inauspicious beginnings.

[Rain McKellar] It's the night before the night before Christmas and Rain's made the long slog out to the Brotherhood after whatever gig she played. It's cold and she's carrying her guitar on her right side -- which leaves her a little unbalanced. It's not her usual stride. By now she comes straight in the front door and back up the stairs to the common room. She's missing her hat, and her scarf, and one of her gloves, so the hand that is not holding that case handle tight is crammed down into her pocket to try and keep it warm.

Her booted footfalls are heavy enough on the stair case to announce her presence, but not alarmingly so. She leans the guitar against the piano and shrugs out of her coat -- which has a new tear at the upper left sleeve (hand me downs). Rain shakes the snow out of her hair and slips her one glove off of her hand and tucks it away into her pocket.

She also carries a messenger bag, and out of this she pulls a few small, wrapped packages. They're tagged with different True's names. They go ontop of the piano, in an unceremonious tumble.

The room seems empty. It is never empty. It's quiet and almost restful. Rather than be suspicious of it, Rain drops herself onto the couch and crams a throw pillow under her left elbow. She's had five seconds of silence now... that's probably just enough time for the cast of local denizens to come rolling through.

[Ivers] Almost as if on a cue, as though he's aware of the fact that there is someone creeping around the space he calls Home for now, Howard--because honestly, who else could it possibly be; there are maybe eight people living in this building and only one of them is completely lacking manners--lets a sonorous belch go in the bathroom. It's louder than it needs to be thanks to acoustics and the emptiness of the space itself.

Also, the only time Howard isn't making noise is when he's asleep, at least in theory. Patrick could tell some stories. The Afrikaner doesn't sleep like a log. He kicks and thrashes, usually ends up in a tangle if he hasn't relieved the mattress of bedding completely.

Anyway: five seconds, and then a belch, and then Rain isn't alone anymore. Howard meanders out freshly showered, wearing an outfit that makes absolutely no sense--red corduroys, a powder blue t-shirt advertising a band no one has ever heard of, a giant bow that belongs on a Christmas present, and a leopard print jacket--and walking as though the idea of putting one foot in front of the other is beyond him right now.

Sunglasses are in place, and he stands in place a moment as though attempting to parse Rain's presence into his understanding of the evening.

"Ahoy!" he greets her, and starts to wander out of the hall.

[Rain McKellar] "Greetings, man not of this land," she hails, from the couch. The kinswoman is nestled into one corner of it, the one between the two longer arms of upholstery, with her back to the pool tables and her attention, mostly, on Howard's entrance. She's done batting an eyelash at anything he wears -- and really, What's Howard Wearing was like a guilty pleasure, a small game of suspended disbelief to break up her otherwise mundane holiday existence -- so she waves a bit.

"You're looking festive," she says, with a glance toward the bow on his head. Rain pushes her boots off her feet and pulls her legs up beside her on the couch. She looks like she plans on staying for awhile. That might only confuse Howard further. "Merry Almost Christmas."

[Llewelyn] Oh, Patrick could tell some stories, alright.

But most of the tales he knows about Howard are either not fit for anyone's ears, include his own (often reluctant) participation in said escapades or are just too ridiculous to make much sense to anyone but himself and his pack-mate. While the Theurge has been showering; his pack-mate has already been in and done it; and when Patrick pulls open the door on their shared room he's rubbing at the back of his head with a pale green towel.

It didn't begin its life as a green towel, that being said. It was white, but sorting colors and whites before washing was apparently too much work for the Caldera boys.

Prayers to Broken Stone was dressed in what people were beginning to comprehend were his after work clothes; that being a gray shirt and tracksuit pants. Black and gray, which were colors that somehow said a great deal about the man in question, too. Whether he was aware of it or not.

"I give that effort a 5.0," he's saying idly; apparently quite accustomed to the musical scale of Howard's belching. Then he notes the bow; and his eyebrows constrict, he makes a face that is somewhere between amused and a scowl. "Funny," he notes, before realizing Rain is there.

The scowl smooths away; and he lifts a hand to salute her. "Hey, Rain." Blue eyes track to her guitar case; he slings his mutated towel over a shoulder and jerks his chin at it. "Gig?"

[Ivers] Because his player is a lazy ass who didn't actually specify where he's wearing it, the bow is doubling as a tie this evening. Or a cravat. I think it's a cravat. Whatever: it's at his throat, pinned to the neckline of his t-shirt by some means that isn't readily visible.

He's looking festive. The Afrikaner, who reveals himself to be chewing gum after his outburst of a greeting, flicks his eyebrows and grins a grin that is made cheeky by virtue of the fact that he's gnawing on a piece of flavored rubber as he approaches her. If she's hoping for a wide berth, she isn't granted any such thing: Howard plunks himself down in the middle of the short arm of the couch, the only thing saving her from total invasion of her space being the fact that they're both somewhat small.

His build leaves something to be desired. It's only in other forms that Howard becomes remotely physically impressive, unless one happens to be impressed by his hair; his hair doesn't stay the same in his more animalistic forms.

Merry almost Christmas, she says, and Howard slings his arm over the back of the couch, still chewing his gum. His other hand comes up to tug at the end of his nose, as though he has to stall, and then he's saved from the effort by his brother's arrival.

Funny.
"Festive," he corrects. "Ya fuckin' Grinch."

[Rain McKellar] "Yeah. Holiday stuff. Didn't go as well as it could of, but that's life, right? I'll be glad when I'm done singing carols," she says, to Patrick, when he eyes her guitar.

Howard's hair is pretty impressive. One could probably study all manners of random physics that happen in chaotic environments, just by mapping the sway and swirls of that mop. Rain thinks it's expressive in its own way, and distinctly Howard. Just like the sunglasses inside, or Patrick near-constant aura of tension and scowls. Truth be told, Rain doesn't mind either of them all that much, and she's angling for company tonight more than feeling picky about the parameters of that request.

"And Merry Almost Christmas to you, too, Mr. Patrick," she says, offering him the same smile and warmth. When Howard flops down on the couch beside her, Rain unwedges the throw pillow from under left arm. She crosses her legs and drops the pillow in her lap, toying idly with its worn points while they talk.

"I brought you guys something, I mean, it's not much, it's kinda small, but I thought you should have somethin' for Christmas. Being in a new city gets hard and all." She rambles. Rain is not relying on her songbird skills tonight. She's a little less gathered up and collected, slightly frayed.

[Llewelyn] Festive, he's corrected with, ya fuckin' Grinch.

Patrick's smirks are sometimes the most expressive his face ever becomes; they are ever-changing, and arrange themselves by size and degree of lip arch. This one is quite cynical, but there's a touch of gentler humor to it that turns it from its potential to be as grumpy as the name Howard associates to him. "Hey, I participated in this excuse for commercialism, you're wearing part of your gift." He pulls the towel from over his shoulder and slaps his Alpha's leg with it.

Boys.

When Rain says she's got them presents; the Galliard looks taken aback; well, as taken aback as Patrick ever does, that being -- his eyebrows rise. "Oh, that's.. nice. You didn't have to, I mean we're not exactly ..." he has no idea how to even finish defining what he considers his pack to be.

"Lemme go hang this up." He concludes; and moves toward the showers; a hand rubbing at his blond spikes; without brushing, they're a wild forest of peaks.

[Rain McKellar] Rain's attention follows him when Patrick said she didn't have to. She shrugs a bit in reply. The expression that crosses her features is one part patient and another part mildly annoyed. It passes, quickly enough, but that flicker is there.

"Yeah, I know, I'm not family," she tells him as he wanders toward the showers. If Rain had been sitting alone, she might have muttered something under her breath but Howard's proximity kept her manners in check. Instead she ran her fingertips through her hair again, and reached to rub at her recently mended shoulder.

When Patrick wandered back within conversation range she added: "Besides, don't thank me until you see Howard's..." Isn't that a little ominous, even coming from the well-meaning Gaian.

[Ivers] "He wasn't gonna say family," Howard says, pretty mildly considering the bulk of what comes out of his mouth is either abrasive or incendiary, "he was gonna say believers. Y'know. Faithful. All that."

There's no smoking indoors in the state of Illinois, but that doesn't stop Howard: he pulls a flattened pack of unfiltered Lucky Strikes out of the pocket of his coat and pulls one out.

"Besides, Patrick can't even remember his own fuckin' birthday, you think he cares about some pacific prick who died two thousand years ago?"

When Patrick returns, the kinswoman's addendum has the Theurge lifting an eyebrow. He blows a trio of smoke rings into the air, then pierces their ghosts with an arrow of gray and asks, "Is it illegal?"

[Ivers] [PACIFIST, not pacific. Jesus wasn't born in California...]

[Llewelyn] [there's lots of them being born there these days, if that helps.]

[Rain McKellar] "In most states," she quips back, letting that smile slip further toward a grin. "And I don't care what you do or don't believe. Presents are nice things. It's been a bum week, let me do something nice and socially acceptable for people I more or less tolerate."

There's a metric fuckton of qualifiers in there. God forbid she say she's actually trying to cheer them up or celebrate a holiday that has little meaning in their new lives. At least this isn't an actualization of her first plan... there's no kissing ball of faux mistletoe mounted above their room's door.

[Ivers] "There was a ton of shit wrong with what you just said," Howard informs her, lazily leaning forward to retrieve an empty coffee cup to appropriate as an ashtray, "like... 'let,' and 'nice,' and 'socially acceptable.' You need to use simpler words, like 'Shut the fuck up and let me give you a present you fuckin' tits.'"

He flicks his eyebrows, as if submitting the suggestion for her approval, then spits the sullied gum into the coffee cup and takes another drag.

[Llewelyn] He's frowning when he returns from the showers, and his hair still hasn't seen the better side of a comb yet but it doesn't make that much of a difference, anyway, given he's dressed in sweatpants and an old gray shirt that has a hole worn beneath the collar and a pocket sewn to one side of the chest that's starting to give out.

Somehow, everything about his outfit fits; even the fact that the pant legs are too long and fall over his bare feet. Like this; Patrick is as young as he seems, a kid of barely twenty-two whose head is screwed on well enough, just too tightly to ignore all the bullshit that went on in the world. He's not exactly melancholy, but he means what he says as he takes a seat across from Rain and Howard.

"I thought during the Eclipse that I'd gotten mine already. Figured Gaia or whatever it is that made us realized there was a factory mishap with my model and started the recall." He shrugs, and props his feet up on the coffee table; slouching a little against the cushions. The picture isn't complete though, if you imagine a scowling, dark-expression youth, he's mildly curious about Rain's presents and watching the banter between her and Howard.

He spits gum into the coffee cup; and Patrick's fingers find the bridge of his nose briefly; he reaches a hand out and gestures for a drag off the cigarette.

[Rain McKellar] Rain chuckled a bit as she unfolded herself from the couch and wandered over to the piano. She plucked Patrick's and Howard's presents off the small pile and brought them back to the couch with her.

"How about I'ma give you presents now, and you'll like them?" she asks Howard. What she dropped in the Theurge's lap was wrapped in plain brown paper, with a 99-cent store bow stuck to one corner. The paper, it would turn out, was a repurposed grocery store bag -- Rain didn't have much, just now, and she'd been all but raised by Gnawers. Sometimes it showed.

It had several odd angles inside, but no real weight to it.

Rain sets Patrick's down on the table. She does not toss it to him or otherwise assualt him with it. It is likewise plain. Their names are written in her mostly intelligible script, by a blue Bic pen. There are no tags.

"You two had trouble that night, too?" she asks, settling back on the couch and incidentally propping her left elbow on that throw pillow for support. She's still careful with the arm, even though she won't scent as wounded any longer.

[Ivers] "A woman who speaks with authority," he says, loudly, as if announcing some fantastic discovery he's just happened upon. It makes him sit up straighter, interest gripping him, as Rain tosses the plain-wrapped package at him. "That's present enough!"

With a cup in one hand and a cigarette wedged between the fingers of the other hand, Howard has to do some rearranging. He holds the cup and the smoke in the same hand, then realizes this isn't going to work and balances the cup on the back of the couch. The cigarette is plugged between his lips, smoke curling up from his face, and he cautiously peels apart the wrapping. One would think Howard would just go for it, but he doesn't; he's careful, as though he's afraid of harming the contents, or else he has it in his mind that Rain is going to want to recycle the fucking paper.

He doesn't come from a place where people have much of anything. Howard is a dick and a loudmouth, but he isn't wasteful.

"Naaaaah," he says, to the matter of whether they had trouble that night, mumbling around his cigarette. "Just some bowel perforation and massive hemorrhaging. Pretty standard ni--" At which point he unveils his present: a pair of atrocious star-shaped sunglasses that Elton John would appreciate. The color is lost on him, but the shape is a novelty. He pauses long enough to remove his cigarette from his mouth before crowing "HAh!"

The paper is set aside, and he ducks his head to take the black aviators off his face, eyes closed during the transition. When he looks back up, it's with a flourish of his free hand, as if to say Tada!

"Whaddaya think?" he asks. "These gonna get me laid or what?"

[Mila] Her appearances at the Brotherhood had become fewer and fewer in the last several months. Nowadays, it seemed she just popped by when she was looking for a spot of company, or in a more likely case, some good liquor. It was the second option that brought her to this place (at least at first).

Mila had spent the last two hours downstairs at the bar partaking of beverages of the adult nature and every now and then singing a rousing song when the mood struck her, or the crowd. But now, she was currently wandering up the stairs towards the common room quite loudly (but on key thankfully). It was a tune which seemed a bit more gaelic than someone of her ancestory would sing.. but nonetheless, she seemed to quite enjoy "The Highwayman" as it was called.

