Instead, she does as she always does – patrols. She thinks a lot as she moves, contrary to popular belief. There is a rhythm, a motion, a process that is conducive to decision making, to prioritizing, to internal monologue. She is rather deep, AnneMarie, though few would ever know it.
At some point, even before the not so subtle nudging of her alpha, she had sent a message to Thaney. At some point, a time and place had been set, and thus now, we find the Moody Modi pausing to sit on a bench before a coffee shop, waiting.
[Princess] Princess can’t be found on Eagle territory. There’s simply no reason at all for her to be there. Doesn’t even like going near it, if she can help it. But she got AnneMarie Ruhiger Hoch’s message and she duly slung her guitar over her shoulder and made her way by bus and by boots into the Green. She arrived nearby earlier on, and made a few dollars by pulling wandering melodies out of the guitar, flinging them toward lost tourists. The door to the coffee shop opens, and Princess spills down the steps, guitar-case drumming against her hip. “Hey,” she calls, softly. “I’m here.”
[AnneMarie Hoch] The moment the door opens,she tenses. The moon is high, heavy and full, and it thrums through her veins like liquid silver, begging to be spilled. The rain does not even phase her, where it falls from the overhang, to drip on her boots. Indeed, it seems odd that the drops do not steam away with the boil of intensity’s monster under her skin.
But in the end, there is simply a turn of her head to study the young girl and her guitar, then a lift of her chin, in greeting. This is not Eagle territory, but it is close. This is neutral ground, this is a meeting of like minds – well, a meeting, anyway.
She flows to a stand, movement easy and sure, a concert of muscle and bone that sings of pain and violence. She turns toward Princess, and from her pocket pulls her whiteboard, and pen. There is a moment, where she spends time penning the message along the board – her writing easily read, compact and neat. When done, she hands it to the small Fianna, and slips her hands back into her pocket.
On the board – ~I have come to ask for tales of Baaku. I must write a song of his glory, honor, and wisdom. I knew only of his folly. Will you speak of him?~
[Princess] This is AnneMarie’s moon. This moon up above. This moon that calls werewolves to meet. To moot. To revel. To rage. The Fianna stops two steps from the ground, to put her at eye level with AnneMarie; when the Fenrir ahroun has finished writing, Princess takes the small white board – regrets, briefly, that she doesn’t know sign language – and runs her eyes over the words. Then she hands it back, with a small frown creasing between her eyes, “I’m glad to hear it. What’s Evan told you, so far?” Because she assumes that AnneMarie’s already wrangled some tales from the other [living] philodox who was once a part of the Hounds of Judgment, although I knew only of his folly doesn’t promise very much.
[AnneMarie Hoch] At the mention of Evan her lips twist into a brief smirk. There, then gone so fast it may have been the imagination of the smaller girl. She takes the board back, and slides it across her thigh. To those who notice such things, her slacks, otherwise pressed and pristine, boast a darker stain there that suggests the swipe is one of long habit. No one here knows sign, and as such she is well used to communication by written word alone. It is easy, it is natural, it is fast. (One might as Eve how long it took her to slam a message of discontent before her viewing…)
As such, the next message follows as quickly as the first. ~Evan and I had other things to discuss first. When he is done nursing his wounds, we will speak of Agony Thane.~
[Princess] Princess’s eyes narrow, faintly, as she reads this next set of words. Her right eyebrow flicks up, and so do her eyes; her strange, eldritch glance meets AnneMarie’s, and then the scope of the look widens – to take all of the Fenrir in. Thoughtful, Princess is. She hands the board back, and on the recoil stretches her left arm out, as if there were a kink; releases some tension. Then she says, “I’m inviting you back to my place. Some deeds, well. They aren’t things to talk about on the street, however private.”
[Princess] ooc: Erk. Wait!
[Princess] “however secluded it seems.”
