spirit combat.

[Patrick Llewelyn] He'd consulted the open mic listings for the evening, and low and behold there was an Irish Pub with one for a Monday evening in the city.

4530 N. Lincoln Avenue turned out to be The Grafton Pub & Grill, and old fashioned establishment with an L shaped design. Wooden tables ran the length of one side upon entry, and a row of chairs set up against a counter along the other. The bar had quite the array of drafts on hand up toward the corner most juncture, and branched off into a back seating area with soft lounges set around low coffee tables and complete with an open fire. For all that the place bore an Irish flavor, it was not filled with brogue-speaking servers behind the bar.

It was, in actual point, quite like most other venues of its caliber in the area.

There was no stage set up at the Grafton, rather musicians lending their talent to the place sat in a corner with a microphone and chair; playing to the patrons seated and standing, milling and talking. It was, the Galliard supposed, intended to promote a more intimate experience. Here, you were not on a stage above the crowd, but part of them. It did, however, make focusing slightly more of a challenge.

Those performing were seated at tables around the long front bar area, a scattering of guitar cases and singers.

There had been two women on stage before Patrick exchanged places with one, briefly congratulating her in an undertone. For his own performance however, the Galliard was paced. Patient. That he had some skill with the guitar in his grip was evident in the manner he coaxed its rhythm along with the slower, bluesy song he chose to sing. It was not a known composition, and many listening must have supposed it to be his own.

It spoke of home, and of what lands a person might fight to see again, at what cost. Nothing deeply original to its context, but those who knew what he was, or perhaps who he was, could see the deeper significance to the choice. When he finishes, there is polite applause; and some whistling from the over-eager drinkers at the back. The Fiann murmurs something like a thank you into the mic, and rises; plucking up a glass of beer set beside him on a small table.

[Patrick Llewelyn] [I'm always afraid to roll this. Did he do alright?]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 5, 5, 6, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1

[Imogen Slaughter] Her pure breeding infiltrates the pub like a miasma. It seeps between the humans, unremarked by them, but indelible to him.

The kinswoman is sitting in a corner booth, alone, with a pint of beer on her table. The pub is an intimate affair, the kind of place one goes as a serious musician (where you can see the whites of the eyes of your listeners), and as a serious music aficionado. The beers are best on draft, and the food is a cut above most pub food. The fake Irish style is not quite so forced, here. The employees and owners and musicians tend to truly love Celtic tradition, rather than put it on as a costume for a gimmick.

The kinswoman is dressed in jeans, a light blouse beneath a heavier sweater. She has no instrument with her, but her fingers tap in time with the music, keeping perfect time as the next singer strikes up a song - a traditional ballad.

Her eyes had been on the new singer, but as Patrick moves among the crowd, the once-Fianna kinfolk's gaze shifts, moving toward him. Should their eyes meet, she will nod, however slightly, in acknowledgement.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Most often of late when someone meets Patrick Llewelyn, he's dressed in a navy blue work-suit best seen on repairmen and smells, rather potently, of motor-oil and car grease. It was not all that common to meet of his ilk that enjoyed working days at a very human occupation but it was something that the Galliard did for reasons two-fold. For one, it helped steady his anger, burned down his energy to levels he could readily control and two, he found it a genuinely stimulating occupation.

Fixing cars, re-building them from scratch.

There was a lot that was to be said, after all, for honest work done with your bare hands. Tonight though, as he moves through the crowd, his guitar case solid in one hand, his other taken up by a glass of beer he's dressed to match those whom he was performing for. His leather jacket was not new, but scuffed and worn enough that it could have been designed that way to begin with. Paired with it was a long sleeved button down dress shirt almost the shade of his eyes and jeans.

His hair needed very little altering; it was kept too short to matter much what he did to it.

When his eyes meet the red-head Kinswoman, it is not for the first time he's seen her; it can't have been with her breeding. She must know that, perhaps its why her eyes seek him out as he's moving nearer to her and he alters his direction to pass toward where she sits, pressed into a corner booth.

"Didn't know I'd be playing for a familiar face," he says by way of greeting, and cants his head toward the empty half of the booth. "Mind?"

[Patrick Llewelyn] [This is where we are, newcomers! http://www.thegrafton.com/media/ ]

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen leans back as he approaches, an accommodation she makes for his height, tipping her head back to look at him.

"S'not tha' familiar," she points out, a little wryly. He cants his head toward the empty half of the booth, and she moves her hand in a brief gesture toward it. "Be my guest." Her hand lowers but not to the table, instead to the pint glass which she picks up and from which she drinks deeply.

"You're not bad," she observes, mildly.

[Patrick Llewelyn] His mouth twists a little and he slides the guitar case in first, and sets it against the wall before slipping in after it.

"At least I could pick you out of the crowd when you heckled," he counters evenly, and frames big hands around his own pint of beer, rolling it slightly from side to side so the froth drapes over and over in circular waves against the sides of the glass. He doesn't bother to remove his jacket, which could read either he doesn't intend to stay long or he's not comfortable sitting there overly long with her.

If anyone was hyper aware of how stifling their own company could be, it was this man.

Being near him, while nothing remotely close to the impact of a full moon, was an experience, none the less. She comments that he isn't bad, and he lifts both shoulders in a slight shrug as if to say what can you do, apparently so while studying at once the bar's occupants, and her face, or the suggestion of her expression out of the corner of his eye. "You play, too, don't you? That or you enjoy haunting open mic nights."

[Drew Roscoe] The day had been a busy one, and nothing said 'come in and relax' like a pub that boasted Irish roots. The interview had gone precisely as swimmingly as Drew had expected-- she had a good word put in for her, and her charm and bright, warm smile had only sealed the deal. They handed her paperwork on the spot and she'd spent a good two or three hours that afternoon working on human resources and benefits paperwork.

Immediately following that had been a considerably lengthy phone conference in regards to real estate, which she'd made while taking up space in a quiet, warm area with a bottle of water and a notebook open in front of her. The sun had set by the time she was back out on the sidewalk, and while she felt like she'd accomplished much she also felt like the day had taken a lot from her, and she needed to win it back with a big tall frothy glass of something full of hops and on tap.

The door to The Grafton opened and closed, and this time that brought in a petite young woman dressed up like she was a part of the business world. Drew had her thick dark hair twisted up into a braided loop at the back of her head, a pair of charcoal slacks and black heels, and a soft white scarf around her neck hanging over the front of her dark blue winter coat. She made a beeline right for the bar, without taking the moment to look around and soak up the environment just yet. Her jacket was shrugged off, revealing underneath a royal purple silk blouse and a cropped jacket in a similar gray to the slacks. With the coat hung over the back of a stool at the bar, Drew settled in two seats down from a couple of friends having a good conversation that mixed in with the rest of the background noise at the pub.

She'd wait for the bartender to come to her rather than flag him down, and smile to him, compliment the tattoo on his arm, and order a tall glass of whatever was on tap that he liked the best. He'd smile back, start the girl up a tab under the name 'Roscoe', and fetch her drink while she waited.

[Imogen Slaughter] "Hm," she says, her wit almost a reflex, unbacked by humour, "that's me. The heckler in th'crowd."

Patrick may fear his company is stifling. He may be aware of the wafts of rage that come from him, the way the waitress shrinks away when he stands there, the way the audience enjoys the music, just a little bit less because they find his stage aura a little too far on the dangerous side.

Then there's the other possibility. The men and women that thrive on the danger. That watch him with hungry eyes, or eyes, wanting to start a fight.

Imogen is a stark contrast to the norm. She is calm and composed in his presence, either a brilliant actress, or possessing nerves of steel. She watches him steadily, her gaze more direct than most, her voice even when she speaks.

"I don't play much anymore," she says. "But I still like to listen." She lifts her chin indicating the musician's area, "The bloke after this one is apparently someone t'watch."

[Patrick Llewelyn] "I picked that," he throws back with a sort of careless grace, the lack of inflection in his voice a match for the lack of outright humor in her own. "You had the heckler look that first night in the bar." There's the return of his attention, then, or that his eyes snap back to her face and it gives leave to the notion his interest had been elsewhere; which was untrue.

Drew Roscoe enters; though the Garou across from Imogen does not instinctively know her by name, he can smell her, much as he can Imogen seated across from him. It was, sometimes with the truely bred Kin women and men around him like being lost in a garden of scented flowers. Each held their own distinctive aroma, yet placed together in a bouquet; it took a moment to separate each.

This one that reaches him simply says Fenrir. For a Garou, it was stronger again, typically, backed up by the wash of their Rage. Patrick's expression does not so much alter as his head turns, briefly, as he detects it. "Maybe the bloke after this guy will change your mind and inspire you." He says bloke like an American, it is not as musical, or natural as it sounds coming from her; but then, his voice possessed its own brand of it.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's gaze flicks in the direction that Patrick's head turns. She has no sense of the breeding, but she has a sense of the change in the Garou's attention. And she knows Drew by sight.

She finds her, after several moments, the Fenrir kin's back turned toward them as she faces the bar.

"Perhaps," she says, mildly, her voice offering no emotion, one way or the other on her opinion of this likelihood.

She tilts her head back toward the bar, and Drew, sitting at it. "Her name is Drew," she says. "A half-blood Fenrir."

[Hunter] The next person through the bar doors has no breeding, none to mark him at least. But Rage, oh he has plenty of that, plenty enough that the he has to literally wave the barman over before he can get served. He gets a pint of some dark beer, sips at it and turns around on the spot, eyes scanning the room. Of course, Patrick doesn't have to guess about this one, or play games with the kinfolk. He knows him, and Hunter ambles on over. He slides up a chair backwards against the end of their table and straddles it, places his beer in front of him.

"Evenin' Pattykins."

He has been hanging out with Howard far too much.

[Tabitha Reese] The Fury strides in, pausing just inside the door to take in the room and it's occupants. Patrick seems vaguely familiar, but not enough to capture her attention for very long. In search of alcohol ultimately, she makes her way to the bar and waits for the bartender's attention.

[Patrick Llewelyn] It must be difficult in a sense to be a woman of Imogen Slaughter's age, and standing, to know certainly you've watched enough versions of every other tribe's Garou come and go and die to recognize the sorts they are, and how they intend on treating you in respect to how they view themselves -- it must be difficult, one would imagine, sometimes, to sit across from someone younger than yourself and recall that in the Nation's eyes, they were considered your better.

Of course, to wager that it was, was to credit the monsters with a great deal of influence over the Fianna Kinswoman.

Perhaps she did not believe anything of the sort to be a challenge. Patrick's focus has since swung back to Imogen, and he has been dwelling on some degree of similar sort himself to read what little of it lay exposed in his gaze, or expression. She notes the girl is called Drew, and there's a brief flex of a muscle at the corner of the Cliath's lip.

Clearly, the name rang some bell.

The torrent of Rage precedes Hunter, then, and before Patrick can do more than raise his eyebrows at the Ahroun, he's straddling a chair and greeting him, he nods his head at him, eyes on Imogen. "You remember this guy from the other night, I don't doubt." He pointedly ignores the nickname.

There's a Fury joining the bouquet of scents, but it is lost to the others occupying Patrick's attention just now.

[Imogen Slaughter] The flicker of Patrick's expression does not go unnoticed. Imogen's eyebrow arches, then only arches further as Hunter approaches with his particularly unique greeting.

There's a brief pause, then her memory clicks. "Yes," she says, "Hunter, isn't it?"

[Drew Roscoe] The tender sets a glass down in front of Drew and smiles his most charming smile, and tells her: "Carlsberg. Real full of hops and still nice and crisp. If you need me to recommend you anything else you just say so." She smiles right back and turns back to face him, having been preoccupied with tucking her scarf into a pocket of her coat so it wouldn't get lost or fall on the floor. "No one else," she assures him, and lifts the glass in something of a salute before taking a drink. He grins, winks, and moves on to Tabitha-- but there's a brief pause, hesitation striking him in the joints and eyes before he pushes himself forward. Rage set him on edge, had caused him to stop for a second, but he swallowed that back long enough to get her something she wanted-- quickly, so he could get be done with her all the sooner.

Drew's attention turned to the door when more people came in-- Hunter, she recognized him from that cafe, as the guy that had ground Linus and Kora's nerves in all the wrong ways. Tabitha caught her eye at the bar also, and Drew pressed her mouth into a line before taking another drink of her beer and deciding not to invite conversation. Rather, she drew her phone from her pocket and pressed a few buttons to browse through the photos, pruning ones she didn't want taking up memory anymore.

There's a brief glance back over her shoulder, there was too much background noise for her to catch her own name or hear that she's apparently 'half-blooded', but she did spot that bright red hair and familiar face beneath it. Patrick's face swam into memory as well. They were looking to each other now, and Drew contemplated for another moment before deciding that she didn't need to go join.

