Try… flowers. [Evan, Serafina, Wayha]

Well except for the Eagle’s turf. But that was for different reasons.

However tonight Evan had once again found himself moving through the backdoors of the Brotherhood and heading upstairs, avoiding the mundane so they don’t run off from the rage. Curious of who could be around now.

The sounds of footsteps broke her free from that intense, focused state, and she looked up to meet Evan’s gaze. Another new face.

“Good evening. Serafine Marceau, L’ange Noire of the Black Furies. Cliath Galliard.” Introductions were always good to supply as quickly as possible, when it came to being the new girl on Sept territory. Her voice had a pleasantly light French accent, marking her as an alien to the country as well as simply Chicago.

“Good evening. I am Evan “Judgement of Sterling Silver” Fostern Philodox of the Children of Gaia. Beta of Eagle’s Chosen.”

There was something about him, the breeding that screamed Silver fang ancestry seemed fade away after learning of his true tribe. His dialect was not native to Chicago, but it seemed to be coming along with it.

The voices announce who is up there – and for her part there is actually a moment of hesitation. She had been caught looking at what she should not – fortunately by James, who was unbothered by it. She actually considers turning around…

..then continues on, anyway. She is Modi. She will not back down from anyone, or anything. Never has, never will -even when it’s something seemingly so simple. She is walking easier now, her natural grace once more evident, speaking openly of the beast that rides so close to her skin. The scent of blood has faded completely, as she is, once again, whole. She is dressed very much as she always is – cotton blouse, jeans, heeled boots, and a light leather jacket over it all.

When she sees Evan, she lifts a chin to him first, before the same is offered by way of hello to Serafine.

“I believe I’ve met two of your pack mates. AnneMarie and James?” Yes, indeed. They’d bonded over a monster with maggots for innards. For such a delicate, regal-looking creature, Serafine was remarkably un-squeamish.

The notebook was flipped shut for the moment, and she rested her hands atop it, still holding the pen that she’d been using.

Then looking back to the new face.

“So how long have you been in Chicago?”

Some might question it’s very existence at all.

She crosses one knee over the other, and smooths the denim over her thighs absently, before taking a long swallow of her beer, and listening. She doesn’t speak. This is not unsual.

She glanced between the two, then, seeming to decide that her private time had come to an end, she reached down to slip the notebook and pen back into her bag, which she then snapped closed. For all the world, she looked like she could have been a local college student. Which she almost was.

Then she scooted over to the end of the sofa in case Evan wanted to sit down.

“Has Chicago been pleasant to you?”

Her gaze flicks back and forth between them, as she watches the conversation, lingering once as she watches Serafine move down the couch, putting her things away.

All the same, she quirked the corner of her mouth in a knowing little half-smile. “But, I am in one piece, yes?” She even held up her hands to demonstrate this fact. Yes. In one piece. And wasn’t that generally all that a garou could ask for?

She glanced at the Fenrir again, watching her in a curious sort of fashion. James had been required to introduce her, the other night, so it seemed only logical that she had no voice of her own. Therefor, she did not take offense at the silence coming from that direction.

He watched her as she held up her hands to demonstrate that she had survived. He had not really spoken much to any of the Black Furies. In fact maybe 3 in his entire life. He had heard stories about them, but that was about all.

“So were are you from, if I my ask?”

…She stops that train of thought by lifting the bottle to her lips once more and taking a long swallow. She does glance at Evan though, with a (not at all the same) slight smirk. A whisper across totem wings answers before Sera. L’Ange noir? My bet’s on France.

As if it were obvious.

Even if Evan’s accent had placed him as a non-Chicagoan, she likely would not have known the difference. “What about yourselves? Are you two locals?” She nodded to AnneMarie to show that she meant to include her in the question. It was just small-talk, really, but she had a curious head on her shoulders, this one.

He moved from just standing in the common room towards the couch after a few minutes. It was a bit impolite to discuss small talk when the pair were sitting while he was standing.

She had half expected him to give her answer as well – many tend to toss her information about with ease when they know it, but when he doesn’t, slender fingers reach into the pocket of her jacket to slide a small white board and pen from it’s depths. She takes a moment to slip from her coat as well, and fold it over the back of her chair before she writes her reply. Her handwriting is fast, and neat – easily read.

w~A small sept in Maine. I consider Chicago home, though I just recently returned.

The Wendigo made his way to the Common Room as he sometimes did. Voices stalled him at first. Usually he made sure the room was empty when he came. Not many seemed to trust Wendigo as a whole.

The top half of his raven hair was tied back with a long leather harness. Only one braid fell down the side of his face, tied at the bottom with leather and eagle feathers. He wore an old army jacket given to him by Kemp, a bluish native shirt his mother made him, and a pair of tattered jeans from Kemp. Worn moccasins kept his feet warm.

His grey/silver eyes looked to the others upon entering, then quietly moved to a corner with his food.

