A Fenrir with a Scratch.

Sam and Lukas are going to bloody each other on this floor…again. And while they do that, their Ragabash is scribbling. The Truthcatcher and Alpha of another pack is going to have a chat with their Theurge about the Litany.

Hatchet tips his head to the side as he listens to Mrena. The two of them don’t interact often. Usually they see one another in the bathroom, flossing. They both floss with something like religious dedication. That isn’t the only thing they have in common: each has pale, ghost-gray eyes. Mrena’s are very nearly white, lending to what the Garou — and Hatchet — call her. His seem to change with his mood, with the phase of the moon. But right now? They look almost identical to her own.

He looks down at her, though. He’s kind of tall. She’s not. If he had to guess he would say she’s maybe eighty pounds. But he’s not good at guessing that sort of thing. When she finishes her question, he blinks. “Well…some of that depends on the pack. And there are some septs that have additional laws to the litany governing how packs are run.”

His gaze flicks to the two Ahrouns, then back to her. “Maybe you could be more specific.”

It was absurd, in some ways, that these two were standing about, having a normal conversation and her packmates were dealing with issues of who was entitled to what. Instead of looking up at Hatchet, which seemed to take an eternity, she took a step back and looked at him. She didn’t have to crane her neck to see him, and it put space between the two of them.

Space was respect. She was giving him space.

“Well, we were having a dispute, but it seems to have resolved itself,” she said.

Those who wish may read.

She has been told that the new Garou often gather upstairs, but she does not simply barge in. It is not her way, after all. So it is to the bar, first, where she settles to sit, smoothing denim over her thigh as legs cross, then straightening the blouse under her leather jacket with an absent tug. She reaches briefly into her pocket, and seconds later her whiteboard lands on the bartop before her gently. A quick pass of the felt tip black pen, and when the bartender turns her way, she shows it to him. She wipes it clean with a bar napkin, then, before setting the requested cash on the worn smooth wood in exchange for the bottle of beer slid her way.

That’s about the time the Elephants began to Dance Upstairs – or so it sounded by the thud of bodies on the floor. And she was under orders…

A slender shoulder lifts in a shrug, as if she had finally made some decision within her self. Once her beer has found it’s way to her hand, she lifts her chin in thanks to the bartender, and makes her way through the kitchen, and up the stairs.

—

This isn’t the first time the Ahrouns of the Circle have clashed in this city. In this room. In this vicious, bloody manner.

It’s over in the space of a single breath. Three seconds, no more or less. Mjollnir has the edge — he seems to merely touch Wyrmbreaker, and sends the black Hispo sprawling. In the next heartbeat Wyrmbreaker rolls back on his feet, four big paws scrabbling for purchase. The bite he takes is deep, but not devastating; the retaliation is a vicious swipe that leaves his claws embedded in Mjollnir’s hide.

After that, it’s hard to see what happens. There’s fur — and teeth — flashing, glaring eyes — the savage snapping of lupine jaws. When it’s over the common room is an abattoir. There’s blood everywhere. The air stinks of rage and adrenaline.

There’s a low-frequency rumbling in the room, at the very edge of hearing, unnerving. It takes some time to trace its source back to Wyrmbreaker.

The black hispo’s hackles are still up, a ridge of fur along his back. His tail is high, but held straight out, bristled — his legs are stiff when he stands over his savaged packmate and his teeth are bared. His body language is clear dominance.

“The night after Truth’s Meridian took the Office of the Challenge, I gave you your first warning against insubordination,” Wyrmbreaker’s snarl is soft as velvet. “This is your very last.“

The next note:
“UNLESS YOU REALLY REALLY WANT TO !”

And the next:
“AND CANNOT WALK THREE BLOCKS ON FOUR LEGS TO THE CAERN! “

“That’s so lame.”

He coughs and spits something red and unappetizing out onto the floor, clearing and wiping his mouth though injury has kept him on the floor he is able to sit up just enough to turn and face the Fianna. “Tell him acting Alpha doesn’t mean Alpha. He’s being a tool.” It’s at this point he turns back to the monster whose jaws drips with pieces of his own organs. “This is the second time you’ve attacked me unprovoked.” This time though the sinking thing right behind the words is that this time he’d taken a shot himself. This time he hadn’t simply laid down and let the other man try and best him.

He’s beaten and there’s no lack of surprise in his voice at this.

“I told you then what I’m telling you now. I serve a purpose, I serve a pack. I’m not being insubordinate–” He pauses again to wipe the muck from huge, distended features. “I’m being loyal to my calling and I will not let you run that off the tracks.” the final part is shouted as best he can, though it’s a hoarse thing and he coughs once as he lies back down to look at the ceiling above.