Rather, she looked at pictures on her phone and drank her beer. She wanted to be warm and fuzzy before she went back to the motel.

[Tabitha Reese] Alcohol secured, she leans back against the bar and looks around the room. The guy she recognized is with Hunter now, and she does a quick inventory to see if Howard is also in attendance tonight.

[Drew Roscoe] A minute or so ticks by, and Drew's cleared out and explored most corners of her phone-- changed the background picture on her screen and a few ringtones before deciding to go into the phonebook, find a name, stare at it for a second, then dial out. The phone-- a simple thing, newer but the sort that you got for free when you started a plan with a provider-- was held up to her ear, and Drew took another drink and tapped her nail on the glass while waiting for the other end to pick up.

"Hey, it's Drew. Yeah, the girl." She'd grin and jump right to the point rather than try to chit-chat over the sound of a pub in the evening. "I got a job and somehow I'm celebrating this alone. You wanna join me for a drink?"

[Hunter] Hunter she says, and Hunter it is.

"Ya, that's me. Nice ta' see ya' again." He winks at her, takes a few gulps of his beer. Drew recognises him as a guy who grinds her tribes gears, and if he's honest they grind his gears too. Except JoJo, she's aight. Yeah she can stay.

"Damn vikings." He says, after looking towards the bar, then grins at Imogen and Patrick.

Yep, good work Hunter.

[Patrick Llewelyn] The performer playing on in the background of their conversation finishes to applause and is soon replaced by the man Imogen had noted was worth paying attention to. He says his introductions into the microphone before he begins to play, another guitarist with a deeper voice than both Patrick and his predecessor to the performer's corner of the bar.

Like every other establishment of its kind, there was no smoking permitted inside so those few brave souls that deemed their addiction strong enough clustered around heaters out the front; green umbrellas strapped tight against the elements around outside tables. Inside, though, it was cozy.

A fire crackled in the lounge section of the Grafton, with small tables set around four a piece plush chairs; the comfortable seating alternative to the more standard bar section where most everyone seemed to be mingling to watch the musicians perform. Hunter responds, one imagines, in his own manner to Imogen's query regarding his identity and Patrick watches their brief interlude with no small amount of amusement -- most of it seems directed at Hunter, truth be told.

Leaning back, he braces an elbow against the back of the booth, his jacket falling open to reveal the black lining; the suggestion of his build where the shirt pulls taunt. "You're right," he notes to Imogen, fingers tapping idly to the song playing.

"He is good."

[Remy] Whatever answer Drew got must have been affirmative. Twenty or so minutes later -- it's not that far from the BroHo to the Mile, even on foot and by El -- the door swings open on one rugged young buck, turning sideways to let some other pub patrons scurry on out before heading in.

He doesn't see Drew first. He actually sees Patrick first, which puts an automatic and immediate frown on his face even while he's tugging his scarf off, stuffing his wool cap in his pocket. A gloved hand quickly scuffs through his shortish dark hair, mowing it up into a sort of deliberate disorder. He passes the Fianna's table without comment, but without shying his gaze away, until Patrick's well out of his frontal field of vision.

Then he's at the bar. And the frown relaxes into a smirk as he passes Tabitha, hooking his foot into the leg of her barstool and giving a good yank -- not quite hard enough to topple her, but damn close.

"B.D.," he says, affectionate-like, hiking his thumb at Drew. "Why don'tcha join the girl and I for a drink. She landed a job."

Then, pulling out a barstool next to Drew, he levers his solid, sturdy frame up and looks her over. "You clean up good," he comments, and unsnaps his ski jacket to strip out of it.

[Tabitha Reese] She's busy scanning the room, not noticing Remy until he all but yanks her seat out from under her. Somebody is going to get hit when she turns around, until she sees who it is. "Well, if it isn't my favorite prick with ears. Who got a job?" Her eyes follow the thumb, and she nods, following him to the table.

[Imogen Slaughter] The wink has no visible effect on the pale skinned kinfolk. "A pleasure," she says, much as she did in their first meeting.

He comments on vikings, and Imogen's eyebrow lifts. "I encourage you to say that to a Fenrir's face. I'm sure they're bound t'find it charming."

Remy enters, and Imogen's gaze shifts as he passes the table, a line forming between her eyebrows. It clears a moment later, as she turns back, first to Patrick, then to the musician playing on the same level as his audience, his body and guitar angled to give him a comfortable space from a nearby table.

"I ha' good sources," she says, her eyes remaining on the performer.

[Drew Roscoe] Remy rolls through the door and sets a determined half-glare half-stare upon Patrick while he passes the booth he and Imogen and Hunter sat at, but passed rather than stopped and moved to the bar. He'd spied Tabitha, antagonized her with the kind of affection that one jostles a frat brother or older sister with, and invited her to come join he and Drew for a drink to help celebrate the job she landed (though she never did mention what it was that she'd be doing to make money now).

When he plops onto the stool next to her, half of Drew's tall glass of beer is gone and she's grinning to greet him. "Thanks," she offered when he complimented her state of dress. She did, as a matter of fact, clean up nicely, she knew how to dress to lengthen her legs and make herself seem taller than she was (up until she was right next to you anyways). He unbuttoned his ski coat to peel it off, and Drew leaned forward to look at Tabitha as she stepped up to join them. She nipped the inside corner of her lip, staring at the Fury contemplatively for a second, then nodded her head to her in greeting and gestured to the bartender to call him over again, flashing the same smile she'd used on the man earlier even while she spoke to Remy.

"You want anything? It's on me. I hear they have great steak sandwiches."

[Kora] Places like this have a back door as well as a front. There's an old pay phone down that narrow hallway, flanked by the restroom doors. The wood paneling in the hallway is covered by graffiti as old as the pub, but the lighting is too uncertain to read anything more than the lewd intentions. The scent of smoke and garbage drifts in when the door opens or closes. There's the alley back there, a stoop where the staff might lounge on a warm summer day, smoking a cigarette, coping a break on the concrete slab with the door propped open, music filtering down the hall and out to the alley.

Kora enters from the alley, down the hallway. Red-faced from the cold, a hood pulled up to cover her hair and ears, a multicolored Fair Isle-patterned scarf wound around her neck, half-knotted at her throat, hanging down the front of her wool coat. Her hands are in the front pockets of that coat, made into fists, jammed in there, and her eyes are bright. Just in the mouth of the hallway leading to the backdoor she stops, frowning - the details of her features hard to read in the shadows of the pub, half-hidden beneath the hood - until she shakes it back off the grown of her head a fractional inch or two. She stands there for a minute or two, a liminal promise of energy about her, as if she meant to keep sailing through the place and was arrested only by some irresistible and oppositional force.

The hood falls back, a impression of a crown of pale blond hair, strong features, wide curving mouth set in a thoughtful frown, eyes narrowed as she scans the crowd, sharp-eyed, seeking. The impression lasts twenty seconds, maybe thirty, and then she's cutting through the crowd, nodding forward so that the hood is a shadow against her cheek, her body language narrowed, contained, close-in.

[Tabitha Reese] "Girl." She nods, obviously trying to be friendly but not really knowing the kin's name. She settles next to Remy, hands on her lap and out of sight.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Unlike Remy, when Patrick notices the Fenrir entering the bar he doesn't do much of anything but raise his eyebrows mildly as so much focus is put on him as he passes by; his blue eyes shift to Imogen and he notes, without much need to divulge what he does nor with a large amount of pride, which may in and of itself be surprising, "We sparred and I called him a dirty name," a beat, he adds with a sip of beer.

"Who knew calling a Fenrir a Silver Fang was bad manners."

He pauses, whether or not he has more to say on that subject or on another is lost to the addition of the Fenrir Jarl to the mix in the bar. Patrick's eyes track her, more out of interest than some fear that she may have overheard what he had said; of this it seemed abundantly clear once you'd spent any small amount of time around him --

Prayers to Broken Stone had a death wish.
He might as well have installed a flashing neon sign above his head, to ask Buried Hatchet.

[Hunter] "Shit you call anybody a fuckin' silver fang and you probs lookin' for trouble. Least where I'm from anywho."

And it's true, where Hunter is from it would be hard to find a Silver Fang that wasn't simply cruising by on his way to a better world. But there ain't no fangs here, least far as he can tell, and alls the better. If he needs his meal paid for he'll call up Joey, not that Hunter ever asks for shit from anyone else.

His head turns and he spots the burly Fenrir walking towards the bar after passing them on by and it makes Hunter grin. "He's a fuckin' staunch one ain't he?" And then there's Kora, oh lovely Kora. The place literally swimming with Vikings and Hunters face sinks, he stares at his beer.

"I totally know how them fuckin' brits felt back in the day."

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen smirks, "What a shock," her voice is mild as she picks up her beer glass and drains it.

Kora arrives as the musician moves from one song to the next. It's one he's written himself, and he talks a little about where it came from. Not quite long enough for the crowd to become restless, but just rambling enough to mark him as still an amateur, though a talented amateur at that.

Kora approaches, tense and sharp-eyed and - though only to Imogen - late. The British kinswoman ignores Hunter's comment, instead watching the Fenrir Jarl's approach, her eyebrows arching upward in silent query.

[Tala Whitedeer] She comes out of the women's bathroom, looking around, fairly at ease despite the environment.

[Tala Whitedeer] Shee stops, glancing around, and heads for Tabitha abruptly.

[Tabitha Reese] She waves to Tala when the woman gets closer, kicking out the fourth chair for her. "Have a seat. Girlie got a job of some sort, so everybody is drinking. Seems like as good an excuse as any, right?"

[Tala Whitedeer] She sits, primly. "What?"

[Kora] The Fenrir woman does not detour by the bar. Her path is incised through the crowd, arrow-straight and arrow-sure she shoulders through the sparse crowd, past the table where Drew celebrates with Remy, a brief, direct look of acknowledgment for the latter with a flicker of dark eyes between kin and Garou and stranger - the third at the table. Kora looks as she walks, her head canted, watching, the drift of her fine blond hair like a corona in the hood's shadow.

"Doc," says Kora to Imogen when she reaches the booth where Imogen sits with Patrick and Hunter. Her gaze touches Imogen first, then the other pair of Garou, lifting her chin upward by way of acknowledgment. The low voice carries, quiet, underneath the movement of the melody as the singer finishes his patter and launches into the original song.

There's something distinctive enough about the melody, some pattern of words in the air, that Kora's dark eyes swing up from Hunter, then, over the heads of the crowd toward the stranger on the small stage. She watches him for a measure, then two, for the entirety of a phrase. There's a certain awareness, wreathed around the Skald like a skein of smoke, this cut-glass sharpness that enters the edge of her voice. "Sorry I'm late. This guy's not half-bad though." For the first time, the sharp edge of her expression breaks into a brief half smile. "And you weren't without entertainment otherwise, yeah?"

Her hands remain in her pockets, and she does not sit down. Once, she glances at Imogen's glass.

[Remy] Remy doesn't seem inclined to correct the name. 'Girl' was a perfectly good moniker, though every time it comes out of his mouth it sounds more like slang and less like a noun. He finishes climbing out of his jacket, stuffs it under his barstool, then leverages himself back up on the stool. The low lights of the bar glance off the sharp slant of his cheekbone. Darken the shadows under his solid jaw. Some girl's staring at him from across the room, answering her friend in monosyllabic non-words.

"Yeah, I'll take a sandwich. I'll split the tab with you though. You can take me out to dinner after you get your first paycheck." On that note, he reaches over and hauls Tabitha's hands out of her lap. "Don't hide your hands. Makes me think you're going to pull a knife. Or that you're diddling yourself at the very sight of me."

And he grins to show he's playing, a flash of white teeth. He's a tall fellow, but all that muscle piled on those solid bones gives him a stocky, compact look. He sits with heels hooked onto the rungs of the barstool, knees apart -- grabs the edge of the stool between his legs and jumps himself over closer to the bar in little hops between thumping his fist for some attention.

"Can I get the hefeweizen on tap here?" Given past experience, Remy'll probably repeat this at ever-louder intervals until someone responds.

[Tabitha Reese] She gets very still when Remy grabs her hands without warning, eyes widening and breathing becoming instantly shallow and rapid. When words come out, they're low and in more of a half growl than her usual voice. "Let me the fuck go."

[Tala Whitedeer] "Oh. You shouldn't touch her hands."

