Beatback Frenzy [Decker/Evan/Sam/Mrena]

They’re what he wants to hear, dangerous things from a Shadow Lord, no doubt.

When she’s finished he nods, smiles something caring and confident for the theurge. The unlikeliest of Alphas for certain. “I will.” Still on one knee he cranes his neck so that even the way he’s positioned the lanky full moon still manages to look her right in the chin.

“Mrena Armstrong,” this is the part where he begins to take on something a little more dramatic in his tone, more substantive with long slow pauses likely inserted so that the Modi can do this without stumbling or stopping entirely. “White-Eyes to your tribe and Cliath for all the Nation.” His eyes lock hers for perhaps the last time ever. “This is my sword, the greatest part of what I have, and yours to take if you chose, as is everything I have.” he swallows, unblinking and focused entirely on what he’s saying. “Should you press it to each of my shoulders and return it this is my pledge to you.

“One,” there’s a beat here. “That you are strong and fit to lead and I shall follow you until such time as that is no longer the case.” He does smile at that his eyes twinkling with no small bit of pride. “Two that this service shall hold nothing back and that I shall perform all of my duties in your name and that of our beloved patron.”

“Third,” This is the last, the softest of his pledges. “That I would give my life before letting death or dishonor come wrongfully to your door. If you would have me, White-Eyes, I would be your knight.” His eye now drift away once again, his neck overexposed, his lips closed and laid placidly upon his features, keeping absolutely calm at the way she might press sharpened steel to his neck.

It might strike her from the way he goes absoloutely still, doesn’t even seem to breathe that in fact this is a very big deal.

But this was a ritual. Plain and simple, something that she could accept for its ceremonial value, and held as such. She did not have the way with words that others did. She was no Galliard- she didn’t sing tales or make one’s deeds sound heroic. But she understood this, and she understood it as ceremony and that it was important.

It was not the act, but what it stood for which was important.

“Perform your deeds for the glory of our totem alone, and not for my name,” she pressed the sword to one shoulder, then the other. It rested on his shoulder and she waited for his reply. “I will accept you if you agree to this.”

This is when he catches sight of the going-ons in the common room. And Decker stops dead. Stares for a beat, his face blank, mouth full.

Then he snorts. It sounds suspiciously like a guffaw.

….he stops dead, and only because she was paying attention in some part of her mind, she does not run into him, but stops just short. She takes a step to the side, and a brow arches, slightly.

It doesn’t help that he snorts. But her face smooths into a bland mask as she takes in the scene before them.

He was the last one to see the scene play out before them. It was strange to actually watch, something that he could share an akin to, yet not the same. The Silver fangs had a different way of doing it.

He almost cannot help the smirk that half forms and disappears in that instant. “You’re alpha.” It’s not that he didn’t notice the storm of fury that came up the stairs so heavily it’s simply that this is important something that even as ceremonial and empty as it may appear is something that holds substantive weight between member of the unbroken circle. He does though turn once he’s been given back his weapon by his new Alpha.

“Silence, sir.” He nods what must be four times, all parts sheepish and nervous. He stands a tad too straight, speaks just a bit too quickly and his stammer gets just little worse. “It’s nice to see you, sir.”

Mrena got to gathering up her maps. And dear God did she have a lot of them.

She smelled roast beef. It was attached to a particularly potent Modi and… hey, she knew Evan! She looked at him for a moment, a sort of quiet curiosity as she tried to recall his name, and where she had seen him before. Then? It was back to everyone else.

“Is it good tonight?” the roast beef, that is.

The one in the lead moves into the room at last, letting the other two off the stairs. He’s still smirking as he chews. A wavefront of rage precedes him. The moon is as good as full.

He puts the plate down, pulls his beer out of his back pocket and, having not other place to put the piece of sandwich still in his hand, simply crams it in his mouth. Then he twists his beer open, tosses the cap onto the table top.

“That was,” he’s talking through a mouthful of food, “tha gayest shit I ever done seen.”

Well. That was nice.

That brow quirks a touch higher at the comment, lips curving into something of a smirk – perhaps thinking of other, gayer times that he might have seen, yet ignored. However, she merely sets her beer bottle down next to her plate.

And then back over to Mrena, a smile and a slight nod to the Theurge shadow lord. She was probably the best reason why they escaped that weaver thing. She, along with Imogen, puzzled out that whole numbers thing after all.

But right now it seemed that Decker was getting out his emotions, at least it was in a controlled manner with the moon being full and all.