“You’re both from the East Coast, then.” Well, the Fenrir hadn’t actually said she was *from* there. The answer had been slightly ambiguous. But… her home Sept was there, which was effectively very similar. This was the same reason that Serafine often referred to London as her second home.

“I spent my cubhood and Rite of Passage with the Sept of the Two Trees… in London, as I mentioned.” Her gentle smile was both sad and nostalgic. “But…now I am here, and I think…you lot could use me more than they could. James is the only other moon dancer I’ve met so far.”

Now it was her turn to be a bit smug. Naturally a Galliard would have a hard time imagining a world without stories and songs and…history.

His eyes move towards the stairs as it seems that another person was joining the gathering. A new face, it seemed like Chicago had tons of them of late.

“Welcome.”

“Waachiyaa”

A nod given to the one with fire red hair, then to the females. He picked at his food, city food was so greasy and unnatural tasting.

Her gaze shifts and settles on Chanlyeya as he enters, and continues to watch as he crosses the room to a corner where he can enjoy his meal. Only when he sits, and replies to Evan’s welcome does she lift her bottle (presumably in hello) and shift her gaze once more to the pair on the couch.

She sighed. Then she snatched up her bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Please forgive me… I think I’d better take this.”

And with that, she was out of the room and trotting nimbly down the steps to make her way outside.

“Good evening. I am Evan “Judgement of Sterling Silver” Fostern Philodox of the Children of Gaia. Beta of Eagle’s Chosen. This is my packmate AnneMarie ‘Ruhiger’ Hoch.”

A pause to allow him to introduce himself.

She settles back into her chair, a hand resting on the whiteboard on her lap, the other holding her beer, fingers curled around the neck of the bottle.

She lifts a chin in greeting as Evan introduces her to Chanlyeya.

“I am named Chanlyeya Greyeyes, Cliath Theurge of the..of the Wendigo tribe. I currently follow no pack and have territory claimed in Tekawitha.”

Now came the time to see how he would be taken. Ally or enemy, it seemed not many, especially those of Fenrir, trusted Wendigo.

“I hope that your territory is well-marked. So as not to trample your terrain any time. But if you’ll excuse me, I must be off. I have to begin my patrol of our territory. Hopefully James has had fun.”

He stood up from the couch and nodded to AM before heading downstairs.

“You have been very quiet, ma’am.”

She lifts a chin toward Evan as he leaves, then again levels her gaze on the Wendigo.

A brow quirks at the comment, however, before she looks down at the whiteboard on her lap, and writes a single word, quickly. She flips the board around to show it to him.

Mute.

That’d explain her silence.

“You speak with hands?” Signed to AM.

He signs, and she watches, her brow furrowing deeply, briefly, before the expression smooths away. Her head shakes slightly, and she takes to the white board once more, writing neatly and quickly, before standing to move across the room and hand it to him.

I speak American Sign Language to those who know it, but yours is not exactly easily understood. I hear fine, and I write well.

“My sorry. I was think they were close to understanding.”

He pulled a chair for her to sit, standing as he did. Chivalry wasn’t all that dead, just needed CPR in this time and age.

“You are also one of Coggies? The red hair Fostern did not say your tribe.”

I am Fenrir Modi. Cliath.

“Fenrir? I have met one other. He was kind to give me clothes. You may know him. Kemp?” He nodded. “And I see one other but he did say nothing. Kemp called him Silence.”

He stopped for a moment to take a drink of his water.

“My sorry. I am still get use to English. I wish it not to bother you.”

Somehow, in those few words, there is a sense of respect for both men, despite the past with Kemp, and because of the past with Silence.

Lips curl into a slight smirk, before she shakes her head and adds. Your English is fine.

It was getting closer to a full moon, and in the back of her mind she knew that this was not a good line of questions to be asking an ahroun so close to the full moon. She knew that she was about to ask a potentially dangerous question. Because she knew, she knew what day it was. What she didn’t know was what kind of day he’s had, what was on his mind, what he had planned, etc.

All things considered, White Eyes wasn’t tiptoeing or walking on eggshells in the hall.

And, with that, she knocked on Lukas’ door. Cha-cha rhythm.
knockknockknock. [rest. rest]

“I spent much of a day with Kemp-rhya, and he did not speak of be wyrmfoe. A great honor for one who seems as old as I. For the one Silence, though he did not speak, I could see he has seen much in his life.”

He offered to share his fries and sandwich with AM.

“You have been here for a time. Please, has any of my tribe been in this concrete forest before?”

“It’s open.”

And it is. When Mrena opens the door she finds Lukas on his bed, back to the headboard, legs crossed lazily at the ankle, a laptop on his thighs. He finishes typing his sentence, whatever it might be, and then looks up.

Mrena looks like she has something on her mind. He studies her for a moment, and then nods at the door over her shoulder. “Close it behind you, will you?”