[AnneMarie Hoch] She again takes the board, and slides it against her thigh, wiping evidence of her words into the darkness of material. There is a brief consideration, weighing the reactions of the young Philodox, before she simply nods. Accepting the invitation.
A step back, a gesture toward the street, where she lets the girl take the lead. Other then that, there is only silence, and the steady thrumming call of the moon.
[Princess] “Cool. I’ll call a taxi. Wait up.” Then drumdrumdrum: up the stairs. Back into the coffee shop. Minutes pass, and the Fenrir’s alone; her, and her thoughts, and maybe her pack. They’re always there, connected, after all. She can feel them. Feel them in a way Princess doesn’t feel – well, Marissa. Not anymore.
When the Fianna re-emerges, it’s with a faint smile. “Ghost taxi’s on his way.” Silence, then. While they wait. It’s not a comfortable silence, per se; the moon’s too full, and the one woman killed the other’s alpha. Law doesn’t speak to the heart the way poetic justice (.revenge.) does. Still, this is Princess that AnneMarie’s standing beside, and Princess has her ways.
“What does Ruhiger mean?”
[AnneMarie Hoch] There is something to be said of Princess and her willingness to be enclosed in a small space with the Modi. While she is not an oppressive a presence as Silence these days of the full, she is not much easier to withstand. Nothing of those thoughts pass through her gaze, however, and of course, there are no words.
Not until the question is pressed, at least. And then, there is a single word written. ~Calm.~
A pause, and then as an afterthought, more. ~In German, it also means quiet. Silent. Steady. Private. It depends on how the word is used, though all have their place while speaking of me.~
[Princess] Her response is more body language than it is verbal. The philodox’s eyebrows lift, again; she rubs her jaw, and it’s a contemplative thing, and her eyebrows draw together, a cloud passes over her eyes. “Hm.” There, that’s the verbal response. “But you’d say the dominant meaning, when speaking of you, is calm?” The fianna’s eyes flick up to AnneMarie, again. She’s leaning her hip against the short fall of stairs’ rail, against a gunshot marked piece of metal. She steadies the guitar with one hand.
[AnneMarie Hoch] Her gaze is direct, steady. There is very little given away in body language, in expression. She is as she always is. Her only movements are to clean the board, to write again.
~It is, as they named me.~
And so it is. She is so often overlooked for those with louder voices, screaming mannerisms. Ruhiger is clam. Controlled. She is a fury that boils so under the surface that there is nary a suggestion of the intensity beneath until she unleashes it. It takes a lot to get to AnneMarie. Perhaps that is most telling of all.
[Princess] “Who named you?” Oh, yes; this. They’ve never talked before, Princess and AnneMarie. There’s an unmarked and gray car taking a corner. The windows are tinted. Looks seedy as all get-out. Before AnneMarie’s finished writing whatever response she has, it stops in front of the coffee shop. “Ride’s here,” Princess says. It’s a ghost cab, which means no questions asked, no sign, no flashing lights, no meter.
[AnneMarie Hoch] She had yet to begin writing again, as she watched the ghost cab come to a stop before them. A slim brow lifts, ever so slightly, before she imply follows princess to the car.
Once inside, once Princess has given their destination, she finally answers the question. Perhaps in more detail then princess expected.
~On the day of my birth I was named BitterGrace by those in attendance to my mother’s death.~ Note they were not there for her birth, but rather for her mother’s death. An important distinction that explains much to those who pay attention. My grandmother raised me with the name AnneMarie – which means the same, Bitter Grace. She instilled in me the importance of control. She valued honor above all things, and vowed I would erase the stain of my birth by my deeds. At my rank challenge, the sept elder named me Ruhiger, for my calm demeanor and steadfast determination in defeating the foe he sent me to erase.~
[Princess] The cabdriver doesn’t look thrilled at having Princess and Ruhiger inside, but he doesn’t react to the overwhelmingly frictious presence of two werewolves when the moon is full. They make the interior small, however, and the philodox rests her right knee against the back of the driver’s seat. Reads the board. Hands it back. “What did your rank challenge consist of?” Hey, now, just who’s story is supposed to be learned tonight, hm?