The moon is full, and Sam’s Rage does bristle but he does for the most part have himself under control, enough to keep his eyes down, to keep his ivories out of sight and to try not to let that scowl Decker just brought out of him hang too long or become a sneer of all things.

“We’re part of something. You might remember what that was like if you think back far enough.” Doesn’t mean he won’t get his shot in, though.

The theurge picked up a couple maps, then? then Sam ran his mouth, and she didn’t yell, she didn’t flinch, she didn’t snap or gnash her teeth. She just gave Sam a look. One of distinct and clear displeasure. One that made promises that Sam knew damned good and well that she would keep.

“Mjollnir’s Heart you will keep a civil tongue,” and that was all she said.

It’s not an attack. It’s a warning, a dominant animal lifting the edge of his lip to show another a hint, just a hint, of the weaponry at his disposal.

And while Sam stews in his terror, Silence chews his food, the lean bolts of muscle in his cheek and jaw moving; the very same muscles that have, in his long and bloody history, powered the teeth that tore any number of mouthy cliaths to shreds.

This is Silence. Sam might think he’s a hero, etcetera etcetera, but the truth is Silence is bloody and violent, half-notorious, his history checkered with nearly as many acts of cruelty as acts of heroism. He throws his fucking axe at moots when he gets pissed, and he doesn’t miss either. He cleaves people in half. He as good as put out a goddamn hit on a Fostern of Mrena’s tribe, who was Evan’s Alpha at the time. That Garou died. Silence shrugged off the renown hit for that and kept truckin’. Not very long ago, he wheeled on a compatriot who got smart after a battle, and it didn’t matter that his guts were hanging out of him at the moment and the other was hale and whole, because three seconds later the other was in a bloody heap on the ground and he was back to cleaning up. Not too long before that, he tore some other fucker up for spilling his drink on him, albeit deliberately. He and his father fought once, in the white north, with silver in their claws.

That’s the sort of Garou Silence is. Those are the sort of Garou his pack is. He and his are from an older, bloodier era in Chicago’s history. These days, with these fresh-faced, bright-eyed, idealistic and polite new Cliaths everywhere, they seem a gang of savages: badtempered and unforgiving, barbarians howling at the walls of Rome. His rage — their rage — surrounds them like a whirlwind.

Yet at the midst of that, the modi is — lazy. He takes his time. He finishes chewing. He upends his beer. Bubbles break against the bottom. He washes down his mouthful of food and then, lowering it, points it at Sam.

“That’s yer one free mistake, Mjollnir. I was runnin’ with Eagle ‘fore you even had a Wolf.” Silence has a low voice, with a rasp at the edges. He could be speaking of the totem; he could be speaking of the pack. They could be one and the same. “‘m always with Eagle. Eagle’s always with me. So don’t you fuckin’ lecture me ’bout what a pack is, Cliath.”

Another swig. He drops down on the couch himself, picks up his plate with half a sandwich on it again.

“‘sides.” A faint snort. “I still remember tha Get’a Fenris fight with they teeth, not with they tongues.”

[this is a roll for true fear]

Pale gaze shifts to Mrena, then back to Sam. She slides from her light jacket, and lays it over the back of a chair, before taking a seat in the same. She calmly reaches for her beer, opens it, and takes a long swallow.

But make n mistake.
She is SEETHING.
She is, after all, the one who made that hit on a Fostern come to pass.

He watched as Decker, he watched AM, he watched Sam. And just smirked. This was not a good night after all. But there were ways of dealing with it if it did get far too out of hand and the Brotherhood was gonna be destroyed.

But when his hands came together it seemed that maybe he should have asked Eagle for a greater effect. Because it seemed that what should have been a loud crack was nothing more than a whimper of a growing storm. Nothing like what was boiling before him. Stupid Thunder children.

His own Rage has him. He’s afraid and he’s instantly standing atop a pile of his own clothing in his burly grey wolf-form.

His fury is an enveloping thing and it’s taken him before, strongly burning through his chest until he’s berserk with animal mind, in the warform and attacking without regard for anything. This is different. Every bit of his Rage turns itself inside out before he can retreat his first four steps toward the door and the lupine face that looks up at Mrena isn’t that of her packmate. It’s trapped between that entrapping fear and blind attacking for a moment, it’s eyes glazed over and it’s teeth bared. The Talons have already given her all she needs to know what’s going on.

