Mind. Your. Tongue. [others/Sam]

John raises a curious brow, a sip of his coffee taken as it arrives. Nevermind the heat…

Decker and Sam have a history that doesn’t go back far personally but the elder of the two’s name despite his best efforts is spoken over the whole continent at Fenrir moots from time to time. One of Sam’s best friends had even met him before, years back. It doesn’t take much, even now to see the deference is hero-worship and not that of alpha to gamma wolf, though.

He and Andrew have a history. A violent one still charged and heated enough that the two hardly look on one another. Even with the difference in Rank there’s very little even call submissive behavior, except maybe the space Sam affords him to walk uninterrupted along quad paws.

As they begin to leave downtown proper on their penumbral march Sam only looks more worried. There’s static ringing in his ears, an uncontrollable tension he hasn’t decided whether caused by the moon or some deeper issue. It feels like something sucked away and driving a hole through his gut, makes parts of his spirit-matter seem to shift just beneath the skin as though out of his own control.

He bats the golden hairs that swirl in the city’s wind away from his face and presses on as though to take a cue rather than an introduction from the other Modi’s deedname.

When he’s done cleaning his knuckles off the best he can, Decker pulls his shirt off, turns it inside-out, puts it back on. The bloodstains are masked now — redbrown where it seeps through the cotton, which is thin from repeat washings. It’s the best he can do on short notice.

“Tell me ‘zactly whatcha need ‘n ‘ll git it fer ya.”

Her coffee is lightened with cream and she lifts the cup to her mouth to take a sip, careful of the temperature, still hot enough to scald if she drinks deeply enough.

“This raid,” she says. “Yeh get involved because o’ yer blood?”

The Uktena tags after, bringing up the end of the train. His mouth kept shut since Decker’s introduction as no one else has addressed him. He doesn’t, however, take on his wolf form. Despite the desire—the longing to run on four legs and not waddle on two. He keeps the ruse of his monkey-skin, continuing to play the guise of a human.

I was told there was a raid of sorts on the other side of the mirror. My understanding was something needed done on this side to keep it from flaring up again. After a bit of investigation, we found a girl od’d on something just outside, and the matter became more serious.

After a sea of red tape and some more evidence, we went in.”

John nods, before drawing the coffee cup to his lips again. Skalding or not, he seemed not to miss a beat in drinking the stuff. As though most of what he did drink in coffee was so bad it was superheated to kill the taste.

And without any real ‘good-bye’ he peals away from the group. As much as the tempting offer of a human sandwich is, he’d prefer the fresh kitten, er, cat, that he stashed in an alley. Of course, it’ll have to wait a little while. Fucking cops. He should beat one up sometime.

He’ll have to find that one’s babies. He smelled them on her. Just has to find her den. Or whatever cats have.

“Be careful what you do for them,” she says, and the word is nearly capitalized. “It won’t matter if yeh’re jailed or lose yer job, so long as their goals are reached.”

She lifts her coffee cup again.

As before, they can each decide whether or not to tag along. The Modi pushes across alone…

…appearing in another convenient alley, this one between Darren’s and some small, rather expensive independent stationery store. The moon is much smaller here, but it’s still full. His skin is still silvered — but not by the light. It’s webbing, crystalline, very fine, very brittle: it flakes off his skin when he dusts himself off, and fades to nothing long before it hits the alley floor.

When he steps out onto the small, quiet street with its old trees shading the sidewalk and its midrise buildings, brick, shops and restaurants on the first floor, apartments and lofts stacked overhead, the modi is starkly out of place. This area is affluent, low-crime. He looks and feels like a walking war.

It finally becomes clear where he’s been headed all along. Inside Darren’s is a pair of kin, one of Decker’s blood, and one even more tied to him than that, in the eyes of the Nation.

His gaze returns to Imogen as he answers.

“I know.”

Decker enters and his Rage sucks the air from the room, replacing it with razors. Her eyes move to him, resting there briefly then turning back to John as he speaks.

“Good,” is her only reply.

