Daniel Broken Hammer

[Daniel] Crown Fountain.

55 degrees on a Tuesday afternoon, which is a nice day for December. Patchy clouds in the sky. Young professionals having a late lunch outside; young housewives and their children.

Standing in front of the fountain, which is a towering, blockish edifice cast in constantly shifting images of Chicagoans, is Daniel Ingenssen. He's in his old blue jeans and his old hoodie, which is to say: he's in what he always wears. The Forseti is frowning up at the fountain in consternation. He looks like he's been watching it for a long time.

[Daniel] (fyi: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crown_Fountain)

[Joey] For most of the city, 55 is not cold. It's positively balmy. The sun is shining, the sky is clear, and there is no snow on the ground. It's warmer than average for a winter day in the Midwest.

Joey comes out of Starbucks with her hands wrapped around a steaming paper cup. She's dressed in layers, bomber jacket over a dark colored hoody, fingerless gloves, a grey knit cap pulled low over her pale blonde hair. She likes coming to Grant Park after morning patrols. The area is nice and upscale, with huge towering buildings and the park itself with its skeletal trees and shrubbery.

She's out for a walk, so she heads for the fountains in Grant Park, to the area near the Cloud Gate, where the artsy sculptures are. The Rotagar lets her boots take her where they will. Daniel may notice her presence, just as she notices his, the tug of the totem bond between them strengthening as she nears Crown Fountain. Coming up beside him, she stares up at the fountain with him.

After a beat, she looks to her new packbrother and smiles in greeting. "Hey."

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] The Silver Fang himself could be confused for one of those "young professionals," dressed as he was. Indeed many of that tribe were professionals of some nature, of some profession.

Dressed as usual in his black three-quarter suade coat that buttoned from waist to throat, then flared around his hips and legs much in the manner of archaic nobility, Caleb was walking down the path toward the fountain in soft leather boots that laced to the knee. Safari-chic, Gabbie had called them. Form fit the function after all, as where some places that could be discerned from scuffs, it was obvious there were things usually buckled over them. Greeves, if anyone knew how to look. Around his throat beneath the coat was a gray scarf. 55 may be comfortable for Chicago, Illinois, but Caleb was from Louisiana.

Light green eyes flicked about as he came to stand beside the Forseti, an eyebrow arching up as he looked at the fountain. "They look much better in the summer and spring," the cajun drawled softly. An eye flicked to Joey - she looked familiar, but from where? "Madamoiselle," he murmured in greeting.

[Jeff Pyeon] Daniel is wearing a suit. Not just any suit, but a fine cut, well tailored, certainly fashionable and expensive suit. His shoes are equally fine, and his sunglasses (because when the sun breaks through the patchy clouds, it's quite bright) are of the latest fashion and most assuredly not knock offs, to judge by the rest of him. In one hand, he has a coffee cup from the Starbucks Joey just exited - in fact, they were likely about thirty seconds off of bumping into each other - and a bag from a nearby deli. Under his arm, there's a news paper, and at the other ear is his cell phone.

He looks like the sort who has one nearly perma-attached, really, but he hasn't caved in to the bluetooth revolution yet, so there's that.

The chat with the client ends and the phone clicks shut, is put into a pocket, and he continues towards the fountain, comfortable in just his suit - no layers, no bundling here. He's going to claim a seat on the fountain, or near it, to eat his lunch . . . but then he sees people he knows. Sort of. Or has met a time or two.

"Joey. Daniel," he says, all young and upwardly mobile. Caleb gets a smile that cracks the Asian gentleman's whole face; it's not exactly friendly and warm as one might expect, but it still has its draw. "Hi."

[Daniel] Daniel doesn't seem to notice Joey's approach, and he doesn't return the greeting; at least not verbally. He does, after a moment, shift his balance slightly, allowing his shoulder to bump-brush against Joey's gently. The Forseti, though small for his tribe at 5'10", is lean and hard, possessed of a sort of close-hewn toughness.

"I don't understand this fountain," he says. "I thought spitting was a sign of disrespect."

Then Caleb joins them on Daniel's other side, and instantly the Forseti's head whips around, vigilant, cagey as a stoat, a fox; as the lone wolf he was, but no longer is. In that motion it becomes obvious that he had, indeed, noticed Joey's approach a moment ago. His recognition of a packmate was in his non-reaction.

Daniel, eyes dark and sharp as a hawk's, watches Caleb silently, flicking briefly to Jeff, then back. His mind reaches across the totem bond. It's not so much a sentence as a sense of who? -- he's unused to having a totemlink after so long, let alone using it to communicate.

[Joey] Joey takes a cautious sip of her hot chocolate, and then she smiles. It's not the smile she usually wears, all sunny bright and showing teeth. For her tribesman, her lips remain sealed.

