for memory's sake.

Jocelyn Valois

Thu 04:08AM CST
"Remind me," Jocelyn had asked, once they vacated the cab, turning to watch the yellow car speed away. The cab twins itself in her pupils; two ghosts, leaving and leaving and -- gone. Then she turns back to study her relative (packmate; more important then blood; we all know how important blood is...) carefully. "Who are we visiting?" Floats behind like a shadow.


Aurich von Doenhoff

Thu 04:11AM CST
At 3:40 Aurich was as groomed as he intended to get. The sort of man that looked good with a rugged unshaven jaw, he could wear just about anything and be known for what he is. Tonight it was - important word, was - a light grey t-shirt, long-sleeved; charcoal grey slacks and coat.

By 3:50 the coat was gone, and so was the shirt. He was on the balcony dancing swiftfooted around a hanging punching bag, bright red; shifting stance from right-foot-forward to left, and back, he dances the dance of broken cheekbones and black eyes with the toy, his bare knuckles pounding on it in regular sequence. He had a fight in less than 48 hours and, being Ahroun, he was not about to waste time lounging about.

At 4:03 the bell rights and Aurich stops, a little out of breath, a lot sweaty. He glances quickly at his watch. Then he pulls his shirt back on, throws his coat over a stool at the wet bar in the corner, and shuts the sliding door to the balcony behind him.

"Early," he notes with raised eyebrows at Jaan. They could not have taken a limousine. Limos are never early. They took a cab. Pressing a button on the intercom, the small viewscreen 50-someodd stories below blinks to life, giving a monochrome image of Brand's heavyboned, lowland-Germanic face. "Cousins. Be welcome." Click, the door below unlatches and the videocom goes blank.


Jaan Rafe

Thu 04:14AM CST
*Jaan looks up as the bell rings and gently sits down his wine glass. Standing he straightens his clothes. Placing his book on the end table he looks to the Alpha, speaking in german as he does* ~G~ Shall I rouse the others or are we going for the less "Freak um out" route of just we two tonight?"


Aurich von Doenhoff

Thu 04:17AM CST
"Just you and I, brother. And the ladies." Flashing a quick toothy grin, Brand grabs the collar of his shirt and draws the fabric up for a quick sniff while he heads to the door to open it. They have a few moments while the Valoises rode the elevator up. "Do I smell as bad as I think?"


Josephina de Valois-Montreuil

Thu 04:18AM CST
"Cousins..." A fleeting smile graces her lips as flesh rounds around and repeats the words, eyes gray and blue and shadowed briefly landing on the other woman's face. "Fun? Perhaps not. Much formality, much tediousness. And I dare say..." The crescent lifts to bare white. "... most upstanding. Like ourselves." The humour fades quickly as the door is buzzed open - and she shifts through it with easy grace -- careful not to let the surface brush the white suit she wears.

"But most importantly, they know why we're here. Uncle.. arranged this."


Jaan Rafe

Thu 04:18AM CST
Worse. He moves to an end table and pulls out a can of AXE body spray and tosses it to him* The Baroness went to the planeteriam tonight.... she was quite proud of herself.


Aurich von Doenhoff

Thu 04:21AM CST
Aurich grabs the can of AXE out of the air and takes a sniff. "Whuf..." and it's tossed back untouched. "I thought I saw her flouncing out in blue jeans. What was that, her idea of camouflage? Was she escorted?"


Jaan Rafe

Thu 04:25AM CST
*He catches it and laughs* The girls love this stuff. * He puts it away* Yes, bluejeans. She was being "Daring" and trying to "Blend."
I think she meanderd out alone actually. I just know there was a cap with a metor on a spring on it outside my door*


Jocelyn Valois

Thu 04:26AM CST
"Family is all very well," Jocelyn begins - then Aurich's features appear on the monitor. The door buzzes open. Jocelyn is laden with a tote-bag-esque purse, which she adjusts on her shoulder; glances once more up at the sky, or just up at the building itself, measuring its stature against the heavens. "But," she follows Josephine in - quickens her pace, to catch up. "Uncle," and the word is as bare as bones in the air, fleshless and boneless, "needs to start sending out more detailed memos. What do we know about these cousins?"

They're in the elevator now and it's making its painstaking ascent upward. They can't even feel it underneath their feet. Jocelyn looks up, again, the way people do in elevators - as if that'd make it go quicker, or they could see how close they were to the top.

Then her eyes fall back onto Josephina; her lips skim back from her teeth - just a hint of white in the smile. "And I like formalities." Back to looking at the ceiling. "They're always the same."


Aurich von Doenhoff

Thu 04:28AM CST
"Your girls, perhaps," Aurich replies, superiority in every line of his body and in the raising of his dark eyebrow. "My woman likes me stinking." And he grins, flexing his elbows backwards in a stretching, limbering motion as he waits near the door. This, the easy jesting of two men - Garou - that were both blood brothers and brothers in arms, and thus closer than both.


Jaan Rafe

Thu 04:30AM CST
*Jaan laughs and nods* Well stinking in literal since makes sence as she's agreed to mate with you. *He checks his breath and munches a quick Tic Tack* Dani is getting used to being my Mate instead of just my kin... I think she's happier.


Aurich von Doenhoff

Thu 04:33AM CST
"You have taken her as mate?" The smile fades somewhat. They are beyond the formalities of what is condoned and what is censured. "You must not follow me into the Umbra, then. One widow is enough for this pack. Ah -- they approach."

Down the hall, ding, the elevator arrives.


Josephina de Valois-Montreuil

Thu 04:34AM CST
"Well, the names do change occasionally - but.. essentially..." The silk fabric slides over her form, tailored perfectly over every inch by the deft hands of some designer. Big name? Of course. Chanel. Much like the fragrance which trails behind her. ".. I'm sure you could guess it." The bag in her hand, tiny seed-pearls scattered over it surface, is lightly clutched in her hand - the thought of ringing uncle, or at least someone close to him, for a last minute briefing an eventually dismissed thought. "We are meeting... now what was his name? Some.. german sounding contraption. Aur... Aurich. Actually.." She laughs. "I like the way that sounds. Strong. Aurich von Doenhoff." The voice has a lilt, light and easily amused - though its not long before that guise is fading.

In the elevator, her stance suddenly shifts - one Jocelyn would know (and love?) from the boardroom, the court, the tight business personality served best amongst - most everyone. Straight shoulders, yet not tense - just merely, confident - and its long-legged strides which eat the hallway to the door. And the clip of stiletto heels.

Prada.
(To go with the bag.)


Jaan Rafe

Thu 04:34AM CST
*He nods and listens. That's yet to be seen. His place is at Brands left. As allways.
Should his mate be widowd... well that might just be too bad.
He looks to the door as the ding chimes* She's very fond of the Barroness. Trust that she'll be looked after.


Jocelyn Valois

Thu 04:39AM CST
Jocelyn's ice-green eyes thaw slightly when she smiles. [...this time without teeth.] "It's a male name, Josie. Of course you like it." The name - of course it's recognized. How many times did she need to run over the different lineages and why they were distinct and so on and so forth while they'd become more and necessary to her [... more necessary then air...] for survival? Almost as many times as the tribal galliards did.

But when you're walking up to someones doorstep it isn't polite to say - Aurich von Doenhoff? Brand? The doomed one? More doomed then most of us, that is. The really doomed.

So she keeps her peace. And she still follows Josephina -- partly because she has no idea what door they're going to.


Aurich von Doenhoff

Thu 04:44AM CST
Behold, the Fangs done their regalia.

No, not the fur-trimmed mantles in deep scarlet; not the purple emperor's robes. Not the crown and not the scepter, not the sword and not the wand.

Simply this, their presence. Outside Josephina's demeanor shifts to the taut, honed sharpness of her business face. Inside, Aurich's easy lean against the door is no more. He draws himself upright, shoulders back, head high, and if you had a yardstick you could stretch it down perpendicular along the line of his back, from skull to tailbone.

There is no tension in this posture. Like any good swordsman or fighter, his muscles are relaxed but ready, his joints loose. Unshaven, in a longsleeved t-shirt damp with sweat, command still drapes him as heavily as any mantle, and so much more potently.

As the clip of heels approaches the door he sweeps it open, free hand folded at the small of his back as he bows slightly, and graciously, to them. Large of bone, large of frame, large of presence: Aurich Eberstark, Freiherr von Doenhoff, of House Gleaming Eye. His dark eyes (a gleam of green in all the umber-amber) glint between them. If he has no idea who is whom, which is which, there is no panic in the calm movement of his gaze. Stepping back, to invites them enter with a gesture.

"Mesdemoiselles de Valois - my packmate Jaan Rafe, of Estonia, and I your humble host, Aurich Eberstark, of Doenhoff. Please, come in."

The door shuts softly behind them and does not lock. That would be impolite, like a gaoler allowing his new prisoners entrance.


Jaan Rafe

Thu 04:53AM CST
*Jaan offered a smile as he sees the ladies. A bow of his head to go with the warm smile. Jaan is in the slacks and casmere V neck Ralf Lauren shirt. HIs broad shoulders filling it out nicly. Unlike his pack brother, he smells pleasent and is well groomed. As he speaks the Estonian accent is present but cultured* Good evening.


Josephina de Valois-Montreuil

Thu 04:54AM CST
"Well, come now..." The expression is returned, and improved - she enjoys to smile - where so often her cousin does, will, not. For balance. "That isn't the case at all. It still does need a certain.. something. Much like a good accessory. And of course, it helps when styled by renowned designers." Blue bloods. "For example. The other cousin. Jaan. Now.. that name..." Her hand motions lightly in the air, then falls to her side at the movement of the door.

The smile slips from glossed flesh - last lingering remnant - and schooled into distant, almost haughty, cordiality. Such an easy change. Yet it does not quite bleed into those eyes, storm-flecked pools incapable of complete neutrality.

In there, there is life. And warmth.

De Valois.. She doesn't correct him - though, her full name is preferred over that of her cousin's. A certain pride, well-earned, through years of careful breeding. It should really be acknowledged.

"Good evening, Monsieur Eberstark. Monsieur Rafe. I trust we did not keep you waiting long." She does seem concerned - for that instant when her eyes hold briefly with him, lip-sealed smile tilts corners, before she is moving into the room. There is an accent in the voice, upper-class English - and not the tantalising tilt of French, as may have been expected.


Jocelyn Valois

Thu 05:02AM CST
Take a moment to notice the differences. Jocelyn is, of course, impeccably dressed; but it's a casual, tailored impeccability; so casual it's almost unnoticeable. But where Josephina is warm, Jocelyn is cool-eyed. Where Josephina is gorgeous, Jocelyn is nothing much to look at at all. The blood - the breeding - the legendary ancestors stretching back and back and back - that's all there. Understated. [ Hey, people think when they look at Silver Fangs. Watch them. They're something - great.]

Her gaze pulls away - the tail-end of an unseen warning? - from Josephina to the hosts. Her lips turn up; she nods. And her accent? Is pure french. The hard 'th' sounds like a 'z' - there's something throaty in the otherwise clear voice which has all to do with location-growing-up.

"Bon soir." Nod. "It was very pleasant of you to extend the invitation. If we - if I - " a bit of rue " - am not the brilliant conversationalist that I'd like to think I can be, I blame the time difference."


Aurich von Doenhoff

Thu 05:06AM CST
"Waiting? Not at all. And madam -- " oh, Aurich still doesn't know which is which, but he's looking at Jocelyn now, " -- you underestimate yourself.

"Please." He indicates the living room with its tasteful arrangement of furniture, lighting, art. There are women living in this condominium. You can tell at a glance. It's in the arrangement of things, in the smell in the air, in the overall feel of the place, which does not have the forcible cleanliness of a maid's dire effort. "The flight must have been grueling. You've come a long way, and not a moment too soon. I trust you've heard of the situation at hand - may I offer you something to drink?"


Jaan Rafe

Thu 05:06AM CST
*Jaan nods to them gently and his voice rolls out rich and thick from where he stands*
I'm sûre nous vouloir pardonner vous tout petit se faufiler ups dames. Pouvions MOI trouver soit soit une de vous la boisson ou peut-être quelques-unes sorte de petit pain rond au lait?


["I'm sure we will forgive you any minor slip ups ladies. Could I get either one of you a drink or perhaps some sconnes?"]


Josephina de Valois-Montreuil

Thu 05:19AM CST
A critical yet approving eye is cast over the interior of the room - and Aurich may get the strong suspicion that if it were not quite up to scratch - then the eventual invitation (pending?) would be not even considered. Well, outside of polite limits, that is. The white-garbed figure, slender and tall and blending into the simple modernity like a pale stature, reclines on one of the offered seats. A brow lifts sharply in Jocelyn's direction, before the refreshment is accepted. "I do not suppose you have champagne?" There is no expectation in her voice - and if she were to be honest to herself, there are two things possible. One, that she had already imbibed enough on the plane, and two, that she would be disappointed by anything Doenhoff had to offer - should the answer be an affirmative.