The little coalition is splintering. The Get of Fenris is together still, the Uktena now their newest shadow has followed them thus far, albeit a little blindly. He has not mapped the entirety of the Scab inside his own mind, and doesn’t know where he is. He is following by example, mimicking the other two.

Decker is the first to crossover. Wahya is next, a quick rifle of his deep cups of his coat retrieve a small shiny and reflective circular object. A woman’s compact mirror that he has pilfered from some two-leg female, nimble fingers flick it open, nestling it betwixt calloused digits as he swivels it gently. It catches and bends the light of the penumbra moon, his brown eyes caught in her pregnant reflection.

The corners of his mouth twisting up into a reflection of his birth moon, and with bit of will Wahya pushes forward. He is accustomed to the roughness of the Gauntlet, having almost experienced calcification on a previous adventure. He glides through, stringy bits of webbing pull and snag on his clothing and hair, dispersing into a fine mist once he has hit normal ground; standing in the shadow of the Get, tucking the little mirror away.

It takes.
Five.
Minutes.

It hurts coming through the city gauntlet. Like chewing on tinfoil and pushing in your skull with a giant C-clamp. Decker isn’t waiting though and Sam at first struggles to catch up, the glands in his nose distending and partially transforming the outer flesh with them until the underside of his nostrils is a wet black inhuman surface does help though. The scent isn’t terribly difficult to find. By the time he even turns toward Darren’s he’s not going to be mistaken for jo-jo the dog faced boy.

At half a trot, catching-up speed, he heads along toward the entrance. Noting the presence of two of the city’s more illustrious kinfolk.

The chair grates when he pulls it out. He drops down; his eyes flicker from Imogen to Thornton, back.

“No trouble ‘r nothin’?” Low; he’s speaking to her alone. And after her response, a faint tilt of his chin up before he raises his voice a notch, just a bare notch, to introduce them all to each other.

“This’s John Thornton, Wah-Yah, Sam Modine.” One might note he leaves Imogen to introduce herself, whatever that might mean. He points at Sam, Thornton — a careless flick of his index finger. “We’s cousins.”

They look very little alike.

Hazel eyes move to Sam, Decker, and Wahya respectively, taking each in turn. Then, returning to Decker, a curious brow raises.

“What started that?”

Wahya lifts a hand to wave, the right one stained in some red color, like it was dipped in kool-aid. The waitress was giving him dirty looks as he followed after Decker. A glance around at the tables, and then further on to the establishment. Wahya stands perplexed by all the—oooh shiny—shit in the diner.

For the sake of the party present, at least he’s bathed recently and doesn’t smell like something that’s crawled out of the Great Trash heap. Eventually, Wahya parks his bony ass on a chair, sitting awkwardly, more like squatting, with his boots perched on the edges and knees drawn to his chest.

“Hi, Miss Slaughter.” He does though manage to grin halfway through the clouds of nearly insane worry at a single item that flashes through his brain not for the first time.

Man that is such a cool name.

Kin should not be able to look at him that directly. Most Garou would find it hard.

“Not yet,” she replies, her voice low like his, her tone reserved. “I’ll know more tomorrow.”

Decker introduces the others. Imogen’s gaze flicks to Wahya, the one she does not know. “A pleasure,” she says, before her gaze moves to Sam. “Sam.” She glances at her watch before draining her coffee, reaching for her purse to pay for the cup. “I need t’go,” she says to no one in particular.

Though Wahya is slight, when Imogen stands, it is clear that there is at least one who will not tower over him. Even in heels, the kinwoman is several inches slighter than the Uktena.

“Ha’ a good night.”

Decker’s grey eyes follow her, flicking up as she stands briefly taller than he. She tells them all she has to go, and to have a good night. He nods, a jerk of his chin upward.

“‘Night, ‘Gen.”

She steps around him to go, and he turns his head to follow her until she’s past the line of his shoulder. Then his eyes simply cast down for a beat. He doesn’t seem to mind her circling close at his back; turns his head the other way, then, to watch her walk away.

When she’s past the last table, he returns his attention to the table; to Thornton, in particular.

“Those fuckers pissed me off.”

