. One always fought harder for his life when it was hanging from the balance, but the Fianna did not take Evan lightly. Perhaps it was age, at that.

His eyes shifted to AnneMarie. Where’d ye put my axe? Lately it seemed that his axe was his prized possession since Sobhian and his daughter, as well as his unborn children had left him.

And with that, she steps sideways to return to the yard where Decker awaits.

She returns to her couch where she’s left her coat. She leaves by the front door.

And James would hear it in between his ears, a slight rumble that built, closing in on them before it seemed to come right next to him. Hooves clicking on stone as the spirit of Unicorn raced through Evan and into him. Skin muscle and sinew seemed to sew themselves together, not to complete recovery, but enough that his guts were once again inside.

And after James was able to stand on his own, Evan let got of Eagles might and his packmate. Shifting downward and sliding across the gauntlet back to just outside the pack house, meeting Decker and AM on the other side.

“Night, ‘Gen.”

—

Apparently, the axe had been left with him — so he grabs it on his way out. The heft of it, the shape and size, the weight: it’s all different from the one he knows and wielded and lost. Still, something of the familiarity is there.

While he waits in the yard, Decker spins the axe in his hand, first on its axis, then in a broad vertical circle to the side — wrist loose, movement effortless. A backwards arc, then a forwards. The latter he stops short with his other hand, bringing the weapon up in a snap; gives it a good swing, then another.

Then he sets it down, grip down, his hand atop the edge of the axeblade.

AnneMarie is back first. Decker turns when he feels the Gauntlet let go. “Guess tha Coggie done got better,” he comments.

Then Evan is back, and Decker eyes him for a moment. Nods at him, upward — some slight gesture of recognition. Evan might be imagining it, but it’s subtly different from the way the Modi greeted him before this: some vague, indefinable difference in the interplay between an Alpha and a packmate, and an Alpha and a Beta.

“He comin’ back here?” A faint hint of humor, “‘r is he givin’ his axe ta me?”

She sees that he holds the ax, thus halts her progress inside. She slides her hands into her pockets, and watches the first interplay between Alpha and Beta upon Evan’s return realmside. There is a tug of longing somewhere deep inside – it was once her – but it is merely noted then all but forgotten again. She knows well the difficulty of the path she has chosen to follow, the one that returned her here to the Eagles.

She looks at Evan, and when he meets her gaze, she studies him a mere moment before she drops her gaze in a show of respect.

Catching the last words of Decker, he arched a brow. “Och, ye ought tae know th’boy’d ne’er make me turn an’ run tail,” he said. James usually did call many folks lass, lad, boyo and the like, but very rarely did it ever imply that one was a child. More, it was comparison to age. That and it was an Irish trait. Hell, James was likely 10 years Decker’s senior if in age alone.

Scratching at his beard, he eyed the axe in Decker’s hand that belonged to the Fianna. “If’n ye like it, I’ll ‘ave one made fer ye. Though I’m nae thinkin’ that I’ll e’er find a smith ‘s good as Punch-Drunk. Ye ‘member ‘im, aye? Th’ Fenrir Scot. Damned good smith.”

Stepping over to join them, he did wince a bit in pain, but no more than a slight tightening of his eyes.

He looked over at James once he phased into their side of the spiritual gap. It did seem that in this form, even after his weakened attempt to heal James, he was still a bit roughed up. Something that Evan knew would be an unlikely situation in the future.

In the Guided hand this was not even a possible thought for him, betaship would forever be out of his reach within his brother’s pack. The silver fangs would laugh at him or stare him into the ground. For this he knew he was in a far better way. Something he would not give as long as he had breath in his lungs and blood in his veins.

“Naw,” he replies, “‘m gon’ try’n do tha Raven Woman a favor ‘r two ‘n see if she feels like bein’ Christian.”

A pause.

“While yer all here,” just like that, without forewarning, “I wanna talk ’bout tha Sept. Maelstrom’s.”

She arches the brow at the Raven Woman, but says nothing. She steadies a gaze on Decker, however, when he brings up the Sept. She’s hopelessly out of touch with what’s gone on over the past year, other then being told of the influx of shadowlords. Goody.

So she simply listens.