"And then, perhaps," An almost apologetic smile appears as she leaves little room for further pleasantries, "you could inform us as to why Phillipe Rouvier thought it important we speak to you as soon as we arrived."


Jaan Rafe

Thu 05:22AM CST
Je suis équitablement sûr thanksggiving nous avons flacon champagne et sparkeling vin. MOI piquet de grève en haut une sympathique Chateu Lature 37, une Merlot si vous would préférons?

*He looks to Brand to field the second part of the question. Being the Earl of Estonia's north eastern provence he'd put up with plenty of refined guests.

[I am fairly certain that we have botth champagne and sparkeling wine. I picked up a nice Chateu Lature 37, a Merlot if you would prefer?]


Jocelyn Valois

Thu 05:25AM CST
Jaan speaks her native tongue - this directs the slight smile [ -- don't pray for the thaw] towards him. She wets her lips with her tongue (it is temptation to respond en francaise as well; she doesn't). "For myself? A scone would be lovely, and some coffee, if you have it. The Merlot perhaps another time." And then - her cool gaze keeps all three of the actors in this scene before her. "And in case the Uncle did not send files with - what do you? - mug-shots, I," a hand on her chest, "am Jocelyn - or Pagan if you prefer that name - and this is my packmate," subtle claim of bond, "Josephina."


Aurich von Doenhoff

Thu 05:32AM CST
Apparently, they hadn't been briefed. Aurich spears them both with a look, briefly, then turns away to walk into the living room he directed them toward. He sprawls into the overstuffed leather couch, glancing briefly at Jaan. "Give the ladies their choice, Jaan," he replies - in German. "I'm fine, thank you."

A grave nod to both as they are introduced, then. "Honored," and he makes a rudimentary stand as they seat themselves, if they seat themselves, reseating himself afterwards.

"The present situation, madams, is doubtlessly why your Uncle directed you to me. We are currently seeing this protectorate" he opens his hands to indicate the greater Chicago area, "in a state of flux. The forces of the Wyrm press us from every direction, but the tide may yet be turning. The locals have found a slumbering caern, and the way to perhaps awaken it. The date set for this undertaking is this Friday. A little over 36 hours away. So you see," a brief smile, politeness not dimming the potential for great kindness there - and great sternness as well - "it is imperative that things happen quickly at this stage."


Josephina de Valois-Montreuil

Thu 05:34AM CST
The introduction receives a slight tilt of chin, before the greater subject of interest is voiced. "Chateau Latour? We were just in the Bordeaux region." The brow rises slightly in her packmate's direction at the demure, but she says nothing. And if reclining on the couch while others stand would seem awkward on another, with these beasts (yes. all.) it is their right. Their breeding, their pride, does not allow the absence of eye-level to serve discomfit upon their carefully tuned frames.

Particularly not on this one.

An arm drapes over the arm rest, one manicured finger lifting and then pressing soft into the fabric. A gesture of thought - as attention turns to Aurich. "Tell us of the wyrm threat. Philippe mentioned..." Her gaze shadows, briefly, before giving a slight shrug. "It is a corporate entity, is it not?" Which would explain, amongst other things, why their particular presence was chosen. "How much do you know of its manifestation?"


Jaan Rafe

Thu 05:38AM CST
*He inclines his head and turns walking over to the wet bar in the corner. Pulling out the coffee popt he pours a cup in fine Eastern Russian gold rimmed china, then places the cup on a saucer with a fresh scone delivered from Londons East end just this morning. They kept them for the Barroness. Oh how they doted on her. Then taped the Lature. Pouring a wine glass for the other.

Carrying them back across he offers the saucer to Jocelyn and nods* Pagan.
*Looking to Jose, he offers her the flute with he dark wine in it.
He's about to sit when the entercome comes on. Sleepily inquirieing something in a womans voice. In Estoinian. Jaan smiles* Si vous dames vouloir possiably pardon. I'm être appelé à le profit mon Tasser taxe. Le était une volonté à rencontrer vous tous les deux et MOI attendre avec impatience travailler à vous dans l'avénir.

*He bows deeply to them both and heads for the thick wooden door*

[If you ladies will possiably excuse me.. I'm being called to proform my Pack duty.
It was a pleasure to meet you both and I look forward to working with you in the future. ]


Jocelyn Valois

Thu 05:42AM CST
Jocelyn's mastered the art of sitting without wrinkling her clothing; she should teach it. She doesn't lounge. Her spine is ( ... steel or diamond-) straight, although somehow, somehow, the posture is natural. As natural as breathing. Aurich speaks.

Jocelyn gives Josephina a look - her eyes are seas frozen all the way to the bottom; they stay frozen; but fire reflecting on ice gives the illusion of fever, sometimes, and is intense.

And she takes the cup and saucer, and nods crisply when Jaan takes his leave.

"We were led to believe the straits were not quite so dire. You lead the attack? Where and when?"


Aurich von Doenhoff

Thu 05:48AM CST
"Goodnight, Jaan," he raises his voice briefly, turning to call over his shoulder and the overstuffed back of the chair.

Still sprawled: relaxed, alpha male. Master of his domain, which is all that they see about them, and all of downtown Chicago as well if they believed his claim. And why should they not? He was Silver Fang, after all. He had a birthright to title and land, no matter what the Walkers and Fianna wanted to claim.

He allows them a moment to enjoy their refreshments. Then, folding in, leaning forward, business continues. "At least part of it - the influential, powerful part - appears to use the conglomerate corporation Pyrell and all its subsidiaries as both front and operating arm. However, they seem capable of calling in large amounts of grunt soldiers rather quickly. The local Garou have been quite capable of stemming off the tide and taking care of the grunts when they rear their heads - as they doubtlessly will on Friday. However, to exterminate the root of the problem could prove more difficult, even for my pack. We are, after all, soldiers at heart." He smiles self-deprecatingly.

Then the raptor-sharp eyes, dark as a hawk's, fasten on Jocelyn. "Oh, quite dire, mademoiselle. And no," this is spoken easily, for the acceptance of a more qualified lord's rule is every bit as important as the willingness to rule on the road to kingship, "we do not lead this attack. We are rearguard.

"The final location of the Caern has not yet been disclosed. We wait for an omen that will be revealed on Friday, Falcon willing. We strike out from the abandoned subway terminal at Washington and 18th - I can show you on the map, if you like. We follow the fetish held by the Quick, a pack of lowborn scouts and mystics and warriors. When the Caern is found, the Theurges will do their job and we will make our stand."


Arabella Eberstark von Doenhof

Thu 05:52AM CST
Arund this hour in Switzerland she would be rising for lessons before her true schoolday began. However, in America, she's still running a similar schedule, if only because she'd be returned to that Academy come fall if she didn't happen to complete her few months of this year while away. There was good reason she'd gone to the Planetarium afterall.

This morning, she was yet again rising. Slipping from her bed, like Sleeping Beauty rising after one hundred years, her feet slid into fluffy slippers, a long pale pink robe buttoned over her soft cotton night gown, the chesynut hair braided neatly. Sleep had pulled a few sft curls from it to frame her face by now. Thus she exitted her room, giving Jaan a half awake smile as he passed her in the hall. He just grinned. She assumed Danica. Of course once she reached the oaken door and opened it, she'd know otherwise.

The heavy oaken door opened just shortly after Jaan disappeared to reveal the still somewhat sleepy eyed young kinfolk. Bearing a remarkable resemblance to Aurich, but refined into delicate female degrees instead, she gave every impression of a young lady. Green eyed gaze was soft as she kept walking a few more steps... and stopped. And blinked. She glanced at the clock, then Aurich and guests. Jaan hadn't told her they had guests. The blush immediate.

"Good morning Aurich... I did not realize we were entertaining... at this hour." Given credit she doesn't bolt back to her room to primp, but maintains some grace.


Aurich von Doenhoff

Thu 05:58AM CST
And credit to Arabella's brother as well: he does not strain for all things to be exactly as the laws of etiquette dictates. Instead, he bends the laws of etiquette to his decree. Apparently unflustered by the girl's nightgowned appearance, he merely lifts a large hand her way and introduces her with a cool, flawless aplomb.

"Josephina, Jocelyn -- my sister and kin to my blood, Arabella Eberstark von Doenhoff. Arabella, these are our cousins, packmates Josephina de Valois-Montreuil and Jocelyn Valois. They have come a long way and have just now arrived."

Unspoken but lingering in the air: the cast of business over it all. Garou business. Not unlike Family business, for the mob, really.


Josephina de Valois-Montreuil

Thu 06:00AM CST
Garou blood dictated the knowledge of combat - it was integral to who they were, and even these two women, one as completely removed from anything suggesting physical violence in a glance, from the pristine presentation of her sculpted, moulded, primped and prettied form, to the loose-limbed dancer (not warrior)'s grace and the unblemished skin. The modern damsels in distress. At a glance, a stranger's glance, the discussion of war should sit ill on their cosetted shoulders. Perhaps, at a glance, Jocelyn at least would be appraised as the sterner of the two. Still. Soft.

Yet avid, thoughtful attention dawns in the sleek blonde's face, an expression not unlike discussions for a hostile corporate takeover amongst the Board of Directors of her father's company. A shark-like intensity which sifts Aurich's news through a sieve. "We will need to know these details, but also more on the Corporation. What you know of those involved." Those at the top - her own informants could gather the necessary about the company itself, the public operations, even some of the internal, as well as the profiles of those at the top. But what she needed now, was garou-only. The presence of the kin does not stem the tide. Perhaps caution could be advised in any other domain.

But this was his. And his presence vouched for it.


Josephina de Valois-Montreuil

Thu 06:02AM CST
And then she slides that glance to the kin - that she had not broken her own press for information at the girl's presence could be, perhaps, also lacking in etiquette. Or merely, judgment of priority. But just as quickly as those words are released - the expression relaxes enough for a smile and charmed response. "Delighted."


Jocelyn Valois

Thu 06:03AM CST
"A pleasure, madamoiselle," Jocelyn murmurs (. correct. and. proper .) to Arabella. It is her only input at the moment.


Arabella Eberstark von Doenhof

Thu 06:08AM CST
Ahe glances from Aurich (dear brother) to Josephina to Jocelyn and she smiled, casting sunlight across her features in her light hearted way. She seemed to recover the bits of lost composure in the press of business Then she spots the scones. Jaan knew her tastes too well. Giving a rather girlish giggle, [She's at home and some lack of etiquette can be excused...] she proceeded to place a scone on a gold rimmed saucer... glanced with a twinling green gaze and a second joined it. They were her favorites afterall... straight from London.

"Shall I leave you to it then?"

Some things her brother preferred her not to know and she had practice yet to do before her piano lesson that afternoon.


Aurich von Doenhoff

Thu 06:11AM CST
"We have little intelligence on this matter as of yet. We keep to tactics and warfare. However," a surprisingly deft turn of his fingers spins one of the intricate lace doilies around on the coffee table. He reaches automatically for a pen at his breast pocket, only he does not have one, and so, with a small abashed smile, borrows one from the other Fangs. Continuing then, he scribbles out a name on the doily.

Which is old. Expensive. Intricate. Exquisite. Part of a set of eight. And now, ruined.

"This man might be able to assist you. He's a Glass Walker who seems to specialize in this sort of thing." The tone is clear: they're the help, dear, use them. That's what they're for. "You might find his attitude a little lacking in the respect department, but his information could prove useful nonetheless.

"The Fenrir pack on the Riverfront also has some intelligence on the corporation. However, they're a rowdy bunch whose information is most likely to be of the martial bent, and so of little use to you."

The pen caps with a click. He glances at Arabella; fondness passes there, slight, but clearly felt for all gathered. "No, liebchen, have your breakfast."


Aurich von Doenhoff

Thu 06:14AM CST
The name: James F.W. Vaughn.


Josephina de Valois-Montreuil

Thu 06:20AM CST
Not another glance is spared the kin, the frail fabric taken between nimble fingers and the name checked with a glance. It may be old. Expensive (which she can appreciate), but the design is wasted on her modern-washed taste. "Very well. And how do you prefer to be contacted?" The doily is folded, and placed in the small bag in her lap, to be replaced by a sleekly lined cell phone. "And perhaps deatils for Monsieur Rafe, also? In case you are.. indisposed." A pause, before she adds. "And we shall need to meet the rest of your pack, I believe." Not really a question, but then, not an assertion, either.


Jocelyn Valois

Thu 06:23AM CST
Jocelyn's still silent - although she gives Josephina another look, lifting (barely) one eyebrow - and part of the reason for her silence is the coffee (black as a devil's belly) and the scone (how lovely, and they're not even in - ).


Aurich von Doenhoff

Thu 06:24AM CST
He shakes his head at her cell phone produced. "No need for that," he says, waving it off. "Stay. Be our guest, at least until you've procured a permanent residence. It's too late to hail a taxicab to an unknown hotel. We have guest beds in the study. You can meet the rest of the pack at your leisure during the day. A few of them are always about."