[Drew Roscoe] Tala joins the mix, sitting beside Tabitha at the bar, so now the line-up went Tala, Tabitha, Remy, Drew. The latter leans forward to look down the bar at the group, and the bartender starts over, but hesitates at the sight of the insanely attractive man, the two women lining the bar joining the cute young girl as a group, and how all three of them made dread sink deep into his bones. He looks uncertain, conflicted, almost as though he's asking the Kin with his eyes not to make him come over. She sets her mouth into something apologetic and nods him on over.

"You'll be having?", he asked, much less playful now than he had been before. Drew smiled politely, with as much warmth and confidence in the expression as she could muster to share with the man behind the bar, trying to share it with him. "The steak sandwich and fries, please. Do you have a hefeweizen on tap?" He'd nod his head in answer, ask if he could get her anything else, and she shook her head. "That's all for my tab, whatever the ladies get is on their own."

Tabitha's half-snarling at Remy, Tala's advising that he shouldn't do whatever he just did, and Drew stares up the bar at them blandly before turning back to the bartender and patting his inked up forearm bracingly. "They'll take something domestic and strong, both of them." So that way he wouldn't have to talk to them. He nods and hurries to send off the order for a sandwich to the kitchen and get the hell away.

Drew tucks a bobby pin in her hair back where it ought to be, securing a stray bit of hair in doing so, then took another deep drink of her beer, killing off the glass by tipping it up and her head back.

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's glass is empty, and she has not ordered another one. "No, he's rather good, I think." In his little area, the musician is wrapping up, getting out of the way for the next artist.

There's a shift in tensions in the bar, subtle enough that it does not much impact on the flow of conversation around them, at least not yet. The Garou's reaction is critical. The weight of his rage, or the strength of his control.

Imogen's eyes pass over the group, whom she must all assume are of the blood, now, by mere association, before turning back, her eyebrow arching in Kora's direction.

"Everything alright?"

[Remy] Naturally, ordering a Fenrir about doesn't get Tabitha the results she wants. The humor washes off Remy's face like blood off a stone. He shifts in his seat to face the Fury more directly. He doesn't let go.

"What's the magic word?"

[Tabitha Reese] She's all but vibrating with anger now, and the seats around them are starting to clear out. "Fucking let me the fuck go."

[Howard] Nobody came in here with him, or really invited him. He isn't sitting with anyone and hadn't made an obnoxious scene when he came through whatever door he came through. Without heavy Rage or a strong spiritual acuity, Howard can move through a crowded whatever the fuck establishment this is without being noticed. His clothing is colorful, but he doesn't make himself known until Remy asks:

What's the magic word?

"OOGA BOOGA BOO!" comes from right behind the Fenrir, as Howard grabs his shoulders.

[Remy] Suddenly interrupted -- instantly and instinctively -- Remy responds. His free fist shoots out from under Drew's restraining hand and goes straight for Howard's nose.

[Tabitha Reese] She takes the distraction as an opportunity to try to twist her hands out of Remy's grasp.

[Patrick Llewelyn] "Hey, Kora," the Galliard says, amicably enough. He's sitting with a guitar case leaning against the booth beneath his reclined arm; bent at the elbow. Were the object a woman the position might appear somewhat possessive and in truth there is ownership to it, his body is slanted toward it ever so slightly. He scrubbed up well, Patrick, when he was wasn't fresh from the road, or covered in grease.

Or blood.

He looks past Kora momentarily; brows knitting as he picks up on the distress [read: rage] in the Black Fury's voice. He's not the only one; the humans in the bar are feeling the waves of anger rolling off the Garou and even amongst those still applauding the last performer, there's a shift; a rippling of tension.

"That guy is such a dick." He says blandly, and makes no motion to rise until Howard -- Patrick's fingers find the bridge of his nose and delicately pinch with a loud exhale -- "Oh, wonderful." Imogen gets a brief look; it's full of the grimace his face is transformed to. It ages him.

"Now might be the time for a stealthy exit."

[Howard] On a good night, when he hasn't been swallowing or smoking whatever has come his way, Howard's reflexes leave something to be desired, which is a more loquacious manner of saying: they suck. Hard. He has his sunglasses off because the light in here is dim enough to grant him some semblance of vision, but his depth perception is terrible anyway.

Tonight isn't necessarily a bad night, but neither is he exactly sober. When Remy twirls towards him, Howard lets go and makes the attempt to duck, but he starts laughing first. It slows him down.

[Tala Whitedeer] She scowls, immediately stepping closer to Remy and Tabitha. It's hardly intimidating, given that she's 100 pounds soaking wet, but bless her, she tries.

[Hunter] Hunter hasn't been paying attention at all really, has been trying to avoid Kora like the plague for some reason or another. He isn't entirely sure why, maybe he just doesn't want to deal with anything too serious right now, maybe he just wants a night off. But all of a sudden, he's up on his feet staring at Howard and rushing over to watch the ordeal.

"LIKE I SHOWED YA HOWIE, RIGHT RIGHT LEFT BODY HEAD BODY HEAD! LETS GO!"

[Kora] "Yeah," says Kora, with a wreathing hint of humor in her mouth that never quite touches her dark, sure eyes. "now." No longer watching those at the tables, Kora's eyes fix on the quartet - quintet - at the bar. She makes a single noise under her breath, a low chuff of displeasure, then looks back to Imogen. "Could use your help out back, though," she continues, tipping her head toward the hallway leading to the bathrooms, payphone, the back door out into the alley.

"In case that," a brief, lilting look toward the incipient brawl. " - turns into something worthy of a bit more notice." Before some panicked bystander calls 911. Kora glances up then, meets the Fianna's gaze briefly, directly, her own dark eyes level and sure as she searches his features to call up his name. It comes to her after a moment, recognition clicking like a lock tumbling home. "Patrick. Sorry to steal your guest away. Doc?"

[Drew Roscoe] The arm that her hand had settled on in a silent show of 'easy there' (because telling these guys to simmer down resulted in her being a liar and getting slapped in the back of the head) launched out from under it when the cry of 'ooga booga!' exploded behind the both of them. Drew jumped, smacked her knee into the bottom of the bar's ledge, and cursed. Remy's fist rockets toward Howard's face, the Black Fury tries to twist her hand out of the Godi's grasp, and the Uktena steps closer to be a quiet supportive presence of her not-girlfriend.

Drew's leaning to the side so she doesn't get caught with an elbow when Remy draws his arm back again, frowning at her empty beer glass (just finished, just slapped back down on its napkin) wishing that it was full again.

Her hand scrubs at her face, running the risk of smudging up carefully applied make-up that was a small help in securing that interview today, and she inhales deep, exhales slow. Ride it out, like last time, the madness would calm one way or another. Right?

[Howard] [Here, I got an amendment for you...]
Dice Rolled:[ 15 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 3, 5, 5, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7, 9, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 11 at target 3)

[Remy] [WROK! +7]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 3 (Failure at target 6)

[Howard] [WROK! +7]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 8

[Remy] [1. punch face!]

[Howard] [1: Punch... whatever gets in the way of his fist!]

[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's gaze is fixed on the beginning of what looks like a good old fashioned fistfight - and might be worse, given the combatants. Patrick suggests a retreat and Imogen's gaze flicks toward him, a misplaced blink registering a reaction of sorts, before Kora begins to speak. A line forms itself in her brow as she gets to her feet, her awareness of the altercation still in her peripheral as she takes her billfold out of her handbag and retrieves the money for her drink.

She does not bother to offer her agreement; her actions are enough.

"Shall we?" to Kora, as if they were embarking on something socially acceptable and not something bloody and cold.

"Good night," this, polite, to the Fianna Garou before she turns to follow the Fenrir Jarl out the door, leaving the brawling and the music behind.

[Howard] [Brawl+Dexterity: THUNK! Let's call it -1 from being inebriated.]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 2, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Howard] [+0, wooo!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 8, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Remy] [soak!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 5, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Remy] [punch!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 4, 8, 9, 9 (Failure at target 6)

[Hunter] Hunter grins at the fight. "That's it bro.." Then he just cracks up laughin' "HE'S TRYNA DO THE SECRET MOVE ON YA' WATCH OUT."

[Tabitha Reese] "Oh for fuck's sake, stop him before he gets hurt."

[Remy] There's a scuffle at the bar that has a wave of gasps sweeping the civilian crowd -- but ultimately not much happens. One fist glances off without doing shit. The other doesn't even connect. Then Remy's up on his feet, ready for more -- recognizing who it is.

"Oh, it's the pipsqueak." He smirks, taking a step back, sliding back up on the barstool. "Fuck off. This isn't grade school. Annoying me repeatedly isn't going to make me like you any more."

[Tala Whitedeer] She sighs, stepping closer to Tabitha. "Are you okay?"

[Howard] That bellowed comment from his trainer makes Howard take several steps back so he doesn't inadvertently head butt Remy when he starts laughing. Other patrons have stopped to watch the larger of the two whirl around to strike out at whoever it is who grabbed him, and his laughter dies off almost immediately when Tabitha pleas for someone to stop an unnamed him before he's injured.

"Oi!" Howard announces, pointing at her, "I'm defendin' your honor!"

At which point he reaches out to clap Remy on the shoulder.

"So what're we then, secondary school? I'm not blowin' you, mate, sorry, I don't care if you like me that much."

[Tabitha Reese] "I don't need my goddamned honor protected." She scowls, shoving her hands in her pockets.

[Drew Roscoe] Drew's answer to Tabitha's exasperated declaration to no one in particular is to shake her head and slip down off her stool. "You ever try to stop a train by standing in front of it? Let the steam run out."

That said, Drew stepped away from the flying fists and sure-to-be-tipped barstools, saving herself a goose egg on the head and a lot of indignity in the process. Instead she shuffles around in her purse, pulls out a twenty and ten dollar bill and sticks them under her glass of beer, then crosses away from the bar with a clack-clack of high heels.

She doesn't grab her coat and walk for the door to abandon the pub and everyone inside it. Rather she walks over to Hunter and puts a hand square in the center of his torso, between chest and stomach, and pushes him back a step. This isn't the kind of push where she thinks she can physically shove the Ahroun back and force him to move, but rather the persuasive kind. The 'walk with me' kind. She's frowning up at him as she does this.

"Really? Do you just not give a damn that you're encouraging people to think every last one of us is a lame-duck moron?"

[Remy] Remy shrugs the hand off his shoulder, immediate. "Go back to your boys. And tell the big one to shut up."

[Patrick Llewelyn] Kora notes she could do with Imogen's help with something outside in the alley; the Galliard's gaze sharpens at that and they flick the way she'd entered, but he just nods at the apology for stealing his guest; in truth, he had been the Doctor's, approaching her table to begin with.

After Kora and Imogen leave -- the latter treated to a brief smile from Patrick, his gaze following her a moment -- his attention swings back to the goings on at the bar. He downs the remainder of his beer and stretches in a lazy, idle fashion. A waitress is scuttling by, trying to avoid the ruckus and Patrick waves to her with his empty glass.

She approaches warily; and is rewarded with a tip, and the request for a fresh pint. "Make it a pitcher, with a few glasses, actually," this, as the tiny brunette starts pushing at Hunter's chest.

[Tabitha Reese] "Yeah. I'm fine." She continues to scowl at Remy and Howard, not sure which one she's more pissed at quite yet.

[Tala Whitedeer] "Stop. Just stop."

[Howard] "What do I look like, his boyfriend? You tell him to shut up."

Remy gets what he wants, at least: the Theurge executes a rather sloppy about-face and starts a weaving walk over to Drew and Hunter, shaking out his left hand as though the effects of that slowed-down punch have just caught up to him.

"Jesus Christ," he says, laughing, when he comes abreast of Hunter. With a swipe of the back of a bared, tattooed wrist across his nose, he squints between Drew and Hunter and waits to see what it is he's just walked into before shooting off at the mouth again.

[Tabitha Reese] "Fucker." Again, it could be direct to or about either of the boys, and she sits heavily back on the stool.

[Remy] Back Howard goes, and Remy spins around on the barstool to find his hefeweizen and sandwich have arrived. He takes a big gulp of the former, then turns to Tabitha and holds out his hand.

"Gimme your hand." He sounds serious.

[Hunter] Hunter grimaces, his whole body makes an ughhhhh face, he looks at Howard like he just threw up an eel. But it's gone a second later, with a shake of his shoulders and head, clearing the air so to speak. He's about to sit down, get himself a drink, but something is coming at him. Something or someone, a hand gets placed in the middle of his torso. He swivels his head down and looks at it, follows the arm to the person on the end of it and raises an eyebrow. It's one of them Vikings.

Come with me that hand says, and Hunter looks around like he's checking to see if it's a trap.

He takes a step back.

And then the words hit him, the words make his surprised grin slide from his face, they make all the comedic qualities of his visage fade away in a mere second. He doesn't look amused, doesn't look at all amused. He could give her a lecture, could drag her out back and cuss the shit out of her but she isn't his kinfolk, nor his tribes. It isn't his place. He tips his head to the side, looks from the back of Remy and then at Drew once more.