To his question though, she replies I have just recently returned to the city. I have seen no other Wendigo since I have been home.

“Did I interrupt something?” she asked.

True to the request, she shut the door behind her. Also, true to form, she didn’t sit down unless she was given permission to do so. After all, this wasn’t her room. It was his. He didn’t even share it with anyone, so there really was no reason to touch things. Attire was comfortable. Jeans, pullover shirt. Though, admittedly, it was a shirt that she had stolen from Edward. Something with a high thread count, nice fabric, and was distinctly too big for her. Not the point.

“I wish to ..undo some of rumors of my tribe. Not all of us were taught to hate others. I come from a small .. village that was isolated deep in Canada’s north. We avoided all human society. But when we were called, we came to help those that need. No matter tribe. Other villages I had seen were taught the hatred. It is the only old way I was not taught. But I have felt the distrust from others when I mention my tribe. It is not something I like.”

“You want to sit?” He nods at his desk chair. The surface of his desk is just as she might expect: pristine, devoid of anything except a small 4-cup coffee maker. The mugs are nowhere to be seen. “What’s on your mind?”

“Would you have left the pack if Katherine hadn’t challenged Edward?”

And there it was, question that was out there on her mind. To be discussed and answered and so on.

She headed back up the stairs, agile feet making barely a sound as she ascended into the common room. A quick glance with blue-green eyes told her that Evan had left, but AnneMarie and the unknown wolf were over at the little table. Her gaze alighted upon both figures for a moment, watching in curiosity as she made her way in and settled herself back on the sofa where she had previously been. The bag was dropped to the floor with a light *thunk*, and she leaned back into the cushions, stretching her arms up for a moment and giving a quiet yawn.

She took her time in turning around, folding her arms across the back of the sectional and resting her chin upon them as she watched the other two garou interact.

Despite the fact that many think her nothing but claw and fang, nothing but mindless rage, AnneMarie can be surprisingly articulate. Too bad few see it.

Serafine’s entrance is not missed. In fact, after she passes the board to Chanlyeya, she turns to watch her take her place on the couch. She meets her gaze briefly, and nods hello once more, barely a movement of her chin, truth be told, but it is there.

“I do not believe I have insulted or been insulted by any of Fenrir’s children. For that, I am thanking. For your actions, I am thanking as well. You have given kindness to me. But you speak true, and I feel same. I think one should account for own actions not that of a tribe. I thank you for seeing as I do. And I hope this might lead to some sort of …Milo call it alliance. Is that right?”

Despite that, Lukas’s eyes are as ferociously blue as they ever are, clear and glittering. His eyes narrow when she asks the question, though it’s not anger, quite, but consideration. And, yes, some measure of distaste for the subject.

“Why do you want to know?”

For her part, she wasn’t angry. She wasn’t accusatory, and she wasn’t even upset, she was just… curious. Mrena was almost always curious. And though she was not an empathetic creature, she was an observant one. And she caught the slight degree of distate in his voice.

“I’m trying to understand how you work through the actions and choices you have made and make… because, admittedly, I don’t understand you sometimes,” she said.

Just then, they were joined by a fourth, and she couldn’t help but quirk a smile at the truth of her own words moments before. “Two faces I do not know.”

Well, here we go again, then. She was off the sofa and on her feet, so that her gaze might direct itself back and forth between the two men. “Serafine Marceau, Cliath Galliard of the Black Furies. L’Ange Noire… Black Angel.” A nod to Adam, then Chanlyeya in turn as she waited for them to return with their own names.

She does not place her loyalties lightly – if ever – to any save her Pack, or those who she has learned to trust. As she mentioned, such things are earned.

Her gaze flicks toward the man who enters, and she settles back in her chair, slender fingers lifting her beer to her lips for a long swallow, before pale blue eyes find Serafine once more as she gives her introduction again.

Stepping further into the room he cleared the top of the stairs in case people chose to come or go*

He takes the board once more, reads and hands it back to AM. “I am thanking for the chance to prove it, child of Fenrir.”

Nice to meet you child of Peagasus, and Little Brother. *A bit of a nod, Chanlyeya had indicated AM was fenrir* And Child of Fenris.

So Mrena goes on. And Lukas listens, and listens, and when she’s done his eyes flicker away from her just long enough for him to lower the lid on his laptop and set it aside.

He plants one hand on his mattress and draws himself back, crosses his legs indian-style, sits against the headboard of his twin-sized bed. They could be friends visiting one another in some student dormitory somewhere, Joe and Jane College making plans for the next weekend, or swapping notes from Economics 129, or —

They’re not. They’re werewolves, and nothing close to human. And the masks are off in here. There’s something in Lukas’s eyes that’s utterly hard, utterly ruthless.

“No,” he says, “you don’t understand me.