Didn’t even hurt.

He’s aware of Sampson slapping post-it notes up, but doesn’t yet look over to read them. He becomes aware only after Lukas finishes snarling of footsteps trodding up the stairs towards them. Mostly, though, he’s aware of Wyrmbreaker and Mjollnir’s Heart. Whatever he says about each of them publically, or in jest, or to his own packmate, Hatchet doesn’t talk much about what he really thinks…of anyone, really. Each of the men, who share a moon and a pack, has a particular image in his mind, a certain voice in his thoughts, and a certain degree of respect and maybe even comraderie from the Fostern.

That’s how he knew that Armstrong was talking to him, earlier. He’s the only one in the room any of them might call Rhya.

After a few seconds, he looks at the notes that Sampson posted and chuckles. He’s still chuckling when Sam opens his mouth, but the grin on his bearded face fades rapidly as he’s addressed. Tell him, Sam says, and Hatchet cocks his head to the side as though inquisitive. He’s being a tool, Sam says, and Hatchet’s eyes glimmer faintly.

And then he walks over, bare feet unhesitantly stepping into the blood that’s on the floor. He slowly lowers himself into a crouch next to the Fenrir, his expression clearing, his head still canted to the side. Every movement is animalistic. They’re all much better at pretending to be human than he is, yet he doesn’t have the confusion of a lupus-born. He’s fully homid, born in this skin, but he doesn’t seem to remember that most of the time.

When he speaks, his eyes look like silver, but his voice is a warm, patient baritone: a sigh of words. His forearms rest on his knees, his hands dangling limply between his legs. Sam’s blood clings to the soles of his feet.

“I take it that Katherine has gone away, too,” he says, without malice, without — surprisingly — even mockery. Hatchet doesn’t wait for a nod, or an affirmative. He’s noticed the absence. He doesn’t point that out. “With her gone, your pack has no one to look to. With her gone, you and your packmates have no one to challenge for the right to leadership. Any of you, therefore, may step up and claim that right, and any others who dispute it may challenge for that then.

“Unless,” he goes on, talking to Sam as though they are the only two people in the room, “the Alpha has a designated second in command, a Beta. If the Alpha has, then when the Alpha is away, or unconscious, or simply…gone…then the Beta is in charge of leading and guiding the pack. You, and anyone else in the Circle, may either accept the Beta’s leadership, challenge them for their position, or choose not to follow them.”

He blinks once, rapidly. “If you cannot lead, or follow, then you may stop whining and sniveling like a goddamn human child and get the fuck out of the way.”

Hatchet rises to his feet again.

She lifts her beer to her lips and takes a slow sip, before her arm falls to let the bottle hang from her fingers at her side. In her other hand, her whiteboard and pen, tucked agianst her palm, as her thumb hooks unto the pocket of her jeans.

She is – unsurprisingly for any who would know her – silent.

Call her many things, but never call her a coward. Taking a breath, Serafine stepped forward and opened the door, making her way inside the building. Once inside, she paused a moment just to get her bearings, blue-green eyes shifting slowly over the room to take in the layout. She seemed a quiet, delicate thing, but more aloof than nervous. Finally she moved forward, heading towards the bar, where she plunked her slim frame down gracefully into a seat as she pondered a drink.

“I’ll have a beer, please… whatever is on tap.” She had never tried an American beer, so this seemed as good a choice as any. Her voice was cool and polite, with a teasing of a French accent underlying the words.

Here, with blood and spittle dripping from his jaws, it cannot be more fitting.

“This is your final warning.”

This is all the response Wyrmbreaker gives: a repetition, flat and non-negotiable. He backs away from the Modi, and then people are speaking — one into his mind, the other into his ears, and the words go in but they don’t sink in; he’ll take them out later to examine, little by little, to turn them over in his mind and sniff them and study them until they made sense again.

Later.

For now, Wyrmbreaker shifts toward his homid form slowly, little by little. Annemarie appears. The Ahroun’s eyes — blue, pale, and utterly savage — go immediately to her, the stranger. He bares his teeth; the whole room can see how long they are, how red-stained and deadly, and then they’re shrinking, and the snarl is turning to a rictus, a sneer, fades away.

He’s homid again. He doesn’t bother to wipe his face off.

Don’t heal him at all this time. This is totemic, directed at Mrena, as though Sam and everyone else didn’t even exist and they were on a private line. He grabs his overcoat off the back of the couch. It’s splattered in blood; the hem, which had trailed on the floor, is soaking it up, a blacker shade of black. I’m going to take a shower. Then we can continue the discussion. I’d like to hear what you have to say to my terms.