“Aye, yer axe was a damned good one,” he said. That fetish axe of Decker’s was a handsome weapon. Some day he hoped to turn his own axe into a fetish.

The sept of Maelstrom was brought up. James arched an eyebrow, waiting for the Modi to continue.

And then Decker went into the issue about the Sept. He would also reserve any judgement for the moment. Partially because at this one second he was far to mentally drained to try and assume what Decker was going to say.

“Don’t lookit me like that,” he says. “Jus’ been seein’ a lotta new faces wanderin’ ’round town. They ain’t all fuckin’ retards. Word has it tha Sept ain’t quite tha mess it used ta be.

“Leavin’ tha Sept was a big fuckin’ step. Goin’ back,” — and there, it’s been said, the topic broached for the first time since… well, since the last time Evan tried to convince him to do jus that — “is too. I ain’t gon’ make no sudden decisions.

“But I wantcha’ll ta talk to tha new wolves. Git a feel fer ’em. Lotta ’em hang out upstairs at tha Brotherhood’a Thieves, near tha Caern. ‘n we’ll talk ’bout this again in ’bout a month ‘r so. Make our decisions then.”

Orders given, she nods, slightly. This time, it will be a decision discussed among them all, rather than a pack following it’s leader come what may. That, int itself, is an improvement to her.

There was a bit of hesitation in his voice. If Decker wanted to return to the sept, all was well and good and James would follow him to Malfeas and back, but it looked as though he wanted to say more but held his tongue.

Then again he had not seen many of the true born yet. Only a small sampling. And there was still the fact of whose sept it was and

“I will met with others that call the sept home. Get a full feeling of everyone who had come around.”

“Look like ya got somethin’ ta say, James.”

She shrugs, slightly. At least that is how it would seem to me.

“Aye,” he said. “That sounds firm reasoning to me.” Nodding to the female Modi, he gave her a brief smile. I have learned much, she had said to him. Indeed she had, or so it seemed.

Turning his attention to Decker: “I’d follow you to Malfeas, my friend, but we will see what can be seen before any decision is made as you wish.”

“A.M’s more ‘r less got it. This weren’t never ’bout how we look ‘r what people think’a us. Was ’bout us leavin’ ’cause I thought it was tha right thing ta do. We ain’t goin’ back ’cause we cain’t hack it without ’em. ‘s ’cause they could hack it without us. ‘N that’s a Sept I ain’t gon’ be ashamed ta be a part’a.”

A pause.

“We is gon’ hafta ‘pologize to tha Totem though, ’cause that’s tha right thing ta do. ‘n they is gon’ be fuckers who choose ta see that as us grovelin’, tail ‘tween our legs.

“Let ’em. I don’t givafuck what people think ’bout me ‘n mine. I know tha truth. You should’n givafuck neither, Sandman.”

However the warmth of getting it, and getting it right – even in such a small thing, rests in the pit of her belly. For the first time since stepping off that bus, she feels she’s truly come home. Not that she’d ever let any of them see even a hint of that in her.

Decker doesn’t give a fuck what folks thing of him and his – She only cares what he and his think of her. The harshest lesson to learn was that he was right to have been disappointed in her. She has learned much in her time away – much of it painful.

She has nothing to add just now, however.

James owed his allegiance to very few, and Decker was one of them. “I don’t give one shyte o’er what ‘nyone else thinks o’us, but if I hear someone speaking outtae line, I’m going tae punch that someone in the mouth.”

A heartbeat. “T’is m’ worry that it’ll all end th’same a’gin: sept full o’ squabblin’ children, fightin’ each other an’ usin’ whatever politickin’ they can tae maneuver for position ‘nstead of fighting the Wyrm.”

A short shake of his head. “It may be different now. By Stag, I hope that is so.” James is not whining, but more stating his thoughts on the matter. A light shrug and small grin. “Storm-Hammer’s a nice place, aye, but t’isnae ‘ome.”

A short inhale, then. “We’ll discuss this ‘gain in a month,” he finishes.

Heartbeat.

Standing there still bleeding in his breed form, James grinned. “C’mon, let’s all get piss-drunk an’ sing Danny Boy.”

The more things change…