The father of lies, Eater-of-Souls has him.
And Sam’s hungry.

He was more than panicking. he was afraid, and in a state of unnatural fear. Her muscles tensed, and immediately she went to her bag [Because, aparently, a woman is nothing without her purse, and the theurge had learned that she would not be anywhere without her supplies]

And she knew that Sam wasn’t himself, and she knew damned good and well that she couldn’t take him in crinos… but the fight was a little more ven if he were in lupus. So, with that, she went through her purse before she found a small, waxen seal. It bore the sign of the full moon and she threw it at Sam’s feet. And all she coudl do was hope that this worked.

(Moon Sign Talen: please please please work!)

Sam’s teetering on the edge of something unpleasant, some frenzy beyond frenzies.

Silence is still where he is, on the couch. Everyone in the room can feel him gathering his gifts to him, a building of energy like a storm on the horizon.

He looks at the small Theurge, an eyebrow cocked. The look is clear: does she need help putting her packmate down?

And waits.

(Resist pain activated. Better safe than sorry.)

Evan had gathered about him his own means at battle. Readying for potential battle and what was to come.

(Resist pain activce.)

Jaws snap hungrily as the thing takes it’s Hispo shape and snarls at the assembled, back on it’s haunches for only a second before leaping at the Theurge. This is the body of a farmer’s son, a simple young man who loves this girl like his own sister. The wolf in him is Mjollnir’s Heart, a being half of spirit who loves the earth mother as boundlessly as the length he goes in fighting for her.

But right now none of that exists. This is the Shadow of what he might’ve been; G’rrr’uhk’saaaa’da Wyrm’s Champion.

He is ridden and he is hungry and there is no thought
only that.

And her leveling of the playing field didn’t work.
Shit.

Decker got a nod. “Keep him on the second floor,” she said. Whether it was to Decker or to the room in general was hard to tell.

Sam lunged, she tensed, and she shifted. It was instant, focused, and purposeful. The rather small young lady was a fairly sizable (but comparatively small, given that she was in a room full of Fenrir and a Child of Gaia who was really nothing to scoff at) dire wolf.

(1 rage to insta-hispo!)

We declaring in reverse order?)

1. Bite Mrena
1R. Bote Mrena
2R.Claw Mrena
3R. Claw Mrena

He’ll switch any of these to nearest attacker if someone gets in the way! GOGOGO!

standard: GTF outta the way.
rage 1: GTF outta the way again.

Action: Grapple)

She’s a simple creature, AM.)

1-5: stave Sam over the head.)

Well, this is embarassing.

There was a shift back to homid, back to her birth form and something more comfortable and-oww, okay, not comfortable. Sam bit the Hell out of her. She was fairly certain that she was looking at her small intestine. One hand to keep her guts in, and the other? Well, to keep her up and looking dignified.

“Everyone else fine?”

And for everything that Evan did. It was Decker who seemed to be having sport of it all. Not even thinking of changing to any other form but his homid one. His dedicated staff at hand, just waiting to take down the creature.

And a hell of a creature it was. Leaving Evan to hold on for dear life as it snapped and bit at his own packmate, nearly killing her. And then the homid form of the get Decker before he finally put it down.

Once the one known as Sam was finally knocked cold from the continuous knocks to his head, Evan gave him one last thought before dropping him out of grasp. His body shedding the glow of both the silvery flame and ghostly glow of Luna armor he moved to Mrena. Looking her over for a second and laying his hands on her wound. It would be a disgrace to be taken out by one’s own packmate.

~GS~ Hold still

He watched as the blood started to pool underneath her. Bringing up the last of his spiritual presence to charge it through him and into her. Let Unicorn’s mercy mend and stitch her wounds.

And afterwards, when the sound of Unicorn’s hooves seem to beat in her ears, closing in on her as if on stone while the last bit of his gnosis flowed through him and into her, pulling some of his will as well, he hoped it would help her. She would need her strength when Sam awoke.

And as he shifted down, back to his homid form, his shirt and jeans were a tattered mess. Only his shoes and underwear a dedicated pair in this combination.

Dammit Randi just bought me these clothes too.

(Mother’s Touch. Diff 3)

Guests look at one another, wondering: what the fuck? Some genius yells, “It’s an earthquake!”