Arabella Eberstark von Doenhof

Thu 06:26AM CST
They talk and she sets her sauer down to pad in soft slippers for the kitchen. Why? Coffee and wine were not beverages she would start her day with. Once there a glass taken out and milk poured [You could drink the milk and eat the beef in this country] before she came back to the room. Not a word said more as they discussed there business. More of the things she'd only heard of from Tucker. Non judgmental or interrupting. Took her seat and ate quietly, a napkin folded over her lap and doily placed under her cold glass. Jaan was NOT going to be happy to see one was missing now.

"If you like, I would be ahppy to show you where things are, ladies."

Pleasant and smiling, since Genevieve wasn't around to play Lady of the House... fingers dusted on her napkin daintily. "And Aurich... when you have a free moment..."


Josephina de Valois-Montreuil

Thu 06:30AM CST
This time it is Josephina exchanging the glance, one corner of her mouth lifting in secret amusement - even while the dark brow lifts, with a new question. It seems that such looks pass often between the two. And then, she doesn't wait for comment - accepting for them both. When she meets Aurich's eyes, it is a look which also encompasses the sister.

"Previous arrangements had already been organised for us. By the company," By way of explanation. "And our luggage has already been sent on. However, if you allow me a moment to make a cool, I can have them brought here." The smile deepens. "I think, however, that your hospitality would suit us well, given the circumstances. At least, until we have acquainted ourselves better with this city."


Jocelyn Valois

Thu 06:36AM CST
The philodox bites her lower-lip; the gesture has nothing to do with anything at all; then she licks it, and nods, setting her saucer and coffee down. "If all is arranged to be arranged - " a glance between Aurich (a remarkably congenial creature, for one so doomed) and Josephina. Her cool gaze switches to Arabella. "It would be a pleasure to accept the offer." Beat. "Especially if the offer includes a toilet."


Jocelyn Valois

Thu 06:39AM CST
"Oh, and - might I take a picture of the pair of you, for memory's sake?" By way of explanation, "I have a new digital camera I am anxious to try out."


Aurich von Doenhoff

Thu 06:43AM CST
"Ladies," he accepts their acceptance thusly: a slight bowing of the head, just enough for politeness, not enough for deference. "We are honored to host you in our home."

Then, to Jocelyn, he laughs as if she'd made a joke. And of course, does not deign to make a response. Instead, to Arabella, "Make good on your promise, liebchen, and show our guests where everything is when they have made the arrangements." But first, "Did you want a word with me?"

Then, attention swinging back, something brief and wistful and privately amused flickering through his eyes. The cast of them is momentarily not umber, not amber, but golden as an eagle's -- a trick of the light. The flecks of green gleam and flash. Aurich nods benignly.

"Yes, I don't see why not. Arabella." Relaxing back into the couch, he holds out his arm to enfold his youngest sister in a familiar embrace. For the camera, he does not bother to smile, though the stark lines of his face, rugged and unshaven and rough-edged, relax out of their customary sternness. A picture to remember him by, then, in a moment with his favorite sibling, in a sweatstained shirt, casual, even rumpled, and every inch the Silver Fang heir-apparent.


Arabella Eberstark von Doenhof

Thu 06:48AM CST
"I wanted to give you something... but when we'r not otherwise occupied." The personal level of her gift was small and yet touched her enough she didn't want strangers eyes on her when she gave it to her dearest brother. Sliding from her seat, napkin lad beside her saucer and moving to fold into his embrace. She fit there from long years of such occurences at various times... nightmares and memorable moments, casual time and confidences. Even in her nightclothes and robe she looked the part of his younger sister, child of long lines of blood and history. The smile she herself gave was bright and light, warm and touch adoring. The reason she followed her brother thousands of miles to an ultimately untimely end lay in just that smile.


Jocelyn Valois

Thu 06:50AM CST
Jocelyn nods, without a smile. People, always smiling. It's unnatural. She opens her bag, takes out her digital camera - a sleek little black-and-silver thing, state-of-the-art. It doesn't take her too long to work it, either. She captures the siblings in the .. rectangular-thingy you see people out of... (to be replaced with actual word later) and -

click

- moment frozen. "Merci beaucoup."


Josephina de Valois-Montreuil

Thu 06:54AM CST
Clear eyes, knowing, look on as the short act takes place - the moment taken to rise from the seatee and smooth one hand lightly over thigh-warmed silk. The picture they present provoke the beginning of a smile which remains (perhaps for Jocelyn's lack) once the moment is complete.

"Lovely. Such beautiful features," Her eyes glide to Arabella, almost matronly in that expression, before returning to Jocelyn. "Shall we retire?" The mobile is held loosely in her hand - thumb running over keypad lightly.


Aurich von Doenhoff

Thu 06:58AM CST
Click. Aurich stirs, but only a little when the camera beeps. They don't whirr anymore. That's a pity.

"Later then," he agrees to Arabella. Then, as the Valoises prepare to retire, Aurich gets to his feet with them, giving Arabella a light hey-kid-you're-up-style nudge. "Goodnight, mesdemoiselles."


Arabella Eberstark von Doenhof

Thu 07:01AM CST
Picture taken, one of who knew how many dozens. She herself had a small album filled with phots of numerous things including Aurich. Rising from her seat and nodded to her brother, the serius glint in vivid eyes and then the smile wa back, the carefree well bred daughter.

"If you'll make whatever arrangements need be made, ladies, I'll show you all the necessaries. I'm sure you're both tired after your long trip."

Thats a form of assumption and one of too many rote phrases she'd gotten from her tutoring. She didn't know if they were from Boston or Britain or beyond but she had her guesses.

sparring.

Genevieve Breitenbach

Fri 02:09AM CST
Late night upon late night.
She has swept into the Condo apartment and made succinct, quick changes to such matters as is expected to be seen to by one such as she. Not that she lifts a finger to actual see to the changes; no she oversees. She supervises. Her tastes are immaculate. A lover of simple grace and elegant lines in everything from the dining room table, to the fresh bought linens...
...to the old world swords hung over Brand's family Crest.

The decadent. The martial. All intertwinced into one and for all that her tastes are high and expensive, they also prove to be functional. Practical. Frivolities have little place--

--such duties overseen (she never asked if it needed doing. She expects it of herself and expects him to expect her to do it. Everyone else can go hang)she's turned herself to those which own her attentions far more completely. And those ambitions draw her outside of the Condo quite often. Tonight is just one of those nights, finding her once more in the Museum, though this time on the third floor in the borrowed office she had no trouble wheedling.

...she is not a woman easily denied.

Now there she sits, the flat screen of her computer casting it's blue glow over her strong, nordic features; makng all the more distinctive that lioness nose of hers and the broad sweeps of her cheekbones. She's on the phone speaking rapidly in fluid, fluent French; tounge slipping over lazy vowels as her eyes scan the screen a cup of coffee to her right that has long since ceased to steam.


Aurich Eberstark von Doenhoff

Fri 02:19AM CST
The rules of the conventional world do not apply to her.
And they certainly don't apply to him.

So while it is a dire breach of etiquette in some circles, it is not in others to do as he does: click. The line goes dead in her ear. Why? Because he has, in fact, cut it.

Literally.
With a sword.
His.

His father's, as well, and on and back through the generations. A thing not of human design: enormous, angular, the blade a large handsbreadth across and wedge-shaped at the hilt, fully an inch across the top. A single-edged blade runs the full length without tapering, angling sharply up at the end. The back of the blade is sharpened to half its length, then left untouched to the hilt, which is dull, unornate, unornamented.

A blade fit for a warrior-king. One that takes enormous strength to wield easily (as he does), and this is evident in the flex and roll of his biceps as he lifts it from the floor where he had - and so precisely that it hadn't caused a sound - severed the line.

The blade rests on his shoulder now, main edge up. He holds himself fiercely tall and erect. Head bowed, but neck straight; spine straight, shoulders back. Fully and well-dressed from waist down. Completely stripped from waist up, except for the formal black straps of his suspenders.

"Leave that for later," he invites; commands. "Spar with me."

How many dare answer such a call?
How many dare not?


Genevieve Breitenbach

Fri 02:37AM CST
A dead line in mid-sentence.
Her lips press together in almost lazy fashion; for such is her annoyance: A passing, heated thing like a simmering mirage. Though it is left behind as soon as you draw near, the asphault or sand you touch sill still scald your fingertips.

Setting the now useless phone down, she reclines back in the smooth leather of her desk seat, just-barely supporting her head with a bent thumb along the underside of her tapered, cleft chin, middle finger relaxed and resting just atop wide, generous lips and index finger laid out alongside the side of her face... her eyes sweep over the half-undressed visage of her mate; sword in hand---

---and annoyance melts away. Not in some lovey-dovey sense of cheery smiles and doeful gazes. No, it melts with that same lazy heat, enriched with whatever drive so charges up her being just below that collected, calm, controlled surface. So pressed lips merely becomes lips crooked into a bemused smile.

"Whatever would you do if I said no, husband?" She asks, one eyebrow rising up languidly, high up in exquisite lines and her middle finger rubs sleekly over her own lips...

...still awaiting a response as she stands up and begins calmly slipping off her silken dressing robe.


Aurich Eberstark von Doenhoff

Fri 02:41AM CST
He raises his head, slowly and steadily, turning it in the same motion.

Something about it is ...hawkish.

He is smiling. He is unshaven. He is half savage, half naked, half murderous, half feral. The green flecks in his eyes seem to burn brighter in the dimness, a room lit only by computer and desk lamp. They seem to gleam and glow, almost, to cast back light as light is cast upon it.

Sharply military, he swivels to face her. Fingers are relaxed around the leather-bound grip of the sword, the pommel as dull as the hilt as dull as the crossbar, and all these as dull as the blade is gleaming bright. Lightning scatters off the edge.

"Cut you down."
Surely he jests.


Genevieve Breitenbach

Fri 02:50AM CST
"Ah."

It's uncanny how decadently unconcerned she makes the sound. Pausing in the slow removal of the flimsy slip of robing; to look to him with that same expression of caressing amusements.

Then she looks back to the computer, shutting it down as she shrugs one shoulder - sending one arm of the robe slipping free to expose bare arm beneath, smooth, alabaster complextion set off by the barest sprinkling of pale freckles. The monitor glow cuts out. She shrugs the other shoulder and that arm too slips free, the robe puddling to the floor, fabric more liquid than anything else. Reaching over she turns off the desk lamp. Click.

In the dark with a beast.
He with better night vision.
He with the wicked fucking sword in his hand.

Now she moves around the desk towards the door he stands before, clad only in the simple negligee, allowing her body free motion.

"And would you afford me any mercy? A clean cut - swift and painless? Or would you cleave in at quarter?"

Leaning in towards him, the barest of pauses as she moves to pass him by. You can just hear the upcurl of her lips... taste the cool brightness of her gaze. Feel the warmth of her form; her words - moist heating inviting as it is distant.

...and finally moving past to where her own, prized, blades are kept.


Aurich Eberstark von Doenhoff

Fri 02:57AM CST
"Mercy?" his tongue moulds the word as though tasting it. And, finding it good to the palate, amusing, "None for you.

"You would be insulted."

swshhCLACK. It's the sound of the sword swung brutally down, the pommel colliding with his watch, the blade's motion stopped dead without a quiver, the hilt flush against his corded, tensed forearm. Held at ready now, directly before him, both hands wrapped tight around the grip, another hands' breadth between them; elbows not locked; pommel at hip level; tip angled ever so slightly up.

In the darkness, the faintest blue glow of the night through the windows and their drapes. The faintest gleam of the swords' edge.

"Come, lover. Let us dance."


Genevieve Breitenbach

Fri 03:15AM CST
Tigers Teeth, her blades are called. Wickedly tapered, curving blades of Indian design designed for an artful, intricately balanced, lithe two handed approach even more forgotten in this age than is regular swordmastery.

She is not a creature to heft weights and exude great physical force; her strength lies in her resilience and her speed. Her dexrious manipulations of her own form - a self awareness that slips into the boundryland of being so aware of ones body as to become completely oblivious to it...

...her hands grasp the pommels of her deadly blads, unsheating them from their mounts in one practiced, sensual motion and something inside of her quivers with ready anticipation at such weaponry in her hand.. and the knowledge of the ways in which their forms will soon be moving.

The right hand blade is grasped, likewise loose-elbowed, for the stab while the left is positioned witht he blade flowing flush along her arm, it's cruel point curved in towards her elbow: the slashing arm. Without hesitation she could switch position of either hand...

...transformations. This is no fencing art to stand rigid and primly poised. She slips to a half crouch, and that feral edge that always dwells just below the surface now rises and bubbles overs. There in her smile - there in her gaze that beckons him in, hypnotic. She clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth and lifts her chin...
...as dangerously close to a taunt as few would dare with Brand.

"Come on then. No mercy."


Aurich Eberstark von Doenhoff

Fri 03:29AM CST
As with all things, there is much of wolf in this.

Slowly, startlingly soft on his feet, he moves. They move. Forward. Circling. Eyeing one another, warily, not as lovers do but as fighters do, reading the lines of body and form, reading the weaknesses like a book.