"Gotsta' fight." And his words are calm, cool, reserved even. "You see em' tryna' get better? He's a moron. You see em' die cause he ain't done none of it? He's a hero." He smiles. "Don't push me again." And it isn't a threat, it's just an observation of the fact that she shouldn't go around pushing heavy raged Ahrouns that she doesn't know very well.

[Tabitha Reese] She glares at him for a minute, then takes her hands out of her pockets and puts them palm up in his. The circular scars with ragged edges are easily visible, even in the dim light of the bar, and she stares him down as if daring him to comment.

[Drew Roscoe] Hunter takes that step back, starts talking, and that's the point when Drew's hand falls away, settles somewhere at her side where fingers curl at the hem of her silky purple blouse. She's frowning heavily up at him, shaking her head at his defense for egging on the fight, and ignoring the recommendation that she not push him again. It's not that she didn't hear him telling her not to? She did, loud and clear, took it to heart even, but she didn't feel a need to stick a 'yes, sir' in there.

Rather, she's watching Howard as he passes by, glancing to Patrick as well, and wrinkling up the bridge of her nose. This was a fight she wasn't going to win anytime soon, she understood that right off the back. She could stand there and talk circles around Hunter, herself, and the poor hapless bartender all day long and she would just get laughed at, patted on the head, and told to go away.

...But since when did odds stop her?

"No. This isn't the same thing and you know that. You're telling me that he has to follow through with a spat because that's what he is. This isn't about bettering himself. This is about some fucking discretion. Were we out in some alleyway, or the park, or the woods or someone's house or anywhere besides a goddamn public establishment? That'd be another story. I'd say go all out, make a fuss and a ruckus and get it out of your systems. But when there's normal people around it'd be smart to draw a little less nine-one-one worthy attention to yourself.

"I ain't bailing asses out of jail, and I don't want to read about some great escape of someone 'inexplicably vanishing' from their cell either.

"So tone it down a little or take it out back, huh?"

[Remy] There's no mockery. The bar's dimly lit. Mood lightly for the drunken and the amorous. Remy has to hold her hands up closer to his eyes to see, and when he does, he grunts in his throat and lets her go. "Why would you be ashamed of that?"

[Tala Whitedeer] She's tense - really tense. She relaxes when Remy just lets Tabitha's hand go, letting out a slow breath.

[Tabitha Reese] "You know anybody who'd be proud about being nailed to the floor? Buy me a goddamned drink." She glances from Remy to Tala, then twists on the stool to face the rest of the bar.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick sits at his corner booth, with a pitcher of beer and slowly refills his glass. He fills two others; leans back and waits for the others to stop fighting one another over shit that hadn't mattered since before they were born.

He did that, she did this, I'm this tribe, I'm better than your tribe because yours did that one thing back in the pre-dawn era of existance and we don't let go of grudges. Swing a fist, swing a head, prove your manhood, prove being a chick isn't a curse, be a big freaking hero.

And so on, yadda, endless.

[Howard] One of Howard's eyebrows lifts as Drew comes to the conclusion of her lecture. From where Howard's standing, it's articulate and well thought-out and not exactly coming from out of nowhere; or, rather, it would be if he was paying attention, if he didn't have the starry-eyed look of a man who is very likely anesthesized from how much alcohol and how many illicit substances he's had since climbing out of bed this afternoon.

Not enough to completely throw off his punch when he's attempting to hit the sentient, warm-blooded equivalent of a brick wall, but enough to make him think laughing at an incoming fist is an appropriate reaction.

With his sunglasses off, Howard doesn't have bloodshot or bruised eyes, doesn't seem to have any real reason for wearing sunglasses in anything brighter than dim light for any other reason than he thinks it makes him look like a badass or because he's too stupid to figure out that sunglasses make dark rooms even darker. As he stands next to Hunter, he's squinting, as though he's trying to see without glasses on, or he's focusing on what the kinswoman's saying.

He sums it up by snorting and smacking Hunter in the shoulder with the back of his hand.

"Good luck, man," he says, and wanders off towards his brother's island in the corner.

[Hunter] He raise his palms out, lifts his eyebrows like Hey, whatever you say boss. The half-blood of fenris tries to teach the Ahroun a thing or two about discretion, and it is not entirely out of her place to do so. He is obviously no master at such a thing, despite his tribe (maybe because of his tribe), despite his life in the gutter of society. He still doesn't know when to shut his mouth up half the time. It seems today he can though, seems today he can close his mouth and be happy with a conversation that doesn't end in name calling and fists thrown.

"Aight." And it isn't an agreement with her advice or a consent to her instructions, it just a statement that says he has heard her and he has nothing in return to add.

Because it isn't worth it to Hunter Matthews, to argue with this kinfolk. Somewhere he knows that she is potentially correct on some distant level somewhere in the nether regions of the universe. But he also knows that humans god damn fight all the time in bars, that so long as the boys ain't showing nothing unnatural then he will 'let them' do as they please. He could make Howard do what was good for him if he had to, making Remy do the same would be a different story.

Arms get crossed over his chest.

"Wanna buy me a beer?" He grins with green eyes on Drew.

[Remy] "You see that guy?" Remy points across the room at Patrick. "He's a Fianna Galliard. Sensitive songwriting poet from a tribe of sensitive songwriter poets. My ancestors conquered, pillaged, slaughtered and shamed his ancestors from the Rhine to the Irish Sea. Night we met, he called me a Silver Fang, and then he kicked my ass.

"Now that's embarrassing. Getting nailed to the floor and surviving to get up and fight again? Yeah, I'd be proud about that.

"Anyway," he gets up, sliding what was left in his mug of hefeweizen down to Tabitha, "believe it or not, I'm a crescent moon and my elders finally managed to pound a bit of ritual into my head after years of trying. If you want, I can bind spirits into those scars. Like talens you can carry with you without putting them in a god damn fannypack.

"That's what all this is," he points at the ink on his forearm, disappearing up under his shirt. "They generally won't bind straight to skin, but ink and scars, a lotta spirits like that shit. You look me up if you're interested."

[Drew Roscoe] Howard stares at her like she just gave a speech on electromagnitism, pats Hunter bracingly on the shoulder and goes to bother Patrick. Hunter puts his hands up in a 'hey, easy now' gesture while Drew chews him up one side and down the other about encouraging a couple of Garou to fight in the middle of a bar. Her point wasn't that they might shift so much as the fact that if anything resembling aggression comes up between people with Rage, regular people panicked and called the cops. They wanted to be preemptive. They wanted the cops there before guns and knives came out and people started murdering each other.

Because that's what Rage makes people believe. That whoever holds it is a psychotic killer waiting for an excuse.

Hunter, however, doesn't argue back. He relents, is quiet for a second, then crosses his arms and grins cheekily at Drew and asks if she wants to buy him a beer. Her expression is deadpan as she stares back up at him, her teeth scrape over one another as she pushes her lower jaw out some, and there's a hanging second of silence between them. Then:

"No." And she turns her back on the Gnawer, shakes her head some, and heads back to the bar stool she'd been sitting at prior.

[Tabitha Reese] She peers at him, wanting to be suspicious but not finding any reason to. Finally she nods once, both hands wrapping around the mug. "That is embarrassing. I bet I could kick your ass, then. I've got your number. From sending the photo?" She tosses it in like an afterthought, in case he forgot.

[Hunter] He blinks. Blinks and grins at her back while she's walking away. Then let's out a long steady breath. "Howard!" He calls, turning on the spot to go find the Fianna, when he does he slips into a chair next to him, wraps an arm around his shoulders and leans in close to whisper secret plans and conspiracies.

[Remy] Those scarred hands fold back around the mug; the scars disappear. Remy snorts, flicking a glance over her.

"Nah," he says. "I don't think so."

Drew's back. His beer is gone, but closer inspection reveals Tabitha has it now. His sandwich is still there, and he picks it up and starts eating it, shoving the plate with the other half at the kin.

"Welcome back, girl." He knows her name; now he's just not using it on purpose. "Good peacekeeping mission?"

[Drew Roscoe] Drew settles back into her bar stool looking like the entire ordeal left a sour taste in her mouth. She lifted her fingers at the bartender and slid her glass forward, along with the thirty bucks under it, and requested a refill quietly. He obliged, working quickly and silently now, the Rage and how it had flinted, even briefly, before set him on edge. Remy welcomed her back and slid the plate toward her. She dumped some ketchup on the edge of the plate and swept a few french fries through it.

"I don't think so. I think they just gave up 'cause I used more than three sentences and they didn't wanna play keep up." She snacked on the french fries, nodded her thanks to the bartender when he got her beer to her to wash them down, and concluded with: "If the conversation ends with being asked to buy someone a beer, I'm pretty sure that means my point didn't go across like I wanted."

[Patrick Llewelyn] Remy is pointing at him, and Howard is ambling up to him. His brother is taking a sip from his beer when this occurs and speaks as he swallows it down. "Havin' a good time with your friends?" He asks in a saccharine tone and pushes one of the pair of filled beer glasses toward him.

The other remains, sweating, in wait for the eventual presence of the Bone Gnawer -- which, actually, doesn't take so long at all as he follows after and wraps an arm around Howard's shoulder, whispering sweet nothings into his ear. Patrick stares at the pair of them for a minute, notes, dryly: "I can actually hear you, so you might want to stick to passing notes," and then turns his attention to scoping out the bar.

[Howard] "Oh, yeah, fuckin' fabulous time," Howard says, lifting the beer in a silent toast and flopping down into a chair.

Mid-quaff, Howard hears his name caterwauled from where he'd left him with Drew. The role of the wingman is one that Howard has not had much exposure to, that he doesn't understand because he has limited exposure to classic military movies and because he himself has nearly nonexistent interest in military terminology in general. He had left Hunter alone because Howard was too damned inebriated to be in the presence of a woman who is leagues smarter than he is sober, not because his devious little brain believed Hunter to be attempted to hook up with a purebred woman belonging to another tribe.

Hunter leans in conspiratorially, hauling Howard closer with a muted "Whoa!" from his target, and the Theurge attempts to continue drinking his beer as Hunter whispers in his ear. Muffled laughter bubbles into the glass, and he pulls it away to look over at him.

They might want to stick to passing notes.

"Notes?" he counters. "You know I can't read! God you're insensitive!"

And up he goes, heading towards the [I'm assuming there's a] stage to have a talk with a man about a piano. It's a short talk: Howard gives him money.

[Tabitha Reese] She seems uncomfortable now, eyes flickering between Remy and the rest of the room, tracking Howard at one point before finally settling on Drew. The mug is finally lifted, drained in one long drink before being carelessly dropped to the bar top again as she stands. "I'll call you. We can talk about shit." Her words are apparently directed at Remy, though she doesn't look at him.

[Hunter] [oh my god char+perf +1 dif no perf]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 4, 9 (Failure at target 7)

[Howard] [Performance+Charisma: Hunter you ignorant slut...]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 6, 8, 8, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 7 at target 6) [WP] Re-rolls: 1

[Remy] "It just means he was more interested in your poon than your mouth," Remy replies, matter of fact. "Or well. What was coming out of your mouth."

He looks up as Tabitha gets up to go, closing one eye in some sort of a slightly-buzzed squint. "What 'shit'? The binding stuff? Or something else?"

[Tabitha Reese] "Yeah" She nods, maybe being purposefully vague. Her gaze returns to him finally, and she looks him up and down before speaking again. "You're not as much of a dickhead as I thought."

[Drew Roscoe] "Mmmph," is all the answer that Drew has to Remy's insight. She's working on her second tall glass of beer, cultivating a decent warm-fuzzy kind of buzz, and steadily working on the french fries scattered generously on the plate that her and Remy's sandwich was delivered on.

Howard makes a bit of a ruckus getting over to the mic stand in the corner of the room, amongst couches and chairs and coffee tables, and tips some guy at some piano, both with words and with money. Drew's watching him with her brows furrowed suspiciously.

A slow sip of her beer and another french fry, this one without ketchup, was nibbled at thoughtlessly. She wondered idly if he was asking the guy at the piano if he knew how to play Funkytown or something similarly ridiculous.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Howard tells him he's insensitive and Patrick merely smirks, sipping from his beer and tracking his pack-mate with his eyes. He lightly pats his guitar case. "This is going to get really ugly, really fast." He slides out of the booth, and makes a bee-line for the bar. Two beers down, and he's feeling something scarily close to chipper; which for Patrick, amounts to nearly-giving-two-shits.