Her dark hair was left down in a mass of messy waves. Her makeup was light and tasteful.. for once. Simply enough she wore a graphic t-shirt with spashes of various colors and a pair of jeans. Now who was about tonight for a spot of company?

[Llewelyn] Patrick adopts Howard's cigarette between his fingers while his brother tries on his new present and inhales; turning his head to one side to blow the smoke from his lungs away from Rain as she deposits a small wrapped parcel on the low-set table before him. He kicks his feet off it and sits forward; the motion pulling at the shirt he wears and suggesting at his build; that being someone not unfamiliar with what the local gym was for yet not bulging with strength; either.

Still, it was clear that of the two boys, when it came to brute strength it was in Patrick to be found.

He sets the present on his lap; cigarette still hanging from his mouth and unwraps it; casting the occasional glance Rain's way. His expression was one of interest, and perhaps some degree of apprehension for what he was about to find within. There were some new guitar strings, and a selection of picks. The young Garou's lips twitch, and he takes the smoke out to pass back to Howard; speaking through a cloud of smoke.

"You've unleashed a monster." To Rain, he just nods, quietly touched. "These are great, thanks." A beat, he scratches at his neck. "I feel I should give you something in return." He turns his face; looks at his Alpha, crowing about his Elton John sunglasses. "You want him?"

[Rain McKellar] When Mila wanders into the common room she'll see a slight young woman on the sofa with the Caldera boys. The girl is grinning to the point of near-laughter at Howard's antics, and the warmth she carries is all but infectious. It wells up and out of her, and this comraderie, however thin it may be just now, is mending the pieces of her week that left her rent and bruised.

"Oh, definitely," she tells Howard, her brown eyes dancing with mirth and merriment (Tis the season). And that same grin is tossed toward Patrick when he offers up his brother. Rain's hands go up, elbows kept close to sides, all very innocent: "Oh, honey, I couldn't possibly..."

Under that smirk, though, is something of an understanding smile for Patrick. It calls out to that quieter place in him, that piece that seems still hurt and often angry.

"I'm glad you two like them. Warms my heart, it does. And that's the best Christmas I could get," it's sappy, but heartfelt. Rain means what she's said. And then, in the break of all this chatter and almost laughter, she glances over at the loud ingress into the common space.

"Hey," she says, though she doesn't know Mila in the slightest. Rain even waves. Her guitar is leaned up against the piano, and her shoes are just before her spot on the couch. The kinswoman seems comfortable here, for all she's unfamiliar to Mila.

[Mila] As soon as the small gathering is spotted, the humming trails off. She continued her ascent up the stairs until she finally stood in the common room. She smiled warmly (her merriment may have been aided in some fashion by aforementioned liquor).

"Hey." She responded to Rain with the same smile - even as the kinswoman got a quick once over. Hrm, unfamiliar people tonight. All three.. actually.

"Diggin' the glasses.." Who wouldn't love overly tacky glasses shaped like stars? Well, usually she wouldn't.. but if someone had the balls to put them on, well.. damn skippy for them then!

The young woman the paused and lifted a hand in greeting. "Mila.. by the way. Not sure I've met any of ya'll before.."

[Ivers] "Now," Howard says, raising his voice to be heard over the incoming Galliard, "first you said 'definitely,' and then you said you 'couldn't possibly.'"

The rail-thin, sorry excuse for a Theurge hoists himself to his feet, handing the cigarette back to Patrick and clipping his aviators to the pocket of his jacket [see my first post for description I can't be bothered retyping all that]. Mila arrives, all dark glamour and rock and roll flare and Thunder's breeding.

It's the latter that has him glancing over at her, briefly, if only to ascertain the chances of an ass-beating coming his way. He knows Bone Grinder has a female packmate, but they haven't had the pleasure of meeting each others' acquaintance yet. When she speaks, complimenting his sunglasses, the young wild-haired man grins like a madman and jerks his head in a nod, an Awwright unspoken.

A finger is held up, a placeholder for a response, and when he responds it's in English, with an accent that isn't stereotypically Fianna. There is an accent, albeit a faint one, that is difficult to place.

"One second, mate." Turning back to Rain, he plants his hands on his hips and says, "I think you're just bein' humble, yeah? You can't use the 'Oh I couldn't possibly' when you're exchangin' one thoughtful gift--" He gestures to the guitar strings. "--for another." The gesture indicates himself, now.

[Llewelyn] Patrick shakes his head at Howard, and when Mila appears, glances up and over at her; curious, perhaps, at another of the Shadow Lords appearing out of the cosmos and perhaps more than slightly rankled by the thought of another who had just last night been instructing him on how to deal with his own cousin.

Well, technically, Bridget wasn't his cousin. He didn't know her, they weren't connected by anything other than a shared ancestry but he liked her. He respected her right to exist, and be a part of the world at large and he didn't particularly enjoy the prospect of some Ahroun (Wyrmfoe or not in the Galliard's mindset) telling her she had to sit down and be examined. It was one thing for himself or Howard to ask her questions, it was another for some random douche claiming fondness to put him down.

Whatever, though, right.

Mila wasn't Simon just as he wasn't Howard; they were their own actions, or however the saying went. So Patrick doesn't let that agitation linger long; he closes it down, sits on it and nods at the dark haired woman. He himself resembled more than anything some sort of young surfer with his blond hair and sandy brows; with his physique. Even his speech patterns occasioned to liken him to one; but Patrick possessed entirely too much thought for the simile to linger long after he opened his mouth.

When he did, that was.

"Hey, Patrick. That's Howard. This is Rain and I'm gonna get my guitar," he collects the gift, and toasts the parcel at the Gaian Kinfolk. "Test out one of these babies."

[Rain McKellar] So the Theurge is placing hismelf on par with a collection of small gifts for a fellow musician. The sort of things that anyone could just walk into a music store and pick up for a few dollars on their own. Unless, of course, the weight of the Rage they carried made it difficult to walk into a quiet, low-key place and pretend not to stand out like a sore thumb.

"I don't hink y' should barter yerself for picks and strings, Mister Howard," she says, lilting the honorific as a playful thing between them. "Doesn't seem right by me." She shrugs a bit, thoughtful, like she's protecting his intrinsic worth by refusing to buy into the exchange. The corner of her mouth is tucked into a warm but mischevious smile.

"So I couldn't possibly," she concludes, bringing her argument full circle, with a little spread of her hands. She glances over at Patrick, who's already headed out of the room again. "Do I get to hear you play?" she calls after him, and her voice is strong enough to carry.

Then back to Mila, and Rain's eyes settle somewhere about her cheekbones. The kinswoman does not raise them to meet her eyes. She has no blood to sing out and announce her Tribe, but assumptions can be made from her easy association with Caldera. If Mila was the sort to make assumptions.

"Nice ta meet ya, Miss Mila," Rain says. Her voice carries a bit of a drawl. The girl's brow furrows for a moment, and her gaze goes distant, as if lost in thought, and then she adds: "Ah... this may sound odd, but have we met? You look familiar... ever been to Nashville?"

[Mila] "Lovely to meet ya'll. Not often you wander up here and find a room full of new, fresh faces.."

Her eyes lit up at the mention of a guitar. Ooh, he was gonna play? Well hell, that meant she was going to stay for sure (and attempt not to break into song). Casually she hopped over the back of one of the larger, and empty, arm chairs and plopped herself within.. legs dangling over one of the arms.

A brow rose slightly at Rain's question - but she quirked a small grin. "Why yes I have. Quite often.. actually. I sing a little bit here and there.."

[Ivers] If left to his own devices, the quick-witted Theurge will dominate conversations for hours, stepping back to give whoever his current combatant happens to be room to retaliate but, for the most part, loosing whatever snippit of wisdom or wise-cracking happens to come into his head at any particular moment. He's capable of filtering his thoughts, doesn't walk around with this psychological need to talk constantly. There is a deeper reason for The Way He Is, but the only person who has any real insight to why that is has gone into the room to retrieve his guitar.

Which leaves Howard returning that mischievous smile in the wake of Rain's rebuttal. He's not stunned; Rain just makes clear that that line of conversation is over, that they are not the only people in the room right now, and when his eyebrows flick this time it's in acceptance. She wins this one, Gadget.

The Fiann, whose blood is as silent as Rain's, coughs into the elbow of his coat, then ducks his head to swap out sunglasses. Show's over, apparently; he keeps his eyes closed and his head bowed until his aviators are returned to his face.

"Right, I've gotta take a piss," he tells them, without pomp or exaggeration; he weaves around the back of the sectional to swoop up his coffee cup, tapping his cigarette pack against his insubstantial thigh, and moseys down the hallway.

[Rain McKellar] One brother disappears in search of his voice; the other leaves for less polite reasons. Rain shakes her head a little when Howard vacates the common room. It brings her attention back to Mila, who has threaded herself into an armchair by now.

I sing a little bit here and there, the Galliard says. Rain's mouth quirks in small knowing smile and she nods, once and then twice, in understanding. Rain uses the same line herself.

"I spent some time there about a year ago, now," she says. There's an edge of wistfulness to it, but Rain lets go of it as soon as she notices it in herself. "It can be a lovely town," she tells Mila, which should tell Mila everything she needs to know about how Rain's time there went.

The Gaian turns her shoulder into the couch cushion so she can face Mila more fully.

"Do you live here too?" Rain asks, curiosity fueling the questions she asks to fill the quiet until Patrick or Howard returns. Rain's questions don't seem pressing; they're just friendly.

[Llewelyn] Anyone would think they were tag-teaming here; Howard vanishes to take a piss and Patrick re-appears as if on queue from his bedroom; guitar strap over his head, pick between his teeth. He raises his eyebrows at Rain and Mila when he returns and settles up on his sofa again; adjusting the weight of the instrument against his body and running a palm over the strings so they briefly hum with anticipation of song.

"You ladies got requests?" He asks absently, dragging the pick across the string again, and testing out the first few bars of a song while he tweaks the strings. "Or else I'm subjecting you to one of my own compositions."

A beat; his blue eyes are more alive now than they ever seem at another time and place. "Howard isn't here to object."

[Ivers] "Don't fucking play Joni Mitchell!" he yells from the bathroom.

[Llewelyn] "If you piss on the floor again, I'm gonna kick your ass." He shoots back, then turns with a apologetic wince.

[Rain McKellar] "Something of your own would be lovely," Rain says, with both encouragement and anticipation in her smile. It's always good to hear someone else play. It feels a bit more like home. "Unless Miss Mila has requests."

I'm easy, she says, without saying it. Because if she had said it aloud, Howard would have an even less charitable quip to chime from the restroom.

[Mila] "Really? Do you sing?" Her questions were to the lone kin in the room.

"It's a bit of a harsh place.. I'm happier up here. But I'm not looking for a big career anyway.." A slight shrug.

"Na, I don't live here. I have a place with one of my packmates in Lakeview. I just hang out here every now and then."

The reappearance of the other Galliard gets a glance and a friendly smile. "Uh - I agree, something of your ow would be great." That way, she wouldn't be tempted to ruin his little performance by chiming in.

She chuckled quietly at the banter between the two men - even if it were yelled from one room to another.

[Ivers] "HAh!"

And then he shuts up for a few minutes.
It's a Christmas miracle.

[Rain McKellar] "From time to time," she replies to Mila with the same knowing smile she'd worn earlier. It's of a vein with the Lord's here and there. Rain glances over to the guitar case leaning against the piano on the far side of the room, then settles herself better to listen to Patrick play. She doesn't admit to much musicianship, but it has to mean something that she carries her voice with her from place to place.

[Llewelyn] [Charisma + Performance (guitar, ya'll)]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 4, 5, 5, 6, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Llewelyn] [oh COME ON. I wanna impress the GIRLS.]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 6, 6, 6, 6, 7, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 7) Re-rolls: 2

[Llewelyn] [Champion. Thanks Kahseeno, you've got a brother's back.]

[-different playtest-] There's music upstairs. The bang! of the kitchen door slamming open downstairs doesn't qualify as percussion, though, and neither do the footsteps coming noisily up the steps. When the newcomer surfaces, he's pushing his hood down and yanking his gloves off, cursing under his breath as he trips on the spot on the loose board on the last step.

Then he's standing there at the top of the steps, looking at the collected Garou and kin in the room. He's frowning; he looks quizzical. He's wearing a big shapeless winter coat, dull grey, with some nondescript badge on the left breast. And jeans. There's a scratch on his cheek, as though from a recent tussle. He makes no attempt to smile.

None of this changes the fact that he is -- simply put -- so very, very, very pretty. The sort of pretty that makes one question his intelligence. The sort of pretty that makes one question his sexuality. Worst of all: the sort of pretty that makes one question his ability to win a barfight. Which might explain the scrape on his face.

He clears his throat: "This is the Brotherhood, yeah?"

There's an accent there. British...ish, adulterated somehow. His voice is a little hoarse, as though he's been shouting all night. That's also a possibility.

[Llewelyn] Patrick's camaraderie with his brother is at once amusing and reassuring. It was the bald and bawdy cat-calls of boys on the town, taking the piss out of one another for no real reason sans their own desire to do it. After exchanging a few remarks with Heir of the Ruined Day, the Welsh-born Galliard does what his auspice would bid he do a hell of a lot more than you actually witness him.

He starts to play; the chords are slow at first, and build into a soft, rolling melody.

i took her hand and led her down the way, through sun-warmed paths and fields that dream of better days

Patrick's voice joins in; and its a thoughtful baritone, a young man's voice that while not pitch perfect gave feeling to the lyrics he was singing. He looks up as the new-comer enters, but cannot do more at present but glance at him and nod once; dropping his face in lieu of closing his eyes and tuning out the world.