“I said it to push her. Kate never had Ed’s vision, but at least she had determination and ambition, which, at that point, was far more than could be said of Ed. Her flaw is that she cannot bear to seem anything but perfect. That’s why she can’t bear the sight of blood or filth; that’s why she would have never, ever challenged her own brother unless her hand was forced. So I forced her hand. I took on whatever burden of guilt she might have had in betraying her brother, and freed of it, she challenged.

“You ask me what I would have done if she’d refused. Let me tell you, Mrena, I never once considered it. It was not a possibility.

“That whole … display may have seemed reckless and out of the blue to you, but it had been building in the air for weeks by that point. Kate and I had spoken several times; the plans were laid. She wanted Alphahood more than she ever showed. She just needed the appearance of spontaneity, of desperation, of being forced to extremes, do you understand?”

Her status as European was clear, of course, in both that accent of hers and her name. (She rather *looked* French as well, for that matter.) After affording the two men with a warm and pretty smile, she lowered herself back onto the couch, sitting with one leg bent beneath her and one bare arm draped across the back, so that she might be able to look comfortably in all directions. The black tank top she wore left exposed a portion of the tattoo on her back…the tips of two large black wings by her shoulders. Which came first…the name or the tattoo? Who knows.

Speaking of looks – there’s a tip of that tattoo again. Lips curl into something of a smirk beforeshe turns her attention to the now pristine board, to write. AnneMarie Hoch. Ruhiger to the nation. Cliath Modi. Eagle.

Eagle. And thus? Not a part of the sept as a whole.

*In motion again the ragabash glided over and sat on the far end of the couch. Tilting his head to watch the trio of others. Breathing in the air here. The place charged. So many garou living here it’s lucky the roof hadn’t blown off yet. Danger death, and the smell of ozone on the air.

Adam’s dark eyes flicker over to the board (( assuming she shows it?)) and he smiled a nod offered to her* Ahh the Eagles. I’ve heard tale of them.

Then, on a whim, she leaned over and reached into her bag, unclipping it and pulling out the notebook once more, along with a pencil. She set the notebook against the back of the sofa as she re-settled herself, graphite tip making little scratches against the surface of the paper. It was a casual bit of sketching…doodling, even. Not the practiced and focused marks of a real artist. But Serafine was the type of person who needed something to keep her busy.

*leaning forward a bit on the couch to look at Serafine’s art*

There are things she could say to that, there are things she might have said another night, another time. However, for now, she just keeps silent. Shock, hm?

He talked, and so she listened. She listened like he was giving her some great lesson. Not passive, not receiving a lecture, but actively engaged. They couldn’t be talking about Economics 124, because Mrena would have never been so interested in that… despite the fact that, aparently, she had been reading far too many books on corporate culture. [Ed was La s’aise faire, Lukas and Katherine were authoritarian, and there was no place in a pack for democracy.]

He continued, adn she listened, nodded when appropriate, and he could imagine that she was making notes. Taking tally of something or logging it away for reference purposes. Because, if nothing, she was a clever creature. She was an observant creature, and hearing all of this?

Well, now, it made her realize she was not quite as clever or observant as she deigned herself to be.

And, while she should be amazed. or others would be distraught or apalled, she seemed almost pleased at this, impressed, but not riding the border of awe. Just acceptance. This was what it was, and moved on.

“Again,” she said, “When explained I can follow your logic.”

Katherine needed to look like a victim. She needed to keep her hands clean, she needed to make it look forced so she could live with herself and not compromise whatever wall of morality she built. Leave it to a Shadow Lord to make someone do what was necessary.

There was a pause in her thought process.

“I think saying that I understand you, however, after your explaination is hasty,” said rather plainly.

a pause.

“So,” a change of thought. “What’s wrong with me?”

What an odd question to ask.

“You mean why haven’t I accepted you as Alpha already?”

It might take her a moment to realize it’s an answer, not a dismissal.

((Night all, thank you for the RP. See you tomorrow.))

After watching him go, she glanced back at Adam with a little smirk. “Hardly a Picasso, I’m afraid. Drawing is not a strong talent of mine.”

So far the rough sketch was only just starting to take form. But it looked…like she might have been drawing AnneMarie. It wasn’t as bad as she claimed, either. Just..simple.

She sets her whiteboard on the table, the pen on top of it, and now it is her turn to watch the interaction of the other garou in the room.

*He looked over to AnneMarie* Did you loose your voice in battle? *not being rude, just curious*

“… doubt’s a powerful thing,” she said. Mrena exhaled, and then nodded. Acknowledgment, unspoken thanks.

“I’ve got talens for you, by the way.”

Well, that was a perfectionist for you. Never approving of their own work. She did, however, toss Adam a knowing smile. They were in on something that AnneMarie was not.

She has talens. His eyebrows go up. “Oh? Stuff I can’t make myself?”

At Adam’s question, she simply shakes her head. She did not lose her voice in battle.

There was a shrug, and then? “With two theurges, a ragabash, and you we’re not really afforded the luxury of a head on assault anymore.”