That’s the extent of it: blunt, unwavering. He doesn’t try to excuse his behavior; he doesn’t even try to pretend it was a loss of control. It wasn’t. It was a deliberate decision to break some faces.

Then a question: “Ya helped ‘Gen hush it up?”

His arms stretch out between his knees, laying hands flat on the table for a few seconds before the Uktena is quietly active. He reaches for a salt decanter, plays with the lid until it screws loose and begins to tap the white powder out onto the table’s surface in front of him.

Empty salt shaker set aside with a soft click of glass, he looks around for more things on the table, plucking up a straw from an empty glass, reaching for another that’s half-filled with melting ice and soda, all the while listening.

“Goodnight, Dr. Slaughter.”

John takes a slight sigh as he turns to Decker, his hazel eyed gaze meeting the Fenrir for a time. Not long enough to provoke a response, but enough to have done it. He nods at Decker’s assertion as to what started the fight, noting the untelling nature of the answer without comment. Then, when asked if he’d helped to waylay law enforcement, the not-quite-detective shrugs.

“I did as best I could…”

About this point, clear to anyone looking at him, it seems almost painfully obvious there’s no shoulder holster on his form. Nor indeed, any visible sign of a badge.

Nor, if any had seen him recently prior to this, has there been since early last week.

As such, she simply continues walking in that general direction.

He watches Wahya play with the salt shaker for a moment, his eyes on what the Uktena’s doing, his mind elsewhere. He doesn’t stop him. Somewhere, a waitress is fuming at the strange assortment at the back table.

Another thought: “Ya talk ta Sophie any, lately?”

All he picks up from the conversation are unfamiliar names. He does look up every so often, a flash of his eyes upon the speaker, attentive to the information he can gather.

“Thera, either.” He says this with a little more emphasis, as he’d been charged with watching over the other Cliath, his tribeswoman. “Do you want me to go see her?” Which her isn’t clear but damned if there’s not a tone of I-owe-you-one(ten) in the way he says it.

“No problem…

As for Sophie, I’ve stopped by her place a few times, but nobody was home each time… I don’t know what that means.

Then with the raid last week… I had a couple weeks of being very, very busy. It’s only been Wednesday since the last time I checked.

The doors are all locked up tight, the windows were all closed; it doesn’t look to me like anything’s been moved out…”

Hazel eyes move slowly between Decker and Sam, before they’re drawn to the patterns Wahya’s making on the table. Then they return to Decker.

“Both times I been there her kids” kee-yids, says Decker’s Alabama drawl, “was runnin’ all over tha yard.” A nod to Sam, “Maybe ya best do that.”

Her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket, making her way though the diner with a grace that explains her name, that gives homage to the beast that rides so closely under her skin. She is unsurprised to see Sam with Decker, though perhaps a bit to see the Uktena with them as well. John she doesn’t know.

She slips a hand free of her pocket, to tug slightly at the blouse, smoothing it over her belly before doing the same to denim over her hip in unconscious check to assure she is presentable. the heels of her boots click across the floor, and one she arrives she gives the signature lift of her chin in hello.

His face skewers up at what he has created, features pulling into a dark scowl of emotion that the Uktena doesn’t express often. He lets out a loud snort, stabbing the salt-crusted straw back into the melted ice and soda water. His red right hand falling flat on the table and sweeps the salt pattern away and onto the floor, his hand drops back onto the table.

And he looks up at the others, blinking.

“I don’t believe we’ve yet been introduced…”

He takes a drink of the still steaming coffee, before the hazel eyes move back to Decker.

Quiet: “Perty ugly thing ta draw on somebody else’s dinner table.”

“What’s that?” His attention is drawn to the pile of salt where the crescent moon plays a finger in macabre artwork.

“Wyrm…something?”

He shrugs his shoulders, “Was remembering.”

The Uktena shrugs his lean shoulders at Sam, letting the young Modi make of Wahya’s macabre artwork as he will. His attentions have shifted now with the arrival of AnneMarie. He nods in her direction, pulling his hands from the table to wave and rest them on his knees.

Which is no surprise to those at the table who know her. Nor is the fact that she pulls out a used and abused whiteboard and felt tipped pen, and writes quickly for John, and passing it to him.