She is better at bladed weapons than he. You can see this in her self-assurance, the very way she moves, smooth as an adder.

But he is stronger. Much, much stronger.

In an instant they spring together: his force to her finesse. Sparks give light to darkness. The blows rain in from all directions, parried and deflected. He hammers at her, backing her up step by step, pounds at her defenses like a winter blizzard. He's amazingly fast for all his strength; not the fastest who ever lived, no, but fast all the same. And the blows are not clumsy hacks. He seeks weaknesses, aims well - but not quite well enough.

Every blow turned aside. This is a good thing. Any one of them could have killed her.

Fall back. Breathing a little harder now. A savage grin breaks over his face like a wave over a rock. He flexes his hands on the grip, snaps the tip up -- and they come together again like wolves fighting, sudden, no mercy, no holds barred, her on the attack this time, her two short, curving blades to his one massive brute of a sword. Metal scrapes off metal. Blows that leave her arms feeling numb, but not slowed - her blades dart, they fly; nimble, they slash; stiff as wasp-stings, they thrust and weave and seek and find and

CUT.
--twice. in tandem. one-two. no mercy.

Come apart. A ragged line across his right knuckles, stinging, that hand useless until (unless) he heals. A line of red stark across his pale and ridged abdomen. Had he not flinched back at the last instant, his guts could be on the floor. He releases the hilt, holds it one-handed now, left. Bleeding right hand touches the long slash across his skin. He looks at the blood, lifts his fingertips to his nostrils, inhales, scents, licks, wipes it across his chest like primitive war paint and drops his sword with a clattering clang.

Bare-handed, bloodied, he beckons her forward. Ferocious grin. No words.


Genevieve Breitenbach

Fri 03:42AM CST
Satisfaction.
It isn't sexual: she's no sadist. But there is satisfaction nonetheless in drawing first blood and it shows on her features; fierce huntress for one moment broken out beyond the bonds and bindings of her kind, her class, her breed, her gender.
Liberated.

Numb and soon-to-be-sore despite that she keeps herself in fine shape: there's no avoiding such damage in a spare with a man (beast) such as Aurich. And it may well be the damage is about to get far worse--
--has she crossed some line?

She does not cower. Does not shy back - but she is visibly wary, the martial mindest having ensared her for he moment. Like the lioness, like the she-wolf she paws to the side.. back.. forward. Light motions, blades - crimson kissed with his blood - still hel, though now lowered. Giving him that much though she does not drop them... yet.

--forward she goes neither smiling nore frowning - beyond that as well. Blonde hair disheveled about her ethereal face, colour flushed and vibrant with the health of battle - oxymoron though it is. Head slightly cast to one side -- in she goes. No gloating smugness, but neither is their quivering submission or apology. The briefest of complete glances was given to be sure he did move quick enough and, seeing no grave danger - especialy not for a Garou - she is feeling no concern for his well being...

...so forward, with the feral caution of a prime and ready predator who knows that, nonetheless, she is not the top of the food chain.
But oooooooo... sometimes she can feel deliciously close.


Aurich Eberstark von Doenhoff

Fri 04:00AM CST
And this, his element.

Brawler. Does the image conjure images of hulking inelegance? No, no. Not this. Large as he is, muscular and strong as he is, there's nothing but grace and power here. It's the same fluidity as a tiger's pounce: the same awesome sight of hundreds of pounds of muscle and sheer strength moving (flowing) in perfect synchrony.

She will not get any blows in now.

He does not dodge. He deflects. Not the blades but her arms, reaching right past the gleaming maze of knifework to knock aside a forearm, a wrist, his own hands open and relaxed, his battlecalm like a heightened state of existence. Even before his totem, he was a formidable hand-to-hand foe. With Raptor behind him, those who could match him are few unto nothingness.

She comes at him.
She comes at him.

He wards her off, draws her in, bends her blows to the side as though a shield existed around him - bides his time. Red spreading over his right hand. Red spreading down his flexing abdomen to drench the waistband of his expensive slacks. And then the rift opens. That instant in every fight where it's win or lose, right there, right then -- his hands snapping out, the fingers stiffened, striking the backs of her hands.

Tendons jump. It's not a pressure point; it's the forceful hijacking of her body's machinery. Her hands open and the blades fall. He snatches them out of the air, reverses the reverse grip -- points forward now, blades down -- and thrusts sharply, brutally forward.

Impales her?
Oh, no.

Back into their sheathes on her thighs, clicking home, the handles forward and parallel to the ground for easy access. Entirely too close to her, heated and huge, smelling of sweat and the raw musk of adrenaline, he is still as a storm's eye for a second.

Blade's point balance. Could so easily tip any which way.

Then he laughs -- hard and unfettered -- and then steps back, sweeping a curiously elegant bow to her. "Well met, Lady Breitenbach." A single drop of sweat rolls down his nose and hangs at the tip a second, drops. He turns, padding toward the nearest bathroom for a towel. "Still every bit as good as I remembered with those blades of yours."


Genevieve Breitenbach

Fri 04:14AM CST
Hypnotic: That's the danger of it. There is undeniably a mesmerizing quality if one wathces to closely the movements of such people. She with her blades and he with the absolute prowess with which he handles his own form. Fiercely beautiful. Stunning. Inspiring of awe, which is to say Awesome as it was truly intended.

The sheen of her own sweat is a glow along her flesh. It is a triangle between the flimsy fabric just barely overing her breasts and also at a spot at the small of her spine. Left standing there with a blink when his precise blow stuns her muscles - a wince a beat later.. a pressing of her lips (as much a loathing of losing as he next Fang) and then a relaxing as she waits.. waits those crucial moments where the balance might stray and this entertainment go wrong.
Horribly wrong.

Stillness.
Absolute.

And then broken... he laughs and her own lips curve up in a glistening smile as she raises her hands, flexing them.. rubbing her arms, returning feeling to them.

"And you, Doenhoff, still every bit as good at winning."

She plucks the negligee from her damp flesh and, for her part, makes for the balcony where the chill wind will be more than welcome at this moment.


Aurich Eberstark von Doenhoff

Fri 04:27AM CST
"One for one," he calls over his slicked shoulder as he pads into the bathroom. A light clicks on, dusts his skin, gleams off his sweat. His footsteps are soft, and yet heavy - the weight is felt rather than heard. "I call it a draw."

The door shuts. Water runs briefly. He emerges with a towel 'round his neck, the ends dangling assymmetric against his chest. His face and hairline is wet, and so are his knuckles, his stomach, the blood spreading diffuse into adjacent water.

A quick jaunt into the kitchen has him returning with bottled water, one for her and one for him. "What were you looking up on the computer?" he asks, stepping out onto the balcony behind her.


Genevieve Breitenbach

Fri 04:40AM CST
The resonant sound of her low-keyed chuckle is blown back on the wind.
"Don't humour me." Is her response to the naming of a draw, before she leans back at the railing... and then goes furter. Boosting herself up and swining long legs up and over. One dangling down, the other foot planted atop the rail, knee slightly drawn up. Eyes closing in the wind while her nostrils flare mildly...

Inhale...
(to feel alive)
...exhale.

He comes out, moving behind her and she rests and elbow on that upturned knee her dangling leg swinging. A glance over her shoulder; a gaze in his direction - then back again, out over the sites with a faint shrug.

"Just some photos from a curator."


Aurich Eberstark von Doenhoff

Fri 04:51AM CST
He comes right up to her. Right up to her. Inches away, he hands her one bottle and opens the other without ever looking away. Lights of the city glimmer off his eyes; catch in the luminous green amidst the dark.

"I don't ever humor you, love."

And her faint shrug earns her one in return; what does he care for her everyday work? Not so faint - deeper, slower, more felt. Muscles of shoulders and back contracting and relaxing. Rearranging and sliding. He's a work of art sometimes. One hand reaches over her body to plant down on the other side. Other hand sets bottle down beside her. He leans close, eyes shuttered behind lashes and then lids; inhale her scent.

A kiss, not on the mouth but on the throat, over the pulse of her carotid. Then he draws back, and away.

"Turn out the light when you come to bed."

so easily left behind.

Brand

Mon 01:51AM CST
Brand has a habit of staying up late. At 1:30am when most the city and its 9-to-5er's are deeply asleep, his night is barely beginning to wind down.

The sprawling two-level penthouse condo is quiet. Most the pack's bedroom doors are shut; they're either out, or sleeping. In the common areas - the living room, the den, the library/study, the kitchen, the balcony - the rheostats are turned down low. Lights burn faintly amber. The stereo system is on, but most the speakers are on mute; only in the living room can the strains of some late-night lounge music or other be heard.

The door to the large downstairs balcony is open, the sheer inner curtain billowing silently. It's not quite warm enough for this, really, but coming from ice and snow as this pack did, a little cold never bothered them. The Ahroun lounges on the maplewood deck chair in the corner of the balcony, facing the clear glass railing. Out here music's reduced to the faintest suggestion of bassline, melody floating atop. Through it the city's lights are spilled glittering out to the edge of the dark lake in the distance. Skyscrapers are light-speckled shadows topped by flashing red. Far away, a trail of steady-burning lights marks jetliners coming in for landings at Chicago O'Hare.

Four or five or seven at a time, the line never ends. The world spins on and the humans travel and work and move and exist, all the while unaware of the wolf-kings in their midst.

The breeze coming in over the lake is frigid cold. No matter; the weave of his clothes protects him from it. In wool-spun slacks and a sturdy cotton-weave shirt, the edges softened after a day's wear, he manages quite well. No tie; coat on the empty chair opposite him; formal, lowkey, black-with-silver-clip suspenders shrugged off his shoulders and lying looped against his flanks. Somehow the effect is more casual, more relaxed, more undone than if he'd not worn them at all. A glass of rum and coke held loose in his big hand, heavy on the rum and light on the coke completes the picture he paints: nobility at ease; alpha wolf in his own domain.


Genevieve Breitenbach

Mon 02:26AM CST
Her bedroom door has been shut since early this evening.

Knock upon it and no answer will be given. She is out.

...and coming home again.
Nearing 2am and the front door is quietly opened; quietly shut behind her. A distinctive, but light sound, the tattoo of her heels along hardwood floors polished just yesterday by the daily maid. No louder than the billowing rustle of the sheer inner curtains of said balcony is the fine-fabric shiftings as she goes about the process of unbuttoning and drawing off the black woolen evening coat. The air around her scented of high-priced, imported tobacco; of premier vintage red wines; of nightblooming jasmine; of chilled, cool winds and that faint musky scent that echo in museum corridors.

Scents as subtley provocative as the seductive glint of one ankle as it glides past the flowing slit of her gowns form-draping skirt. Soft sounds as whisperingly touching as the string of black pearls upon a platinum chain that runs not around her neck, but rather down, down, down the line of her spine, displayed in well-toned elegence by the cut of the gown that rises up high at the neck and cuts away at the back and draws the eye there... then lower.. then outwards... then upwards... then within.

Moving further within the condo, she goes about quietly not from any demure attempt to hide the lateness of her arrival, but merely from the cadence of her stately presence that feels no need to draw forth attention with volume and ruckus.

One satin kissed arm rises up in grecian lines to draw out the pins that have kept up her hair all evening; hair acheing to return to it's rather unruly natural state thanks to the humidity rampant in the damp air that so tastes of snow-still-to-come on the tongue. And there.. there as she comes to a stand at the open balcony door -- there where the whiteness of the curtains tease coyly sheer about the sable jet of her liquid-fabric gown and golden-grain of her hair -- there where the soft ambient light from the room casts the distinctive, singular lines of her face in shadowed relief...
...there she is a woman made and grown in manner rarely seen these days.

"Will you miss it, do you think?"

Such is how she chooses to lend the harmonies of her voice into the stronger melody of citylife beyond and around, enveloping. Harmonies it is, for her voice is a surprising undertone - not the higher pitched, clear-as-a-bell tone one might expect from her visage... but something more alto-rich, resonant with a smokey tinge of balmy huskiness. A not of passing, mild interest...
...a wraithly distant key of thoughts (fears?) she cannot shake.


Brand

Mon 02:44AM CST
He doesn't start when she appears. Likely he's sensed her coming from a long way off, either by merit of her heels or, softer, the scent and smell of her; the presence she leaves behind in the room, slowly dissipating long after she has left it.

Relaxed on the maplewood slats, the Ahroun doesn't move when she appears to haunt his doorway. Close up the details are visible. There's a faint, healing scratch running alongside the line of his jaw. He is cleanshaven today, but missed a spot in the cleft of his chin. The collar of his shirt isn't merely undone - it's also turned up haphazardly, testament that he'd stripped off a tie earlier. Bunched it and put it in his pocket, perhaps, or tossed it atop his bed.

Her question turns his head where her appearance did not. Interior lights glow on half his face, strong swarthy features dusted with distant amber. The other half is cast in shadow, the lights of the city too far away to do aught but catch on his glass, and gleam in his green-flecked eyes.