There's a heart-ache in Patrick's voice; a yearning that drives far deeper than words about love and courtship; it was the song of a lost somebody; and the absence that yielded a stronger, but harder heart.

she's gone away, these days are not the same, there are no more paths for me to walk without the ghost of you giving chase

The chorus fades into a faster paced bit of guitar work; and Patrick's brows are furrowed as he plays on, over and supporting any conversation that goes on.

[Rain McKellar] When musicians listen to one another play, they hear things in a different light than your casual listener. There's some attention to technique and theory, some idle fascination with chord progressions or picking patterns, but ultimately they're aware of a piece on so many levels that it's unfair to consider what Rain does as merely listening. There's a message, which Patrick conveys well enough to bring a hush to a crowded pub on Open Mic Night; and there's talent to back that up. But the emotion he bleeds into it is truly what still Rain and keeps her attention. Mere mastery is not enough, without musicianship to carry it.

She brings herself to look way, for a moment, toward the sound of footsteps on the stairs. It is a mistake. Rain's head and heart are still listening to what Patrick has to say but she's caught gawking at the pretty, pretty new arrival. He asks after the Brotherhood and it takes her a long moment to swallow, and then nod.

Having answered his immediate question, Rain turns her attention back to Patrick. But it would be unfair to say that the newcomer ever leaves the corner of her awareness. Some part of the kinswoman's attention is pegged to him, drawn to him like a compass needle follows a magnet. This is not merely physical admiration -- he's new, and in this place that like as not means Nation.

She sits a little straighter, and her body carries a tension that wasn't there before.

"I like what you did with the bridge," she tells Patrick, when his voice falls away and his hands begin to still. It's clear she would have more to say but... they have an unfamiliar audience.

[Ivers] "Ah, fuck me, not this shit again."

His bitching is half-hearted and audible seconds before he inevitably storms back into the common room like some sort of inebriated throwback to an age where rock stars could get away with big hair and obnoxious clothing choices and wearing sunglasses regardless of what time of day it was. Unlike the newcomer, who catches his attention almost as soon as the muddy-blooded Theurge rounds the corner, his accent isn't British, nor is he particularly pretty or perplexed.

What he is is chewing on a stick of gum, the bared teeth giving off the impression of being amused. His outfit is attention-grabbingly ridiculous, his drying, curly hair even more so, and when he opens his mouth, he isn't particularly loud, but he speaks with a purpose and a confidence that belies a profound, near-pathological difficulty with impulse control.

He lifts a hand to wave to the hoarse British-voiced newcomer, as if his mere presence wasn't enough of a prompt, and plants his hands on his hips.

"Don't mind those two, they're shy," he says, the last word dropping into a whisper. His voice shoots back up a beat later. "You need a room, man? Who the fuck are ya?" It's vulgar, but there is no grit, no malice in it.

[-different playtest-] Good thing Howard steps back in just then. The frowning newcomer doesn't seem to have much in the way of patience. He's raising knuckles to rap on the stair banister, opening his mouth to say, "HEY," when the Theurge addresses him, and his head snaps 'round thataway.

And Howard gets that same frown, as though he were trying very hard to piece something together. Puzzle Howard out. There's a pack over his shoulders, a bigass hiking backpack that kids take on trans-Europe railroad adventures, compressing his thick coat down around his sturdy shoulders. He shrugs it, redistributing the weight, and then his eyes flick around the room again before returning to Howard.

Pretty eyes, too. Intense and dark, a mutable shade of blue-grey.

"I'm new," he says, as if this weren't already apparent. That accent of his isn't much; it keeps getting blurred away one way or another. Military brat, maybe. Uncertain, international roots. "Guardians at the Caern had their hands full. Told me I could find room and board and a hot meal here."

[Llewelyn] It might be a good thing Howard steps back in when he does; but with the blue-eyed singer on the sofa; now leaning forward to study the unknown traveler, it was usually hard to pinpoint exactly what his reaction was going to be, anyway. He was such a study of minute, varying mood and temper -- one moment quite almost pleasant and easy going and the next as dour and depressed as any creature might be wont to be in a pique of Harano -- that he might just have hopped up and socked the pretty man with the backpack in the nose to spite him for having it.

Or, you know, he might do as he does, and say very little but watch him from beneath sandy eyebrows and a rolling cloud of Rage that drapes off him like a cape reshaping itself to a building after the breeze has lost interest in it. He's new, well, no shit, that's pretty well what Prayer to Broken Stone's eyebrow says in relation to that; and his gaze flits to Rain.

"Thanks," it's sincere, but there isn't the same answering smile as before.

He waits to hear who this guy is.

[Llewelyn] [WHY do I keep effing up his deedname? WHY? Prayers to Broken Stone. There is no possessive. Nngh.]

[Rain McKellar] He's new. That doesn't seem to be news to anyone, even the relative newcomers who great the anonymous pretty boy just now. Rain shifts on the couch and drops her feet back to the floor. She reaches up and rubs at the back of her neck.

"I reckon the kitchen's closed by now," she says, and Rain glances not to the newcomer but to Patrick and Howard.

"I can prob'ly find you something, if you haven't eaten yet," she suggests. It would get her out of the room while introductions are made, and serve a purpose in helping out. The kinswoman is already pushing her feet back into her shoes, while she waits on an answer from the Fianna True she knows.

There's too much pointed staring going on just now. After her excitement in the Green, she doesn't want any part of it if this escalates.

[Ivers] Whether or not Howard actually appreciates anything he comes across on a daily basis is questionable, given the fact that he routinely abuses everyone and everything that winds up in his path, but he's told Patrick before, once, probably while intoxicated, that he can appreciate other people's eyes even if he can't tell what color they are. It doesn't really matter, he supposes, so long as they have eyes, and even if they didn't have eyes if the rest of them was still intact he supposes he could hypothetically make do.

That's neither here nor there. The newcomer probably has very pretty eyes to match the rest of him, but Howard can't tell whether they're blue or green or purple, and the confused-looking guy can't exactly see where Howard's looking, either. His sunglasses are dark, near-reflective, and he hasn't taken them off even though in most cultures it's rude as all Hell to not look someone in the eye during conversation.

They're Garou, though, and eye contact oftentimes is seen as a challenge to those who are more in-tune with their wolves. Maybe it's a protective mechanism to reduce the number of times Howard finds himself in danger of having his ass handed to him.

Rain offers to fetch the guy food, and Howard scratches his curly head as he thinks.

"The fuck time is it?" he asks, as though it's gotten away from him. No matter: he presses on. "You're not a fuckin' Dancer, are ya? Tryin' to infiltrate the Sept--" The last is said with waggled fingers. "--and all that? No?" He doesn't really give the other guy a chance to answer before he's moving forward. "Alright, c'mon then, let's go find someone who can give you a key."

[-different playtest-] The stranger's eyebrows snap together; that crisp, chiseled jawline firms. "No," he says, forcefully. "That's not funny."

-- find someone who can give you a key, Howard is saying in the meantime. The newcomer glances at the others again, pausing long enough on Rain to bob his head once. "Thanks," he says, which one supposes is a yes, please. Then his eyes lock back on Howard.

"Okay," he says, and gives another shrug. Stuff in his pack jangles around. "Who owns this house, anyway?"

[Llewelyn] Patrick either doesn't altogether trust that this newcomer isn't of the Wyrm, or he's slipping into one of his random funks for absolutely no reason anyone can conspire to figure out. He does note that he's making Rain uncomfortable with the somewhat aggressive stance his tone, and eyes are adopting but he doesn't exactly back off, either.

Just, seems agitated by her own agitation; like that made sense.

Still; Howard is on the case and his pack-mate settles for answering the latter question as he pulls his guitar strap over his head, rising to his feet; which are, it should be noted. He must live here; nobody in their right mind would wander about without shoes in this weather if they didn't have a room to return to. "Pair of our Kinfolk own and run it; Reuben Coltrane and his wife, Jenny. You can't miss him; grizzled guy, sort of reminiscent of a bear."

He might be in jest; but his voice lacks the inflection to make that clear.

A beat; he holds out a hand to shake. "'m Patrick. They call me Prayers to Broken Stone."

[Llewelyn] [ahem, which are bare, it should be noted.]

[Rain McKellar] When Rain's feet are settled in her boots, she pushes herself up to standing. Her left arm is kept close to her side, wrapped across her middle. Howard had said she was shy, clearly that would explain her reticence to add to the conversation.

Thanks was well enough for a yes, please in Rain's book. With one more look to Howard and Patrick -- which is not as pointed as Patrick might imagine it to be, she heads for the stairs down into the kitchen.

She opens her mouth to say something (like as not, it's "You two hungry, too?") but they three are still mid-introduction so Rain shrugs it off and shuts her mouth instead. Besides, they're Garou. They come equipped with hollow legs and bottomless stomachs. Of course they're hungry, too.

The Gaian's footfalls on the stairs can be heard until she reaches the bottom level and disappears into the kitchen. By the time they've sorted out names, ranks and Tribes, she'll have something to warm to offer them. And then? Rain will gather up her things and head back to the Green. If there's a moment, she'll make mention to Patrick that she'd appreciate a hand with her car, someday -- if he's still doing his best Woken-up Mid-Hibernation Bear Impression, she'll say nothing of the sort.

[Ivers] "A bear?"

That stops him at the head of the stairs, long enough that he whips around to shoot his brother a look. Most of his facial expressions in well-lit environments rely on his brows or his mouth to make themselves known; this one has the former lifted up over the frames of his sunglasses. He laughs, then, once, not as noisily and forcibly as his usual brand of monosyllabic laughter tends to be, before shaking his head and turning to continue on down the stairs into the kitchen.

"Jesus Christ..."

For being as thin as he is, the Theurge makes a ridiculous amount of noise.

[Bridget] On the mention of bears, Bridget groans from whatever corner of the Broho she's been staying in for the last two days. She rounds the corner wearing some wierd oversized men's tee that looks like she dragged it out of some bin at the Goodwill and a set of women's track pants. Her bare feet shuffle against the floor like a sort of zombie. As she passes Patrick and the newcomer, the kinfolk stops, nods at them, shuffles around them while yawning and rubbing sleep from her eyes. She too wants to make a run to the kitchen.

"Bore da," she mumbles politely to Patrick. (Good morning).

[Ivers] [Thanks for the play, guys! I'm going to go pretend to do work until shift change, see whoever's still up when I get to Starbucks!]

[-different playtest-] The newcomer turns sideways to let the kin go by. Something in his pack rattles as it hits the wall. Something else gives an unhealthy crunch. He looks disgruntled, and he still looks half-confused. Maybe it's permanent. Maybe he's just dumb. Howard starts down the stairs too and he looks between him and Patrick, not sure if he should be following to find this someone-with-keys, but then Patrick sticks his hand out with an introduction.

There's a beat of silence. Then the new guy, flushing now as the warmth of the BroHo's heating system starts to overcome the chill of walking from the bus stop, shrugs out of his backpack and sets it on the ground. CLUNK. Clatter clatter. His gloves are tossed atop. Then he unzips his coat, stripping out of it, revealing himself to be a six-nothing ball of muscle that's still so

very

pretty,

and tosses that coat atop his other paraphernalia as well. He's wearing a t-shirt under that. He tugs the sleeves out from under his arms where they've ridden up after hours in that big old jacket, sniffs, and squares himself up. All this preparation for a name-giving: it's a bit puzzling, until he opens his mouth.

"Rémy Marcel de Tournières."

That helps place the accent. There's a bit of French rolled in with the British-Isles; a bit of everything-else too, really. His name, though: that comes off in perfect French. Normandy coast, if anyone's checking. Those intense eyes fix sharply on Patrick, as though daring him to make a comment.

"My elders called me 'Prettyboy' at my home sept, but I'm not a cub anymore. You call me that and I'll put you through a wall. We clear?"

[Llewelyn] "Hey," he says as Bridget groans and stumbles out of hiding with a yawn; then adds on something in a foreign dialect that might be mistaken, given his ancestry, as Irish. But the pronunciation on vowels was slightly different, to the discerning ear and Patrick certainly didn't speak it like he was fluent by birth; it was more a language his upbringing had given him credence in.

Or it was one that came from wherever his family were currently.

"Yn clywed gwella?"

Howard has vanished down the stairwell; not doubt in the quest for a man resembling a bear to ask after a room and food. Knowing his Alpha the way he did, he would resurface at the worst possible moment for anyone to do so ever in the history of time with a very inappropriate remark and either violence or many furrowed brows would ensue. So; Remy is pretty; guy pretty. Likely with the chiseled jaw and ancestry to back it up. But then; the guy he was facing down was not exactly the ugliest Galliard you were ever going to meet.

He had the looks of a surfer, honestly. Or a Welshman; but that wasn't to be known this moment. His hair was drying at present so stuck out at strange angles all over his head, Patrick kept it short on purpose and it did little but leave more time for the shock of his eyes -- they were the brightest, bluest things you could ever hope to look into and given the man's tendency toward mood swings; made him even more strikingly intense.

Therefore; intensity meets its bedfellow in the two creatures as the one now named Remy tells him his elders called him Prettyboy but if he does it; he'll smash him. Patrick reigns his hand in; apparently he's not too fussed if he doesn't shake it, he settles for crossing them over his broad chest and leaning back with a bit of a shrug. "Man, don't be telling a Galliard that. That's just mean." He gestures at Bridget, then back.