—

It’s not an earthquake. It’s over in three seconds, and in that time, Sam, hispo, has reduced his new Alpha, also hispo, to shreds; AnneMarie, hispo, has (rather unconcernedly, all told) dragged her out of the fray. Evan, crinos, has leapt on the frenzying Modi, and Decker —

Decker, still man-shaped, has put AnneMarie’s gift to good use at last.

Five separate blows rained down in the space of those few seconds. The speed of it is unthinkable, even for most Garou. It’s remarkable that despite the struggling, the snarling, the biting, Evan maintains his grip — and manages to avoid getting brained by Decker’s staff. The first four were light, almost testing, as though he were getting used to the balance and the heft of this weapon. Most of them strike squarely, but not hard, glancing off the Hispo’s thick hide.

Then Mjollnir’s Heart, his Alpha pulled out of his reach, goes for Silence. Dragging Evan along, the monstrous direwolf sinks his jaws into the other Modi’s forearm. It’s a bite that should mangle a man; tear his fucking arm off.

It doesn’t leave a mark.

Silence has said absolutely nothing; made absolutely no noise in all this. But he’s done fucking around now. He’s found the pulse of the weapon, the groove in his technique. The last blow is different. The metal-capped end of the staff strikes straight and fast, like a spear; like a snake. It catches the Hispo square in the chest with incredible force: hard enough to crumple the breastbone, hard enough to shatter ribs, hard enough to buckle bone into organs; hard enough to knock all eight hundred pounds of the younger Modi sprawling back, shifting slowly back to homid.

Afterward, while Evan heals the crippled Theurge and Sam sleeps it off, Decker inspects the bloodied end of the staff for a moment. Then he grabs a pillow off the couch, uses it to wipe the staff off.

Heh, the only response to Evan’s gripe.

To Mrena’s well-intentioned question — just a snort; a sidelong glance, dark. Then, “If ya cain’t do no good, don’t git in tha way next time.”

She shifts down to homid, and takes a look at her tattered shirt, and simply pulls it off, and wads the shredded shirt into a ball. She then moves to her jacket, and slips it on over bare skin, buttoning the single button and tugging it down into place. If anything, she looks as if this look was what she intended all along.

And yes, rather unconcerned, all told, she takes up her beer, and swallows as Evan’s comment to them gets a little smirk toss in his direction.

The final blow cracks him hard enough to explode his innards, send him rolling, unconscious and finally alone in his head finally across the floor and int oa much more human shape. There’s are bruises, dark already across his face, his chest and arms. Bones breaks but very little blood save perhaps the steady flow from twin nostrils. For the moment he’s completely unconscious dragging his toes against the floor as though to run as fast as he can from some unseen horror.

He breathes heavy and ragged, there’s a light burbling from inside every few breaths from internal injusries and certainly the pain must be great. But for the moment the Modi doesn’t summon the strength to wake and wipe the dire wolf flesh from his crimson covered chin.

Where the previous choices may have stood, may have moped, may have done many things and obsessed, she stood (or rather, sat in this instance) with quiet disgust. Whatever injury she had was left with wasn’t nearly as bad. She stood up, she thanked Evan. And at that moment, Decker shot her a rather dark glance.

She was back to her senses, now that she wasn’t bleeding everywhere. And now that she wasn’t bleeding everywhere, she had bigger things to tend to, like making sure that Sam was fine, and that he could haulk his own ass out of the room. She was going to have quite the conversation with him soon enough.

“I appreciate the advice, Rhya, I’ll take it to heart,” she said. Curt. Respectful. But by no means pleased by any means.

She was quiet for a long time, and eventually she did stifle that edge.

“I owe you and your pack a great deal and I appreciate your help.”

Whatever Sam had seen in his eyes, whatever was so terrible that the young Modi succumbed instantly to a fox frenzy, and subsequently to the Thrall of the Wyrm — it’s not there anymore. What is there, what remains, is the Fenrir Full Moon’s own, innate presence: a roiling cauldron of rage just barely held in check by a will as strong as steel. There’s a monster living under Decker’s skin, and it glowers out of his eyes for a moment.

And then, unexpectedly, the Modi lets loose a short, sharp huff of amusement. The staff that had appeared so suddenly in his hand just as suddenly seems to lose its solidity; to run liquid, and run into his arm.

When it’s gone, there isn’t even a tattoo left. He tosses the blood-smeared pillow down, turns to reach down with his bare hand, presumably to pull the theurge to her feet.

“Mjollnir’s gon’ wanna make up fer lettin’ tha Wyrm ride him. When yer packmate wakes up, tell ‘im ta come ‘n find me.”