“Wyrmbreaker, I’d like a private word with you.”

“You make me sick sometimes Lukas.”

Any newcomers or people leaving aren’t really garnering any attention from him yet, he’s still a little…. he’s not moving anytime soon. “You know, you don’t have to listen to him, Mrena.” He does not call her White-Eyes, he uses her name, like he seems to with almost everyone. There are times when it’s striking how deep the marks of his upbringing go. In these moments the remarkable dichotomy between man and animal makes an uneasy passion play in the body of young-ish Modi. The man who would always do what is right and the animal wanting nothing more than what is necessary.

After a few minutes, she turned slightly in her seat, eyes drifting about the room again…and eventually towards the stairs that led up to the second floor. Curiosity killed the cat. Er… wolf. But still… she could not help wondering. Had she been in lupus, her ears would have twitched. Finally, she abandoned her half-empty glass and hopped down to the floor, moving with a slow, lanky gait towards and then up those stairs.

When she reached the top, she was hit by the scent and sight of fresh blood, and this…stopped her in her tracks. Eyebrows went up just slightly as she took in the mess, then she glanced at the others present before instinctively ducking her head. “I apologize…I did not mean to interrupt.”

She lifts her beer to her lips again and takes a drink, before it returns to her side. Pale eyes drop to the Fenrir on the floor, the one talking to him, and slide around to Mrena, and back to Lucas as he grabs his coat.

Still, she says nothing. Funny how that works.

Mrena sat down next to Sam; she didn’t touch him. She didn’t care if she got bloody, either. Those pants had been through Hell. That scarf has had things bound to it before; the ensemble was part of her very being. Mrena chose her clothing for a reason.

And when she spoke to the Fenrir, her words were for him only, but spoken none the less out loud. “I choose to listen… you’ll be fine,” she said. He would be fine, because he was strong, because he was Fenrir. And, for now, she was quiet.

If you don’t want to listen to me, Sam, no one’s forcing you to remain in this pack. But if you want to stay, you will obey your superiors.

A flick of a glance toward Serafine, then. Yet another newcomer. Just great. “You’re not interrupting,” mutters the bloody, monstrous thing that is Lukas.

And then, to Hatchet: a moment’s consideration, then a simple nod. “I need to get a change of clothes anyway. You mind talking on the way?”

Upstairs, Hatchet huffs out a slight breath as Sam informs Lukas that he makes him sick, informs Mrena that she doesn’t have to follow him. There’s a flicker of his own Rage, licking outward like flames when normally his is a pulse, but he doesn’t intervene further with the Fenrir. He looks up, and over, at AnneMarie, and then Serafine. He steps out of Mrena’s way and turns to look finally at Lukas.

His head swings in the direction of the hallway in agreement, and he heads that way. He pauses, however, as he steps past the pool of Sam’s blood. Looking down, Hatchet blinks. “Oh, fuck my ass,” he snaps, and takes off his shirt to stop and use it to wipe the majority of the goo off. The t-shirt is black. The scars on the man’s arms and torso are considerable, especially the large explosion around his solar plexus that has a smaller twin in the middle of his back. Something done gone impale him once upon a time. He rubs the t-shirt between his toes, shakes his head, and walks gingerly after the Shadow Lord, trying not to track blood everywhere.

He may be the only one who cares.

He growls it out and raises the edge of his upper lip in a snarl. “I’m not the one who attacks instead of facing an honorable challenge.” He doesn’t use the psychic connection, there is no message transported on the wings of birds of prey. “You’re stuck with me,” He turns the snarl into the spreading of lips and the revelation of teeth that is a smile but that is no less malicious that the expression that birthed it. “I’ll still be here when you’re dead and gone.”

“And who….” He’s exasperated, craning his neck backwards to look at the door. “Why are there new people gawking?”

That is to say, Neutral.

AnneMarie glances at the other newcomer, and lifts her chin slightly, before she steps to the side to find a nice stretch of wall to stand before, still watching, silently. Why are they ‘gawkin’ as it were? Quite possibly because there is a Fenrir bleeding in the center of the floor. It does tend to capture the occasional glance or two. She does not interfere, of course. She simply watches.

Stepping out of the way of those who were leaving, she then glanced towards Sam. Her eyes glimmered like the sea struck by moonlight. “Why are you fighting in a restaurant?” She seemed… not exactly amused, but contemplative. “Not the best way to keep…strangers from gawking.” Now she did curl the corner of her mouth just slightly. “If you wish to be alone, however… I will leave.” And she gave a little nod of understanding. “I howled my introduction not long ago, but I imagine it has not gotten around yet.” And of course, if anyone needed further proof of her alien status…they need only hear the sounds of Paris in her voice.