As for the rest, she has no idea what he is speaking of, so does not address it. Merely waits until they have read the board she shows them, than wipes it clean once more.

“Oh, please tell me she didn’t teach it to you and just found the spirit to do it for you.”

“Why? Afraid we’ve upset the spirits?”

Her pencil danced lazily across the page as she glanced between AnneMarie and Adam. In response to the latter’s question, her eyebrows went up slightly. “I would not know, I’m afraid. I’m quite new to town yet.”

He’s serious now. Apparently, anyway. “Shit. Do you think it’s serious? What should we do?”

He is a much cleaner vagrant this time around. Clothes are not covered in grime and stink as before. The lesson in turning on broken waterfalls has come in handy, so one would pray. Still though, there is a lack of grooming that Wahya doesn’t participate in. The scruffy visage of his matted mane of tiny braids, molding into some fashion of dreads, slithers about his lean shoulders, curtain much of his bronzed, weathered face.

He can hear voices, or perhaps thinks he does. The slow climb up the back stairs is met with low clomps of his feet dragging across the floor, his head turning left and then right, up and down, to drink in the details of the room with his dark hidden eyes.

Seraphine knows nothing of this meeting or the radioactive business either, and she gestures with a hand that agrees with what she said. She looks up as Wahya enters, and lifts her chin toward him in hello, before returning to watch Seraphine sketch with pale gaze.

“Well,” she said. “I… Yeah, this is kind of serious. Unless you perform some kind of chiminage to them, those particular spirits might hold that slight against you any time you try to learn from them again. If it’s been awhile the damage might already be done.”

And we seriously have to talk about the sweet gifts you’ve been leaving my sister… and the manner in which it’s been done.

*His tone was slightly amused. Slightly not.*

Adam spoke of the ‘gifts’. “No find rabbit.” He responds in kind, the rumbling growl of his voice coming out in a gravelly tone. The corners of his mouth spread wide and up, a reflection of his birth moon, flashing perfect white sharp teeth at all of them. He saunters his way over, quick to join the company that he knows. A hand steals itself from out of his pocket, raised up in a small gesture in the air to greet AnneMarie.

She appreciates the gifts and the intent with which they were given but yeah.. Maybe flowers? Instead of flesh? She likes flowers. She’s an herbalist.

*looking to AM and Sera* Have you both met my brother? This is Wahya, wolf born of my people

— still totally deadpan, this —

” … I learned it from a Bear spirit.” A beat. Then the Ahroun grins, a sudden breaking of the expression across his face. One thinks of shafts of sunlight through stormclouds; one thinks of sunlight flashing off knives. He reaches behind himself to grab his pillow, chucks it rather unmercifully at Mrena’s face.

“Nice try trying to scare me though,” said the pot to the kettle. “Ass.”

She looked up from the sketch as Wahya was introduced to her, and she offered a polite nod in the Lupus’ direction. “I have not. It is a pleasure to meet you, Wayha. I am Serafine. Black Angel. Cliath Galliard of the Black Furies.” She’d shortened the list of identifiers for the lupus, partly because she understood that too many names and translations of names could get to be a bit much for some of the Wolf born. Partly because she’s introduced herself more than a few times today as it was.

Then she stood up, tearing the page from her notebook and walking over to AnneMarie. She handed it to the Modi calmly. “I hope you do not mind.”

The picture was, as she had said, not of professional quality. Just a simple sketch. But it had character, and an elegant stroke that indicated a distinct style which was all…Serafine. “I like to draw things that I find interesting.”

It’s always slightly disconcerting to see how others see oneself, and this is no different. She traces the lines with her fingers, without marring them, as if exploring her face for the first time, so that she later can compare them in some mirror or another.

Serafine says she draws things she finds interesting, and the smirk softens slightly into the slightest of smiles – there, than gone again, but if she is watching for it, she will see it. She reaches for her whiteboard, and writes quickly, but leaves it in her lap, where only Seraphine can read it.

“No like cat.” He snorts, a cuff of air rushed out of his nose. Nostrils flaring, he drags a hand out to point at Adam, “Wolf big, cat food like rabbit, yes. Wolf-brother see. Little Sister learn make good cat, yes.”

His eyes wander over to Serafine as she addressed him. He brings up a hand to wave to her, remaining crouched on the floor as he was, it was hard to tell how big or small a man he was. Though, Wahya was a bit on the short side, his borrowed clothes, garments stolen from Adam’s closet were a bit baggy on him. His gaze swings in AnneMarie’s direction, watching the exchange between Fury and Fenrir; the jagged arches of his thick eyebrows lifting high to almost disappear into the wrinkling of his brow.

“Wah-yah Many Tongues,” He replies back to Serafine, thumping a hand to his chest. “Grinning moon born.” There is an accent to the way he pronounces his name, the rest of his speech a jumble of broken English. His eyes dart back to catch the hand gestures as AnneMarie signs to him, he nods his head to her grinning even more.