AnneMarie Hoch.

Sam doesn’t get much longer to examine the glyph, which yawns on the table like a carnivorous rose, insidious even in this most imperfect of forms. Decker reaches out and scatters the half-drawn glyph of the Dancers with his fingertips; shakes the clotted and melting salt from his skin as though it were taint.

“Black Spiral Dancer,” he tells Sam, bluntly.

Then, as AM arrives on the scene and Wahya’s attention turns that way, the Modi jerks his head at a different table, beckoning his tribe- and auspicemate that way.

“‘s have that talk now, Sam.”

Then, turning back to AnneMarie’s whiteboard, John’s eyes read the name once, then a second time, before returning the board to her.

“John Thornton, C.P.D… Nice to meet you.”

Hailed))

As though he’d heard it before somewhere… Not just in passing, and not necessarily in a positive way.))

It passes, thankfully for all parties.

“Sure.”

Sam stands without another word as though it had been his own Alpha giving the order and promptly heads toward the Alabama Garou’s indicated table.

He dusts the salt from his hands, rubbing them against the sides of his coat. A look up to AnneMarie, tilting his head in a small bow to the Fenrir woman “Wahya needs to go. Speak again some other night.”

He doesn’t leave much room for answer, a bit of haste in the strange Uktena’s words as if he thinks he should be somewhere else at that particular moment. Perhaps it was something in what Decker just said, or the fact the Get of Fenris out-numbered him and wanted to talk…

Either way, Wahya is quick to bid farewells and head back out the door avoiding the scowling looks of the waitress.

Apparently, he is no stranger to her name. That’s not necessarily a good thing, nor is it particularly surprising. She turns her attention to Wahya, and lifts her chin in a goodnight, the corner of her lips lifting into something that might someday grow into a real smile. Not tonight though.

Tonight, she simply takes the seat vacated by the Uktena, and levels an even gaze on John. There’s a beat. Two. Then perhaps another as he gets the distinct impression that she knows he’s hiding something.

She takes her board, and puts the felt tip to the white once more. Apparently my reputation precedes me.

It’s slightly more than a request that he explain his reaction, without really being a request at all.

“What happened tha other night,” he says, low, “mighta left ya with some taint. ‘f nothin’ else, it don’t look good fer one’a Great Fenris’s ta git Wyrm-ridden like that.

“You wanna make it right?”

“You might say that.”

“How?”

The question is openly confused. It suggests at exactly what he’s thinking. The wyrm had been inside him, made him it’s tool and a slave to it’s depravity, how on the face of the Gaian mother could there be a way to make that right?

Dollars to doughnuts he gets the answer in a second.

Though she rarely smiles. Those who have seen such an occurrence are few and far between. Some doubt it has ever happened – ever. And actual laughter? Rarer still.

She’s not smiling now. Now, she’s simply waiting for him to continue, as evidenced by the two words added to the whiteboard.

How so?

Then, a glance to Decker and Sam, before he just smiles that cheshire smile and speaks again.

“A little birdie whispered it on the wind…”

That said, John starts toward the door…

Pause.

“‘r jus’ git dead ‘f they don’t findja worthy. ‘s happened.” Is he kidding? It’s impossible to tell. A shrug sums it up, “Up ta you.”

And the moon is full.

She does not like being the object of ridicule, of cheshire grins, of riddles spoken in reply to a direct question.

And. the moon. her moon. is full.

She says nothing. She simply looks at him, the full weight of her rage dancing so closely under her skin, in her eyes. She catches his gaze… and waits.

“You can beat me, you can kill me. We both know it.

Either way, you learn nothing more than I’ve already told you.”

John’s gaze is level, unafraid, resolute… For just long enough not to challenge the Fenrir’s rage directly.

“If instead, you let me go… Maybe I’ll be more talkative another time.”

“Uh– well yeah,” he’s empowered by the fact that the other man would offer to be such a guide.