She’s pleased.
But she would never allow him to see it.

Instead, she lifts a chin as Evan takes his leave in order to go face the wrath of his mate for his torn clothing, and takes a seat in the char vacated not so long ago, where her sandwich remains untouched.

There’s a shadow chasing him the clean and even lines of a hairless man visible but a shadow over the features. It’s giant, perhaps nine feet tall and his hands are shimmering silver. The only child of the Modine clan runs and runs but his attacker gains on him every second. It’s simply too fast, even for him, even for Sampson. He tries taking flight to no avail, his gifts failing hm, his arms and legs sluggish in his attempt to flee the hell-beast. It’s going to catch him there is no stopping it.

And then, a great and gruff thing, nearly eigth feet from head to toe in it’s own right, full bearded and long haired he grabs up his charge and spitis him away to a place that is simply calm, dark.

Sam’s feet abruptly stop moving on the floor. He isn’t running any longer.

“Hedda? Sings-the-War-Athem?” Sam Speaks and is struck to his knees by the purity of the Ancenstor’s blood, even in spirit. It doesn’t repond, only nods and points outward through a portal to the world.

His eyes are open though for the longest collection of seconds there is noone home, nobody to respond to questioning.

“Mrena and Mr. Rohl…. his packmates too….” Same marvels out the portal opened in the field of pure black.

“Go.”

“Uhhhhhhhh……” The groan comes spilling wet and chocked out of the naked from who rolls to his back as though to make a hardwood angel in the common room. “Where… who….” The memories never come right away, but they always come and right now he won’t even hear the tiny bit of wrong in his thought process, won’t understand quite yet what’s happened where he is. As seconds pass quickly though and images sharp and distinct pass through his mind there’s some dawning realization. His eyes find his packmate.

Oh no.

In a second he’s around in a pushup position, vomiting a brand new mess for him to clean up as he has this room so many times now. His whole body is racked with spasms and for the time being he doesn’t acknowledge again he’s in the same room with another soul.

If it was something to be regarded directly by Decker, she didn’t show it. Let it be said that, at her core, she had the potential to be many things. Unshakable was one of them. There were many more, less flattering things that she could be considered. The theurge stood in an whatever remnants of clothes she had on and tried to make herself seem vaguely presentable.

It was like a really awkward dream. Standing around, talking to an adren in your underwear and half of a tee shirt.

Tell him to come and find me.
“Any particular-”

And then Sam was awake; she couldn’t hide the fact that she was relieved. Or maybe she didn’t want to.

“Would you like a word with him first?”

“Naw.” His sandwich is splattered with blood. After a moment’s consideration, he leaves it where it is. He does pick his beer up though. “Pro’lly best if he takes some time ta git his head back on straight. He knows where ta find me when he’s ready.”

He starts down the stairs — glances at AM to see if the other wanted a lift.

“Does Evan need pants, first?”

Good thing he has his own beer though. She’s not giving her own up.

Later, she might be disturbed by what she saw. She might be a little disconcerted that, finally, she got to see Sam in a horrible and terrifying light. He was lethal, he was damned near indestructable. The Fenrir was nothing to turn one’s nose up at, that much was certain. And she knew what he might be like when he frenzied. And she knew what he would be like if he Fell.

And she knew that he should never, ever go back there.

“Come on, Sam, let’s get you cleaned up.”

Much of which used to be Mrena’s body.

The realization starts another, shorter round of heaving.

He hears her in his perhiphery and his body grows, stretches in perfect symmetry, Say what you will but he’s closer to the wolf than most of his breed should ever be and the natural parts of being Garou come incredibly easy to him. The near man form has him patched up in less than half a minute and then again he’s human and still he cannot, will not look at anything but the floor won’t move. “White Eyes…” How long has it been since he’s called her that in conversation? Years perhaps, since he’s felt comfortable calling her Mrena, a name when she’d first told him he’d griined that Modine trademark grin and told her it was one of the prettiest names he’d ever heard and then shly blushed and looked away like he’d just told her an awful secret.

She was a kid then, and sometimes when he looks back he thinks perhaps so was he.

“What did I do?” It’s a whisper, weak and defeated and utterly…wrong.

It’s been years since she let him call her by anything but her name, or anything derived from it. Mrena- White Eyes, they were the same thing.

Or maybe, when they had met, she had been so insistent because she had been a kid. This pack had seen Mrena grow up- quite literally. Some had looked upon her as a little sister- she couldn’t really blame them.