He sidles up alongside Remy and the girls, and taps his fist lightly on the bar to signal attention from the bar-tender.

"Hey, can I get a round of Jameson, man." There's something that passes for vague chit-chat, a compliment on his playing earlier, and he nods in appreciation at the remark. His eyes venture to the Fenrir, and the associated with him, linger on Drew's face a beat.

"One for these folks too, if they're keen to burn holes in their throats."

[Remy] "Yeah, well," Remy shifts in his barstool, sitting up a little and letting his mostly-eaten sandwich drop back to his plate, "I'm apparently not as patient as you think either. Come out with it, B.D. At least give me a hint. You can whisper in my ear if you really want to."

[Hunter] Hunter is less quick about his walk out of the seat, he follows Howard and flicks his head back to the bar with a stupid grin on his face. This is exciting, he hasn't done this in awhile. Is that sad? That he has done this before? Maybe even with Howard before and he's only known him for about three weeks.

Howard gets the mic, Hunter takes it off him. The cable is long, the walk is far, together the two of them begin to saunter across the room, a piano begins to play the repetitive drone of a two chord intro, Hunter begins to snap his fingers like a pro, and when the singing starts it is simultaneously coming from right behind Drew and from the PA system spread out around the room. He taps her on the shoulder.

"You never cloooseeee.. your eyeesss when I kisss your LiiIiipss.." And he is bad.

When we say that Hunter cannot sing, he really fucking cannot song. He sounds like Bob Dylan and Tom Waits had a love child. He sounds like he might as well just be talking, and even then it's not in time. He sounds -- okay he's about as bad as Tom Cruise. And that is pretty fucking bad.

After the first line, thankfully the mic gets shoved into Howards face for the rest of it until they both start screaming:

"You've lost that lovin' feelin'!"

In between the lines of Vocals, Hunter decides he should put in some backing bass and drums with his voice. He makes some sounds that should have been considered for Inception. It is horrific.

[Tabitha Reese] She's about to say something else when the 'singing' starts. Wincing, she glares over at Hunter and Howard, then shakes her head. "Why are those two not kept on leashes?"

[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick's expression is wounded.

He glances at the bar-keep. "Make that a double."

[Remy] " -- hey," Remy interrupts his own damn conversation to snap instantly into aggression as Patrick shows up again. "Fucker. I don't know how much clearer I can make this for you and your leprechaun alpha. I'm not interested in being your friend. I'm not one of you goddamn Stags. I don't forget and forgive killing insults just because you booze me up. You won that fight. You spared me. That's the only reason I don't go for your throat every time I see you. But it doesn't mean I like you.

"Get lost."

[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick glances at Remy; flicks his gaze up and down the Fenrir.

"Did I ask for your friendship? I offered you and your party a fucking drink." He tosses his own back, and cradles together a tray of others. To the rest of the women, he bends forward a little with a modest flourish. "I'll be over in my corner, if the rest of you aren't too busy being proud and stiff backed Fenrir."

[Patrick Llewelyn] [*edits in* "...or assembled other tribes that apparently hate me too."]

[Hatchet] Someone tall skids through the door. Thankfully the door gets shoved open by his shoulder in this passage, and he does not literally go through the door, but there's still a WHACK as the door hits the wall and the fumbling of his boots on the floor as he, well

skids into the bar.

Stops about two feet in as the door swings closed again. Stands stock still for a moment, flicking his widened eyes around him. After that moment, he chokes on a laugh, clears his throat, composes himself, and walks

very nonchalantly

over to the bar. Where he sits. Very neatly. He even folds his hands on the bartop.

[Remy] " -- and quit sniffing around Fenrir kin," Remy adds instantly.

[Tabitha Reese] She nods to Patrick, then looks at Remy again. "The binding. Maybe working together. I'm not sure yet." She watches him for a few more seconds, then heads for the door without another word. (So past my bedtime. Thanks for the scene, guys.)

[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick actually laughs at that.

Has to stop and turn, almost slopping Jameson out of glasses. Hatchet slides in the door and up to the bar and Patrick inserts him into his reply; his voice choked with inebriated mirth. "Are you fucking serious right now -- hey, Hatchet, Jameson this way -- sure, man. I'll stop using my highly evolved method of making eye contact with people to send them telepathically flirtatious thoughts.

My bad. My total bad. Who do I think I am?"

Then he turns and walks away to his table, still chuckling.

[Drew Roscoe] Patrick glides over to take Tala's abandoned place at the bar, looks down the line before ordering drinks for the three members of the Nation he came to stand beside. His eyes had lingered on Drew's face for a moment, long enough to pick up on the fact that she seemed tired and impatient and worn down like a single mother is after pulling a solid ten days of double shifts to make rent and feed mouths. That's the kind of tired that was there.

...then came the piano notes. The tap on the shoulder. Drew turned in the stool to look to see who was trying to get her attention, expecting no great thing. She wasn't proven wrong. She's met by a pairing of Howard and Hunter, singing turn by turn into the microphone at her with that god-awful song from Top Gun that people think is so goddamn funny. Howard screeches, forgets lines and mixes up words. He's so off-key it's not even funny. Howard's got a voice like chocolate mousse, and maybe she'd appreciate that a week from now when this whole thing was hilarious. That time wasn't now, though.

At first she looked bored. Then her expression was flat and unamused. Then she looked irritated. Remy was picking a fight with Patrick to her left, and these two doofuses were doing their best to coax either a laugh or a raging tantrum from the Kin. Rather than giving in to either, she reaches out and snatches the microphone from Hunter's hand.

She holds onto it for a second, like she's not sure whether she wants to hit him with it or dunk it in her glass of beer to ruin it forever. Instead she presses the small switch on the side of the microphone from on to off, leans forward, and hands it over to Howard while addressing Hunter.

"...You..." And she's at a loss for words. They're recovered with a shake of her head, "...make me wish I was more drunk." She turns her back to him, puts her left elbow on the bar counter, and presses the palm of her hand into her forehead.

[Hatchet] Patrick mentions Jameson. Hatchet, staring straight ahead like a good schoolboy, lets his eyes driiiift down the bar. He looks at Drew -- smells Drew. Looks at Remy. Hasn't looked at Howard and Hunter yet. Stares for a moment at the two Fenrir he's never met while Patrick chuckles his way off to be antisocial some more, and then -- for the first time since he entered -- blinks.

Abruptly he swings himself off his barstool and moves a few seats down until he's next to Drew, who now has the misfortune of being between him and Remy. At least they're pretty. In. A manner of speaking.

Hatchet flops himself into his new seat, sits straight and neat again, and then -- dragging his eyes off of them both, finds his one true love. His hand wraps warmly around her midsection, drawing her closer and closer until he can lift her sweet lip to his own.

Down goes the Jameson. Funny name for his one true love, but he's a funny sort.

[Remy] The sturdy young Fenrir isn't laughing. He's not even smiling, his mouth set and his jaw jutting at that stubborn angle it had the very first time he introduced himself to Patrick -- right before threatening to kick his ass if he made fun of his cub name.

"I know what I saw tonight," he says, quiet and steely, whether or not Patrick's already walking away, "and I know what I saw last night. You can dance with words all you want, but I don't need a court of law to tell me whether or not I can rip your leg off. Stay off my tribe's turf."

[Howard] The Alpha of Caldera is watching the exchange between his brother and the Godi, and then the Fostern's mute yet boisterous entrance, when the microphone is passed off to him, the amount of time necessary for him to realize that there is something in his periphery long enough that Drew might be on the verge of giving up before he reaches out and removes it from her grasp. When his eyes leave Patrick, he idly taps the now slumbering head of the microphone against the palm of his right hand, cheeks briefly sucked in as he watches her.

Perhaps he was waiting for her to punch one of them in the gonads, or fly into a frenzy the likes of which have never been witnessed in entities without churning cauldrons of Rage within the pits of them. His expression is not that awestruck yet dumbfounded haze that had preceded his leaving Hunter alone with her in the first place.

He makes a humming noise as he points the microphone at Hunter, as though he truly is at a loss for what words he can say to rectify the situation.

This is what he comes up with: "What were you tryin' to do, sterilize her? Jesus Christ."

The microphone is slammed into his chest, and he once again returns to his brother.

[Hatchet] Hatchet hears some magic words and smacks his hand on the bartop, looking at Remy. "I am a court of law!" he says. Then grins. "Hi!"

[Hunter] The microphone gets taken. It's a shock, to say the least. His eyes go wide and he too isn't sure if she's going to hit him with it or break it into tiny pieces. The surprise catches him in the middle of a particularly harrowing Inception gong noise and it fades away with the piano to a chaotic tinkling halt.

BRRrrrommm--

Apparently he makes her wish she was drunker, and howard wants to know if he was attempting to sterilise her.

"No I was just..." He blinks at Howard, then at Drew, then back to Howard. When he speaks it's to the curly haired beanpole. "I should probs just leave 'er alone now eh?"

[Patrick Llewelyn]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 4, 4, 4, 5, 5, 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Howard] Howard replies in a similarly pitched stage whisper.

"I think that would be wise, man!"

Looking between the Galliard, the Godi and the Fostern, he pulls at the end of his nose a few times as if in deep contemplation. This looks serious. It's a brand of serious that could lead to dire repercussions if he intercedes, if he attempts to find some sort of amusement in it. For lacking self-awareness and, as some would claim, anything remotely resembling empathy, he actually does know when to quit.

Backpedaling from Patrick, Howard smacks Hunter with the back of his head and says, "C'mon, let's go throw some shit off the overpass or somethin'" as if the thought hasn't occurred to him that perhaps Patrick's Alpha might want to stay put and provide some assistance in whatever proceedings are about to take place.

[Howard] [Uh... "back of his HAND," not "back of his head." Crap.]

[Drew Roscoe] So there's Howard and Hunter at her back, like Moe and Curly, making jokes about sterilizing her and leaving her alone. She's doing her very best to ignore them. A wall of Rage slides over, presses against her without physical touch when a Fianna Fostern settles into the barstool on her right. He's looking down at her, his nostrils flaring as he takes a moment to catch her scent (without leaning in and making a spectacle of it, though, at least there was that).

She wasn't paying close enough attention to what Remy and Patrick were bickering about-- she tuned back in.

...Apparently it was her. Remy was under the impression that Patrick was sniffing around her, and it was his tribe-bound duty to protect what kin his people had. She understood that point to an extent, what she didn't understand was the grounds on which he was throwing it about with. Her brow furrowed some, she picked a bit of thin-sliced steak off the half of the sandwich he'd left for her and popped it into her mouth to chew on, head ducked so Hatchet could address Remy over her head about being a court of law.

A hand scrubbed the back of her neck, the tall heel of one of her shoes caught on the barstool rung while the other leg crossed overtop it, and she took yet another drink.

"Remy," she addresses, even though she'll likely be spoken over or ignored. "Let it be. Sniffing or no sniffing, it'll get him nowhere."

[Patrick Llewelyn] "Yeah, whatever man."

He calls it over his shoulder, but the desire to swing around and give the Godi an actual piece of his mind wears at him enough that his hands rattle the damn tray of drinks and he barely gets to his table before he's bending double, seething. His Rage is, pardon the very appropriate totem related pun; at eruption point. But that's not what he fears.

Ripping the Fenrir to shreds?
No.

It's the battle against his will; the very real threat that he cares enough to turn around and do it. It's not quite the same as his typically brazen and idiotic attempts at self annihilation. He slides into his table; and reaches out and grabs a passing couple; shoving a pair of glasses in their hands. "Here, you want one? Have another. Cheers!" He forcefully toasts them, and the couple, exchanging glances move along with free drinks.

"Thanks, man." The male says, a touch awkwardly as they do.

Patrick downs one.
Two.

[Remy] "Yeah?" Remy flicks a dark, distrustful eye over Hatchet. "Well, good for you. Maybe you heard me say I don't need you to tell me whether or not I have the right to defend what's mine. And I don't need you," this is to Drew now, "to tell me whether or not it's necessary."

[Hunter] "He okay?" Hunter says to Howard once he's been dragged away from his looming destruction at the hands of one Drew Roscoe. Fortunately for Hunter that he has a friend like Howard, who can tell him how it is. He isn't butt hurt, isn't angry, he found the whole thing rather entertaining. He was sure he would get a beer out of it though, oh well. Can't win em all.

The 'He' that Hunter is talking about to Howard is of course Patrick, his pack mate. Hunter is looking between the Godi and the Galliard wondering what exactly just happened because he had spent what felt like the last 20 seconds just staring at Drew in shocked awe and anticipation with what she was going to do with the microphone.

Apparently Patrick has been getting into what is Remy's and Remy is letting him know.

"Seems if she's yours you should listen ta' her when she tells ya' to let it be."