He laughs a little after a moment. "What a question," he muses, his voice a low thrum undershot with a beast's growl. He casts his gaze out to the city again as a fisherman casts his net. Miss what? - he could ask that, feign ignorance, but it's not his way. There is a pause, contemplative. "Yes, I suppose so." He inhales deeply, his chest expanding against the crisp white of his shirt. Exhale, and, "But they say everything lost can be found in the depths of the Umbra. So perhaps there's nothing to miss."

He speaks so easily of his fate now. In his hand the glass moves, rocks gently. Liquor comes close to spilling but does not, always saved by a hairsbreadth or two. Eventually he sips.


Genevieve Breitenbach

Mon 03:09AM CST
With his gaze drawn ahead, towards the distant city, he cannot see the bit of polite smile that graces generous lips; bemusement with a hint of potential sauceiness. Even though he cannot see it, he can more than likely envision it in his minds eye for it is just the sort of expression she often dones... socialy acceptable mystery; for the smile doesn't quite touch her eyes. Not correctly at least... that smile could signify anything from passing interest to winsome understanding - the look in her eyes; however, is far more shrewed. The indigo depths shimmer with hard gained acceptance...
...on her own terms.

"Perhaps, so." Words spoken as easily and cool-passioned as his own. As if she too can speak of the subject without issue -- except that she so rarely ever used to speak of it. But her arrival here in Chicago seems to mark some sort of.. change. As gossamer vieled as most everything else about her - shimmering surfaced and swirling, pitch depths; the difference is nothing that can be easily pinpointed... and it may well be lost on him entirely.

Such things rarely matter in his position. In hers.

Moving forward, she deposites hair pins atop a side-table and draws up behind and a bit to his side... draws up and then graciously curves her spine, lowering and turning her head to graze (surprisingly?) warm lips just above where that scratch is already healing - not actually kissing the scratch in the manner of a dotting mother or sympathetic little wife -- but far more akin to a feral mate taking note of the wounds of her own. Brief and passing but sensuously lingering in feeling, the touch of her lips barely gone just as one fingertip smooths along that small missed batch of stuble at the cleft of his chin. She breathes what could be a sigh and then turns her head to look out over the cit from his eye level and--

--draws back upright.

"Shall I top off your rum and coke before I retire, Doenhoff?"

So formal. So smooth.
And yet so undeniably present.


Brand

Mon 03:21AM CST
So present. His mate. His matched half, the answer to the wildness crouching tooth-bared inside his breast. Silver Fang civility makes his response to her kiss and touch necessarily slight, even careless - he tilts his head ever so slightly to give her access to his jawline, and his eyes don't waver from the city. Her fingertips on his chin: he dips his head briefly, smoothly, even gracefully. His lips parting, his teeth scraping the side of her finger; his hands don't move at all. Her fingertip caught between his teeth briefly. Beast in repose, powerful and muscular and primal, the strength of his desire pulses strong for a moment, an almost-palpable pressure in the atmosphere, then ebbs back. He releases her finger from between dull human teeth.

[ Look through my eyes. ]

The city laid out: the sparkle of manmade stars. The tapestry of a world laid at his feet, there for the taking, there for the claiming, there and promised and delivered, and taken away again.

Whatever his calm, whatever his acceptance, that which is territorial in him cannot help baring its teeth. She draws upright and he moves like a whip. It's hard to imagine how fast he could be; one moment motionless, a sphinx. The next, his hand is wrist of her hand that had briefly braced against the armrest. The sword-callouses on his palm scrape her skin. He looks at his rum and coke as if he'd never seen it before, and then deliberately drains it.

The tumbler set down with a soft click, glass to tile floor.

"No." Alcohol-rough. Growl-rough. "I have had enough." He pulls her [...roughly.] down on his lap and then takes a moment, takes his time, takes his hand and pushes it through her hair, loosening the last traces of her coiffure. He looks at her, really looks at her, for what seems like the first time tonight. In his dark eyes, the umber and the green, a white-hot flame twists and turns.

"And the soiree tonight?" He pretends interest in her affairs; he doesn't need to pretend interest in her. "How was it."


Genevieve Breitenbach

Mon 04:01AM CST
She is not a woman who often acts without calculating risks and outcomes....
...which is to say that it is not surprise that causes her breath to catch in the alabaster sweep of her throat. A rich, soft sound - caunt up and whirled about in the next gust of chill wind that flaps the haphazardly updraw lines of his collar and carresses its teasing way up the exposed expanse of her back, up into the hair his claiming hand fully releases. Waves and curls and abandon are teased forth and an undeniable heat is kindled in her own gaze, entrapped and entrapping as he looks at her... fully and completely. As though for the first time... tonight.
Any passing observer would perhaps think her displeased, given that it appears to be a frown now on her wide mouth beneath the pronounced lines of her distincitve nose. But he would know - or should know... should feel and smell and see and hear that the serious expression is a strengthing of her self-controll as she reclines, reposed on his lap.. feline and drapped, legs curling up exposing close-work fishnet clad claves and thigh as the split of her dress slinks apart; her hands drifting to his arms to better support herself... she now set atop his lap like some basking creature of liquid ivory, jet, sapphire and gold--
--the energy needed to hold herself in check snapping through her like barely concealed electricity.

A knowing in her eyes:
One movement. One look. One touch.
It is in his power to break her.
But it is in hers to consume him.

Blink.

He is fiening interest in her activities and her large, cat-tilted eyes blink and she breathes a low chuckle, some of the sudden, intensity of their proximity ebbing away. Unabashed... not a hint of shyness in how she noew finds herself settled upon him. Again that sound of her faint amusement, the spreading of her lips in a deliciously lazy smile as her head turns, so her lips run along the calloused hand there. Without inhibition, the tip of her tongue traces a wet, heated line over the swell of his thumb pad before she bites there, slowly...

...then releases. Looks back to him, smiling once more, eyes flickering with the knowledge that the interest is all polite fiction. Make believe.
Whether she appreciates it or not is simply impossible to tell.

"Boring, for the most part. But it was a means to achieve an end and for that it's purpose was well met."

Eyes dare to settle on his again, searching there - an instant where her thoughts aren't at all on sex or boredom or anything of the sort but things far more taxing - then absolutely gone and her eyes drift to his healing cut which may well have been quite the gash - or more - earlier today.

"And your evening?"


Brand

Mon 04:35AM CST
He does not ask what end that might be.
What purpose she might have. What designs she drew herself, with her own life apart from his.

Briefly his dark gaze drops to her mouth; her mouth on his hand; her lips on his thumb. His own part on an inhale, slow and steady. Then she looks at him and he at her a beat after. They look at each other and the polite fiction is scorched away.

"Uneventful."

The brevity, even curtness, of his tone is enough to wither many a woman. But Silver Fangs are made of sterner stuff than that. It's only a signal: the time for talk is over. They could pretend to be civilized, man and wife, later. His big hands drop briefly to her thighs. Then one arm scoops beneath her and he stands, lifting her and her slinking dress, her stockinged legs, her loosened hair with him in one dizzyingly smooth motion.

Without a hitch he snags the emptied glass from the floor. Then he raises his face to her. Darkness close up, and darkness in his eyes. Barely enough light to see the details of her features by. Barely enough light to see if she smiles, or if she doesn't, or if she's ever afraid of the burn of his full moon rage, or if the intensity of it roused and roaring is enough to banish all emotion except the most primal and basic.

He kisses her. Claims her mouth hungrily. They sway; he sways gently on his feet from the intoxication of alcohol and her, holding her above the ground, against him, above him, easily. Then the french doors bumped open, and he moves inside, the roll of his gait balanced and counterbalanced through every muscle of his body pressed to hers.

The condo is furnished sparingly, but tastefully; sleek modern pieces juxtapose with a few ancestral works of art or war. Glass set down on the wet bar. She is not. Upstairs, the steps creaking. Their shadows long on the walls. His suspenders dangling lazily in the vicinity of his knees. The bedroom door squealing softly open, then shut. He sets her on the counterpane (his tie sprawled, a snake, behind her: he had taken it off here, after all.), and, steady but swift, undoes the rest of his clothing.


Genevieve Breitenbach

Mon 05:22AM CST
And so it transpires as such things have, do, and will.

In the bedroom; in this basic, primal act of so many things (release; union; selfishness; generosity; aggresssion; dominance; submission; battle; healing)they are perhaps more knowledgeable of one another than in any other arena of 'married life'. Surely neither lacks in interest, drive, or response for the other... in this act, perhaps, it is easiest to be mindlessly unified.

And so it goes--

He disposes of the remainder of his closing, steady of motion though quick and pressing. She, laid out before him, laid in waiting thought not passively so. There is no question to her roused response to him but there is a pleasure for her in awaiting his hungry advance - the frustration of urgency that likely leads to the rending of that find gown. ANd what does it matter?
Another gown can be aquired.

And so it goes--
Were familiarity has, as of yet, failed to breed apathy in this regard. Where round one leaves markings and tastes and smells of 'hard love' and round two contrasts in a slower re-aquaintence of form and shape and textures and preferences. Of skills laid aside in respect to a Totems wishes if not any actual regard to her own sensibilities; now once more used in manner perhaps all too surprising in one born to kill.

And so it goes--
--until satisfaction - at least momentary - is achieved and they are left lying there, in a tangle of sheets and bots of clothing remains. Bodies glistening of perspiration... lying apart from one another now, perhaps overheated now and seeking some space. Perhaps she always rolled away from him afterwards or he from her.. or maybe niehter knew which initiated the action. Perhaps neither cared...

...but this time - smelling of him and herself and both of them and one; smooth pale flesh glowing and vibrant in the healthy sheen of some of the best exercise around; breathing only now beginning to steady out even and full once more - this time she turns back to him. Draws back in close and lingers there... to catch her breath, or, it may be, to see if he'll allow it.


Brand

Mon 05:39AM CST
Her nearness he allows. Why not? If he wanted to shut her out, he could do that easily enough. A Fang's cold shoulder is the stuff of legend.

But, not tonight. Tonight he lies still, the rapid rise and fall of his chest slowing far sooner than hers. Eyes shut, he senses her nearness by the heat of her, and by the movement in the bedsprings. Eyes open, and he looks upon her, the darkness of the room seeming to fly sparking into his pupils.

Brand lifts a hand and touches her face, her mouth. He does not often smile at her, though she's seen him grin and laugh with his pack, his sister. He does not smile at her now, but instead watches her with a certain darkening intensity.

"And now that you've followed me here," he murmurs, as though this were the continuation of some other conversation, "what will you do, when I am gone?"


Genevieve Breitenbach

Mon 06:02AM CST
Though she's seen him grin and laugh with his pack, his sister...
...but he does not often smile at her.

The question is, does that - did it ever - bother her?
...if it ever did she never gave hint of it.

(I don't need that from you. From anyone.)
But now that she's followed him there...
(Actions speak far louder than words.)
...what then?

Her eyes remain closed, in quiet repose as her body relaxes wanting the languid stupour of post-coital bliss--
--which won't come this time around, it seems.

What will you do when, when I am gone?

"What answer would you like, Aurich?" Comes her own murmered response, at long last. For she takes her time about it. Shifting her long form against his, so much taller, so much more than she. Eyes opening at last, watching the first lights of dawn that turn the world a wraithly grey; make of the morning an avalon mist... her head resting on his shoulder, a hand at rest atop his chest... her words somber and low and, for once, there is not even a polite smile upon her lips.
"What is expected of me? My family shall no doubt wish to seek out a new mate for me, particuraly if I am still childless." Her eyes close once more but she continues, voice soft, yes, but steady still. "Or perhaps they will leave me be - for a time at least - to follow my own peruits. They were not so happy about my following you here -- they felt I should heed your orders. Both for the tradition of it and the advantage...." There her lips do twitch.. one naked shoulder, perhaps now sporting a bite mark or two, shrugs faintly. "Or perhaps you'd like to hear that I'll--" The words fade there... and, drawing a breath, she turns more onto her stomach, lifting her head to look up at him... her eyes searching his.
A frown...
...and, for once, a hint of what just might be uncertainty in that piercing gaze.

"Was I so mediocre - so average and forgetable - a mate to be so easily left behind?"

Searching.. for answers that will likely never come, then her eyes close and she lowers her head, resting her forehead at his collar.

"I'll find you or I'll keep your memory alive.. somehow."


Brand

Mon 06:26AM CST
In the uncertain grey light of the early morn his profile is kingly, strong and noble. He stares at the ceiling while she speaks, taking her time about it. Her body moves against his and against the sheets. His arm has found its place about her; his hand traces down the curve of her side, absently heavy, and up again. She fades off and he breaks in.

"I would like to hear the truth."

Her eyes search his - or they try. They try, but he does not allow it.

The eyes are the windows to the soul:
his are tumultuous, dark, brooding, heavy with thought. The color is variant. Almost black in this light. Deep and rich as mahogany in others. Resonant, amber-gold, in still others. And always, always flecked by green as vivid as grass, as crystal; a color not found in man but in wolf.