"This is Bridget, she's another one of our sort." Riff Raff? Irisher? Crooner to Gaian women world wide?

"Fiann." He adds; unnecessarily. "Where you coming in from, Remy?" He's moved back now, half perching his weight on a sofa arm; lifting one folded hand to scruff behind his head.

[Bridget] The trilingual Stag kin stops in her tracks and blinks a few times. She leans on her feet and gives Prettyboy a groggy once-over. Nothing terribly intense, just a glance. Some of her distant cousins on her dad's side are from Normandy, but she's way too tired to recognize the accent. Her mother's folks are Welsh. It's an odd combination, really.

If the Fianna kin were more awake, she'd probably be more enthused. As it stands, however, Bridget sniffs once, closes her eyes, and leans her neck into the hedonistic pleasure of a good stretch. After turning her head the other way, something pops and the well-bred kinfolk gives another yawn.

"De Tournières?" she offers in a daze. "Hmm... Bienvenue."

The accent in her French is very typically Canadian.

Patrick says something to Bridget in his native tongue. Bridget only knows a spattering of Welsh from her mother's folks, so her accent is off and a bit underdeveloped. She looks confused, puzzled. Maybe he's using a slang she's not familiar with.

"What about my hearing?" she asks Patrick.

He mentions that she's Fianna, and Bridget has a mind to introduce herself. She straightens up, pushes the crazy bedhead mane from her face, and offers Remy a hand.

"Nice de vous répondre," Bridget says. (Nice to meet you) "Bridget Geroux." She recites her name as "Jehr-oh".

[Llewelyn] Patrick looks at Bridget and her confusion is mirrored in the man's brow.

"What about your hearing?" It's somewhat comical; no really. He clarifies, between introductions. "I asked how you were feeling." The Galliard frowns to himself. "I hope."

[-different playtest-] Remy's good looks aren't his fault. That's the sort of thing you're born with, genetically imprinted for. That clean sharp jawline; those eyes, brilliant and dark at once. Not his fault. The rest of him, though: that's a deliberate and concerted effort. An effort -- perhaps ironically but perhaps not so very surprisingly, given that his elders had stamped him with the horrific cub name of Prettyboy -- to make himself harder. Less pretty. There's a lot of muscle packed on his frame. He mows his hair short. He doesn't smile much, and when he introduces himself with his unFenrirish french name, he squares his shoulders and drops his pack like he's expecting to have to go to the ground to defend his own honor.

He doesn't, though. Patrick makes a joke -- Remy tenses up -- but then he lets it slide and the solid young Fenrir rolls his shoulders and blows a small breath out. "It's better if you hear it all from me," he says. "When people hear on the grapevine it usually ends with broken heads."

Belatedly, he sticks his hand out after all. If it's taken and shaken, his grip is firm as one might expect. Bridget is introduced, then introduces herself. When she speaks in French, Remy's eyes flick sideways. It looks like instinct. It also looks like he's checking to see if anyone important is around to hear him reply in kind.

"Merci beaucoup." It's low, almost muttered. "Enchantée."

To Patrick then, "Fenrir Godi. Your people call that a Theurge. My mentor was a Skald. We traveled. My Rite of Passage was in Minnesota, but most of my Fostering was in Denmark and the Isles."

[Bridget] Bridget turns her gaze back to the Welshman. His clarification makes her giggle. "Oh, sorry. Welsh isn't my strong suit," she admits.

"Yes, I'm better now," she explains. The short, lean brunette lifts the corner of her shirt to show the well-healed pink of new scars on her left side. They would be a lot worse if Alethea hadn't helped her, and she would certainly still be on bedrest and likely howling without that bedrest.

To Remy it would appear the kinfolk has been shot with buckshot. Bridget grins up at the Welsh tribesman, letting go of her shirt. It occurs to her that she's a slip of a thing stuck in a room with two very well-built Garou. "You should see the other guy."

Clearly, she's been hanging around Caldera a bit much already. When the Godi introduces himself and watches to see if anyone's about to beat his head in for speaking French like it's somehow an unmanly thing, Bridget supresses a chuckle. No one ever accused Jean Claude Van Damme of being unmanly, or Jean Reno for that matter.

[Bridget] [without that help* Gawd it's 4am]

[Llewelyn] He's a Fenrir.

Of course he's a Fenrir, with a Silver Fang's name who was dubbed Pretty Boy as a Cub and is a walking mass of muscle that could probably take Patrick down with his pinkie finger if he flexed it the right way. Prayers to Broken Stone is a solid boy, that being said. It would at the very least be a rumble worth remembering; given his brain was still in one piece. "Dude," again with the Surfer likeness; though the Welsh born Fiann says it flatly, without any other likeness to the stereotype to which he's been given a similarity toward.

"I'm probably among the worst Galliards that Gaia ever spewed forth. Don't worry, you couldn't tell me much that outdoes myself or my Alpha's ambitions." Supposedly, that was Patrick's try at being comforting, or something near to it. At least Remy knew the kid could sing -- that was something he was supposed to be good at, right.

Fianna.
They drank, and played guitars and fiddled about under their Kinwomen's skirts.

Speaking of, Bridget lifts a corner of her shirt to show Patrick that she's healing and he turns, studying the wound like one might suppose Howard, or Remy would, given their auspice. "Nice," he commends, and briefly runs his fingers over the pinkening scars. His hand is hot; they all ran a few degrees warmer though. "You're gonna wind up with more than I have."

Then; back to Remy.

"I've met your Jarl, in that case. Her name is Kora, she who offers sorrow. She's a Galliard like I am; pretty, blond. Could probably break my face for saying that, but." He shrugs, a lose, careless gesture. "She's alright."

Such glowing commendation.

[Bridget] "Wait, Howard's the Alpha?" Bridget asks with certain surprise. "I thought it was the other way around."

Patrick pokes at the scars and Bridget shirks it off. "Hells yeah, who else is gonna protect you knuckleheads from the Dancers?"

Her sense of humor is rather off, but at least she can laugh about nearly getting shot down in the street and dragged off to a hive somewhere. Truth is that she didn't, and not only did she shoot back, she lived to tell the story. Of course the girl is going to brag about it, she earned those scars well.

And she is the daughter of a Fianna Galliard, after all. It shows.

[Warcry] The door to Room 1 opens and a young woman comes out.

No. Scratch that.

The door to Room 1 opens and a lithe monster comes out.

Wait --

But she's not waiting. She's walking out to the common room in orange-striped boxer shorts and a v-neck tee that was most certainly not made for the female form, and her hair is up in a messy ponytail and there's ink on the back of her neck and metal in her ears and some sinuous, dark tattoo around her thigh peeking out from beneath the boxers and some kind of intricate cuff carved into the flesh of her ankle and she stops in the doorway, dark circles under her eyes and a fight waiting to happen there in the room with them

just because she is.

She blinks slowly, a pair of blue eyes so opaque they come close to pale. Colorless. Bridget's there and okay; good to know. Bad she didn't check. Patrick and Remy, though:

"Seriously, how the fuck many people moved in while I wasn't looking?"

[-different playtest-] Remy's eyes drop automatically to Bridget's side, following movement. Following skin. Then he blinks; seems startled; looks away and busies himself hoisting his pack back onto his shoulders until the two Fianna were done with their little moment. His jacket now gripped in one hand, he bends and cranes to glance down to the kitchen through the stair railings. Straightens again.

"So how do I get a room key -- "

he breaks off; another newcomer. That semipermanent look of mild bafflement comes back on his face. Maybe it's just his idea of a Serious Scowl. Maybe he's dumb as a brick, and all that muscle has replaced what little brain he had. An awkward silence.

Then he raises a hand. "I'm new." He has a bit of an accent, muddled, mostly of the british persuasion, but really -- all over.

[Warcry] The fact that Remy is of Great Daddy Fenris's tribe would be obvious to Sinclair even if he weren't a purebred. He's a semi-compact slab of muscle who looks sort of stupid. She pins him with her gaze because he has the misfortune of deciding to speak up first, and cocks her head slightly to the side. Her nostrils flare, then relax.

"And...? Lemme guess. You're a Modi. Cliath. Your name is Hurt Locker or someshit." She makes a gesture with her hand, a rapidfire beckoning. "C'mon. Intro, intro. I can't make your Welcome to the Broho cake til you give me details."

It's entirely possible she's drunk. Or on Vicodin.

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon enters the building quierly enough. He was covered from head to toe, even his eyes were protected by shades as he wandered the icy wastes of Chicago on foot. Dark gloves protected his hands, and a thick black coat covered a hoodie which concealed his face. His bandanna had been drawn up over his face to keep the icy cool air out of his nose and mouth and to keep condensation away. It might not be as cold as it could be but is was damn well below freezing and Simon tended to walk wherever he went so that meant coming equipped.

He entered into the common room with the rasp of boots against the floor. He was quick to wander over to a table and pull his backpack off. Seconds later his coat was opened and thrown atop his backpack and his hood pulled off his head followed by his bandanna. He looked around at the others and nodded his head in greeting, but he paused at the one he had never met and let his eyes linger for a bit. Mention of the young man being a Modi has him curious. He hasn't had a chance to butt heads with a Modi though it is certainly something he would look forward to. You're not really a man till you've put a Modi on his back right? Friendly, healthy rivalry... It was a good thing to hold on to in this day and age.

He's quiet, though, his elder is speaking to the man so he will let her handle the matter.

[Ivers] Downstairs, the door to the kitchen bursts open, smacking against the wall as a skinny tornado makes his way back from his quest. Combat boots clomp against the tile floor, laces smack against the leather, and he takes the stairs two at a time yet without any great hurry. He'd lost the confused pretty boy several minutes ago, yet he was undeterred, stayed the course until he found a goddamn key.

He appears at the top of the stairs as though he was thrown rather than walking of his own volition. Over six feet tall and dressed like a drunk, blind rock star, he's wearing a hideous ensemble consisting of red corduroys, a powder blue t-shirt with a design meant to advertise a band no one's ever heard of, and a black blazer with a hapless leopard print design. He wears black aviator sunglasses that make difficult ascertaining whether he's attractive or hiding some hideous deformity. The man can't be far into his twenties, and when he speaks, his accent doesn't readily pin him down to a single geographic location.

"Jesus Christ you weren't fuckin' kidding," he says, briefly looking at the target of this newest outburst, "he does look like a bear!"

A hand creeps out to offer a labeled key to the newcomer, accompanied by a vocal approximation of the heavens opening up to shine pure light down upon the congregated. That's all Remy is given before something else catches the Fiann's attention.

"SImon!" he crows. "You're back!"

[Llewelyn] The Galliard looks down at Bridget mostly straight-faced, but there's a trace of wry amusement written into his voice. "Yeah, I get that a lot." Then, Remy starts to ask about that room key and then some pierced female that feels like she's about to turn into the Predator and rip your face off and shake it in the air appears; demanding to know how many people moved in while she wasn't paying attention.

The Fianna turns slightly and peers in her direction, his eyes unlike her own are vibrantly, completely blue. "I'm Patrick," he says without much preamble. "I'd guess a lot since I don't know you either. Who the hell are you?"

Then: Simon.

Now he draws Patrick's focus. The Galliard's eyes narrow a fraction. Of course, his Alpha has already burst on the scene and taken care of an initial reaction, there.

[-different playtest-] The young Fenrir -- though truth be told, he's about the same age as Sinclair, physically speaking -- looks uncomfortable for a moment. His eyes flick over her, take her in, measure her and weigh her and quantify her. He thinks about putting his pack down again, just in case he needs to throw down. He doesn't. He does lay his coat over the stairwell railing, though, and turn to face Sinclair straight-on.

His chin comes up. Jaw squares. He says it like he defies her to mock him for it, "I'm Rémy Marcel de Tournières. My cub name was Prettyboy, but if you call me that now I'll beat you down whether you're a Fostern or not. I don't have a deedname yet. I'm a Cliath Godi."

[Bridget] Bridget turns at Howard's shrill crowing. She spots Howard's hideous ensemble and giggles, but he notices Simon and Bridget congregates their general direction. Her attention is diverted to the hipster leprechaun and the brooding tank. Their altercation the previous night is on her mind, but she's namely just too excited to try to separate them.

The French Canadian shuffles barefoot over towards the two who are night to each others day. She looks like she just woke up, wearing black women's trackpants and some oversized mens' shirt. Her hair is a bit of a mess still, but it's out of her face, and she's no longer groggy.

She faces her tribesman, but looks to the Shadowlord for longer than is necessary while he eyeballs the prettyboy Godi.

[Warcry] The face Sinclair makes when Howard... enters... would include, typographically speaking, a greater-than or less-than sign paired with a capital O, but put simply:

she squints one eye at him, peering for a moment. There's Patrick and Howard and Simon and she gives the latter a small nod, because she knows him and hasn't yet felt it necessary to put his head through a wall, so that's something.

She feels Remy assessing her though, and swivels her head around to stare at him while he does so. It's not quite a challenge. It's not a pleased look, though. She's on the verge of snarling at him, it seems. Animal. Hungry animal, fighting dog.

She doesn't snarl, though. "Oh thank god you came, Remy, we were missing the be-chipped shoulder quotient around here for awhile." And for the sake of the whole class, she turns to look at Patrick then. Her eyes aren't quite as snarly now. Whatever's in there seems colder. "I'm Warcry, Brutal Revelation, Fostern Galliard of Cockroach and bonded to the Unbroken by Perun, and I'm doing you a goddamn favor not shoving your tongue into your throat. Surprise at all the newbs up in here is not the same as your little 'who the hell are you' snit. I outrank you and if you took more than a whiff of the air you'd have had the respect to introduce yourself fully first."