“Of course, sir. I’d be honored.” He takes a deep breath an leans back in his chair, concern fully faded to give way to abject shock still. “But I have to run it across my Alpha and my pack. It’s been a rough month or so for all of us and I cannot simply leave them.” He finds it in him to slow down and get the words right, with Garou it’s easier his breeding and bearing the likeness to old norse gods and warriors clouds over the occasional stammer or misplaced um’ or ‘gosh’.

“But if you’ll give me just a day or two?” He swallows, stopping the words with wide eyed apprehension. “I would appreciate that more than anything.”

Her lips curl into a snarl, and there is just enough threat underneath it to justify the wave of irritation that wafts around them. She could do more than beat him. She could rend him limb for limb, have him healed and do it again.

If she were not honorable.
If she were not the Garou she has striven so hard to become.
If she were lacking one. single. bit. of control.

She smirks and let’s go, her gaze dismissive as if he’s suddenly become no more worthy dogshit on her shoe. It would not be any clearer than if she had actually spit in his face. What she does, instead, is sit down and cross one knee over the other, redirecting her attention to her Alpha and Sam a few tables away.

If he had heard anything, learned anything of her from any source, it should have been this. Second chances are as rare as her smile. There will be no next time.

The modi glances over at AnneMarie and Thornton. It’s uncertain what he thinks of the whole thing; if he cares at all. For his part, he stands — catches AM’s eye, gives her a nod up.

Then, “‘ll see ya ’round, Modine.”

“Night, Decker… Sam…

Ms. Hoch”

With that, he’s out the door, lost in the night beyond… *fade John; ((I gotta get to bed))*

((Night folks; thanks for the rp! Had fun))

Especially after he made him pee in the Brotherhood’s common room.

“You taking off too?” to Ruhiger, who sits at the other table, as silently as ever. This marks the first time they’ve communicated really outside of brief nods and eye contact since they’d been introduced. She’ll find that outside of the squinting worry lines that had found his face tonight and perhaps the notions of him colored by his twice spilling blood in the brotherhood and having his own dumped for him that at least tonight he’s doing his farmboy-best to make a decent impression with his tribesmate.

And? Farmboy best means exactly jack shit to her.

Sam speak, and she levels an even gaze on him, pale eyes studying him for a long moment. Perhaps she sees him, blood spilled across the common room floor, the first time, or the second. Perhaps sees something else. Perhaps she sees nothing at all. Her face gives nothing away, as she answers his question in the form of a lift of her left shoulder into a slight shrug.

She has not yet decided.

He shakes his head at the other side of where she sits and finishes the sentence like rocks dropping in the water, each thought plunking out a few more words like conversational ripples. “Had no…I never thought that could happen to me.”

He jaw flexes with something like hatred. Something that makes his Rage billow like a steam engine’s release from every direction. “It caught me unaware. It won’t happen again.”

The board clatters to the table, and for a long moment it might seem as if she has nothing to say. But then slender fingers pick up her pen, the felt tip spilling writing that is neat, compact, and easily read across the board, which she than flips around, sliding it flat against the table so that he can see it.

We are not infallible. I notice that you only apologize for the result, not the cause. There is no growth without a true and complete understanding of one’s mistakes.

His form stretches some to look directly down on the board. “Am not quite sure what happened. I don’t remember all of it. I think Mr. Rohl said something about being gay right after I gave my new Alpha a pledge of fealty but….” He trails a little looks far off for a short length of time like he’s gathering torn straw in the wind to try and rebuild an entire haystack with the refuse. “I remember being scared of something, trying to run.”

The next he wishes he could find it in himself to lie about. It wouldn’t do any good anyway, he knows. He’s an awful liar, can barely even spot it which might be good, he’s got a hard spot over his too-full heart for deception as it is.

“After that it’s not all there, but most of it…I remember trying to kill her, all of you. Everything.” He squints hard at the discomfort, shifts in his seat like there’s just not a good spot on the cushion. “But it was because I wanted to eat you. It wasn’t about the death it was about this…hunger.” He stops, looks back at her.

“It was awful. Whatever let it in, I’ll rid myself of it or die in the Umbra soon enough.”

Once he is silent, she writes once more.