The eyes are windows to the challenge:
and perhaps that is why he looks away. Beneath his skin his rage burns steadily. Her will is strong enough to withstand it, but none can ignore it. And to stare him in the eye too long - it could invite disaster.

Or at least these are the reasons he would give if pressed.

She feels him breath in, the long slow expansion of that mighty chest. Only after she has set her brow to his collar does he answer, "Genevieve, you were not easily left behind."

Feel the unspoken volumes fill the space between words.
Feel the effort it took to say them at all.

His body is taller, stronger, more solid than hers. Yet it can fade across the barrier between worlds. Flesh to spirit. Spirit to memory. Memory to nothing, and nothing unto eternity. He takes her hand in his, against his breastbone beneath which beat his heart.

And a pause.
And a silence.
And a quiet laugh strewn with irony.

"No, love," and he kisses her knuckles softly, gallantly, "you won't."

A short while later he settles his stroking hand on the curve of her hip, draws the sheets up and closes his eyes.

meeting the locals.

Genevieve

Thu 10:30PM CST
to Brand: It is never so much that she followed anyone anywhere; but that they happened to be where she was going...
An impression she gives with actions no more blatant than her modulated, easy breathing. An immpression fully believed by most.
Though not all.

Further strengthening said impression is that she is in Chicago naught more than a day and an evening and already she is keeping herself busy with her 'scholarly' (...black-market providor and Mystic relic finder...) pursuits.

In a borrowed office past dusty bookshelves in an moldy file room within the storage-annex cellar, she sits cross legged atop a desk, the lithe lines of her body draped in the finest linens and creamiest cashmeres. Cool winter white tones few woman can pull off - but she more than manages. Oh yes indeed.. and it's not even looks so much as it is presence. She can carry it off because she wills it to be so.

And so amidsts dust and mold and dim lighting, she has been left alone to devour the old, tarnished, chipped and scratched artifact in her hands, held up to the swinging shade-less lamp. An expression upong her ethereal face that is part ice cold calculation - assessment - and part heated-rush of reigned in excitement. Anticipation.

And by sheer force of presence it is not that she is out of place in her surroundings, but that her surroundings are quite out of place around her.


Brand

Thu 10:48PM CST
to Genevieve : Quiet voices drift echoing down these silent halls. Afterhours, and only a few security guards and even fewer late-night workers still remain. Questions asked and answered; footsteps ringing down the halls, distorted by distance, sharpening with proximity until it resolves into two pair feet coming upon this musty file room.

"--she should be in here." The voice of the young security guard who had shown her in, in the first place. And then the deeper voice of the alpha wolf, whose bass rumble could be both felt and heard through the rows of cabinets, "Thank you."

These shelves and cabinets do not list nor lean, but dust coats them thick in furred grey. Files are piled atop, some stacked to the ceiling. An earthquake here would be disastrous; could she escape the falling towers in time?

Always be planned for any disaster.

And he's hunting her amongst the grey cabinets as a wolf hunts amongst grey winter trees. Overcoats seem a thing of this pack. His is black as well, cashmere wool spun thick and watertight, single-breasted, the lines simple, quietly showcasing the breadth of shoulder and imposing height. Coming to her aisle, wider than the stacks in order to accommodate desks, he looks first the other way, finds it empty, turns. There have been many a brave man frightened by the sight of that stern face, the heavy Teutonic bones. He turns the corner with military sharpness, bringing to mind a brief and fast-fading image of captain-princes of old. His gloved hands undo the buttons on his overcoat as he approaches. He tosses the outercoat on the chair beside her, then the inner coat. Without a word, with only the creaking of the old wood, Brand climbs up on the desk behind her.

The length of his legs hem her in on either side. His muscled thighs brush her waist; he wraps massive arms about her lithe frame, easily enveloping her in his scent of wolf and sandalwood and winter aspen. His skin is swarthier than hers, his shirt and slacks dark. A day's growth of beard scratches her smooth cheek when he kisses her jawline.

"What are you doing?" She feels him speak as much as she hears it, a low affectionate rumble like a growl.


Genevieve

Thu 11:11PM CST
to Brand: She can be no more oblivious to his approach as she could be to a crackling stick of dynamite laid down beside her. First it is a pasing tingle deep down in the cradle of her pelvis, swimming up along the hips were a womans centre of gravity lies. Then the rising up of the fine platinum-blonde hairs along her delicate-boned limbs beneath the splendor of her D&G suit; the passingly visible rise of shivering goose-flesh along her bare arms. Her own overcoat likewise cast aside over a chair, despite the chill air down here in the cellar where the heat from old, clanking furnaces never quite reaches. Her breath even rises up in the barest of wraithly mists, but one is at least out of the damnable CHicago wind... and, for her, the cold is deliciously clearing of the senses.

...and proves all the better to feel the contrast of chill air and swarthy, heated flesh as he climbs up behind her, encompassing her with a figure that dwarfs hers by far. A shiver that has nothing to do with fear (at the moment, at least.. has there been times she has feared him? more than likely) ripples along exquisite flesh in primal response to his nearness. A smile to play games along the generous swell of her lips and she relaxes back against his solid frame, inhaling his scent as fully as he might inhale her own: Woman and juniper and dust and cool, cool breezes.

...she lowers the tarnished artifact - some sort of hand mirror it would seem - and angles her head back, brushingly surprisingly warm lips along the stubble so recently prickling the blush softness of her cheek.

(it should be infuriating. how she settles back in repose against him and within him, as though she'd been perched there all along knowing full well he'd soon arrive to warm her. Presumptuous and arrogant.. or so it would be if it was not just as clear that she draws a real, simple pleasure from his nearness. His arrival. Like she was sure he would come.. but only after he arrived)

"In great, liberal America would it be uncouth for a wife to attend to her husbands grooming?" The smile felt agianst his stubble and heard in the balmy smoothness of her low-keyed words. Fingertips leaving the artifact to brush slowly and lingeringly along the lines of his face, eyes closing.. like she might memorize the sight of him via touch. "I've been neglegent."

And then, lifting the artifact one handed-- a hint of ruefull quality slipping into her cultured tones. "As for what I'm doing... well, I couldn't very well romp across the Atlantic chasing after you without some backup plan, hmmm? A colluege once wrote me about an odd little find kept here and so I arranged to have a look upon my arrival."


Brand

Thu 11:28PM CST
to Genevieve : Brand's embrace lays heavy on her shoulders. On the worst of days such a touch is nearly unbearable. An energy seethes inside the Ahroun like electricity, or fire, or ice eighty degrees below freezing. When he's agitated, angry, that energy amps up into the red and the very molecules of the room seem to dance a little faster around him.

On the best of days - and tonight is one of the better ones - his embrace is a heavy, warm, reassuring thing. His strength seems indestructible sometimes. Like any true lord, he commands the trust as well as the respect of those who bow their head to him. From the storm of the world, he is shelter.

"Mmg." His lips curve slowly, his eyes falling almost-shut as she touches him, mouth first like a wolf, then fingertips. Just as slowly he licks his lips, his arm tightening briefly across her shoulders, then releasing. "This is considered cleanshaven. When you are not with me I grow a great and tangled beard."

The Ahroun tugs off his gloves by feel over her lap, the fine supple leather stretching like skin, and then is casually tossed with a twist of the mighty torso. The gloves land atop his coat with a soft plop and Brand turns back, leaning over her shoulder to stare, animal-intent, at the artifact she lifts. A hand-mirror? Silver perhaps. Either way he grasps it with little fear, and just barely enough care to prevent its irrevocable damage.

Reflected dimly in the tarnished image, he eclipsed behind she like a larger, darker sun behind a luminous moon. In his eyes, whose color changed with light and texture from darkest umber to a resonant tawny amber, the wolflike specks of green glitter and gleam. A beat later his hand closes around her wrist instead, thoughtfully, the sword-callouses on his palm scraping rough over her skin.

"Colleague?" A note of vague curiosity drifts into his tone, and out. He lowers her hand and the artifact in it. Likely he does not often think of her trade and profession. Perhaps he imagines her as a sleek creature in a glass bubble, set free to move and exist when he returns in the dead of night from some quest or campaign or other; set back into suspended animation when he leaves before the dawn. It's uncertain if he even knows all the details of her career, or, for that matter, cares.

"Strange," he muses, a laugh in his tone. "I know everything about you," - his free hand opens against her stomach, the size of it such that the thumb brushes the undersides of her breasts while the little finger extends well past her navel - "and nothing at all. We have not spent enough time in one another's company, Genevieve."


Jaan Rafe

Thu 11:41PM CST
*Nodding at her beauty and the way she's able to push such things back in her mind he stands.
Smoothing his long coat he tugs the italian leather driving gloves tight and nods to her. Moving to the door of the building he opens it, letting Danica enter and moves in behind her. Calling across the open skys of their linked minds in which Raptor hunted he querys the alpha*
You there my brother? We have arrived.


Genevieve

Thu 11:44PM CST
to Brand: "Do you think so?"

With lesser men (beasts. kings.) such a question would be the first warning of entering into a shifting ground of deepest dangers. With but an inclination of her head to soak in the besmudged reflection of him in the aged mirror. The entering of coolness into her tone as she sniffs delicately and moves to slip down from the desk, her free hand curving along the hand at her stomach slope, beneath the slender rise of her breasts - and pulling it away, not with physical force so much as personal will.

"And yet, curiously enough, you forbade me to follow you. Ordered me to - what was it: Presume you dead." Sheild-maiden she might have been in a different time, in a different world. Glimpses of it flickering through her cultured, dulcid facade in moments like theses where her smooth, square jaw sets and her ample-formed lips press together. Spine erect, shoulders straight... moving to a shelf to place the artifact there.

Her back to him.

Regal even when wounded. Slighted.
Fierce even in her vulnerability.

Speaking in tones less perceptive sorts would take as.. bemused.
...and why not? Even the most deadly of poisons can have the most tantilizingly pleasing of scents.


Brand

Thu 11:57PM CST
Totemphone reply: Yes. A moment, if you please. We will be there shortly.


Brand

Fri 12:05AM CST
to Genevieve : For a beat, a deadly stillness like the moment before a tornado, when all the world holds its breath.

Then Brand laughs behind her, an open, bemused, amused sound perhaps no less cutting for it. "Come now, Genevieve; don't be that way," he cajoles, he who could easily break her over his knee for such daring as to turn. her. back. Other Fangs have done more, for less.

Lesser Fangs, perhaps.

The desk creaks as he vaults from it, landing with surprising lightness of foot behind her. She hears him lift his coat and snap it out, slip it on; repeat with the overcoat. The gloves retrieved. The buttons done up. Like any gentleman of old and cold lands, he wears his layers: the outer, the coat, the waistcoat at times, the shirt, the undershirt.

"What would you have me have done? Bid my pack all follow me to my doom? Bid my kin follow me to an uncertain future in a strange land?" Her coat lifted, settled over her shoulders. "The pack awaits outside. We will speak on the way. Come."


Genevieve

Fri 12:25AM CST
to Brand: It would be far too uncouth for her to gap open mouthed in response to words she finds to be incredulously.... insensitive? Idiotic? Arrogant?
No, she doesn't open and close her mouth like a guppy for truth be told she isn't reall all that surprised at his response. It was more a matter of which road he would take: violence or careless teasing.

In the face of his opted course, she casts him a long, sidelong look. Controlled and tightly reigned in to give no hint of her exact thoughts. Her precise emotions....

...saying nothing she slips into the ivory-cream coloured overcoat with its texture as smooth as butter. Takes up her tan coloured kid gloves, slipping them on in decided fashion. Not scowling. Not sulking. Not brooding. Such are not the mannerisms of a woman such as she; displeased she is but already she is relaxing her persona to the visage of the lovely, graceful, personable mate.

A role to play.
To own.
To embody.

"I would have had you even briefly entertain the notion that your Kin might be more than willing to follow." She speaks the words quietly, aerial and soft as she deftly buttons up the coat. "That perhaps the Mate you know everything and nothing about might still wish - need - to follow. It is not that you forbade me to come that scarred... it is that you either believed I prefered it that way or did not care."

Her chin lifts and in an instant she is smiling sleek as can be. Nonchalant and unconcerned which might make him wonder if she was ever hurt at all--

"But yes, you are right, mate. Of course, I shall not continue to 'be that way'."


Brand

Fri 12:31AM CST
to Genevieve : For an instant Brand's countenance darkens as though a cloud had swept over it. She can see his jaw clench, the muscles in it popping. Doomed now, irrevocably, he does his best with what time he had left. And part of that was to stay on course. Avoid distractions. Avoid useless anger, pointless clashes.

What he needs is a perfect mate. Better yet, none at all.
What he wants might be significantly different.

"What you and I prefer, Genevieve, has little--" he begins (she defers, maddeningly); stops. The glance he casts her crackles like the discharge from a capacitor. He clears his throat and straightens his back, throws back his shoulders.

"Excellent. Let us continue."