She wrinkles up her face, reaching up to rub at her head like she has an ache up there. "Chee-rist. Sometimes I wish I smoked. If I politely ask your kinswoman to go downstairs and grab us some whiskey, you think you and Simon here would chill and have a round with me?" She glances over at Howard and the new Godi. "You two... too. Obviously. Or whatever. Booze. What I'm saying is: booze. Fuck."

[Simon Zahradnik] He winced when he heard Howard shouting in his direction and his attention shifted towards him. His eyes were narrowed but he remained, relatively, controlled."Of course I am back... Why the fuck wouldn't I come back?"He asks the Fianna with a curious tilt of his head before unzipping his hoodie and peeling that down as well. The ink work that covers his arms is revealed at that point and the full moon drops the sweater on top of his coat and back pack.

He didn't look particularly annoyed or much of anything. He simply looked back at the Crescent moon and smiled a little before looking between the two of them."You look like you've been having a delightful time."He says with a slight smile as his eyes slide slowly over Howard's outfit.

Somewhere in there his eyes do flicker towards Bridget and he even offers her a little smile before nodding his head and closing his eyes in acknowledgment of the kin.

Somewhere in there his eyes snap back to Sinclair and he finds himself nodding his head."I would be honored to have a drink with you Rhya."He says back to her.

[Llewelyn] "Doing me a favor?"

Now, Howard wasn't the only member of Caldera with an issue sometimes when it came to holding his tongue. The problem with Patrick was, he tended to do it because he really just didn't one way or another if he lived or died as a result. That was the upshot of not giving a fuck, you understand.

"I don't think that bursting into a room and snarling at everyone is doing them any favors, -rhya. I don't care if you just woke up. And for the record," he leans back, tonguing his cheek. "I wasn't snitting." Beat. "But I'll drink with you."

[Ivers] Simon might have spared himself the devilish, gum-chewing grin and the resultant remark if Howard couldn't see his eyes moving over his form. Never mind that the attention is clearly on the ridiculous shit he's trying to pass off as clothing; Howard doesn't really need an excuse to try and wheedle other people, and Simon responding to his outburst means he's not paying attention as his brother manages to endear himself to the Fostern Galliard.

"Darlin', I always have a delightful time."

He turns back as introductions are made, and Howard's eyebrows, which are nearly as prominent as that mop he's calling hair, lift up over the frames of his sunglasses when he smarts off. He doesn't know what to say, which is a rarity in and of itself, so he just barks out a surprised laugh while he regains his wits. It doesn't take long.

"Patrick, shut the fuck up, man!"

[Bridget] Something's going on, but Bridget is a bit too distracted to notice it all. Somewhere in all of that, Sinclair the Scary indirectly asks the kinswoman to fetch something. Some would be offended, but Bridget just doesn't care. Not after what she's been through, having a taste of what they face daily.

Simon cooly acknowledges her. She makes a troubled face like someone just stepped on her toes and leaves before she's even been directly asked. There is a light thumping as the barefoot kinfolk decends the stairs and pads across the bar to retrieve a bottle or two of whiskey.

[Warcry] "Did I snarl?" she asks, borderline on a tone that might be genuinely curious. Howard barks that Patrick should shut up, and Sinclair just shakes her head, taking a step towards the other Galliard. "No, seriously. Did I snarl? Did I come in snarling, or did I just use a dirty word and you read a whole bunch more into it?"

She's watching him. Close. She isn't mocking him. And she seems to be waiting for a real answer, and giving him time to think about what that answer really is.

[Llewelyn] Howard is telling him to shut the fuck up, and for a minute, jaw taunt, he's listening, but then the Galliard Fostern is reacting and he's a little -- well, side-tracked, perhaps -- by what she's saying. His heart is starting to pound in his chest, and Howard can feel the thrum of his exhilaration at clashing with his potential demise.

"I didn't read anything that wasn't already there," he states in a flatter tone; at odds with his internal debate. "But then again, you're the Fostern here." He knows better, really. He's asking for a beat down; he probably wants it, he even drops his hands to his sides as if he's preparing himself for the first attack.

"Your word rules, and my Alpha is saying shut up." His voice doesn't even tremble. "So there's that, too."

[Cordelia] Her sister would be here tomorrow.

She wasn't sure why that thought made her both excited and sick to her stomach, but it did. Her sister was coming tomorrow, and all that that entailed. It meant there were going to be garou in her apartment. You know, her apartment? The one that's big and elegant and lonely? The one that she retreats to when she decides big and elegant and lonely is exactly what she needs? But no. No, now her little sanctuary where she goes to play house and be antisocial is going to be overrun with under-sexed, over-moody garou.

Which, you know, shouldn't be a problem. Cordelia spends a fair chunk of her time at the brotherhood- which is a place that is overrun with under-sexed, over-moody garou. Except now, she has no escape route. It meant she had to actually deal with garou. And deal with them touching her things and eating the food that she doesn't eat in the apartment. It doesn't matter that she doesn't eat it, because it's hers. She's become strangely accustomed to having things that were hers and things tha thse didn't have to share and things that she didn't have to give up and-

She has to share again. Inez was one thing, but her pack was something entirely different. Naurally, Cordelia concluded that the best way to deal with her sister was to make sure that she woke up tomorrow in her best form. That meant that, tonight, she was going to party her ass off and wake up tomorrow with a hangover. Yeah, she thinks, that's the perfect plan.

Alas, tonight had proven less-than-fruitful, so she was heading up the stairs, sober, and smelling like frost and night clubs. Which is to say that she smells like hints five different perfumes, none of which are hers. Her shoes are in one hand, and her purse is in another. And, with that, the stork tromps up the stairs.

[Warcry] Her eyebrow lifts. "You're one full of shit Fianna, Patrick. I asked if I snarled. And you're not answering. You're making this really adorable show of submission, which is admirable and all, but if you're going to be ballsy enough to be this much of a dick, go ahead and tell me if I snarled and demanded answers... or not."

She cocks her head to the side. "I'm not going to tell you to ignore your Alpha's orders, if that's what they are, but if you're wrong, own up to it. If you really think I came in here looking for a fight, then say it. If your pride can't handle doing either of those things, then we're really going to be starting off on the wrong foot, whiskey or not."

[-different playtest-] "I just like having it all up-front," Remy replies -- ostensibly to Sinclair, but she's moved on by now. He talks to the air, or to whoever might be listening. "You let the rumormill circulate the news and I end up having to crack heads."

It's around this time that Remy finally looks down to see what's been passed to him by Howard. It's a key. It has a number on it. Room 4. He pockets it, then scratches the opposite side of his chest with one hand. His dark eyes follow the conversation like it was a pingpong match: Sinclair to Patrick to Howard to Sinclair to Patrick.

There's a gleam of real interest in his eyes. He looks keen and avid, like a hound waiting for the horn.

[Llewelyn] Inexplicably; he grins.

Someone was enjoying this clash with their auspice better in his bare feet with no practical hope of winning out in this situation.

"Rhya, with all respect that I'm sure is due you, I get the impression after knowing you for five seconds that you're always looking for a fight." He lifts his shoulders; rolls them. "So, yeah. I'm sayin' I think you did."

He makes some gesture toward them stepping outside.

"You wanna come kick my ass, let's go. I'm down for it. I'm just that full of shit."

[Bridget] It takes longer than it should take for the lean, wolfish chit to ascend the stairs with whiskey in hand. In fact, she brings back two bottles of Wild Turkey and a stack of plastic cups because she'll be damned if she's gonna do dishes first thing in the morning. The collection is set unannounced and unceremoniously on the table.

Apparently, she returns in the worst or best timing. There's a fight brewing and she can sense it well. Thing is that the chit really just doesn't care at the moment. She pours herself a decent amount of whiskey, pulls up one of the lounge chairs towards the TV. The Stag kin pulls her feet up on the chair so her knees are at her chest. The cup of whiskey goes between her chest and knees while she turns the TV on and flips through until she finds a 24-hour sports channel playing a hockey game.

Edmonton Oilers. Feh. Pussies. They're not like Calgary, her favorite team hands down.

[Warcry] She throws up her hands. "Thank you. Now was that so hard?" she mutters, as though exasperated, and just... turns away from him, looking back to Howard.

"I like your coat. You down for whiskey?"

[Cordelia] There are people talking. There's talk about bashing heads and rumors and all she can think is oh god-

But, by that time, someone is returning with whiskey and she hockey. She toddles off to the living room, and plops down on the couch. the evening, it seems, could be rescued. She looks at Bridget, clears her throat "-who are the Edmonton Oilers?"

Hockey goes straight over her head.

[Ivers] The entire time, Howard stands on the sidelines gnawing his thumbnail like an anxious parent watching his small child play soccer for the first time, anticipating a broken neck or torn-out spinal column or something equally horrible. His persistent gnawing of his gum has come to a silent halt; perhaps he's seeing what it's like when Patrick has to watch him run off at the mouth to people who are bigger or stronger than he is. Howard is tall, but that's about all he really has going for him; there is no bulk underneath his clothing.

His eyebrows rise again when Sinclair addresses him, and he grins around his thumbnail. For his next trick, he takes his hand away from his mouth.

"I don't believe we've had the pleasure of making each others' acquaintance yet," he says, swaying forward so he isn't shouting across the room. "Heir of the Ruined Day, Cliath Crescent Moon... of Stag." A beat. "Yes. Yes I am."

[Warcry] "Oh my god, one of you knows how to introduce himself. I'm in shock. I could just faint from the surprise. Or waltz." All of this is dry. It's not even energetic enough to be dry. She already introduced herself, so she just notes: "A true and deep pleasure, Heir. True and deep."

With that, she goes over to the sectional couch and flops onto it, taking up far more space than a 5'6" woman should know how to do with mere body language, and...

chills.

[Simon Zahradnik] He smiles a little at the bickering between the two Caldera members. They were Fianna and flaring tempers and bad attitudes were considered bonding within the tribe. They, more than any tribe, could spill one another's blood one minute and be laughing and drinking together the next. So it wasn't really seen as harsh or... Upsetting. It was pack bonding!

His attention drifts from the others to follow Bridget across the floor, a slight smile on his lips. It was hard not to take notice of the kin as she strode through the room like one of those tasty little dancing and singing treats you see before the movie plays tempting you to get up off your ass and buy yourself some popcorn. He always noticed the kin, rare was the garou who did not. Simon couldn't help but chuckle a little as another joins her... Suddenly he finds himself tempted to pay a visit to the lobby.

However, his Elder had wanted to share a drink with him and Sinclair was one of the few he would actually dare defy. Partly because the woman carried herself more like a Shadow Lord than most folks here. There might even be a token of respect for the elder. She understood her position, and what she was. So the man-beast approached to join the others and share in a glass or two.

[Bridget] The stork of a kinfolk speaks to her and breaks the spell. Bridget snaps her head around to spot Cordelia, who she ran into once or twice but remembers well.

"Cordelia? Comment allez-vous, ma fille? Je ne t'ai pas vu autour de mois. Où avez-vous été?" There is more of a Canadian sound to her French, but it's there. (How are you, girl? I haven't seen you around in months. Where ya been?)

There is genuine enthusiasm now in the girl's voice and her face is alight. The collective breeding of the two of them is enough to make heads spin, but to each other it is just another meeting. Bridget grabs her cup and sips at it before gesturing to her side.

"Pull up a chair, chica. I'll fill you in."

[Llewelyn] Does Patrick look like he's pleased with himself? Standing up to the big bad blond Fostern?

Er... no. Not really. Truth be told he looks a little let down when she doesn't grab him by the neck like some scrawny kitten and drag his ass outside for a good beat down. But then, people have seen his like before, you get accustomed, you see, by your upbringing. Little Shits like Patrick may just be turning out to be, are so used to the rough treatment they start to crave it the minute they aren't on the receiving end of it every other minute.

Howard might just like him too much to repeatedly beat him into behaving.

Whatever, Sinclair goes and flops onto the sectional, and Patrick goes and sits his ass down on the same sofa he was playing guitar on earlier and collects up the instrument. In lieu of playing it though, he just starts tuning the chords. He doesn't make much more attempt to speak to Sinclair; or anyone, for that matter.

[Ivers] "Did this wanker not introduce himself?"

As though Howard hasn't been here for the entire exchange, hasn't been watching his packbrother execute a rather sloppy impersonation of him. He affects shock, hands going to his hips after he broadly gestures at Patrick at 'this wanker.' Walking closer to the couch, he pantomimes strumming an acoustic guitar with the verbal cue.

"Maybe we ought'a have you carry that fuckin' guitar around all the time, yeah? You can just sing your name and shit."

He could be mocking Patrick across the bond they share courtesy of Volcano, but for whatever reason, he doesn't. So long as they've been connected this way, he hasn't opted for that method of teasing.

"That's Prayers to Broken Stone. Gibbous Moon. I thought he was mute the first time I met him."

[-different playtest-] Sort of a let-down, that. All that buildup and no release. Remy rolls his head on his shoulders, picks his jacket back up, and then lets out a short, swooping whistle to catch Patrick's attention across the increasingly crowded room.

"If you're looking for a friendly throwdown," he says, "let me put my stuff down and I can meet you in the parking lot."

[Cordelia] "Je suis allé chez lui en Espagne, mais il a été un court voyage," she tells Bridget. Her French is... distinctly not Canadian. It comes very, very easily. Years of practice, or maybe she's just good with languages (hardly.) She looks at the couch, tries to determine where she can fit- Sinclair takes up a fair chunk of space. Cordelia ends up perching herself on the arm of the sectional.