*Laughing he stood* And the pigeons could kill her. So none of those.

*he pointed* and no sneaking’ into my house. If I tripped over you in the dark one night slipping a mouse into her shoe I might freak out fur out and kill ya. *He laughed* Door step!

And, with that, she took the pillow to the face, and instead of throwing it back just yet, all it did was make Mrena erupt into almost giggles born of semi-sadistic glee.

“Oh, I’m an ass. I’m an ass-” she said as she threw the pillow back. Admittedly, her aim wasn’t half as good as Lukas’ “-and you’re the one who tried to convince me that you’d learned it from Katherine.”

She was somewhere between giggles and mild irritation.

“God, you-you- buttface. What the Hell? If you’re gonna trick me, don’t make it so easy to catch you!”

“Keep it.”

She said this as she retrieved the notebook, separating the page with her picture on it and leaving this on the table. “Or you can throw it away when I’m not looking, if you don’t like it. I promise I won’t be offended.” Her wink was a knowing one, as she turned and paced back to pick up her bag and replace the notebook and pencil inside of it. Then she slung the thing back onto her shoulder and gave one last look to the room at large. “I bid you all a good evening.”

Then she was off down the stairs, and out into the night.

*Raising his brows and looking to Wahya.*

“I just — I just couldn’t resist–” and he’s off again, laughing harder.

When that bout lets him go, Lukas is wiping his eyes with a pinch of his thumb and forefinger. He leans back against his headboard with a sigh, something between exhaustion and satisfaction. “My stomach hurts,” he says; guffaws; calms. “And I couldn’t resist. It’s your own fault for seeing through it. I was hoping to get some cellphone pics of your ‘I’m Outraged!’ face.”

And then she is gone, and AnneMarie just remains sitting there, very calmly reaching for her beer to take several long swallows. Loud laughter comes from one of the rooms, and she glances that direction, and then returns her attention to the rooms other occupants.

*nodding he smiled and headed for the steps. Waving good by to the ladies as well* Nice meeting you ladies.

*Then he glided down the stairs and out*

She started to calm down. Mrena stopped, uncurling just enough to look at Lukas… just in time for him to say that his stomach hurt.

Which was all it took for her to keep laughing, and laugh harder. Which, eventually, turned into quiet gasps of air and half owws.

“Oh, god, which pics do you have? I admit, my ‘I’m outraged’ is amazing. I’ll trade you two of my embarrassing shots for a few of your unflattering I inhaled my lamb shots.”

People come and go quickly here in the common room of the brotherhood, while others stick around and stay a long time. One can learn a lot through simply watching the interactions – and lack there-of. Finally, she signs at Wahya, arching a brow slightly. ~You have been well since we last spoke?~

The motion of hand gestures, silent words as he likes to call them, route his attention back to the Fenrir woman sitting in her chair. He doesn’t answer her just yet, walking over to her instead. Wahya finds a chair nearest AnneMarie dragging/pushing it over to her. He hops up on the seat, feet planting a space apart as he crouched down, looking up at her as his arms cradle against his chest, and resting hands atop bent knees.

He begins to sign to her, Good yes. pointing at her, indicating after herself, You?

She nods slightly at the question, and then asks another. ~You leave cats and pigeons for your tribemate?~

“No, but I’ll give you the pics I have of Kate in a car wreck.” This, when he’s got himself under control again. “I think my angle was way better than yours; you could totally see her glaring.” And another laugh bubbles out of him, escaping before he can call it back.

A little later: “I miss her.” The laughter dies a natural death; subsides to a smile. The smile shifts, becomes quieter. “I miss them all. Sometimes I wonder — ”

He breaks off there.

Little Sister and Wolf-brother good to Wolf, so leave presents. Little Sister no like cat. he lets out a sigh, Rabbit scarce, make do with what there is to hunt. Hunt cat. Can eat cat.

Unless, of course, her screams are for amusement? Then, try Sewer Rats. they get almost as big as cat.

Or, at the very least, more upright.

A little bit later, he said that he missed Katherine. That he missed all of them, and stops himself mid thought. And Mrena sat there in silence, in Edward’s shirt, and for a moment didn’t quite know what to say. The thought of them made her smile.

“I miss them, too,” she said. Quietly, but not too quiet.

And, for a moment, she didn’t explore that last part where Lukas had broken off. There were things that they knew and things that they didn’t; it went unsaid that they missed their packmates. It was hard to articulate how much. Mrena didn’t touch Dylan’s half of the room. It looked clean, and it was as pristine as it had been since Dylan was last there.

But Mrena never so much as considered touching it. She never ventured to that side, as though that half of the room was sacred. Maybe it was because, on some level, the theurge was delusional. On some level, she was convinced that Dylan was coming back. And, on some level, Mrena thought of this as a weakness.

“You wonder what?”

Her question brings his regard swinging back. He looks at her for a moment.