The moment was left open, waiting to see if they desired her to relay further information, or if a hasty exit was perhaps the better solution.

There was a pause, and then she spoke. And she spoke, and she spoke clearly and she spoke the way a theurge should. “They are both spirits of respect. And of honor. And if you do not learn from the wounds and circumstances-”

And he just kept talking. So, being the kind of woman that she was, and that she was as young as she was, the theurge put a finger to his lips. The gesture was something small, and it would have hopefully gotten the point across.

“Your anger will not serve you without direction. And I won’t heal you because I will not engineer a weak packmate. And I will not allow you to be complacent. Listen to what you are saying. The things you say in haste can not be taken back, and the damage will linger long after you have said them.”

That’s what he would’ve said until ten seconds ago.

Then Sam is opening his mouth. Again. And speaking. Again. And it’s the last line that does it, really: I’ll still be here when you’re dead and gone.

Lukas stops dead. There’s a flicker of an expression that goes over his face, but everyone’s behind him at this point, and no one’s there to see it. When he turns around he’s only faintly frowning; perhaps it’s incredulity.

“You are not my brother, Sam.”

He’s not angry at all. He’s very quiet, a sort of desolated muteness; and perhaps a little surprised to hear his own voice.

“My brother would never wish me dead before him.”

He thinks of the beginning, a sudden flash of a memory: the pack at its beginning, just Ed and Kate and Lukas, three Cliaths, eastern seaboard, not a fucking care in the world. Some battle somewhere, a victory, the details unimportant now, and Samuel Modine, Mjollnir’s Thunder, very young, barely out of his Fostering, a lone Modi without a pack.

And Lukas, approaching him: I liked how you handled yourself back there.
And Sam, soft-spoken and sheepish, almost shy: Thanks.
And Lukas: I’m actually here for someone else. Edward Bellamonte. I want you to meet him.

That was the beginning, the pack coming together. To Lukas, right at this moment, this feels very much like the end: things falling apart.

“You are no brother of mine.”

Lukas turns his back. He leaves the room.

She instead tucks it away and – with another glance at the Fenrir still laying in a pool of his own blood, next to a white-eyed girl that is likely a packmate, urging that he listen to reason – she moves again. This time, she is retracing her steps. If any look her way, there is a brief chin up gesture that serves as both hello and goodbye, of sorts.

Interesting, this common room.
It won’t be the last they see of her.

And damned if she wasn’t trying everything she knew to do to keep this pack together.

After those words, she stood up and started to gather the Fenrir up into a state of presentable, or at the very least, movable. “Either of you ladies care to help me move him?”
(and remember that “Convince someone of something” roll? Here it is)

Normally that wouldn’t be a problem. He’d be gone by now. Probably somewhere around Virginia, picking up Sarah again. Shouldering their bags and kicking the dust of this city off their heels. They’d be at the coast, maybe. This wasn’t going to be his sept, but now it is. But Sam, and Lukas, and Mrena…they’re not his pack. They never were.

Dead and gone, says one of them.

He keeps his head down for now as he wipes blood off his feet, and he tells himself several times that whatever respect or care he may have for them, whatever odd fondness he may have for them due to past experiences or lingering feeling or shared routines, they are not his. They do not belong to him. He is not responsible for them, not outside of those times when his counsel as a Half-Moon is sought. He counts backwards from twenty in another language without thinking, falling back on a habit from a very, very long time ago and not even seeming to notice his own silent meditation.

Respect, says another one of them. Honor.

Listen.

Hatchet looks at Serafine as she speaks, AnneMarie as she…doesn’t. When he speaks, it’s to the more vocal of the newcomers. “This isn’t just a restaurant, it’s our den. Most of the time, the Kinfolk downstairs keep strangers from coming up here.” His eyes shift, move to take in both of the women. “If you’ll wait just a few minutes…”

Brother, says the last of the present three, and Hatchet stops mid-sentence. AnneMarie leaves, and he shrugs. She won’t wait, and he doesn’t hold that against her. He’s not keen on this room at the moment, himself. He balls up the t-shirt in his hand and follows Lukas out of the room.

The whiteboard makes a brief reappearance. A quickly scrawled line, the writing neat and easily readable as she shows them to Mrena, before she swipes them away across her thigh, and continues out the door.

The statement?

-[He is Fenrir, with a scratch. Let him walk, let him learn.]-

And the Modi takes her leave.