[AnneMarie Hoch] The driver doesn’t look thrilled, and AnneMarie doesn’t look concerned. Though it is somewhat intriguing that at this point, and with continued questioning, Princess very likely knows more about AnneMarie then the entirety of her pack.
It is not that she would not tell. It is that they have never asked.
~A crackhouse, run by bane infested dealers, lead by a spiral pack of three. I led the team that eradicated them.~ Simple. She is a Modi. It was a simple, straight forward mission. Get in. Destroy. Get out. ~I lost two. Their dead numbered 8.~
The stain of the other dead cubs was hers alone to bear. ~In the wake of loss, I remained calm. Efficiently finished the mission. Thus, I was named.~
[Princess] The drive isn’t a long one, but it isn’t a short one, either; there’s a red light, but also no police, so the cabdriver doesn’t bother stopping for it. He seems to take back streets as often as possible, to avoid streets that would be heavily populated this time of evening. The philodox nods, once, after reading the latest words. Lapses into a silence. Breaks it, soon enough, with, “What are you proudest of, Ruhiger?”
[AnneMarie Hoch] Lips twitch into the slightest smirk, before it fades. ~Grandmother would chide me often for pride. I am not one who claims it willingly of anything.~[i]
Perhaps there is a moment that Princess is certain that is the only answer she will get, until at last, there are three more words, that encompass so much of who AnneMarie has become. [i]~Of being Eagle.~
Simple, that.
[AnneMarie Hoch] Lips twitch into the slightest smirk, before it fades. ~Grandmother would chide me often for pride. I am not one who claims it willingly of anything.~
Perhaps there is a moment that Princess is certain that is the only answer she will get, until at last, there are three more words, that encompass so much of who AnneMarie has become. ~Of being Eagle.~
Simple, that.
[AnneMarie Hoch] (stupid coding!)
[Princess] “Why? What’s so great about being Eagle?” She is curious, she is; curious to see what the heart of this controversial pack is, at least as expressed by the silent Modi.
[AnneMarie Hoch] Frustration. It creases her brow briefly, before she forces the expression away. She is hear to listen, not gain writer’s cramp. But it is the price one pays for dealing with Fianna.
She gives it thought. ~Silence is respected, even by those that hate him. So much so that I endured months of probation before I was allowed to join, just to have the privilege of fighting at his side. The Eagles are a war pack. Action. We find the wyrm, we fight the wyrm. Our only politics are settled by might. The leader is the strongest, as it should be. We are feared, hated, and still accomplish more in the war then those who waste time prattling with pretty words and petty differences. While the sept bickers over who is fucking whom, we are planning battle, we are doing as Gaia demanded of us. While other’s waffle between plans, we are already in action. We are Fenrir. We are Eagle’s Chosen.~
[Princess] “I see,” she says. Then, perhaps a trifle sharp, although she certainly sounds mild, “You aren’t all Fenrir now.”
[AnneMarie Hoch] A single word. ~Temporarily.~
[Princess] “That doesn’t make it any less true.” Beat. The fianna’s gaze is drawn out the window, and she leans forward. “You can stop here, Chuck. Thanks for the ride.” The car slows, slows; and, limber-Thaney, she climbs out, careful of her guitar, careful of her head. Before them is the pack-house that she and Marissa are giving up in the next month, in favor of living on the street and in Henry’s basement. “As a guest, you’re welcome tonight.” Formal. Fianna formal. She jogs up the walk, already shaking out her keys. There was no paying Chuck — but he doesn’t seem to expect it from either Princess or AnneMarie.
[AnneMarie Hoch] She follows Princess, and there is little more then a lift of her chin to acknowledge the formal invitation. Up the stairs, through the door, inside.
Pause.