You. Insulted. My. Alpha. You insulted Silence. You insulted the Eagles. You insulted me with a flippant tongue before any of that. THAT is where you went wrong. You concentrate the things that are fixable, the results, search for that which is redeemable, and neglect the root cause. The root cause is your tongue, your lack of respect for one who deserves far more than the likes of you telling him he has forgotten what it is like to be a part of something. We remember far more than most will have time to ever forget.

The flare of her irritation, the burn of her rage is bright, pressing, and the waitress that was on her way, turns on a heel and thinks better. AnneMarie stops, and takes a moment and inhales slow and deep. She exhales then, and levels an even gaze on Sam.

What happened after, happened. Learn from it – but learn from ALL of it. Take it from one who’s tongue has gotten her into a fair amount of trouble despite the fact it is silenced.

This is one of those missing pieces. Her saying [writing] it seems to jar his memory some though and he runs the moment around in his head. “I honestly don’t expect a yes to this, but I’ll ask anyhow.”

He folds his hands together on the table in a gesture that’s too meek for Fenrir seemingly or too confident even for a Modi. “Do you know why I said that to him?”

She has not forgotten that the first she saw him was to fall under his then Alpha’s jaws, nor the insult that followed it. She will not forget the insult levied against her Elder, her Pack, herself.

It seems to me that you have a problem with control. It seems to me that you would do well to learn when to keep silent. There are some things that cannot be justified by ‘why’. He has earned respect. You will give it, or will once again be pissing yourself in the middle of the floor, and risk a thrall almost unbreakable. You would have killed her had I not pulled her away. Had Silence not forced you into submission. You owe him to learn from this, completely, and not just the parts you feel you can justify to yourself by some explanation or another. Facts are simple. You smarted off. You were put down. You frenzied. You were put down completely. The common factor is you.

For her part, she is completely, 100% within her own control again. Of course, the waitresses still won’t even look her way, but that’s to be expected at this point.

“Respect is more than simply kow towing. It’s more than bending and scraping.” This from a man, albeit young enough who has run with Silver Fangs and Shadow Lords for half a decade. “When I arrived Decker Rohl was a legend in my head, living, sure but so far off as to only be a heroic story. Something I could one day aspire to.”

He swallows, still taking his time, keeping his voice as even as he can in the moonlight that streams through the glass doors of the diner.

“We’d only just gotten the story of you all leaving the Caern and it’s politics behind out east maybe just a month?” He stops as though asking himself the question before continueing. “Yeah, about that. A month before we got in on the bridge. And not long after I actually got to meet him. Not a big deal to you, your name is in a few of those stories, you’ve known him a very long time.” He offers her a smile.

“That’s a pretty big deal, by the way.” As if she didn’t know this already. “But respect, and awe and …I mean this is my gosh darn hero, y’know? One time Wyatt told about the time he took this scrag and-” He shakes his head. “We came because this Caern was undefended, depopulated and the last of who were here could not stop fighting one another long enough to make war on the Wyrm. But there you were, The Eagles, mightiest pack for a hundred miles or more and though you kept that small territory downtown clean you were doing nothing while a Caern nearly broke itself in two. Respect? It’s being unafraid of the consequences in trying to make those above us better too.” At he end he goes very quiet, just waits to see what in fact she’ll do.

He offers her a smile.
She offers him nothing.

She could take her board. She could write. She could “say” a good deal of things. Problem is – he was not listening. And in return, she gives what she is getting. It’s a fluid movement in which she stands – it is a fluid movement in which she has him by the throat, tipping the chair back against the wall behind him, and him with it – it’s all a single and frighteningly graceful, beautiful fluid movement while her eyes glint hard with challenge and determination and hunger.

That is TWO tonight, who have boasted while having only half the story. She has reached the end of her very limited patience, as her lips curl into a snarl, twisting into something that is. not. human. And IS very much, a challenge.

A challenge no real Fenrir would resist.

The staff won’t be coming around quickly.

“You’re going.” He nearly shifts right there, she’ll feel his body bulging as if to escape it’s bonds. The urge is only barely pushed down. His teeth are bared, brazen, incredibly straight (someone brushes with Glisten) separated by a quarter inc hof space while his jaw flex just above her hand. “To want.”