Typical Gnawer.

[Hatchet] "Oh my god, I can't handle the snitfits tonight," Hatchet says after Patrick's shoving Jameson into people's hands and after Remy retorts to him and all but snarls at Drew and after Hunter is interjecting and Hatchet's just getting up out of the barstool now. "I'm finding a Cliath-free bar, you guys are fucking harshing my vibe here."

He claps his hands together, spreads them. "I'M OUT."

Turns on his heel as he leaves the bar, and at least this time doesn't do any amount of skidding when he goes through the door.

[Drew Roscoe] Drew's answer to Remy's snap back to her is a hunching up of shoulders and tipping her head to one side, toward Remy rather than away. It's a shrug that's not quite dismissive, but it certainly does tell that she's not too bothered by the fact that he wasn't taking her counsel. He'd get the feeling she anticipated the fact.

Yet she'd tried anyways.

She hooks a finger at the edge of the plate and drags it more resolutely in front of her, picks up her half of the sandwich, finally, and gets to eating. She had her buzz, she was now okay softening the potential impact of alcohol in her stomach with food (science says that's a myth but people believe food helps anyways). She gets about three bites in before Hunter's at her shoulder again, this time, for some reason she didn't quite fathom, trying to stick up for her.

If she wasn't absolutely convinced that shit would fall apart if she wasn't smack dab in the middle of these bodies to act as a failsafe (they surely wouldn't risk claws and teeth and lethal force if there was a chance they'd hit her too, right?) she'd be following Hatchet right out that door.

[Remy] Truth is, Remy's not a bad kid. He's just hot-tempered. And maybe not too bright. A quick on the draw. And when Hunter speaks up, he instantly wheels on him.

"Seems if you know what's good for you," he snaps, "you and your two buddies here will get your noses out of my business. Seems everywhere I turn it's one of you fuckers yapping at me."

[Howard] Glancing around reveals that his brother is going to drink himself into a stupor, the Fenrir are snapping at everything in sight, and Hunter just wants everyone to get along. Before he can process this, the oldest and most experienced of Stag's children rises from his stool, tells them they're harshing his vibe, and leaves. Howard scratches the corner of his eye with the pad of his finger, then huffs out a breath.

And there goes Remy again.

"Jesus Christ, mate," Howard says, hitting Hunter for what has to be the third time in the last ten minutes, "come on, I think we came in durin' the Great Cuntrag Shortage of 2011."

He's the next one out of the bar.

[Hunter] It takes an awful lot to ruffle Hunter Matthews feathers, and Remy just doesn't quite have it. He gives him the typical threat, that if he knows what's good for him he should shut his mouth. And Hunter sizes him up and he knows that he win. He could take him without a doubt.

Hunter just smiles.

"We'll take our yappin' elsewhere... Remy was it? Best find'a new city if ya' want a private life. Everybody is in everyones shit here."

He gives Howard an elbow in the ribs. Time to go.

[Remy] Annnnd that's it. Whether it's Howard's parting shot or Hunter's ohsosuperior look, Remy's up out of his barstool like a shot. He shoves it back with his foot. It cracks off the bar loud as a gunshot.

"That's it. I have had enough of you mouthy little shits." He jabs a finger at his own chest, then at the three of them, "Me. Against all three of you. In the Caern. Twenty minutes."

[Howard] There isn't even a moment to contemplate the request, or the order, or whatever that was. Howard doesn't announce why, exactly, he won't do it. He heard the word Caern and his reaction is instantaneous and ridiculously cheerful:

"Nope!"

[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick's drink tray has been demolished. He leans out of his booth a little; cheeks flushed.

"We're not members of your Caern, dickhead."

[Drew Roscoe] It seemed the crowd had dispersed somewhat. The Black Fury vanished and Drew didn't see where or when, but she knew now that she was gone. Patrick was off at his table again, guzzling shots after forcing some on a couple he passed, steadily making sure that his liver would bob and float with every step he took on his way back home. Howard and Hunter were nudging each other, hissing warnings and turning to walk toward the door.

And Remy loses patience, probably thanks to Howard's choice of words. He stands up, the sound of wood hitting wood makes a loud crr-ack! that resonates through the room, and Drew flinches, sighs, and drops her sandwich on the plate and pushes it forward. Instead she works on her beer again, drinking deep as she's pretty sure she's not going to get to drink the rest of it at a regular pace. She had a feeling she'd be chasing some heels out of here and trying to convince everyone to go home calm, even though the prospect of doing so made her want nothing more than a pillow, a comforter, and some nature documentary to rock her to sleep.

But she'd do it anyways. Because she was a Kinfolk, and without her and every other person caught in the middle of worlds like she was, these guys would tear one another to shreds and die out within two generations.

[Hunter] Hunter shrugs his shoulders at Remy and throws him a sympathetic grin.

"It's true dude, they ain't got shit ta' do with it... but if ya' wanna thrown down for fun all ya' have ta' do is ask dude. Don't need ta' get all riled up n'all."

[Remy] "Then you're not only cowards and cunts, you're trespassers on Maelstrom turf. Doesn't make me like you one bit more. Doesn't change the fact that I'm challenging the three of you either, and I get to pick when and where.

"Caern. Twenty minutes. Unless you wanna explain to a Philodox why you're too fucking pussied out to go three on one against me."

[Howard] "Were you not hugged enough as a child?" Howard asks, sounding genuinely interested. "You're awful concerned about us thinkin' you like us, yeah?"

[Hunter] Hunter raises an eyebrow at Remy and tilts his head with a look of disbelief.

"You fuckin' serious dude?"

[Remy] "It's a fuckin' challenge. You either accept or you run away like pussies. What's it gonna be?"

[Howard] "What's it gonna be?"

He looks between Patrick and Hunter, once, quickly, before offering up an alternative.

"That's the dumbest fuckin' challenge I've ever heard in my life. How about I tell ya to go fuck yourself?"

[Drew Roscoe] "Guys."

Drew interjects after finishing what was left in her beer glass and taking a couple of seconds to decide that it was going to stay down. She's turned about in her stool and is leaning back against the counter. The poor bartender has taken shelter in the back now. He's (thankfully) decided that if they're going to take their fight to this Caern place, whatever it was, whoever Maelstrom was (this sounded like gang wars to him, they said turf a few times), he didn't want to call the police and have them scaring away more customers with their flashing lights and sirens.

"...Should be deciding this outside."

[Hunter] By now the staff are looking, half the god damn bar is looking but nobody wants to get in the middle of what is obviously some fucking seriously jacked up angry mother fuckers.

"She's right." He says without hesitation, then walks out of the bar. He'll be waiting on the street.

[Remy] The stocky young Godi rolls his head on his bull shoulders. He grabs up his jacket; flashes his teeth in an ugly grin.

"No. There's nothing more to decide. Twenty minutes. I'll be waiting, but not for very long. You can show up or you can act like the honorless little shits you are."

He heads out, too. He doesn't wait, though. He heads for the Caern.

[Hunter] By now the staff are looking, half the god damn bar is looking but nobody wants to get in the middle of what is obviously some fucking seriously jacked up angry mother fuckers.

"She's right." He says without hesitation, then walks out of the bar. He'll be waiting on the street.

[Howard] Howard stands looking after him for a grand total of five seconds. He frowns, unwraps a piece of gum, and puts it in his mouth. A few seconds of thoughtful gnawing, and then he looks between the two.

"Who wants to watch me get my arse handed to me by a Abercrombie model?" he asks, with the enthusiasm of a kindergarten teacher proposing a trip to the playgroupd. Without waiting for a response he claps his hands together, then makes and completes his third attempt to leave the bar.

[Remy] [we're gonna shift this to broho umbra instead, since SOME people insist on not joining the sept.]

[Howard] [*innocent*]

[Sneaky Octopus] [Octopi can go where they please so I am cool!]

[Remy] [summoning an air jaggling - wits + rituals vs diff 5]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 4, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 5)
to Sneaky Octopus

[Remy] [do you like me? +WP, please don't botch this shit *LOL*]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 4, 4, 6, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)
to Sneaky Octopus

[Remy] [ok, so it comes quickly, but is initially hostile. here's a persuasion gift roll...]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 1, 8 (Failure at target 6)
to Sneaky Octopus

[Remy] [OH COME ON. retry at +1]
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 4, 7 (Success x 1 at target 7)
to Sneaky Octopus

[Howard] [Okay, I am still at work. I'm saying Howard changed his mind halfway there and left to do something else because I don't know what's going on and don't want to hold things up once we get to dice! Thanks for the RP yo!]

[Remy] [man+intim!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 7, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)
to Sneaky Octopus

[Remy] [at this point, remy would explain (spirit speech) that he wants the spirit to focus on disabling all but one of his opponents during the fight. he will also tell the spirit he'll be binding him for the duration of this fight, and possibly longer if he serves well (but if he binds longer, there will be gnosis compensation at the end)]
to Sneaky Octopus

[Remy] [-1 Gnosis to bind. Diff = Spirit Gn -1 (6)]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 2, 4, 7, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6) [WP]
to Sneaky Octopus

[Remy] [summoning! treating the swarm as a single entity, jaggling level.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 3, 3, 5, 10 (Failure at target 6)
to Sneaky Octopus

[Remy] [...draining some blood and trying again.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 6, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 7)
to Sneaky Octopus

[Remy] [gnosis vs diff 6... do you like me? +WP -- don't wanna botch and end up a desiccated husk.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 6, 6, 7 (Success x 3 at target 6)
to Sneaky Octopus

[Remy] [neutral. intimidating into working for him!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 4 at target 3)
to Sneaky Octopus

[Remy] [bind! -1Gn, diff gn-1]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 5, 6, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 4)
to Sneaky Octopus

[Remy] Twenty minutes later, the Umbra outside the Brotherhood is as quiet as it ever is. Only two years have gone by since the BroHo became a nucleus of Garou activity, yet the building already has a solid presence in the umbra. It looks nicer here. Less run down. More welcoming -- hearty and strong and warm, though with the unmistakable smell of adrenaline and battle and blood about it from all the fights that have broken out within its walls.

Out in the parking lot, there are no cars. No one's awakened one in some time now. There's just space, electricity spirits humming quietly in streetlights, and one Godi standing there waiting.

He's shed his coat. And his shirt. He stands barechested in the freezing cold, his skin prickled with gooseflesh. The tattoos on his body look alive in the Umbra, no longer flat black ink but vivid, lightless things that almost have a presence of their own. Now and then, they seem to gleam with their own inner sheen: flashes of green and blue, violet, red.

If they look closely, the tattoos seem to have grown. They cover the whole of his right hand now, and stretch down his right side.

He rolls his head on his neck when he sees them. There are only two, and he frowns. "Where's your Alpha?" he asks Patrick.

[Remy] [gah, almost forgot. for the record: Remy has activated a soak talen (for +3) and a damage talen (for +1), then used a gnosis battery while waiting for the others to arrive.]

[Hunter] Hunter looks more or less the same in the Umbra as he does realm-side. His brown leather jacket is just that.. a brown leather jacket. His jeans are the same stained mess that they were in the bar half an hour ago, his black t-shirt is just as plain as it was, void of any logos or symbols. He is more or less, just a man on the outside.

But he isn't a man, he wouldn't be here if he were. He's an Ahroun, a leader amongst those who fight so often against being lead. He doesn't do shit half heartedly. He came here for a fight, so it should be of no surprise to Remy when Hunter removes his leather jacket and his upper right arm is wrapped in a red cloth.

Remy wants to know where Howard has got himself to, Hunter just looks at Patrick then back at Remy and shrugs his shoulder.

"Probs thought it was a bit unfair ya' know." He rolls his shoulder. He looks his opponent over, "You sure you wanna fight us both?"

[Patrick Llewelyn] When Patrick shows up, still a little the worse for wear in terms of sobriety [but then, the boy was a Fianna, who here is shocked that he's drunk] he's still wearing exactly the same clothing that he had been but a mere twenty minutes or so ago. Hunter is beside him; and he looks rather grim faced. His Rage is something like a cloud around him, one comprised of the smoke before the explosion; the precursor to his own totem's very nature.

Where's your Alpha?

He asks of Patrick, and there's a vague gleam of something like satisfaction in his bright blue eye; he rolls his shoulders, discards his jacket. He wears no bandages, nothing at all to save or spare him but his own two fists. "He wanted me to pass on a message."

He pauses, swings a gaze at Hunter.

"Though honestly it was more of a giggle. He's not coming." He runs his tongue over his teeth, shrugs. "You'll have to make do with two of us. One for each arm."