Brand

Fri 12:34AM CST
Perhaps five minutes after the brief totemic conversation, Brand and Genevieve appear on the open balcony of the second story, overlooking the main hall. To have arrived so soon, they must've started walking immediately. To look upon their faces gives away nothing of their private conversations and private lives. Brand nods down at Jaan, his footsteps echoing off the high ceilings as he takes the straight, buckled staircase down - arm offered to his lady, of course.

"Sergei and Rasputin?"


Jaan Rafe

Fri 12:36AM CST
*Still waiting near the entrance of the Museum he looks to his watch. A bit of an annoied frown crosses his face as he looks to the Hamilton Venture. Looking up when the alpha arrives he waits till he's on the same level and not actually looking down on him from on high. The Symbology not lost on Jaan.* ~G~ Sergei is outside. I was begining to wonder.
*A nod to Gen* Lovly as always. Love the earrings.


Genevieve

Fri 12:39AM CST
to Brand: A moment. The briefest span in which her luminous feathers shift and it seems she might blurt out some uninhibited, un-galvanized, un-tampered with or dressed up truth--
--but then they can spot Jaan a'waiting and those empyrean features are mastered. SMoothed out and she nods ever-so-slightly, plaing her fingertips feather-light atop his offered arm--


Sergei Vladimir Skovgaard

Fri 12:40AM CST
True enough sergei pulls up outside and heads in, after donning his coat and clicking on the alarm. he's wearing a pin striped suit and pinstriped dress shirt underneath the jacket, polished dress shoes a black necktie and a black leather trenchcoat lined with black fur on the lining and lapel, mink. the whole wardrobe is black, as devoid of color as it's wearer was devoid of true emotion. he walked inside, his polished shoes rapping on the tiled floor.


Genevieve

Fri 12:47AM CST
An arm offered and an arm take - though only with the lightest touch of her kid-glove ensconsed fingertips. Decked out in a D&G suit of creamiest winter white, the overcoat long and flared in the latest trend. Luminous this woman of Breeding and More---

--generous lips curve upwards for Jaan and she chuckles silkenly faint.

"I'm glad you like them. Do feel free to borrow them sometime."

The barest mischevious glimmer in clear-indigo hued eyes, before her gaze drits along to Sergei as he enters and she nods a respectful greeting with another pleasently smooth smile.

--and then, she looks to her mate.

"The difference in time zones is still draining me, Brand. If it's alright I think I'll return home."


Brand

Fri 12:49AM CST
Buttoning his cuffs, the Ahroun strides toward the doors with a nod. A long breath through flaring nostrils centers his mind and focus. "Sergei notified me earlier of the upcoming meeting of the locals. Subway station, was it? What a god-awful choice of location."

Break in the business; he glances at the woman, his eyes a dim glint in the darkness, dark with a hint of green flash. A simple nod as he holds his arm out, allowing her hand to slip from the crook of his elbow.

"Drive safely," he bids her. If any of the gathered wore hats, it's doubtless they would now be tipped.

And speak of the devil. As Genevieve departs Brand nods curtly to Sergei, motioning toward the doors. Apparently this was only a meeting point, and now they were going elsewhere. "Any word on local packs and territories yet?"


Brand

Fri 01:32AM CST
Fang and Lord kin.
Don't they know better here?

The door swings open. Brand, Jaan, Sergei. Three compelling examples of the highest tribe. The purebreeding in this place just doubled, and then some. Even the mortals take notice, chatter stopping briefly, eyes rounding. Behold nobility.

Brand's eyes are fixed on the American Fang, but without hostility. Rather, it's curiosity and a certain gladness - at last! Cousins. Even when the seating hostess comes up, all smiles and fawning, his gaze does not leave the other. He speaks briefly to her, glancing at her ever so briefly to bestow a faint smile, and then brushes past.

They head toward Tucker and Sereleia's table, the husky Teutonic Ahroun and his packmates.


Tucker Riley

Fri 01:32AM CST
Somthing turns his head, be it her breeding or the perfume but Tucker's head moves, cranes in fact to see Sasha come in. His gaze lingers for a moment before he turns back to Sera.

"here comes Sasha, you'll like her. I promise."


Jaan Rafe

Fri 01:34AM CST
*A bit of a grin at Sergie's reply. It was... amusing if you looked at it the right way. Keeping silent for hte moment he turns and checks 6. Born of the halfmoon he's a balanced individual, or he tries to be and juuuuust in case. He looks behind the pack. And just because he knows how Devious the Spirals and baddies and People from Jersey can be, he looks UP as well.

Falling back into step he heads for Tucker and co's table*


Sergei Vladimir Skovgaard

Fri 01:35AM CST
Sergei follows brand quietly observing with a haughty arrogance or cold calculation either way his eye bores into anything it comes across as if searchinf for hidden flaws. his left eye nothing but a glass faccimiley of the right moves with the left but sees nothing.


Sereleia Mikhailovna

Fri 01:36AM CST
She glances up from her pancakes, dabs a napkin at her mouth and turns to catch a glimpse of who this Sasha person is.

The hair on the back of her neck starts to stand on end as she watches...Sasha...then two guys...then Sergei walk in. She swallows, blinking. You know, my luck is about as good as the old drunk who walked under the ladder and broke the mirror in the same day. Yeesh. Still, there's not much she can do about it, other than sit there. Or eat her pancakes. She stares at her pancakes again - they would come in while she's eating. No fair.


Brand

Fri 01:39AM CST
A curt, but polite nod to Sereleia first: old-world manners. Greet the lady. "Madam."

Frigid cold.

Then, considerably friendlier, a smile at Tucker, extending one strong sunbrowned hand. Lowland German, Brand is swarthier than either of his packmates, built large and strong. The essence of lordliness and kingship is hard to ignore. It's literally bred into him.

"Brother," he greets Tucker, warmly. "We had hoped we would meet an American of the blood."


Anastasija

Fri 01:40AM CST
An amalgamation of beasts in an all-American diner. And looking much out of place it would seem for some - fancy suits - Prada, no? A splash of Armani, of this and that and... European brands reeking on each rage-ridden forms. The air is suddenly stiffling - hot, thick, heavy. Ahhh, all that body heat.

This is not a usual path for Anastasija. Indeed, her wanderings oft took her elsewhere, but on this night - steps would choose here. Coincidence, then, that she would be in passing to feel that thrum of bare restraint, that edge of the wild: like the prick of a dagger's blade (sink deeper; sink deep). A familiar shiver arcs between shoulder blades, and its not long after that she enters the diner also.

Neon bright within, dark lashes narrow briefly and shield an expression which would otherwise be flat (As flat as the sea in the eye of the storm). They could be a pretty feature, much like the rest of her face - if it were not for the rigid lines; the scar which angled across temple and cheek; the twisting, corded hair which is roughly pulled back from her face and bound. Even more scars are seen caressing neck and sinking deep beneath clothes worn and unremarkable, raw under the light, and textured.

And for a moment, she just stands by the door, intensity in each gaze and it lands and ferrets through the gathered.


Sasha Delacroix

Fri 01:42AM CST
If it wasn't for purebreeding... You'd almost think Sasha wasn't even a wolf. The low rage affords her the advantage to socialize with the mundane and kinfolk. Not to mention the pretty friendly smile that graced her lips, spoke of a rather charismatic nature, if a bit flirty. She offers that smile to Sereleia and Tucker. Hitting their table just as the blue-bloods did, which almost makes her choke. The stone pulled up into the palm of her hand, closing fingers around it as it slips into a coat pocket.

"Evenin', mes amis," words flowed like honey, accentuated by the cajun drawl in her voice, naturally sweet on the ears. "Hey, Tuck, keepin' new company, shugah?"


Jaan Rafe

Fri 01:43AM CST
*The hair on the back of his neck stands and he slowly turns. Those green eyes clear and sharp as Raptor's children would have them, fall on Anastasija. He notes the scars and gives the woman a regal nod. He keeps watch that way now. Brand was introducing and Sergei... well was Sergei. He had his own thing goin' on.*


Tucker Riley

Fri 01:46AM CST
Too much stimuli for a man with this much coffe. "Yeah," nice to meet you, Tucker Riley. He reaches out and shakes the man's hand. When Sasha speaks he perks up sitting straighter.

"Don't really know these guys, but this is Sera, Sera meet Sasha Delacroix. She's the shit, I swear it."


Sergei Vladimir Skovgaard

Fri 01:47AM CST
Sergei regarded tucker with a languid nod and turned to catch jaan's look and took in anastasija another nod then his eye scanned the various other patrons and inhabitants cold calm and detached as he often was when not trying to win another's trust.


Sereleia Mikhailovna

Fri 01:48AM CST
She looks between Tucker, the iceman, and finally the woman who is introduced to her. She manages a smile to Sasha, "Hi. Nice to meet you, Sasha. Would you like to sit down?" Sasha is much less intimidating than the rest of the giants in the room. Her blue eyes flicker back in the direction of the newly-arrived Fangs...who don't seem too happy to see her.


Anastasija

Fri 01:51AM CST
Two she recognises - Sasha and Tucker - the rest not, but at the nod from a stranger one is returned - a mere fraction it falls (pride brims in its surface) that a blink would miss it. No smile graces her face, nor is there a gleam in her eye to emit even the faintest sliver of emotion. Rigid, indeed.

Yet she does approach, predatory steps seeped with economy of movement - a stark contrast to the other female garou in the room.


Brand

Fri 01:54AM CST
"Brand."

--simple. What, no recounting of 30 ancestors and all their deeds? He shakes solidly, grasping the forearm rather than the hand, and then straightens. A nod to his packmates, "Sergei Vladimir Skovgaard, Jaan Rafe."

A glance toward Sasha, lifted eyebrow immediately noting the source of her breeding, and that it was not quite sufficient for one of Falcon's own. Back to Tucker. The smile has since dwindled to a bare curving of the lips.

"Strange company you keep, Tucker Riley." Like ice, steady and ungiving, his eyes flicker up toward yet another Lord's daring approach. Were he in wolf form, his hackles would be up, his body posture fearless and aggressive - head high, tail stiff. But he is in the shape of a man, and his tone is light, cool, as he looks Anastasija over, nods. "Another of your friends? Introduce us."

The voice is deep and undershot with a growl.


Jaan Rafe

Fri 01:56AM CST
*As Anastasija approaches, Jaan turns fully to face her. Shoulders squatred. Eyes watching her. His were keyed to movment and the like and well those scars, that hair, the eyes. Yum.

Hands withdrawn from his pockets are clad in italian leather driving gloves. A Regal nod, decendant of Czars is offered, then his hand* Jaan Rafe.


Sasha Delacroix

Fri 01:56AM CST
"De pleasures mine, Sera." a small incline of Sasha's head to the girl, nostrils flaring to breath in the air, the pedigree of this one almost as overpowering as the trio of royalty. Sasha steps around the tables until it places her closer to Tucker, allowing her to keep pale blue orbs on everyone. Including the recent addition of the other female garou.

She acknowledges the Lord by speaking her name. "Anastaija, so nice of ya to join us t'is evenin'."


Tucker Riley

Fri 02:00AM CST
"I keep the company of Fenrir and outcastes, as well as those I deem worthy." His Rage is coalescing above and around him. Hackles up. [Order me.... I think not.]

"S'Anatasija, Sasha, and Sera." Short, simple, concise.


Anastasija

Fri 02:01AM CST
There is long drawn moment, where she just stares at him - where she seems to disdain the hand suspended between them. A glint in her eye, perhaps amusement, perhaps scorn, its meanings made murky by those dark hidden depths. And then, interestingly, even as her hand lifts - her attention, if not eyes - turn briefly away. "You also, Sasha." The accent which tumbles from her tongue is thick, almost wrangling. A glance is flicked in the other woman's direction, the brief tugging blade of a smile.


Sereleia Mikhailovna

Fri 02:02AM CST
She inwardly bristles, her instinctive reaction chilling the blue of her eyes. Her chin rises ever so slightly - I'm as good as you are, dammit. Her hands, set carefully in her lap and mostly hidden by the table, curl into small fists as she sits there. She says nothing - it would be unwise to say anything at this point. Instead, she stares. Openly. At all three of them. But not in adoration - no, despite her best efforts to appear neutral and calm, with dislike.


Sergei Vladimir Skovgaard

Fri 02:02AM CST
Sergei's eyes eventually find their way back to tucker and bore into him coldly "My aren't we feirce..."


Sasha Delacroix

Fri 02:04AM CST
One step over and Sasha slips up next to Tucker, almost matching him in height. Her hand lifts up, fingers brushed in a hidden caress up his back to clasp firmly on his shoulder. Stand down... the gesture felt through the firm squeeze of her fingers digging into muscle, expressing her dominance over the ahroun, she considered her charge. Pale blue eyes brim with amusement at the display of body language, almost enjoying the scenery of this little union. She returns the Lord's smile with one of her own.


Jaan Rafe

Fri 02:05AM CST
*And the lords disintrest doesn't go un-noticed. As his hand grips hers it holds. His green eyes waiting for her own to return to him. Waiting for a greeting to be given in return. Holding her hand in his grip. His mood darkening a touch at the insolence. Manners were extended and rebuffed.
He hand is gripped and he waits. A light shimmer of the overheads reflected in his green eyes as he does.*


Brand

Fri 02:08AM CST
A beat. Then, a chuckle.
"Interesting."