But now, there she was, looking at Sam while he was throwing up chunks of her,and for a moment some part of her wanted to make it alright. He was horrified- rightfully so.

What did I do?
“You lost control,” she said. the theurge knelt and then pushed his hair back out of her face. She looked him over, at his injuries and started to attempt to put him back together. Not in the literal sense, but more the figurative one.

“For a moment…” she should have made this easier. She should have been searching for words. She should have sugar coated it.

“You were a thrall of the wyrm.”
She didn’t.

“I didn’t, i’m not….” And now there it is right in the back of his thoughts, not even truly a voice but an unspoken suggestion. Something foreign and left behind. An urge come to call. He swallows. “I’m not….nooooooooo” He whines it out as an injured dog might, inches from his control being severed in an entirely new manner. His whole chest is racked with it as he runs finger roughshod over his own skull, tangling his hair up in attempt to make the memory stop coming back or at least so vividly.

“I didn’t want to…I didn’t.” But he had, for the entire time he’d wanted nothing more than to kill, to consume. To destroy the pattern and the formless both.

The man, young as he is is reduced to a child. Unable to process his own sin.

She should have been comforting, and it was the best that she could offer right now. It really was. She couldn’t come up with much else, she didn’t have it in her, at her core, to be what he needed right now. But, at that moment, there were no other options. This was a matter of his spiritual well-being though, and this was something that she could do for him. This was something that she was good at.

She couldn’t repair the damage done, but she could try and make him right with it.

“You weren’t yourself,” she assured him. “Shhh… you’re fine now. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

There it was again. Somehow, he could tell that she might not have meant it on the physical level. And while she tried to make it right, she spoke with supreme confidence. Without the kind of malice that should, by all means, be attached to someone trying to eat you alive.

“Breathe, Sam… calm down… I know.”

“I’m so….” He’s bawling, choking. There’s nothing pretty or dignified about this, no it’s tears and snot and spittle and great convulsive sobs. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

As for getting up he tries it seems but only ends up rocking back to where incredibly long legs can be curled in impossibly long arms and his chin might rest on both knees, his eyes wrenched shut as though if he shuts out the world he might go invisible. That no one might see him for what he simply must be to do those things, to feel them.

The theurge took his hands, trying to guide him up. Mrena had no intentions of dragging him anywhere. And, at that moment, she looked at him. She really looked at him; he was no good to her like this. He was no good to anyone like this, and he was a hazard to himself. This road led nowhere.

“Sam?… Sam, I need you to look at me.”

“Mrena, I’m not…I don’t want it to have me. It can’t have me.” the nonsense spills out and over into the room and though he’s squinting to keep his eyes open saline moisture still falls in a pouring stream down his cheeks.

“I was afraid and I ran and I…” He goes tense, quiet, gagging back the urge to throw up again rather than finish the sentence. “We do not fear evil,” he’s rocking now, repeating past lessons ingrained the hardest ways during a Fenir’s training. “We fear only that we cannot overcome it.”

She said, stated. And when she looked at him, she wasn’t pale and she wasn’t shaking and she wasn’t so many, many things. Sam was going on and on, and for once in her whole damned life she seemed to understand what the Hell was going through this man’s head.

[“Oh darling“, she remembered. It played through her head and stuck to her senses like honeyed sulfur. Mrena remembered being younger… much younger. it was interesting to think of Mrena as ever being much younger. She remembered sitting on the ground in some damned alleyway, nursing an injury that left something better than a physical scar. The first time she had ever really doubted-

“We are packmates, and I will see you at your worst. You will trip, you will fall, and you will get back up. And it won’t be easy, but you are strong. And I won’t let you stay down.”

She said, stated. And when she looked at him, she wasn’t pale and she wasn’t shaking and she wasn’t so many, many things. Sam was going on and on, and for once in her whole damned life she seemed to understand what the Hell was going through this man’s head.

[“Oh darling“, she remembered. It played through her head and stuck to her senses like honeyed sulfur. Mrena remembered being younger… much younger. it was interesting to think of Mrena as ever being much younger. She remembered sitting on the ground in some damned alleyway, nursing an injury that left something better than a physical scar. The first time she had ever really doubted-

Mrena threw up.]

“We are packmates, and I will see you at your worst. You will trip, you will fall, and you will get back up. And it won’t be easy, but you are strong. And I won’t let you stay down.”