"J'ai été éviter les ennuis," she says, and she holds her hands up like it's a scale. Her left hand tips to the side with her first statement, "rester dans le pétrin," and her right hand tips to the side this time. She tosses them both up in the air with little fanfare.

"Eh!"

She falls gracelessly onto the sectional itself and arranges herself more comfortably.

"What's going on?"

[Warcry] The floorboards have been washed enough they don't show their bloodstains as readily. This room has seen more than one beat-down that wasn't taken outside, that wasn't even taken to the umbra. Blood everywhere. That was before Sinclair's time, that was before the Unbroken left their Circle, that was a long, long time ago.

"No, this wanker did not," Sinclair says mildly to Howard, watching Patrick skulk over to his guitar and isolate himself from the conversation. Not that it's going to work. Poor sod. She's staring at him while Howard, the Alpha, the Theurge, introduces Patrick as the Galliard. One of her eyebrows goes up, then relents.

She's about to mock the man for being a shitty Galliard, not knowing that this would likely slide off of him like melted butter on Tephlon, but then Remy speaks up -- Remy, the Godi, she reminds herself -- and she looks affronted. "Well shit, son," she says, whipping her head back around to Patrick, "if you wanted a fight all you had to do was ask, you don't have to pick one. Fuck's sake, sometimes the lot of us just grab an empty hangar in the caern just to beat each other senseless. Don't be shy, man."

[Llewelyn] Then the Fenrir-formally-known-as-PrettyBoy-But-Don't-Call-Him-That hails him, and Prayers glances up; mid-tweak, as it were. The Galliard's eyes all but dance with exhilaration at the news he hears.

"Serious, man?" Patrick sets his guitar aside and smacks Howard in the arm. "Thank Christ. Let's go. You're gonna waste me, but I'm good."

[Llewelyn] He amends this excitement with attention to Sinclair: "I want to fight, Rhya." He's just full of false modesty.

What a dick.

[Warcry] "We will make a decent Galliard of you yet, you little fuckstick," Sinclair says, without malice, and -- if it's there -- she grabs a shot of whiskey and pounds it, getting to her feet after that. "I'll take the winner. Let's go to the parking lot." She claps her hands a few times. "Go! Move! RAR."

And barefoot, in boxers and a t-shirt, she goes stomping down the stairs.

[Ivers] "You," Howard informs his brother, snatching up a bottle of whiskey that he then uses to tap Bridget on the shoulder in a show of silent thanks, "are so bad at this. Did you see that?" He asks, as though they're alone; without prompting, he's moving towards the stairs. "You try to act like a cunt and it's the werewolf equivalent of just wantin' a fuckin' hug. You need lessons."

RAR.

The unlikely Alpha of Caldera lets loose a barbaric yawp and races after Warcry.

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon smirked slightly to himself as Prettyboy challenged the other Fianna to a throw-down. He couldn't help but find his eyes lighting up with a hint of hopefulness as he glances between the two. He was a full moon and the threat of violence always captured his attention. So he poured himself a drink and smiled just a little. He didn't say anything... He didn't need to. He would let the others lead the way and he would follow, if nothing else to see if Prettyboy there lived up to the Fenrir title.

[-different playtest-] Dear god: the pretty ball of muscle by the stairs cracks a smile. There's still a scratch on his cheek. His knuckles look oft- and well-battered. Small wonder that of all the possible things to tempt him -- including one rather purebred kinfolk's random little striptease -- it's the prospect of some facepounding that gets him to grin.

"OK," he says. "Be out in a minute."

He heads down the hall first. They hear him going -- two hundred someodd pounds of muscle and bone thumping his way down, reading the numbers on the doors until he finds Room 4. It may be currently occupied by his roommate; if it is, she's in for a nasty shock with Remy, great lummox that he is, rolls in and dumps his pack on the bed that was his now, turns right around and comes back out.

The room door slams. He doesn't even say goodnight or see-you-later or be-right-back to everyone else in the commons. He just goes trotting down the stairs, two at a time, jumping the last three to hit the kitchen floor, then the kitchen door. Then out.

The night is cold and clear. He's in a t-shirt, jeans. His breath is white in the air as he catches up to Patrick.

[Bridget] While the Garou discuss their current get-up-and-go morning attitude, the kinswomen chat in the lounge about sports, travel, and trouble. The last is one thing these two know plenty about. Bridget laughs at Cordelia's gesture and nods her head enthusiastically.

"Oooh. J'ai cette grande histoire!" Bridget says as the others escape the lounge to go throw down. She moves closer to Cordelia and takes up a spot on the couch, ready to gossip about her latest bout.

"Je me suis battu avec deux des Loups. Nous avons été pris en embuscade par les danseurs et cette salope m'a tiré dessus!" Bridget explains.

The kinfolk regales the entire tale to her, or most of it, where Bridget, Howard, Abbot, and Milo were ambushed by BSDs on the lunar eclipse, how none of them could take the wolf form, and how the BSDs got their asses handed to them and Bridget held her own.

[Llewelyn] Patrick all but jumps down the stairs.

Apparently he was in a rush to bleed. But then, kids like Patrick, they grow up bleeding, and don't think twice about the licks they take. For fuck's sake, give the guy some credit. He was a mopey fuck, but he was still a Fianna. He was made for this, right? Brawling and all that good stuff.

Maybe if we got lucky, he'd run off and write a song about his missing teeth.

Patrick has no shoes on; this guy is a fucking mad man. He's in a shirt and pants, and his skin prickles as soon as he steps outside; yet he smiles. "How you wanna do this?"

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon stays behind a minute or two. Taking the time to slip over to greet the ladies hanging out near the couch. Simon wanders up and offers a smile down to Bridget in particular."I'm gonna head out and watch this shit... Maybe see what the new guys can do. You're welcome to stay here or come watch, but it could get messy so if you do keep a little distance."He says before flashing a smile towards Cordelia."Nice to see you again."He says this before walking backwards towards the door. The two kin were hard to pull his eyes away from. There was only one thing that could pull the Full Moon's mind away from the very thing every young man spends 99.325677824117327484532176% of his life thinking about and that one thing was violence!

[Warcry] "Simon and Howie and I are going to drink. And you two are going to beat each other up," Sinclair says, seeming -- for once -- untouched by the cold. Or just not caring enough to shiver. She grabs the bottle of whiskey and upends a mouthful past her lips, then hands it back to Ivers. "Senseless, is what I heard. So til one of you is unconscious, I guess. Any other rules I think are fair game for you two to, y'know..."

she flaps a hand. "Work out."

[Ivers] [AND LO WHAT DRINKING THEY HAD]

[Bridget] [Drinking, gossip, violence... all before 7am. Jeez, they all might be at least a bit Fianna. Good scene all. TY]

[-different playtest-] Remy was all but running to catch up after his detour to his new room. Barely stayed long enough in there to do more than catch a whiff of his roommate, realize he didn't get his own room after all. Not that he minds. He's used to sleeping six to a room, triple-bunks on either side of a narrow walkway. Situations like that. Barracks, Fenrir style. He's used to having to guard what little turf was his to avoid the inevitable pranks, some vicious and some outright dangerous, that came his way. Half a room to himself -- it was a luxury.

Not one he takes time to enjoy right now, though. As we said: almost running to catch up. When he gets outside, though, and when his hairs instantly stand on end for the chill, he slows to a rolling, athletic walk. While Patrick's asking how he wants to do this, he's lowering his head, scuffing his knuckles over his short dark hair, giving his head a quick doglike shake. Sinclair's laying out something like rules or something. It's possible Remy doesn't hear a word of anything anyone's saying.

When his head comes up there's fire in his eyes. Without preamble, without anything so civilized as rules discussions, the young Godi charges in: fists and elbows and shoulders and feet.

[Llewelyn] Then the Fenrir-formally-known-as-PrettyBoy-But-Don't-Call-Him-That hails him, and Prayers glances up; mid-tweak, as it were. The Galliard's eyes all but dance with exhilaration at the news he hears.

"Serious, man?" Patrick sets his guitar aside and smacks Howard in the arm. "Thank Christ. Let's go. You're gonna waste me, but I'm good."

[Llewelyn] He amends this excitement with attention to Sinclair: "I want to fight, Rhya." He's just full of false modesty.

What a dick.

[Warcry] "We will make a decent Galliard of you yet, you little fuckstick," Sinclair says, without malice, and -- if it's there -- she grabs a shot of whiskey and pounds it, getting to her feet after that. "I'll take the winner. Let's go to the parking lot." She claps her hands a few times. "Go! Move! RAR."

And barefoot, in boxers and a t-shirt, she goes stomping down the stairs.

[Ivers] "You," Howard informs his brother, snatching up a bottle of whiskey that he then uses to tap Bridget on the shoulder in a show of silent thanks, "are so bad at this. Did you see that?" He asks, as though they're alone; without prompting, he's moving towards the stairs. "You try to act like a cunt and it's the werewolf equivalent of just wantin' a fuckin' hug. You need lessons."

RAR.

The unlikely Alpha of Caldera lets loose a barbaric yawp and races after Warcry.

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon smirked slightly to himself as Prettyboy challenged the other Fianna to a throw-down. He couldn't help but find his eyes lighting up with a hint of hopefulness as he glances between the two. He was a full moon and the threat of violence always captured his attention. So he poured himself a drink and smiled just a little. He didn't say anything... He didn't need to. He would let the others lead the way and he would follow, if nothing else to see if Prettyboy there lived up to the Fenrir title.

[-different playtest-] Dear god: the pretty ball of muscle by the stairs cracks a smile. There's still a scratch on his cheek. His knuckles look oft- and well-battered. Small wonder that of all the possible things to tempt him -- including one rather purebred kinfolk's random little striptease -- it's the prospect of some facepounding that gets him to grin.

"OK," he says. "Be out in a minute."

He heads down the hall first. They hear him going -- two hundred someodd pounds of muscle and bone thumping his way down, reading the numbers on the doors until he finds Room 4. It may be currently occupied by his roommate; if it is, she's in for a nasty shock with Remy, great lummox that he is, rolls in and dumps his pack on the bed that was his now, turns right around and comes back out.

The room door slams. He doesn't even say goodnight or see-you-later or be-right-back to everyone else in the commons. He just goes trotting down the stairs, two at a time, jumping the last three to hit the kitchen floor, then the kitchen door. Then out.

The night is cold and clear. He's in a t-shirt, jeans. His breath is white in the air as he catches up to Patrick.

[Bridget] While the Garou discuss their current get-up-and-go morning attitude, the kinswomen chat in the lounge about sports, travel, and trouble. The last is one thing these two know plenty about. Bridget laughs at Cordelia's gesture and nods her head enthusiastically.

"Oooh. J'ai cette grande histoire!" Bridget says as the others escape the lounge to go throw down. She moves closer to Cordelia and takes up a spot on the couch, ready to gossip about her latest bout.

"Je me suis battu avec deux des Loups. Nous avons été pris en embuscade par les danseurs et cette salope m'a tiré dessus!" Bridget explains.

The kinfolk regales the entire tale to her, or most of it, where Bridget, Howard, Abbot, and Milo were ambushed by BSDs on the lunar eclipse, how none of them could take the wolf form, and how the BSDs got their asses handed to them and Bridget held her own.

[Llewelyn] Patrick all but jumps down the stairs.

Apparently he was in a rush to bleed. But then, kids like Patrick, they grow up bleeding, and don't think twice about the licks they take. For fuck's sake, give the guy some credit. He was a mopey fuck, but he was still a Fianna. He was made for this, right? Brawling and all that good stuff.

Maybe if we got lucky, he'd run off and write a song about his missing teeth.

Patrick has no shoes on; this guy is a fucking mad man. He's in a shirt and pants, and his skin prickles as soon as he steps outside; yet he smiles. "How you wanna do this?"

[Simon Zahradnik] Simon stays behind a minute or two. Taking the time to slip over to greet the ladies hanging out near the couch. Simon wanders up and offers a smile down to Bridget in particular."I'm gonna head out and watch this shit... Maybe see what the new guys can do. You're welcome to stay here or come watch, but it could get messy so if you do keep a little distance."He says before flashing a smile towards Cordelia."Nice to see you again."He says this before walking backwards towards the door. The two kin were hard to pull his eyes away from. There was only one thing that could pull the Full Moon's mind away from the very thing every young man spends 99.325677824117327484532176% of his life thinking about and that one thing was violence!

[Warcry] "Simon and Howie and I are going to drink. And you two are going to beat each other up," Sinclair says, seeming -- for once -- untouched by the cold. Or just not caring enough to shiver. She grabs the bottle of whiskey and upends a mouthful past her lips, then hands it back to Ivers. "Senseless, is what I heard. So til one of you is unconscious, I guess. Any other rules I think are fair game for you two to, y'know..."

she flaps a hand. "Work out."

[Ivers] [AND LO WHAT DRINKING THEY HAD]

[Administrator] Ivers has left Caern & Surrounding Territories

[Bridget] [Drinking, gossip, violence... all before 7am. Jeez, they all might be at least a bit Fianna. Good scene all. TY]

[-different playtest-] Remy was all but running to catch up after his detour to his new room. Barely stayed long enough in there to do more than catch a whiff of his roommate, realize he didn't get his own room after all. Not that he minds. He's used to sleeping six to a room, triple-bunks on either side of a narrow walkway. Situations like that. Barracks, Fenrir style. He's used to having to guard what little turf was his to avoid the inevitable pranks, some vicious and some outright dangerous, that came his way. Half a room to himself -- it was a luxury.