It’s notable his own hands down even flinch yet. “To move that.” He shakes his head. She doesn’t know him from adam, really. It’s been said By Fenrir, to Fenrir, about Fenrir that one can never truly know a person until they’ve seen them fight. Anne Marie has been lied to by circumstance unfortunately, the only lies she might ever find from him. His packmate bested him when he deigned only knock him down to perhaps take the wind from his sails. He’d been beaten bloody by a force of nature when mindless.

Those were not true battles.

“We have no quarrel, and I don’t want to hurt you.” He shakes his head as well as he can against the wall, Rage pouring out harder than shame can find a way now. “And I think you’re too honorable to simply let me cow you without having an enemy for life. But you know darn well I can’t back down if you take this further, Miss. You know the rules.”

You have to love being one of Fenris’ favored.

You do not know a Fenrir unless you have seen them fight.
You do not suggest a victory already won before the first blow has landed.
You do not suggest that one will cow another without having the where-with-all to back it up with more than pretty words that are destined to be his downfall, destined to be his end.
You do not promise a challenge, without the balls to back it up.

He may win. He may lose. But nothing was ever decided by pretty, pointless, inane and meaningless words.

Needless to say, she does not move. Not her hand, not her stance, not a muscle but for that snarl that turns into something all-together more. Her lips close over her teeth, her throat works, and she spits. in. his. face.

1 rage
1a: punch
1b: punch
2: guess what? nope, not a punch – headbutt!)

1a. dodge (-3)
1b. dodge (-4)
1c. Elbow, called shot (nose) [WP] (-5)

1R. Dodge
2R. Stand and Kick, called shot (knee)

(Punchin number one! HAIL KAHSEENO!)

Somewhere in a tiny village cut from the great northern woods….

a great and holy altar to Kahseeno has been prepared with all her polyhedral trappings. Coins as well, poker chips, crown royal bags even harmonic random number generators click loudly in their boxes. Veracity, QUEEN of the nonbelievers has been placed upon this altar where she is pelted with d10’s until she cries out for lady luck’s mercy.

But for the heathen’s it never comes. Finally as the ritual chanting of the prayers comes to a giant crescendo the highest priest of casino calls out-

HAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIILLLLLLLLL MOTHAFUCKAAAAAAAAAAA!

[What kind of man hits a woman? What kind of woman attacks a man? IS that a woman? LOOKED like a girl, but you know, she was pretty tall…]

AnneMarie does not hesitate. She is not a forgiving woman, she is not a woman at all, but one born and bred for little more than war, than anger, than this. Even this. The first blows are dodged, are taken without a flinch, and it is with silent snarl that she uses the hard head The Great Fenris blessed her with and head buts Sam to the face, only to pull back bathed in his blood as his nose crunches under the blow, bones fracture and he is forced to call on his on inner fire to ignore the stunning, crushing strike. It does not help, however, his kick to her knee little more than a glancing blow as she stands to face him fully once more.

She does not back down.
She will not back down.

This fight will only end with one of the other of them unmoving.

At first he’s doing a better than passable as simply evading her. His elbow shoots like a knife, missing completely.

Now sam is seeing stars.

They aren’t lying about Eagle’s might when they talk about how badass this particular opponent is. Face bleeding though, a true Fenrir, he too comes back for more.

1a: punch.
1b: punch

2: headbutt, since it was such a winner last time
3: punch.
4: punch.))

1a. Falling touch -3
1b. Kick -4
1c. kick -5

1R. Punch
2R. Punch
3R. Punch ))

Until she’s had enough. She is done toying with him. She is done trying to get her point across. It is time to teach the final lesson. WIth the last swing, where he saw stars, there is now only a field of black, as he bones crush under her hands, as organs groan and bleed, as his body gives up and crumples around her fist and slides to the floor. She remains standing, watching, as nostrils flare and fingers remain curled into fists, as if daring him, DARING HIM to get up just One. More. Time.

He does not.