To each of the three as they are introduced, he nods gravely. "Pleasure, ladies." His posture speaks for him: back held effortlessly straight, chin up. His height in and of itself is imposing, but even were he the shortest man in the room he would still have that same aura of command.

It shrouds him like a mantle.
It surrounds him like a corona.

One hand closes on the back of the chair closest to him. He pulls it out and sits uninvited. Why should he wait? The very air he breathed was his by birthright. No slender, pretty Fang, this one: large and overbearing, his dominance almost a scent on the air.

"I wish this could be a purely social meeting," he continues once he is seated, "but our time here is short. We wish to make the most of it. If you would kindly inform us of the lay of the land, the 'groups' and their claimings, we would be obliged to you."


Anastasija

Fri 02:11AM CST
It does return, the moment with Sasha fleeting, and dark eyes willingly spearing Jaan's own. The smile, as subtle as it was, has faded completely. And the grip is returned. By greeting, it is a simple thing - a repetition of what has already been said twice, yet shortened to add not to the insolence. She wouldn't want him to take further insult at such spoon-feeding. "I am Ana." Until he releases her hand, she makes no move to free it, though one eyebrow would lift slightly in the only indication of amusement, should that hold prolong.


Jaan Rafe

Fri 02:13AM CST
*One long second longer and he pumps her hand once. Letting go. A flicker of a brow risen as well to match her look.
He'd need new gloves after this no doupt. His voice, trained by tutors comes out properly modulated for english, but clearly not his first language* A pleasure to make your aquatienship, i'm certain. Would you care to join us in converse.... Ana.
*The use of the common and familiar a bit of a condesending slap at the end of his pointedly polite iscorce*


Sergei Vladimir Skovgaard

Fri 02:15AM CST
Sergei's good eye wanders again, fallowed by his glass one, taking in the small dirty diner (when you're used to expensive restraunts it was filthy and plain) then eventually back to the group, he stood at his alpha's shoulder his arms folded onto his chest, he was tall broad shouldered and wirey his rage manifested in his cold calculating assessment of anything he saw and in his haughty emotionless stare.


Sereleia Mikhailovna

Fri 02:17AM CST
Great. She looks down at her pancakes. Alas - they will not be eaten. Already her appetite is leaving her, surrounded by so much rage and people who seem to nigh on hate her. She shakes her head at her own thoughts and lets out a little sigh, waiting to find out what the oh-so-lordly ones have come down from on high to impart to the mere mortals.


Tucker Riley

Fri 02:21AM CST
Huff. Puff. The big bad silver wolf.....

Stands. Down. But he won't be polite, he turns to give Sasha a defeated look. Angry once again, and he had been in a good mood tonight too.

"You're sittin' in Eagle territory, compadre, and if ya go a few block that way you'll be in the knight's back yard." He pauses to point.

NOw this direction about six blocks from here or so, is the crows' territory, it stretches inta parts of downtow. There's a fury pack in grant park, don't really know them all that well and the Quick runs chinatown." He nods, curt.


Anastasija

Fri 02:22AM CST
This time she does smile in reply - and that is all, turning from him to his Alpha. In the little that was said between Jaan and herself, it was not hard to hear what else was spoken around the table. "My pack, the Ferrets, hold claim over Grant Park. Beyond that.." Eyes turn slightly considering as they rove Briefly over Brand, measuring. ".. I am still learning them also."

She has yet to glance at the Kin, or indeed, even Tucker, beyond that first scrutiny made in the doorway.


Jaan Rafe

Fri 02:24AM CST
*He remains standing. Watching Anastasija. The green eyes cool and collected with out being cold or uninviting*


Sasha Delacroix

Fri 02:26AM CST
Senses reeling from too much stimuli from everyone. Sasha keeps her hand on Tucker's shoulder, squeezing it gently this time, Good boy...

Nostrils flaring slightly, she lifts her head up, chin raised to lift eyes on everyone else to keep them level. "Mind ya manners while in t'is territory. I'd hate to see ya pretty suits dirtied by a curbstomp from a buncha pissed off Germans. T'ey don't take kindly to rough-housin' in t'eir turf. Neither do I for t'at matter. Seein' as t'ey's friends of mine. All high rankin' ones like mahself."


Sergei Vladimir Skovgaard

Fri 02:30AM CST
Sergei glances from tucker to anastajia then to sasha with an unimpressed almost bored expression on his face, he lifts a hand to stifle a yawn. more for show but partly because it was late and he was still on german time. "Interesting..." was all he said in his cold emotionless voice.


Tucker Riley

Fri 02:30AM CST
"I have a life debt to every one of the eagles, fuck with them, and it becomes bad diplomacy for house... guessing gleaming eye??"

His look is hard but he still doesn't look back into Brand's eyes. His hand goes up to feel Sahsa's on his shoulder, making sure it's still there.

"Was there somthing else you three gentleman needed?"


Brand

Fri 02:32AM CST
"You have our thanks."

Willful ignorance: he does not seem to note Anastasija's measuring gaze, nor Sereleia's mounting irritation. Sasha's comment, however, at last earns the Coggie (...Coggie? What a pity, and so close to the Highest Tribe, too.) a long moment of cool consideration. He sits at his ease in the chair, turning wood and screws into a throne. One arm slung over the back, the other hand toys idly with a salt shaker as he examines Delacroix at his leisure.

Click, the salt shaker set down. The Fang leans forward.

"Madam," his studied, edged politeness is oddly not at all incongruent with his broadness of shoulder, strength of jaw, "we remember the old ways better than any. And you'll find we are here to keep the law. Not to break it."


Sereleia Mikhailovna

Fri 02:33AM CST
Still silent, because they wouldn't want to hear from a mere kin anyway. She glances over at the iceman sitting next to her, just watching him for now. Then her eyes flicker to Tucker for a moment, then up and around as she finally takes a look at the scarred woman...the other one she hasn't met. She doesn't appear to be with the others....hmmm.


Jaan Rafe

Fri 02:34AM CST
*A bit of a smile crosses Jaans face as he watches Anastasija, then looks to the table*


Jaan Rafe

Fri 02:35AM CST
to Sergei Vladimir Skovgaard, Brand: This one here has an almost psychotic hatred of humans... someting that could be exploited. And she needs to shave her pitts...


Sergei Vladimir Skovgaard

Fri 02:37AM CST
to Jaan Rafe, Brand: Her legs too i'd imagine... She has the breeding but lacks a certain... flair.... pity... she will make a useful pawn.


Sasha Delacroix

Fri 02:41AM CST
Her hand remains there for a second more, pulling from Tucker's shoulder to drop down behind his back, away from the eyes of Lords and Fangs. Moving even lower, just past his ass in a subtle movement to steal a grope of some precious, personal items of Tucker's. She leans forward to growl softly in his ear. "Watch de tongue, Tuck"

After that, Sasha quickly drops her hand to her side, turning those pale blue eyes upon Brand meeting his gaze. "Good to know t'at, sir." she replies in a calm tone of voice.


Brand

Fri 02:41AM CST
to Sergei Vladimir Skovgaard, Jaan Rafe: "We have no time for games of politics," the Ahroun growls over the totemphone. "If she stands with us she will stand behind us. If she stands against us she will fall. That is all that matters."


Anastasija

Fri 02:42AM CST
Brand's words tear her attention from him as surely as if he'd grasped her jaw between his fingers and centred her on Sasha. The solemnity is back in those features once more, stretching smooth flesh where pain's lash had not touched. And in this presence of Fang, despite the confidence which already emanates from her form - her chin suffers subtle, unconscious lift.

She did not know the woman so well to intrude, and so she says nothing, studying both Sasha and Tucker equally. It was nice of the Fang Alpha to embed pretty seeds in that iron-visioned mind.

Many thanks.


Jaan Rafe

Fri 02:43AM CST
*his green eyes flicker to Sasha when her hand dissapears. Watching with out accusing. Not assuming but curious. A bit of a lean to see what she's doing. His nature that of a rather curious individual.
Flicker glance back to Ana, then back to Sasha, ohhhhh she was easy to look at.
She was mannerful too. Always a plus*


Sergei Vladimir Skovgaard

Fri 02:46AM CST
Sergei meerly observes with all the warmth of a scientist observing the interactions of caged chimpanzees.


Brand

Fri 02:47AM CST
Subtleties: the Fostern's gaze is held an instant, then dropped.

The salt shaker is pushed gently back beside the pepper, standing like a glass chesspiece. Brand raises his eyes again, this time to Tucker. The color of the irises hard to name: in some lights as dark as burnt umber; in others, as resonant as amber. And in this, somewhere in between, the color of oiled oak, flecked with green.

"House Gleaming Eye. Yes. And you, Wyrmfoe?" A slight tilt of his head - "Curious, though. You seem less than eager to continue conversation with your cousins. What should we make of this?"


Sergei Vladimir Skovgaard

Fri 02:50AM CST
Now for the first time sergei smiles. not an emotion filled smile but the predatory smile of a king watching a gladitorial game. a battle of wits almost as interesting as a bettle to the death.


Sereleia Mikhailovna

Fri 02:51AM CST
She takes a breath, lets it out. When was the last time she slept? Ummmm...shit. Organic Chem. Today. In... She glances down at her watch - T-Minus 8 hours and counting.

"Dammit." She mutters the word softly, leaning over and pulling out her backpack. She ignores the rage machines - screw 'em. She's got stuff to do. A truly enormous textbook is pulled out of her bag, and she pushes her plate out of her way as she plunks the thing on the table and opens it.

Organic Chemistry, aka Masochism 101. She rubs her temple with one hand, hoping the headache that's coming on will go away...and concentrates on the text.

Let the Garou be the usual dick-waving Garou. She has an exam to study for.


Tucker Riley

Fri 02:52AM CST
Blink. [Did she just grab my...? Well then.] "Sorry." To the Coggie beside him.

"S'Long as you don't go around playing the rulebreaker I got no problem with ya, stickin' around."

He clicks his tongue. "Yeah, house Wyrmfoe. Make of it what ya like, I'm around often enough, look me up cuz."


Jaan Rafe

Fri 02:54AM CST
*His eyes fall over the book that brought the curse to the little womans lips. A bit of a curious expressin then dismissal.
looking up to Tucker he listens and a soft chuckel escapes him*


Brand

Fri 02:59AM CST
"Goodnight, Tucker Riley." Rising an instant after the other Fang, he nods formally to the women. "My exit cue as well, ladies. Goodnight."

Passing his packmates, he clasps first one and then the other lightly on the shoulder, then pushes past and out the door. I'll walk tonight, I think. Keep an eye on the Lords.


Sasha Delacroix

Fri 02:59AM CST
Gleaming Eyes... Figures, reminded her of LeRoy and his proclamation of being of that house. He was just a silver-blooded Coggie like Sasha, both from backwater redneck's ville. A loud cough to clear her throat, nudging Tucker in the shoulder with her elbow. "I'm awfully sorry to break up de tea party, but it's late. I'm 'fraid Tuck and I need to head out. Duty calls elsewhere, right Tuck?" polite, friendly, courteous to the Fangs as she offers them an apologetic smile. "I'm sure we can hook up another night."


Jaan Rafe

Fri 03:01AM CST
*Jaan lets the Alpha leave and offers his hand to Sasha and then to Tucker* A pleasure. Perhaps again when we have more time in a setting... more convienant to privacy.


Sergei Vladimir Skovgaard

Fri 03:01AM CST
Sergei nods respectfully to brand then gives the slightest inclination of his head to the others who are leaving and the smile slowly fades back to his typical stoic look.


Sereleia Mikhailovna

Fri 03:02AM CST
She glances up, blinking - eh...they're all leaving. Perfect. She rubs her eyes and goes back to reading, turning a page. Let them all leave. Her head is really pounding now.

Hmm. Sleep. Now there's a concept. Sleep. Hrm.


Sasha Delacroix

Fri 03:02AM CST
Sasha accepts Jaan's hand in a quick shake, no firm grip or anything. "Night all. C'mon, Tucker..." she reaches out to loop her hand through his arm pulls him off.


Jaan Rafe

Fri 03:03AM CST
*Surprisingly enough he offers his hand to Serelia before turning* I apoligise for intrrupting your studying miss. Do have a good night and let us pick up yuor bill.
*Pulling out a money clip he flips out a few $20s and lays them on the table* Good evening ladies.
*A regal nod*


Anastasija

Fri 03:04AM CST
Should it irk her that in the middle of this maelstrom, the little Kin is... sitting there studying? Maybe it shouldn't - but then, she never did have much tolerance for kin. So even as the Fangs leave - a bare glance slithering its direction at their departing backs - most of her attention seems to be boring a hole into the bowed head of Sereleia. And where the other garou hadn't riled her, she's fairly bristling with irritation now.

Not that it would be noticed by someone who barely knew her.