Not one he takes time to enjoy right now, though. As we said: almost running to catch up. When he gets outside, though, and when his hairs instantly stand on end for the chill, he slows to a rolling, athletic walk. While Patrick's asking how he wants to do this, he's lowering his head, scuffing his knuckles over his short dark hair, giving his head a quick doglike shake. Sinclair's laying out something like rules or something. It's possible Remy doesn't hear a word of anything anyone's saying.

When his head comes up there's fire in his eyes. Without preamble, without anything so civilized as rules discussions, the young Godi charges in: fists and elbows and shoulders and feet.

[Administrator] Bridget has left Caern & Surrounding Territories

[Administrator] -different playtest- has left Caern & Surrounding Territories

[Administrator] Remy, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Administrator] Cordelia has left Caern & Surrounding Territories

[Administrator] the devil, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Llewelyn] Well, why is he shocked.

The Fenrir doesn't really deign to answer him in verbal terms, he just sorta, you know, charges on in there like a Roman at the gates. He's all fists and elbows and feet and Patrick lets out a yell in Welsh that could be anything from fuck to yes to come at me, bro and reacts; slamming against and tackling the Fenrir.

Garou.
You can't take them anywhere.

[Administrator] the devil has left Caern & Surrounding Territories

[Administrator] Eve, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Remy] [+7!]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4

[Llewelyn] [+6]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9

[Remy] [-1WP to resist pain!
-3Rage because THIS! IS! SPARTA!

1. headbutt to the gut!
R1. elbow to the nose!
R2. slam head against nearest hard object -- his own head if necessary!
R3. punch to the face!]

[Warcry] [1a. Drink
1b. Drink
1c. Laugh]

[Llewelyn] [D00d. I'm Fianna. What the Fuck.

1. Thump in the (pretty) face.
R1. Thump.
R2. In.
R3. Face.]

[Llewelyn] [1. Thump! Dex + Brawl]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 6, 7, 7 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Llewelyn] [Damage + Volcano]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 4, 4, 6, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Remy] [soak!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 5, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Remy] [headbutt to stomach = body tackle! dex+brawl vs 7]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 6, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 6 at target 7) Re-rolls: 4

[Remy] [don't fall!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 6, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Llewelyn] [HOLY FUCK]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 6, 7, 8, 10 (Failure at target 10)

[Remy] [damage = str + 5]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 3, 5, 5, 8, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Llewelyn] [Ow?]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 5, 5 (Failure at target 6)

[Remy] One can only imagine the sort of ribbing a Fenrir pretty enough to be dubbed Prettyboy by his elders would get. One can only imagine the sort of self-defense skills that might develop as a result of that ribbing. No Fenrir is a slouch at combat, not even their Godi -- but this one is a notch above baseline.

He explodes forward like a goddamn bull. Shoulders squared, head lowered, chin tucked. His head slamming into Patrick's stomach feels something like a wrecking ball. Remy's footing is solid: all that mass keeps his center of balance low and tight. Patrick scrambles back to his feet, and Remy demonstrates that he isn't, in fact, a Modi after all. Nothing honorable about an elbow to the nose, but it's certainly part of a modus operandi that aims for effective, quick, brutal finishes.

[Remy] [rolling it like a punch!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 4, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Remy] [oh fine, kahseeno. HAIL!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 5, 9 (Failure at target 6)

[Llewelyn] [Soaking LIKE A BAWS]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 5, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Llewelyn] [R1. PUNCH!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 3, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Llewelyn] [Damage + 0, what a tickle fest]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Remy] [soak!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 6, 7, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Remy] [nogginbonk! rollin like a punch!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 5, 7, 7, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1

[Remy] [dam +4]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 5, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Administrator] Ivers, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Llewelyn] [OW YOU FUCKER]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 5, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Llewelyn] [R3. SMACK! BOFF]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 5, 8, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Llewelyn] [God, really?]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 4, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Remy] [soak!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 3, 5 (Botch x 1 at target 6)

[Remy] [-1R to resist stun! R3 - i think i'm punching again]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 6, 6, 9, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1

[Remy] [dam +3]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 3, 4, 5 (Botch x 1 at target 6)

[Remy] After several seconds of slugging, neither Garou appears very near to hitting the floor. There's a fresh crawl of blood from Remy's nostril. There's a bruise forming on Llewelyn's gut. Other than that: nothing.

Remy wipes his nose on the back of his fist. "This is boring," he pronounces, "do you agree?"

[Warcry] During this little slapfest of theirs, Sinclair has been steadily downing the whiskey that Bridget brought up for the Garou. Poor Howard isn't getting much. Poor Simon isn't getting much either. The Fostern takes two drinks -- or three -- for each of their one. It's possible that the Fianna are moving her steadily upward in their estimation for this, but when she suddenly lets out a bark of a laugh at the two Garou moving faster than any human could only to smack each other like Girl Scouts

she collapses in the parking lot, all but dragging Howard and Simon down with her as she grabs hold of their sleeves. "YEAH!" shouts Sinclair, potentially violating some noise codes -- nevermind, not in this area. "Fuck yeah, motherfuckers!"

She giggles -- yes -- and slides down to sitting on her ass, legs akimbo. Her butt is gonna freeze. "This is SO not boring, this is hilarious."

[Ivers] Ivers and Sinclair have been passing a 750 of whisky back and forth since the fight started, the Fianna Theurge the only one of them, seemingly, who has made an attempt to dress for the weather. He's huddled into his coat and relying on the alcohol for warmth; he seems to be losing heat from laughing.

"When I said it was like you were askin' for a hug I wasn't serious! Jesus Christ!"

[Ivers] And: yeah. Down he goes with that tug to his sleeve. One of Sinclair's piercings is stronger than he is.

[Eve] Eve is tall. Eve is solid. Eve knows all the good trash piles in this city.

The only problem she's run across is that her peaceful, freezing sleep was interrupted by the sound of a good, solid ass-beating going on in the parking lot. The Gnawer frowns. She shakes her coat out, and inspects a ketchup stain on her arm. She frowns, and sniffs the stain. Eve determines it to not be a major issue and she toddles off to go investigate.

Oh, look, Fianna! And a... wow, that other guy's pretty. Eve scratches at the dried ketchup on her arm.

She comes just in time to see that she missed nothing.

"... aw," she says. The disappointment on her face could rival that of Keanu Reeves.

[Llewelyn] Patrick's lost his breath at some point; it went sailing out of his chest when he was tackled by the Fenrir. When the other denotes this is boring; he all but cackles; which for Patrick amounts to a soundless approximation of a laugh.

"Maybe if you'd actually hit me like you mean it, man. What are you, secretly Silver Fang?"

Oooh, low blow.

[Ivers] "Ohhhhh, shit!"

[Warcry] Sinclair positively howls. "BURN."

[Remy] [NOT COOL, MAN]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 7, 7 (Success x 1 at target 4)

[Eve] Eve chokes on a laugh, and covers her mouth quickly.

[Warcry] It's a damn good thing that Katherine and Asha aren't around to hear that. Katherine took long enough to get there, but she can put Sinclair down. Sinclair doesn't doubt that Asha could, if she ever had reason to. Defending the honor of her tribe would probably be a damn good reason. But the thing is:

Sinclair's drunk.

Sinclair's moon is in the sky, waning darkly.

None of Sinclair's packmates are here tonight. She's got Caldera and some new guy and Simon, who probably has little pink hearts in his eyes for her since she just joined in the Fang-bashing.

And the other night there was an eclipse of the moon, an eclipse of their wolves. Not a single one of them, thank god, knows how she felt about that, or what it's taking right now for her not to just be here. To be out of bed. To be conscious. To give a single fuck.

Katherine, likely, would chastise her and let it go. So maybe it's just lucky that Asha's nowhere to be seen, nowhere to overhear. Eventually Sinclair clambers to her feet, using handfuls of Simon and Howard's pants and sleeves to help, and she feels not a whit of shame about not getting up with nothing but her own power. Her ego isn't so fragile that she has to play the I do it myself! footstamping game of a fucking toddler, or something.

She takes the bottle one last time and drinks a swig, then passes it to Simon. "I cede my rights. You take winner. I'm going to go throw up."

And without further ado, heads quite purposefully back into the Brotherhood.

[Ivers] I'm going to go throw up.

Howard triumphantly--and silently--thrusts both fists into the air, then whips up the bottle of whisky and takes a long swig.

[Remy] The truth is, this would have happened anyway. Remy wasn't asking Patrick if he was bored of the slapfest yet because he wanted to chitchat. Or call it off. Or give commentary. He was asking because he was about to make it less boring by taking on a more lethal form.

But then Patrick has to open his big, Galliard mouth. He has to call him a goddamn Silver Fang, and of course Patrick can't know how many times he's been called just that through the course of his long, long, long fostering. Silver Fang. Sissy boy. Run home to France, boy, before Olaf Olafson-rhya mistakes you for his kinswoman and bends you over, yow!

Something darkens in Remy's eyes. A wave of Rage shudders through him, more than any Theurge had any right to. He spits through his teeth, sideways, never taking his eyes off Patrick.

An eyeblink later he's in another form altogether, the grey of his fur incontrovertibly showing his ancestry. His snarls ring off the buildings as he comes at Patrick. He's not fucking around.

[-1R for snapshift!]

[Ivers] "Whoa!"

Although he doesn't jump to his feet, Howard does snap to attention, as though there is anything he could possibly do to help his brother once he inevitably finds his esophagus torn out of his throat. He sits there, astonished and more than a bit impressed, and takes another, slower swallow of whisky.

"PATRICKTHERE'SNOSHAMEINRUNNING!"

[Llewelyn] Howard can sense something is going on, both from the sudden oh shit taken right from his brother's mind and sudden surge of activity from the parking lot. Remy has not taken kindly to his ribbing, thank you very much and gone into another form. Patrick gives an exultant little yip and follows suit; shifting into his Hispo form and coming right at the Fenrir.

For all that he's already wounded, there's no fear in the Son of Stag.

[-1R Snapshift to Hispo!]

[Remy] [oh right, i meant to hispo. @_@
-3R again!
1/R1/R2/R3 = CHOMP.]

[Llewelyn] [Preeetty much following suit here.

1. BITE CHU.
R1. BITE CHU.
R2. AGAIN
R3. ONCE MORE.]

[Llewelyn] [1. RAR BITE!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 4, 4, 4, 5, 7, 10 (Success x 3 at target 5)

[Llewelyn] [Damage + 2 + Volcano + Hispo]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 2, 4, 8, 10 (Failure at target 6)

[Remy] [soak against autodam!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Remy] [1. REMY ANGRY REMY SMASH!]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 3, 6, 6, 6, 7, 9, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 7 at target 5) Re-rolls: 3

[Remy] [pulling damage if necessary -- dam +6]
Dice Rolled:[ 14 d10 ] 3, 5, 5, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 9 at target 6)

[Llewelyn] [IIIIIRK. *dying noises*]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 7, 7, 8, 8, 8 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Administrator] Night's Reprieve, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Administrator] Warcry has left Caern & Surrounding Territories

[Llewelyn] [R1. Bite, -2 wound penalties]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 4, 6, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 4 at target 5)

[Llewelyn] [Damage + 3 + Hispo + Volcano]
Dice Rolled:[ 12 d10 ] 2, 3, 4, 4, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6)

[Remy] [soak!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Remy] R1. CHOMP!
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 4, 6, 7, 7, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 4 at target 5) Re-rolls: 1

[Remy] [dam +3]
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 4, 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Llewelyn] [Soak]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 5, 6, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Llewelyn] [R2. Bite -wound penalties]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 1, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 1 at target 5)

[Llewelyn] [Damage + 0]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 3, 4, 4, 6, 10, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Remy] [soak!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 2, 5, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Administrator] Milo, welcome to Caern & Surrounding Territories (Now)

[Remy] R2. CHOMP moar!
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 2, 6, 6, 8, 8, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 5) Re-rolls: 2

[Remy] [dam +3]
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 1, 2, 3, 6, 7, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Llewelyn] [Soak!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 5, 8, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Llewelyn] [R3. Bite once more!]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 2 at target 5)

[Night's Reprieve] The Godi walks out into the parking lot.

No, the other Godi. Night's Reprieve, drawn by the unmistakeable sounds of werewolf combat, wanders across the concrete with his eyes locked onto the fight. It isn't until he gets closer that he pulls out a familiar face in the small crowd, one Howard Ivers. His eyes flick down to the seated son of Stag and he raises an eyebrow.

He looks excited, like only a Fenrir could in such situations - or like a Fianna should. His nostrils flare and his eyes look alive.

"That your boy in there?"

[Llewelyn] [Damage + 1]
Dice Rolled:[ 10 d10 ] 4, 5, 6, 8, 8, 8, 8, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 8 at target 6)

[Ivers] Let's get something out of the way before we get too much further: Howard has been drinking whisky as though it has suddenly turned into water in the bottle, only to turn back into whisky once it hits his stomach. He's Fianna, which means he has the ability to put up a fight against whatever poison enters into his system; he just chooses not to use it. There is no conceivable reason why he would want to stave off intoxication.

The Theurge is sitting cross-legged on the cold concrete, wearing an outfit that is pretty standard by now: boots, red corduroys, a band t-shirt and that hideous black blazer with leopard print trim. Aviators are in place despite the fact that it's dark as Hell out here, and as the Godi is asking what Caldera's less obnoxious member and... the other... Godi are up to, Howard's mouth is dropping open. A moment later, he's yelling in what sounds like a mixture of horror and jubilation.

"Patrick are you kidding me!"