Then: “I wonder if we should’ve stayed in New York. Or Boston.” A shrug. “Sometimes it just seems like we were more of a pack there. Closer. Not so strained. I thought we should come out here to toughen ourselves up, to … grow up, but — ”

A shrug ends it.

The talk of Little Sister seems to make his eyebrows furrow deeply. She can see him shake his head, tossing that matted mane of braids back over his shoulders away from his face. The glossy, puckered line of scar tissue runs in a slant down his right temple, caressing over part of his cheekbone, ending just at the flat curve of his nostril; it twitches and pulls as he works the muscles in his jaw.

He signs back to her, Sewer rat? Little Sister cannot live on flowers. Will starve to death, rat good?

…does she truly have any? No one knows.

She signs after a moment’s consideration. ~In the city, one does not need to hunt as you do in the Forests, to survive. Here, we trade money for food, at the store or like the floor below. You walked through the kitchen, where food is prepared here often. It is much the same for your Little sister. She will not starve. The flowers are not for her to eat, but rather something pretty to look at – in the scab, it is sometimes hard to find natural beauty. Flowers remind us of that beauty. ~

She was quiet for a minute. “You know, before I joined this pack I’d never been out of Boston? And, even after that, this was the first place I’d ever really been?”

A mark of how young they all were, really. Lukas has seen her grow up, almost literally. She’s been in this pack for almost a quarter of her life. In a way, it was almost more potent than going through some sort of life-changing event. It was uncertainty.

But she would adapt, or she wouldn’t. And if Mrena didn’t adapt, well then…

“I don’t know how to fix things, Lukas. I can’t until people get it into their heads that things aren’t the way they were, and that today isn’t yesterday and that we aren’t who we were. And even, I can’t keep us together unless packmates are willing to try.”

there was silence.

More silence.

“It’s actually easier, for me at least, to talk to you now than it has been in the past.”

Have seen this money you speak of, fills the cups of my coats. People take pity on me and give on the street, while others are scared to come close. What is purpose of these frog-skins? If I can hunt in forest to survive, why can’t I hunt in Scab?

Wahya drops his hands across his lap, smoothing his palms over the denim fabric of his jeans until it creates a warming sensation that draws his eyes downward, examining the dark blue material between his brown fingers. “Flowers.” He mutters in a gravelly bass, perhaps more to himself, just to hear his own voice. Wahya shakes his head, looking up at AnneMarie and signs to her. What flowers do other than die to look pretty? Why suggest giving them to Little Sister, when food better.

There’s nothing to say to most of that.

But at the end, when she says it’s easier to talk to him now, the edges of his mouth turn up in a faint, wan smile. “Well,” he says, wry, “at least there’s that.”

It’s a sort of knee-jerk irony. A moment passes before he adds, sincere: “I’m glad of that.”

“If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know, okay?”

~Monkeys, and the rest of us in the cities, use money to buy food, to purchase lodging, to use for the daily needs to live in the city – even the water for the Waterfalls is paid for with this money. Suggested flowers because Little Sister may not need food, not in the traditional hunting way. Flowers to die to be pretty isn’t a need, but enjoyed for the time they live. Sometimes in the scab, wants mean more than needs. Bottom line, hunting in Scab could attract attention of those who would not be so understanding of you and your ways, and cannot know of us in general. When in Scab, have to do as those in the Scab do.~

“Back atcha,” he says — flippant words; sincerity just under the surface.

It brings about his next question of her; Do all Scab wolves do this? Does it make you lose sight of your wolf nature? he had considered the lengths of time he might have to spend in this city, the notion of losing touch of his self did not sit well with him. It makes Wahya curl back his upper lip in a mock snarl and grit his teeth.

Many hunt outside the city to help keep the connection. Some do not find it necessary. In the scab, when we hunt, it is to kill the Wyrm, and cleanse the Scab the best we can. In the end, we still must adapt.

What way born? he signs the question to her, never letting his eyes fall away, even as his lips press together. One arm drops to drape over his left knee.

There is a much larger story behind such simple words, but that is what was asked, and she answers it exactly.

Wahya has heard the stories about her kind. The sins of Gaia’s children, when wolf-brothers and wolf-sister lay together, he has heard the Metis preached of as ill-begotten spawn that should be devoured at birth and not allowed to grow. And he has listened in his puppy-hood of the songs sung of Metis who have sacrificed to gain praise in the eyes of those that shun them.

Wahya brings his right hand up, the skin of his fingers and palm oddly stained in that strange red color, stretching it out to briefly rest on AnneMarie’s shoulder. There is no tension in his grip, palm lying flat against the muscle and bone covered in cloth, as if knowing of the hidden strength in this Fenrir woman, he is a little cautious.

For the first time he moves out of his crouched position, following the length of his arm to bring his face close to AnneMarie’s, violating the Fenrir’s personal space now as he breathes in her scent and simply studies her, dark eyes staring, without a challenge, into her pale ones.