She rolls her head on her shoulders, stretching her neck until it pops in rapid succession, before she actually takes the time to look around them. It had happened so fast, that some are still running, a chair teeters and falls, the clatter loud in the sudden silence. She glares at the waitress that is staring at them from behind the counter, looking as if she’s ready to run as well. AnneMarie just lifts her chin. Proud. Strong. EAGLE. She grabs her whiteboard and pen, shoves them in her pocket, then grabs Sam and hauls him to his feet.

Not exactly gently, either.

His arm over her shoulders, she half walks, half carries his ass out the front door. Passive-aggressive piss-ant or not, she won’t leave him there. She is a woman of Honor, so drags him to the alley, before she drops him into the shadows. Across Eagles wings, her voice is heard, smooth and silken.

Anyone near the mile? I could use a ride. I’ve a package to deliver to the Brotherhood.

James was on his way out anyway, to go and do some grocery shopping. It couldn’t hurt to stop and make a detour – besides, Walmart Super Centers were open 24/7. When the directions were given, he pulled up out front of the diner shortly there after and got out to go and see what AnneMarie was up to.

James arrives and she directs him to the alley, and gestures toward Sam with a smirk. He insulted Silence. And the Eagles. He should learn to watch his tongue.

Bending down, James hauled Sam up over his shoulder with a look to AnneMarie. “Ye know, sooner ‘r later th’ rest o’ th’ sept is goin’ tae learn not t’ awaken a sleepin’ dragon. I’m thinkin’ most o’ the sept these days fergot us ‘r dinnae know us, ‘r reputation.”

The Eagle pack, members past and present, weren’t exactly the type you’d soon forget. Just because they’d become reclusive didn’t mean they weren’t a force here. “C’mon. Let’s get ‘im tae ‘is people, an’ I’ll give ye a ride ‘ome then.”

She spits to the side, ridding her mouth of some blood, then wipes her lower lip again before straightening her clothing, and following James to his truck. I am tired of those who only know half the story berating us. We protect two of the borders on our own. We still do our duty, despite ignoring the politics, while they piss and moan with words and expect no payment for their actions. Chicago has changed. It is not necessarily for the better that I can tell.

She climbs into the passenger seat and slams the door closed behind her, her brow still drawn into a furrow, her expression thunderous. She will beat them all one by one until they learn if she has too.

Respect is earned, and the Eagles have done that earning many times over.

“Dinnae go that far – then ‘e’d ne’er be able tae tell others what ‘appens when they run their mouths ‘gainst us,” James said with a shrug when he’d climbed into the driver-side and fired up the big diesel engine.

“Aye, t’is changed. Th’days o’ glory ‘r gone, m’thinks. T’isn’t like th’ ol’ days, ye know. I may o’ left ’em later’n ye all did, but fer no dissimilar reasons. I was ‘opin’ it’d change wit’ these newcomers, but–” James jerked a thumb behind him at Sam’s unconcious form “–s’yet tae be seen.”

Backing the truck up, he turned it and headed for the Brotherhood.

She can be single minded, but she also learns from her mistakes. The changes in her since she returned is testimony to that. While they ride, however, she digs in another pocket for a piece of paper, and when she finds it, she pens a note for the Unbroken Circle. It is simple, and too the point, as the paper is little more than a scrap. ~This one would do well to mind who he insults. Remind him to think of what was spoken in word, before it was beaten in by fist. — Ruhiger. Eagle.~

She intends to pin it to his chest for his Alpha to see when they arrive – if she were not honorable, she would do so with a blade. She is not so honorable that the thought did not cross her mind, however. She simply dismisses it as soon as it arrives.

Shifting Sam’s weight, he came through the back and carried Sam up the stairs to deposite him on one of the couches. “Ye ready t’ leave?” he asked, wiping blood from his hands off onto his jeans.

She has nothing more to say, and she has done all that honor demands by getting him back to the brotherhood.

Yes, thank you. For coming when she called, for the ride, both.

With that, she leads him back down the stairs, for the ride home. The ride back to the packhouse is silent (no surprise there) until she thanks him one more time for the ride as she steps from the truck, and heads inside.