He thrusts the bottle of whisky at Night's Reprieve, then makes a valiant attempt to get to his feet. Given that he's Fianna, and of Irish descent, he was likely born with a blood alcohol content too high to legally operate a motor vehicle; it still takes a supreme amount of concentration to stand up.

[Eve] Eve looks to the left.

Eve looks to the right.

Eve looks at the pile of hispo wolves and sighs. She takes off her coat. And reverts to breedform.

[Hum dee dum, goin' to crinos]

[Remy] Most the onlookers are having fun. Hell, Patrick's having fun. Remy ... doesn't look like he's having fun.

Make no mistake -- he was[i] having fun. Then those two fateful words left Patrick's mouth, and shit got real. Fur popped out, teeth started clashing, and truth be told there's more fury than finesse in the Fenrir's form tonight. It's like he's so angry he can't see straight. Can't think straight. Once, twice, he goes at Patrick blindly, inexpertly, his teeth barely even making an impression on the other wolf's hide. Once, or perhaps more than once, he had the opportunity to just [i]end it once and for all,

and missed because he was too fucking angry to see the opening.

And he all but ignores his defenses. Doesn't slow when the Fianna tears out a good chunk of his entrails. Even when Patrick comes at him with that last, devastating bite -- enough to kill him, if the Fianna wished it -- there's nothing but unrelenting fury in the young Godi's eyes.

He goes down in a bloody heap. He's still snarling weakly, bloody teeth bared, eyes glassy, rolling to track the Fianna.

[Remy] Most the onlookers are having fun. Hell, Patrick's having fun. Remy ... doesn't look like he's having fun.

Make no mistake -- he was having fun. Then those two fateful words left Patrick's mouth, and shit got real. Fur popped out, teeth started clashing, and truth be told there's more fury than finesse in the Fenrir's form tonight. It's like he's so angry he can't see straight. Can't think straight. Once, twice, he goes at Patrick blindly, inexpertly, his teeth barely even making an impression on the other wolf's hide. Once, or perhaps more than once, he had the opportunity to just end it once and for all,

and missed because he was too fucking angry to see the opening.

And he all but ignores his defenses. Doesn't slow when the Fianna tears out a good chunk of his entrails. Even when Patrick comes at him with that last, devastating bite -- enough to kill him, if the Fianna wished it -- there's nothing but unrelenting fury in the young Godi's eyes.

He goes down in a bloody heap. He's still snarling weakly, bloody teeth bared, eyes glassy, rolling to track the Fianna.

[Llewelyn] Now, Prayers to Broken Stone wasn't decent at much.

He could string a sentence together when the occasion called for it, and he could hold a tune, but he was never going to be a great Galliard. He was really pretty alright about this, too. It didn't keep him awake at night, the thought that somewhere, someone had a story that he wasn't recording. A song he wasn't singing. He was pretty confident his brother would take care of his own family, and probably his meager deeds, too.

But he could scrap, when the time came for it.
He knew how to toss an insult and wedge it right there in the ribs.
Heck, he'd learned from the master; the same one yelling and hollering from the sidelines.

When the Fenrir goes down, and Patrick; no more and no less a bloodied and bleeding wolf form at this stage witnesses it; he stills and merely looks down at the Fenrir. His gaze marks him; as solidly as the Fenrir does he. This isn't done, the eyes say, at least on Remy's side. On Patrick's, they are more respectful.

A good rumble did a lot to raise in the estimation of a Stag.

Howard is attempting to stagger over to him; his Hispo shaped pack-mate sits; ears flicking; fur matted and bloody in spots.

[Night's Reprieve] NR looks happy, like this is the best thing he has seen all week. And truth be told it has been far too long since he saw the Gaians here at Maelstrom going at each other. It does not happen often enough for the Godi's liking. In fact, the last time he drew the blood of a Gaian was against his own cousin for control of a pack, at least real blood anyway. A casual smacking in the mouth with the blunt end of his spear doesn't count.

He takes the bottle from Howard and then turns back to the fight. Or what's left of it.

"Good job Patrick." He says to the sitting Hispo and crosses towards Remy, careful not to get within biting distance of the snarling Fenrir.

"You want a heal?" Is all he says, raises an eyebrow. Which is the correct answer Remy? Who knows.

[Milo] It's not the sound of snarls and growls that draw a quiet and unassuming young man toward The Brotherhood of Thieves. It's the fact that he has nowhere else to go. And the thing is, there is no reason why Milo Sweeney is still in Chicago. He hopped off a bus destined for further east the night of the lunar eclipse, and he never got back onto another one. Instead, he sleeps on whatever spare bed is available on the second floor, and then he gets up and goes out looking. Probably for a place to live that doesn't include one obnoxious, curly-haired guy who calls him Miley. Maybe even to get away from naked dudes walking around the common room like it ain't no thang.

No one knows, though, because Milo's just so quiet.

He's headed back in tonight, dressed in jeans and sneakers, and a hoodie beneath a wool coat. It's entirely possible that, even without trying, he could blend into the shadows in those clothes. What draws the eye is the abomination on his head. That hat. It has too many light colors to have been made for a male, and is too colorful to allow him to escape notice. Still, he stops when he sees the Hispos and the Crinos, his eyes wide before dropping to the pavement. He could try to slip past, try to disappear inside, never to be seen for the rest of the day, at least.

He doesn't. Instead, he steps forward, stopping beside the Crinos Garou and looks up.

"Hello."

[Eve] Eve stands there, like a ten foot tall matted, daunting death machine. Gnawers should be poorly nourished. Eve's... well, Eve's fairly solid. Her hair isn't coming out in clumps, she's not missing any of her teeth or her claws or has a second head or anything like that, which begs the question: what the fuck is wrong with her. We aren't discussing her metis-status, though. We are discussing her body posture, which is only mildly interested. She folds her arms across her chest, inhales, and sighs.

Damage control. Ish.

The Child of Gaia, however, stops by her. Eve looks down, and cocks her head to the side. She nods upward, which in homid would be a close approximation of 'sup?

[Ivers] The arrival of the wide-eyed Child of Gaia in a hat nearly obnoxious enough to hang in the closet next to any of Howard's articles of clothing isn't enough to detract Howard from his beeline once he's gotten to his feet. Now, he walks like a newborn colt even when he's sober, as though he never grew accustomed to the height his body attained after puberty, or as though what they say about the Fianna is true, but when he's drunk he acquires a singleminded purposefulness that carries him in as straight a line as he's likely ever liable to walk.

"Christ, man, you think you're a fuckin' Full Moon'r somethin'?" he asks; at least, that's what he tries to ask, English being his second language and alcohol being his first love combining to make speaking coherently an abundantly difficult task.

Patrick knows how he is with even mildly difficult tasks: he can't be fucked.

"Look at you! You're all... fuck!"

The eviscerated Godi doesn't draw his attention just yet. Howard crashes to his bony knees on the asphalt to get a better look at his dire wolf packbrother, his sunglasses remaining on even though one would think that would only impede his progress, and holds out his hands as though he's about to ask something profoundly important.

"Christ! Hold on! Fuck! Alright... alright, I've got shit upstairs. Alright. Fuckin'... fuckin' shift and go back to the room, Patrick, you two are fuckin' retarded!"

Underneath the faux panic and the crippling inebriation, though--somewhere underneath all of that refusal to adhere to standard and follow the damn Litany--there's pride: Patrick, tired brooding Harano-bound Patrick, didn't get his ass beaten by the newcomer.

Suck it, Fenris.

[Remy] Remy doesn't need a fucking heal. Werewolves get their heads cut halfway off and stand up again in twenty seconds. Three seconds go by, and the grey hispo is pushing at the asphalt with his great paws, unsteady at first, then resolute. He's not so pretty like this. He's bleeding, gashed open, all teeth and glaring eyes, a horror to behold.

He snarls at his tribe- and auspicemate first: "Don't touch me."

Then those ferocious eyes go to Patrick. There are some Garou can who leave a brawl where it happened: on the ground, in the gutters. There are others who can at least muster the honor to submit gracefully. Remy, it appears, is neither on this particular subject. Blood-tinged spittle flies as he snaps and snarls at Patrick:

"You spared my life. I'll forgive your insult. But the next time you mistake a Son of Fenris for a Silver Fang, you better be ready to kill or die by your error."

[Milo] It would be easy to mistaken Milo for a kinfolk. He doesn't carry much Rage. He doesn't look the sort to instill fear in others merely by existing. He looks like just some corn-fed white boy, staring at a world beyond his comprehension with wide, clear blue eyes. He looks like a sudden loud noise would send him screaming for the hills.

But he stands beside a war-formed monster and just says hello. How's it going. Nice day, huh.

He watches the Get of Fenris lying on the ground, guts spilled onto the pavement, still snarling at the onlookers, and he can't help but feel a measure of respect. Of course he thinks he's being ridiculous, refusing to surrender, but that's the Get for you.

Howard is tottering around like a drunken fool, going on about shit upstairs, go back to the room. Looking up at Eve, he offers her a wave in answer to her 'Sup. Stepping around her, he heads for The Brotherhood.

[Llewelyn] Prayers to Broken Stone hears what the Fenrir says first; and tilts his massive Crinos head to one side as if to say aroo to the entire thing. But he understands, he must; for after Howard is at him and telling him he thinks he's a Full Moon or something and to shift and fuck and he has shit upstairs -- he form shifts until he's again that young blond guy Remy met upstairs but now he's got a wounded side and his lip is bleeding; he's actually licking it as he turns; Homid clad to regard that Fenrir one last last time.

He nods at him; a subtle chin up, and then sets a bruised hand on his Alpha's shoulder as he passes.

"Goin', now."

His voice a rasp, he's tender with his side as he goes; barefoot, inside.

[Night's Reprieve] There is a grin on NR's face and he nods his head at Remy, steps away from him to take a better look at Patrick, the winner. If truth be told NR couldn't say he thought he had it in him, there is respect growing there. He took down apparently one of his own tribe. Not an easy task.

After the little spaz-fit from the Fenris, Night's Reprieve makes a hmming sound from between pinched together lips.

"You're new here." It isn't a question. "Come see me when you're not bleeding everywhere."

And he takes a swig of the whiskey before almost handing the bottle back to Howard. But the theurge looks well past drunk, so he decides to hold onto it. Damage control.

"What's all this about killing and dying?" He asks Howard, he wouldn't get a straight answer out of the Fenrir if he tried. Not in his current state.

Here he was thinking they were just having a friendly tussle.

[Ivers] "Y'know," he says, lazily turning at the waist to address the newcomer, "there are some very nice Silver Fangs out there. I've never met any of 'em... which is probably why they're..."

Even Howard can tell when a joke isn't funny; either that or his brother's hand on his shoulder shuts him up. He nods, the motion loose, then grabs onto Night's Reprieve's arm to get to his feet. It's fair timing, since the Godi is asking him for information. Tit for tit, right?

"Patrick and Remy were havin' a regular ole tickle contest," he says, holding up a finger to indicate No it's okay I can stand, "and then Patrick asked Remy if he was a Silver Fang, yeah? And then that happened." He's not drunk enough that he doesn't know where his cigarettes are. "So, Patrick does it again, Remy kills him." Cigarette between his lips, he mumbles, "Sounds fair enough to me."

And there goes that goofy fucking hat.
A slow grin spreads Howard's lips, and he starts after the Ragabash.

[Administrator] Llewelyn has left Caern & Surrounding Territories

[Eve] Once all is said and done, Eve takes a second, and pops back down to homid... which takes a considerable amount more effort than going to crinos did. She doesn't do much to hide the look of quiet disappointment that comes with finally hitting homid. She frowns, and picks up her coat. Coat goes back on, and the ketchup stain's still there.

"Y'all got a waterhose?" she says, "should probably hose this off 'fore they start gettin' customers."

Ever the eloquent speaker.

[Milo] Milo doesn't know about hoses or the kind of clean up this bar is capable of. He should learn that, though, if he's staying. Is he staying? Even he doesn't know, not really.

He doesn't offer to help in place of the two -- three counting the one wounded on the ground -- Theurges. He doesn't offer to help clean up, either. He just slips in the back of The Brotherhood, removes that hat of his, and starts to unfasten his coat.

He should know. He should have some sort of Howard warning sense to let him know the drunk man is determined to catch up with him. He doesn't, though. In this new city, surrounded by strangers, fitting in only on the outside of their established society, everyone makes Milo uncomfortable. Everything sets off his danger sense.

He'll learn, though. Soon enough. He'll learn.

[Remy] Nothing but short snarls answer ... well, just about anyone who's talking to, or about, him right now. His eyes stay fixed on Patrick until the other shifts down, turns away, goes away. Then, slowly, the Godi shifts down himself, stopping just short of his birthform.

There's blood all over the asphalt. His, the Fianna's -- pure blood in either case, not that any mortals frequenting the bakery in two, three hours is likely to know the difference. People are talking about cleanup. Remy wants to leave it to them, limp away and heal himself up and lick his metaphorical wounds on his own time.

He doesn't. He clears his throat, hoarser now than before from shouting, from snarling, from swallowing blood splashed warm into his mouth on every bite, and raises his voice enough to offer, "Leave it. I'll clean it up after I change and patch up."

Not much of a delay to see whether or not the others leave it or not. He turns and heads inside, stomping up the stairs to room 4.

[Eve] "Eh," she says, and with that the metis lumbers back to her trashcan. Nice interlude, but... well... her trash pile beckoned and Eve wasn't going to keep it waiting.

[Eve] [Shalom, loves!]

[Remy] [thanks for the RP!]