[Hunter] [oh -2G +4BB +2SOAK HUNTER AIN'T PLAYIN GAMES]

[Remy] Remy smirks. "Too bad. I was looking forward to all three of you," he says. "Good thing I decided to take it easy on you."

He raises his hand to his chest. And this stocky, muscular young man, this creature that's built like a bull, carrying the rage of an Ahroun, proves himself a Theurge after all. His thumbnail digs in a straight line across his chest. Digs hard, digs deep. Blood wells up, and after a moment, begins to run.

A moment after that, a fleck of black appears in the thin red line of his wound. Dust? Then it moves. It's a leg. A tiny insect pulls itself from the wound. Then another. Then more, and more, until they turn the wound black; until they pour out like a living, wriggling flood, taking to the air, a stinging, whining storm.

Remy's head snaps back. His mouth opens wide, and he lets out a scream that sends shivers down the back. It's not pain. It's a primal noise, a raw roar of rage and fury, and then it chokes off, grows strangled and gurgling as something else fights its way out of his lungs. Another spirit, diaphanous and barely-there, little more than a blast of stiff wind, a disturbance in the air.

There's a tracery of blood on his lips when the air elemental has exited him completely. He's grinning as he licks it away and spits to the side, and the grin looks like a snarl, and his eyes are gleaming under his clenched brow.

"Let's do this," he says.

[Hunter] Hunter raises his eyebrows at the spectacle, his head turns to regard Patrick as if to say Well shit, that was rather unpleasant. But at the words from Remy he is already shift, growing larger slowly, pushing upwards to reach heights of up to nine feet before shrinking changing further still. His body posture alters, goes from something bipedal to something most definitely four legged. His fur is brown, dark chocolate brown like his hair in his birth form. He doesn't look like a Gnawer, he isn't skin an bones, he doesn't have mangy fur, doesn't have a splattered mix match coat.

If he were anything but what he is then people might mistake him for a pureblood of another tribe, and the truth is he went looking for answers and found none. He is what he is, son of Jackal they say, fresh blood in a line long since dead they say. Rumours mostly, or truths, who can say for sure.

He snarls before it all begins.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Prayers to Broken Stone sighs, a soundless expression of bone deep weariness as the Theurge unleashes his spirit madness on them; they crawl out of his god damn body and the Galliard doesn't look thrilled. Or excited; or particularly repulsed.

He looks like he wishes he were a million other miles away.

Then he cracks his neck, and shifts into a tawny Hispo Beast; falling forward on his clawed feet.

Patient; ready.
Resigned.

[Sneaky Octopus] [Okay everyone roll me an Initiative!]

[Hunter] [+13]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 6

[Remy] [for the record: -1R, snapshift to hispo! +9]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4 (Failure at target 6)

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

[Remy] [air elemental +3]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1 (Botch x 1 at target 6)

[Sneaky Octopus] Buzzy[+4]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 4

[Sneaky Octopus] Swooshy[+3]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2

[Sneaky Octopus] So we go...

Hunter: 19
Remy: 13
Patrick: 10
Buzzy: 8
Swooshy: 5

Declare in reverse!

[Remy] [reflexive orders to spirits: lift hunter, swarm patrick.]

[Sneaky Octopus] [Swooshy
1a: Lift Hunter!]

[Sneaky Octopus] [Buzzy:
1a: Swarm Pattie!]

[Patrick Llewelyn] [1a.
1b. Bite the fuck outta Remy.
R1
R2. Repeat & Rinse as required]

[Remy] [-1WP for resist pain
-2R
1a. targeted bite: savaging the lower jaw, trying to dislocate it (or rip it off)
1b. bite
R1. bite
R2. bite!]

[Remy] [oh - that was for patrick]

[Hunter] [1a - spur claws on remy
1b -
r1 -
r2 -
r3 - bite remy]

[Hunter] [1a -2 dex+brawl+cat+hispo]
Dice Rolled:[ 10 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 9, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6) Re-rolls: 2

[Hunter] [dmg 6+1+5]
Dice Rolled:[ 12 d10 ] 5, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 9 at target 6)

[Hunter] [ oh and -1R!]

[Remy] [soak!]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 2, 2, 5, 5, 5, 6, 6, 8, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Hunter] [1b -3]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 2, 2, 3, 4, 4, 6 (Failure at target 5)

[Remy] 1a. targeted bite on Patrick, +2 diff, -2 dice
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 6, 8, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 7) Re-rolls: 1

[Remy] dam +1 -- gonna add the lethal damage as a diff roll
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 5, 6, 8, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Remy] and a dinky lethal!
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Patrick Llewelyn] [Soak! Puck you, Remy. PUCK YOU.]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 6, 6, 8, 8 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Remy] 1b straight chomp, +2 for spur claws, -3 dice
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 3, 7, 8 (Success x 1 at target 7)

[Remy] [straight dam!]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 5, 6, 6, 6, 7, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 7 at target 6)

[Remy] and a lethal.
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Patrick Llewelyn] [Soak]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 5, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Sneaky Octopus] A swarm of spirits swarms around Patrick. They are mosquitoes so they have no clue what incapacitated is! Happily they do their job!

[Sneaky Octopus] [You don't hurt my Remy Huntard!]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 3, 3 (Success x 1 at target 6) [WP]

[Hunter] [soak]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 3, 3, 6, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Remy] [R1, R2 - digdigdigdig, damn claws.]

[Remy] [and init for R2, still +9]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 7 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Hunter] [+13]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 6

[Remy] [reflexive commands: telling both spirits to take hits for him!]

[Sneaky Octopus] [Buzzy +4]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2

[Sneaky Octopus] [Swooshy +3]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 10

[Remy] [actually, scratch that -- telling swooshy to take hits for him, and telling buzzy to buzz on hunter]

[Sneaky Octopus] [Order:

Hunter: 19
Remy: 16
Swooshy: 13
Buzzy: 6]

[Sneaky Octopus] [Buzzy! Buzz Hunter!]

[Sneaky Octopus] [Swooshy:
1a: Will I die for you Remy... Yes I will die for you! Because our love is eternal!]

[Remy] 1a. bite!
b. bite!
c. bite!
d. gaia's breath -1Gn

[Hunter] [1a
1b
1c
r1
r2 - bite]

[Hunter] [1a -3]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 5, 5, 7, 9, 9, 9 (Success x 4 at target 5)

[Hunter] [dmg+3]
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 7, 9, 10 (Failure at target 6)

[Hunter] [1b -4]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 3, 3, 3, 4, 4, 5, 7, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6) [WP]

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

[Remy] [soak!]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 4, 6, 7, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Hunter] [1c -5]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 6, 6, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Hunter] [dmg+2]
Dice Rolled:[ 10 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Remy] [soak!]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 8, 8, 9, 9 (Success x 7 at target 6)

[Remy] 1a. bite -4, +1 (remaining spur claws)
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 8, 9 (Success x 1 at target 6)

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

[Remy] +1L
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 3 (Failure at target 6)

[Hunter] [soak]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 2, 4, 4, 5, 6, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Remy] 1b. -4 dice, +1 diff
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 9 (Failure at target 6)

[Remy] 1c. -5 dice, +1 diff. putting a WP on this one.
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 3, 4 (Failure at target 6) [WP]

[Remy] 1d. -1Gn, gaia's breath. +4 hp.

[Hunter] [Rage1 +2 dif bugs and air elemental]
Dice Rolled:[ 12 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 3, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 7, 9, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 7) Re-rolls: 2

[Hunter] [dmg+4]
Dice Rolled:[ 12 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 3, 5, 6, 9, 9, 9, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6)

[Remy] [soak!]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 5, 5, 8, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Hunter] [r2]
Dice Rolled:[ 12 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 7, 7, 8, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 7) Re-rolls: 1

[Hunter] [dmg +4]
Dice Rolled:[ 12 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 5, 5, 6, 6, 8, 8, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6)

[Remy] [soak!]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Remy] [initting for R3... +9!]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Hunter] [+13]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1

[Sneaky Octopus] [Swooshy +3]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9

[Sneaky Octopus] [Buzzy+4]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1

[Remy] [reflexive commands: buzzy keep buzzing, swooshy updraft again.]

[Sneaky Octopus] [Round 3:
Remy: 19
Hunter: 14
Swooshy: 12
Buzzy:5]

[Sneaky Octopus] [Buzzy: Keep Buzzing]

[Sneaky Octopus] [Swooshy: I will pick you up again Hunter!Isn't this fun?]

[Hunter] [1a
1b
1c
1d
1e - bite]

[Remy] [1a/b/c/d - biting]

[Remy] 1a -4, +1diff
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 5, 6, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1

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

[Remy] +1L
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 2 (Failure at target 6)

[Hunter] [soak]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 1, 3, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 (Failure at target 6)

[Remy] As far as werewolves go, this combat takes an eternity.

It starts fast and vicious. The Ahroun's first onslaught nearly drops the Godi. Shit looks dire. Remy presses on, because that's what he was trained to do. It may have taken him eight fucking years to get from cub to Cliath. He might look up at the sky every night and wonder why the fuck Luna made him a Theurge and not ... well. Something else. Anything else. But the Get of Fenris aren't a soft tribe, and when you have no real talent and no remarkable skill, what you have to get by on is tenacity.

So he hangs on. And he goes at Patrick, fast and furious, and two bites later the Fianna's laid out bleeding.

The air spirit swoops Hunter into the air. Drops him. Remy doesn't watch -- he tugs at the claws in his side, spitting one out, two, before Hunter's on him again.

Then it's just a massacre. Back and forth, on and on, blow after blow -- some striking hard, others missing by a mile. In the end, when all goes still, it's not even certain for some time who won, and who lost.

Then the Godi pushes himself up. He backs up, limping, hackles still up, breathing labored from where those goddamn claws have pierced his side. He doesn't heal the fallen -- hell no. He doesn't piss on them in a show of dominance. He doesn't do anything to them at all.

No, swallows another gourd of Gaia. As his wounds close, he turns to the spirits.

"I thank you for your service," he growls, "and for your aid in my battle. To you," bowing to the elemental, "I give my Gnosis. To you," bowing to the swarm, "I give my blood. Go now, back to your masters, the princes of Air and of Pestilence. Tell them you did not suffer injustly at the hands of this Son of Fenris. That he dealt fairly with you. That he was strong.

"I release you from your bond."

[-3Gn to the air spirit. -3L of blood to the mosquitos.]

[Remy] [agh! formatting error. oh well.]

[Ivers] "Oh that's cute."

Either he has been standing here the entire time watching his packmate and the Alpha of an allied pack fight a Godi who was thoroughly prepared for this battle by the time they arrived, or he wandered back from wherever it is he was that had held him up in the first place. Whatever the case may be, after the battle has finished, there's Pipsqueak, all 6'2" of him with the clothing that smacks of color blindness and the hair that seems to inspire either warm squishy feelings or the need to grab hold of it and use it to smash the rest of his head into the nearest flat surface.

Without a surge of Rage at the sight of his brother and his friend beaten and left to lie on the Umbral tarmac, there is little warning that the other Theurge is even there before he ambles forward, hands on his hips, surveying the damage.

Patrick is nudged with a toe, then Hunter, the curly-haired dickhead checking to make sure they're both still breathing before addressing the comparatively hale Godi.

"Y'know, you use words like 'turf' and 'challenge' and 'Caern' that tends to give people the wrong impression. You ought to be careful next time, some people around here are real particular about semantics."

[Remy] The grey beast that Remy's become doesn't turn until the spirits have taken their leave, and with it, half of his gnosis; nearly half of his life.

When he turns he shifts. Fur vanishes into skin. Remy stands, barechested now, his tattoos diminished again. His teeth are bloody. His face is bloody. He smirks.

"Well, look who finally made it to the party."

And he advances on Howard, steps firm. For all his speed there's no grace in him. He's like a bull, like a wolverine, like a rottweiler: all ferocity and thick muscle. Heavy bones. He stops a few feet away, wipes his mouth off on his palm. Flexes his hand. Another stretch of the tattoos on his arm fades, fades, fades to nothing. With it, the last of his wounds.

"That's an Ahroun," he says, pointing at Hunter. "He's born and bred to fight with tooth and claw. That's a Galliard." Patrick. "His rage rivals any Ahroun's. Two on one they came here, and they still came here thinking to fight me claw and tooth. They didn't come expecting a fair fight, pipsqueak. They came here expecting to win.

"Tough fucking luck for them that I evened the odds. I'm a fucking Godi. I'm a fucking Son of Fenris. I fight with spirits, and I fight with claw and tooth. I fucked your buddies up, and if you wanna cry about it you should have come to fight with them instead of holing up like a bitch.

"Then again, I'm not surprised. Same thing you're doing with the Sept, isn't it? Holing up while squatting on our land."