…breathe. To take in her scent, to study her, to search her eyes for… something. She is completely unsure as to what he is looking for, but she does not push his hand away, does not shove him back as she would have another. She has first hand seen his curiosity with the little things, there is no reason it would not translate to those larger ideals as well. Such a her existence, and the reasons for it.

After a long moment, she leans back so that she can sign again, so that he can see it, so that she can regain a bit of her space. She is not one that succumbs to touch often at all. She is one who holds herself in such rigid control that her Alpha thought it pride, rather than necessity, rather than something beat into her since birth.

She should not have been allowed to live.
She must prove herself in every. single. breath.
Failure is inevitable, and is unforgivable.

~You are surprised.~

His red right hand recedes back into lap, cradled against his stomach and thighs while he watches her hands. She can see the corners of his mouth begin to curl up in that familiar wide smile. He cants his head to the side, speaking to her softly, knowing she’ll still understand him. His gravelly voice rumbles almost in a small purr, “Weren’t you with me?”

In that moment, whatever mental conclusions Wahya has summed up about AnneMarie and her heritage, he does not reveal. Most, perhaps, any other lupus would be repulsed by the nature of this Fenrir woman. Monkeys were perhaps, more forgiving of it than his kind. It is his curious Uktena nature that allows Wahya to view things outside of the box: strange and quirky creatures as his tribe was rumored to be.

For the most part, she does not care what others believe of her. There are a few exceptions and for those exceptions she will break herself repeatedly to have their respect. She is, despite all appearances, a very complicated woman.

~I have met Lupus before, though not many within the city. You seemed surprised of my very existence.~

He lays his head back against the back of the chair, bringing his hands up to sign at her. Never seen one of your breed. Thought they were a myth to scare two-leg pups into not mating with the other. at that she can hear that gargled sound in the base of his throat that makes up his chuckle. He is amused now.

She does, however, seem vaguely amused. I am no myth, though my deformity is considered weak. There have been many others in Chicago through the years, as well. The horror stories are, for the most part, true. I cannot mate, or breed. All I can do is fight.

You can pose prettily like dead flowers for pictures. he signs at her, his head nodding in the direction of her jacket, where that sketch of her has disappeared to. Other things had made him forget about it, but its existence has never left his mind. The other woman was another mystery unto herself, one he hopes to tangle with in another meeting.

Know Black Angel?

And then the moment passes, and she is able once again to articulate through the graceful expression of her fingers. ~{i] I was unaware I was the subject of her drawing. We fought side by side in Chinatown the night before you and I met. I know little more of her than that.[/i]~

A brow shoots upwards – no small quirk here, but honest to goodness surprise at the connection and apparent shift of topics. For a moment, she has no answer. For a moment, he has managed to catch her completely off guard. For a moment, she is unsettled.

And then the moment passes, and she is able once again to articulate through the graceful expression of her fingers. ~ I was unaware I was the subject of her drawing. We fought side by side in Chinatown the night before you and I met. I know little more of her than that.~

His eyes dance along the graceful expression of her fingers, knitting his eyebrows together in a slight frown. Story say the great North Wolves always in conflict with Gaia’s silver-black Daughters. You see differently despite tribal prejudice?

Many things were beaten into me, things I should believe, things I must do, things that I must agree to. I grew and thrived despite their best intentions to see otherwise. I refuse to allow something another says to influence a belief on an individual. I would have L’ange Noir prove herself for herself, not her Tribe. Just as I would have you do the same. I do not carry the entire weight of my Tribe on my shoulders. Nor does she. Nor do you. As an individuals, you will prove yourself to be of the stories, or not. Just as I must.~

There is a lifetime of bitterness under fingered expression, often misunderstood.

He begins to pull himself up from the chair, the night’s conversation having satisfied his curiosity for now as he slowly learns more about the Fenrir woman in front of him. He signs to her, the heavy lids of his eyes, hooded in a sleepy expression on his face.

Grows late and will sleep now. Is good to know you, Matron of Eagles, hopefully you will teach me more of Scab life, but for now. I go. he steps up next to her chair, bending down to bring his face next to hers and touches his cheek against AnneMarie’s, his wolfish nature bleeding through in that sleepy exchange of contact.

“Sleep good, wolf-sister, Wahya see Fenrir friend again.” He murmurs to her, quietly, pulling away.

As it is, she remains perfectly still, and allows his cheek to touch hers, allows him to murmur his goodnight in a breath across her skin. She only moves once he has pulled back and once more allowed her her personal space.

~Good night, Wahya.~

Wahya leaves the Fenrir woman in the commons room as he skulks his way back down the stairs to retreat out the back door and into the night, wandering off to wherever he has made his resting place in the Scab.

She remains there, a moment or two before she stands as well, gather’s her things, and heads down the stairs herself, and out the back door, to return to her territory, her patrols, her home.