[Hunter] There's not much to say, he can't move though he can see. He can't understand what Remy tells his minions or what -- if anything -- they say back to him as they carry off their prizes. He wonders what on earth hit him during that engagement. He has looked a Thunderwyrm in the eye, felt it tear the life out of him in a single bite, but this? This softness.. he flew almost ninety feet on a bed of air, then fell the distance down. It's a marvel he could even get up at all to strike back at Remy, it's a marvel that his body wasn't shattered into a thousand pieces just by the impact.

And he grinned through it all, like only a full moon can, like only a Cliath who is the Alpha of a Fostern can. Because he's been here before, the broken, the bloodied, the near dead. Hell he is here on a regular basis thanks to Joey. But even before that he has been a survivor from the school of hard knocks thanks to his tribe. The Get think they are big and brave, that they spend their lives training for war and that it makes them stronger, meaner, tougher.

A cub of Fenris wouldn't survive a week in a Gnawers world. Hunter goes into this fight without pride to urge him on or ideals to give him direction. He goes in for fun, because it's what he does. He goes in to fight this Remy fellow who seemed to be desperately in need of proving himself. Well perhaps he has proven himself.. and if he has he can thank Hunters tribe, his background. Plenty of other Ahrouns--other Garou in general--here in this city would have Remy's name written down in a list within seconds.

Hunter just looks like he wants to go again. He can't feel the pain, but he looks at wounds like they're keeping him back from what he wants. This is nothing, his eyes say, You should see what Joey does to me if I'm not on my game. Can we go again? Can we? Can we?

[Ivers] That's an Ahroun.
Even with the sunglasses on, he affects surprise.

That's a Galliard.
Shock, now, as though he's just been told Patrick is a Patricia; he mouths "Nooo" as though he can't quite wrap his head around this.

The Godi continues to talk. Without moving, without speaking, Howard appears to listen, an air of amusement clinging to his features like the smoke and pervasive cold that follows him around, gloved hands on his hips. As Remy hits certain points he bobs his head in a nod, as though he's being given a set of directions or a recipe on how to concoct a relatively simple dish, and when it's over he sniffs and speaks without pausing to think.

"Oh, yeah, sure, sounds about right... I suppose movin' to a city that just happens to have a Caern in it and mindin' my own business is leagues worse than accusin' everyone you meet of wantin' somethin' from you or your Kin, y'know, flappin' your gums about sniffin' skirts and lackin' honor and all that bollocks and then turnin' around and lurin' a couple of mental deficients into an ambush."

He gives a thumbs up, then reaches out to, in theory, clap Remy on the shoulder again. He overshoots and smacks him in the neck.

[Remy] Remy's arm flashes up, deflects the smack. Or the clap. Whatever it was meant to be -- he doesn't even wait long enough to find out. The smirk doesn't budge.

"You had your chance to fight like a Garou. You missed it, and now you're not worth the time it'd take me to lay you out. You're wind past my ears now, Stag-boy, and that's how you and your pal are gonna stay until you start contributing to this Sept." He jerks his head toward Patrick. "Pick up your buddy and get outta here."

Remy turns away, then. Unless forcibly stopped, he goes over to Hunter.

[Ivers] "Oi!"

He doesn't do anything to forcibly stop Remy, but Howard does stop laughing when he notices that he's moving towards the Bone Gnawer, left lying on the ground in a state Howard is becoming somewhat accustomed to. Patrick isn't moving; Patrick isn't being approached by the muscular, tattooed mountain that took the two of them down in the first place.

"I wouldn't touch him, mate, I hear Rat blood is poisonous to Silver Fangs."

[Remy] Remy stiffens momentarily at that. His teeth clench, but he doesn't turn back around.

He drops to a crouch by Hunter instead. He touches a couple wounds, actually sniffs at the blood a bit. Then he rather unceremoniously pounds his tattooed forearm down on Hunter. There's a small crunch -- then, like a fucking miracle, the worst of the wounds close up.

"Wake up, fucker," he says. One supposes that's an affectionate moniker. "I came over to tell you not to underestimate a Fenrir. But truth is I underestimated you. Didn't prepare hard enough. Wasn't ready for how fast and tough you were. I thought you'd go down a lot easier than that. Instead, I think I just got luckier than you tonight.

"This doesn't mean we're friends. But I acknowledge strength when I see it."

[Remy] [oh right. rolling for gaia's breath!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 3, 7, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 5)

[Remy] [heal for 4.]

[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick is still bleeding.

But in his dreams, he's Superman.

[Hunter] "What the fuck threw me in the air so god damn fuckin' high!"

He says as energy and life suddenly begins to flow back into him, his body popping and fading into the t-shirt wearing human Remy met earlier in the night. He sounds excited to know what this thing was, like he hadn't expected it at all -- obviously he hadn't -- but more than that, like he didn't even know it was possible.

"I mean," and he begins as he's pushing himself back to his feet. "That as crazy, and the fuck came out'ya skin? Where's patrick." He seems a little on edge still, and only people who know him better will know why. He has pretty much emptied himself of Rage. He talks quickly, eyes moving faster.

"PATTy--" Oh, there he is. "Hey howard, you should help patty out ye?" And his eyes go back to Remy, he holds his hands out and the next word he says describes the gesture perfectly.

"So?"

[Ivers] Lower lip bitten in unseen anxiety, the Theurge waggles his fingers at his sides as he waits to see if he's going to need to execute the Quinn Spider Monkey Maneuver to keep Remy from doing... whatever thoughts it is of Remy's impending behavior are going through Howard's blazed little mind as he stands watching. Once he sees he's just healing him, a snort leaves Howard's nostrils and he walks over to his brother, crouching by him as he reaches into his pocket to extricate the reason he was late.

"See," he tells the unconscious Galliard even as Hunter is hollering at him, "he keeps sayin' he doesn't like me, but if he didn't--" He bares his teeth in faux exertion as he cracks open a recently-crafted gourd to crumple the dust over his brother's wounds. "--like me he'd have hit me by now."

[-1 Gnosis, +4 HL, sheeeeeyit!]

[Remy] "Air elemental." Remy straightens up, now that Hunter was up and yapping again. He's starting to regret the minor act of altruism already. "Minor jaggling. An Incarna of Air would've put you in orbit. And the bugs were ... what they looked like, dumbass. A swarm of mosquito-spirits. A minor distraction, unless they get hungry. But I fed them. Like I said, I took it easy on you guys." A smirk. "I wouldn't have if I knew what a fucking bulldozer you were.

"You didn't fight like you were their packmate." He hikes a thumb over his shoulder at Patrick and Howard. "You sitting on the sidelines too, or are you part of the Sept?"

[Hunter] He smiles, then frowns, then smiles. His face is a veritable kaleidoscope of emotions as Remy talks to him. First he is intrigued, then rather annoyed and a second later he has forgotten it all on the end of a question sent his way.

"Sidelines? Nah, not me. Run ma' own pack. The Vanguard. Hunter Matthews ma' name." A pause and he thinks about something, bites a few words back before deciding on another. His entire body fidgets as he does so. "You ever not belong to a sept?" And he waves a finger in the general direction of the Fianna.

"You know, they ain't on the sidelines just cause they ain't part'v'a sept. Ain't no sidelines in this war, and you ain't fuckin' green enough to think otherwise." He grins. "Am I right or what?"

[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick had been swarmed by a host of mosquito spirits; unfortunately, he had already been past the limits by which a Garou might have felt the implications of such. As it happens, all he remembers is telling the Fenrir his Alpha wasn't coming, shifting forms and then -- welcomed blackness. It is the resurfacing that hurts; that has Patrick heaving in air as if he'd been smothered and suddenly saved from it.

He breathes spasmodically; once, twice, a third time.

Focuses his eyes; they are bloodshot and ringed with exhaustion. Like this, on the ground, still somewhat pale and bloodied, at least in clothing, if not minor injuries; the Galliard seems more frail than ever before. His resistance toward the war is physical, as well as mental.

"Coulda been dead," he whispers brokenly, and lifts a hand to dab at his torn lip. His fingers come away bloody; his eyes blaze at Howard. "This fucking war." He rolls to his side with a grunt, spits out blood; it hangs from his lip in a web of pink saliva, a hint at the inner beast's primal savagery.

[Remy] "Rémy." You can bet your ass he pronounces that right, too, rolled R and accent on the second syllable. "De Tournières." A sudden stubborn jut to his bloody, bloody jaw, all defensive: "Don't laugh. It's fucking Norman."

Then, a shake of his head, absolute. "Never. Been in a Sept, doing my part, ever since I Changed. And yeah, sure, they might be doing something on their own. Some Ronin do shit for us too. Others? They just sit on their asses. And talk's cheap. Until I actually see the Stag-boys do something other than sing songs and sling insults about other people's families, I'm unconvinced."

[Hunter] He says his name, very proper indeed and it would be a lie to say hunters mouth doesn't quirk in what looks like it's going to be laughter. But don't laugh Remy says and Hunter nods with dramatic seriousness. Shaking his head once or twice with little mouth movements like No no, it's a very good Norman name..

And then on to something more serious. This is possibly the first time Hunter Matthews has seen Remy doing anything other than yelling or punching someone. Of course he has only seen him once or twice, never spoken to the man.

"Looks can be deceivin'." He says, maybe about his own thoughts, maybe about Remy's. "I seen em' fight, yep even ole' whatchu call em'?" And his head turns to Howard.

"What'd he call ya' Howard? Pipsqueak, oh that's right." He nods. "Yeah, even seen ole pipsqueak there kill somethin' too believe it or not."

Hunter is a sight, as much as remy. Bloody throats and mouths. Hunter leans over and spits a gob of blood and flesh that is part his, part the Normans. That's rather disturbing, watching someone spit out parts that used to belong to you. It doesn't seem to bother Hunter.

"Well Remy, was a fuckin' good fight I have ta' say. I thought you was gonna go down quicker'n'a fuckin' Compton street walker." And he holds out a blood-stained hand.

[Ivers] To put things in perspective: the two Fianna either lying or kneeling on the winter-cold ground are just about all they have left of the pack they've had since their Rite of Passage. Even without this knowledge, the fact remains that there are only two of them that the Sept of Maelstrom knows about, and they're both similarly aloof if not outside dismissive of other people. Patrick is much quieter and much more intense than his loud, seemingly harmless Alpha, but they have a rapport and the ability to just leave each other be for long stretches of time that comes from familiarity, from knowing each other.

They're brothers, and yet Howard seems utterly unimpressed by the display of Patrick gasping back to consciousness, jerking and attempting to assimilate into the world he'd left behind once more, the pain lessened but still present. He sniffs something down the back of his throat, turns his head, and hawks it off the the side as Patrick whispers.

"That wasn't the fuckin' war, bro, that was you two bein' fuckin' dildos and not waitin' for me."

He hunkers down into a crouch, then offers the Galliard his left hand and starts to haul him up.

"C'mon, fucker, you're not dead yet. Not gettin' away from me that easy."

[Ivers] "Please, Hunter," Howard calls over, "tell us more about Compton street walkers."

[Remy] Remy's brow just furrows at that. He glances over his shoulder at the two Fianna, then shrugs that shoulder. Bare. Bloody.

"Like I said. Believe it when I see it. Don't know any other way." Then, at Hunter's backhanded compliment, he barks a laugh. "Yeah, okay, bitch. Now I get to say it: don't underestimate a fucking Fenrir."

He hesitates a moment. There are men who'll shake another's hand without it meaning anything. Not Remy. If he's not square with someone, he won't make -- or accept -- gestures of brotherhood. Solidarity. So it means something when, a beat later, he grips Hunter's hand for a moment.

Not long. But a grip, nonetheless.

"Going in and going to bed," he says by way of goodbye. And on that note, he goes to do just that.

[Hunter] Hunter watches him go, then looks at Howard with raised eyebrow and flicks a thumb over his shoulder.

"Would ya' fuckin' believe that?" He says, but he's grinning. "Harder to crack than a virgin nuns cunt."

His hand dips, grabs Patrick alongside Howard and together they can make sure the Galliard is coming with them whether he likes it or not.

[Patrick Llewelyn] Patrick is pulled to his feet; he leans against Howard and stares after the Fenrir.

"Mark my words; if I don't kill that miserable bastard, he'll do me in." Patrick leans forward, and spits again, then is assisted from the car park's Umbral reflection.

[Ivers] "Alright, Debbie Downer," Howard says, getting an arm around Patrick to keep him upright. "I'll do you in if you don't shut the fuck up." A beat, and then: "Oi! Hunter! Move your arse, the night is still young!"

[Hunter] "Your moms still young!" Hunter says, catching up to them.