"I think it's s'posed to be like, a gimmick. It's better in the summer, when people get all hot and shit. Helps 'em cool off."

They're joined by another Garou and a kinfolk. Joey recognizes Jeff, and her smile broadens. "Heya." Caleb gets a nod. She's seen him at moots, standing with what was the Unbroken Circle and is now simply Unbroken. She nods her head respectfully.

Her dark eyes flick to Daniel, and back to Caleb. She glances around the area, checking for the nearness of ordinary mortals. It's the lunch hour. People are out eating packed lunches, or from bags bearing the label of various fast food restaurants. The knot of rage, however, is given its space. Still, Joey keeps her voice pitched low. "You're with The Unbroken, right?"

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] Only roughly four inches taller than Daniel, Caleb doesn't seem to stand looming over anyone. Indeed even his arms came to fold over his chest as his attention was not on the others, as it was on the fountain. Aristocratic aloofness, or just not sensing a threat? When Daniel whipped his head around to view the theurge, Caleb's eyebrow quirked in amusement, though whether for the Forseti or for the fountain was anyone's guess.

"It is," he said casually. "Although I believe that the purpose of this video sculpture was more for amusement and entertainment than anything. Imagine, close to twenty million dollars for mere amusement. Ah, well. I suppose it provides a bit of relief from the summer heat." Smirking, Caleb considered the summers here to be little more than spring back home.

Joey may or may not know his name, that was for sure, aside from what is known at the moots. Indeed Caleb's was a face that many remembered. Familiar, yet unknowing. Eyes flicking to the Korean, he managed a slight nod. "Monsieur," Caleb said in greeting, and no more.

Eyes turning back to Joey: "Oui, cher. Caleb Delacourt-Alden, theurge of Falcon, House Gleaming Eye, of the Unbroken." His words were pitched low, unlikely to carry beyond the three Garou and Kin.

[Daniel] Daniel's response: a sort of hnh sound at the back of his throat, not fully vocalized. He frowns up at the fountain for another second, and then returns his eyes to the Theurge. The name is remembered; the rank, the auspice, tribal and pack affiliations.

Rather than returning the introduction, however, Daniel remains quiet, deferring to Joey. His place in the Sentinels, as far as he's concerned, is near the bottom of the rank structure.

[Jeff Pyeon] Jeff is an inch or so shorter than Daniel, and made to seem smaller, at least in current company, by lack of Rage. There are introductions, and he doesn't interrupt. For the moment, he's just listening.

[Joey] Joey grins at Caleb's greeting, a flash of white teeth in her young freckled face. She has to angle her head up to look any of the men in the face, exposing the scar on her throat, the ragged mess of pale skin where her throat was once torn out. Overlaid across it is a newer mark, red and angry and still healing. If she shifts, it'll be gone by evening, but she wanted to go out into the city rather than stay cooped up in room 7.

"Nice. I'm Joey, this is Daniel. And this," she says cheerily, shifting her cup to one hand so she can throw an arm around the slightly taller Asian's shoulders, "Is...Jeff?" she questions, then more firmly, "Jeff. Walker kin." She gives the kinfolk a squeeze and lets him go.

"You guys just out enjoyin' the sights?"

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] "A pleasure," he said to the three. Meeting new people was always something to look forward to, especially in these times when extra sets of hands were in demand. Arms slid from his chest, to lower to his sides as he shrugged a bit deeper into his coat.

"Ordinarily I would say I am doing just that," he said to Joey, "except that I've lived here for several years. I've seen as much as I can when the press of my duties are not involved. I find the park to be relaxing when I cannot afford the time to venture home."

[Daniel] Daniel, in stark contrast to his cheerful tribemate, looks like the sort of man who's never had a day's fun in his life. The Forseti's frame is narrow and hard; his hands are shoved in his pockets, and his eyes are wary, flicking everywhere every so often. The bones of his face are pure scandinavia. The slant of his eye orbits, combined with his affect, give him a permanently mournful look. If there's a single word to describe Broken Hammer, it would be dour.

"I was exploring the protectorate," he says. "I'm not used to navigating large cities."

[Laila Frolich] ~To her, Crown Fountain was a facetious piece of work. The ever changing faces and images against the granite framework were as lovely to her as any Van Gogh or Monet print. So it's no surprise that she finds herself taking the long way through the park just so she can pass the fountain. Having entered via Monroe street, her direction seems to be leading her to the Nichols Bridgeway. Laila is a beautiful young woman in her own right - with ethereal features and a near flawless complexion - who garners her fair share of second glances. This afternoon finds her in dark creased slacks and a violet shirt that wraps nicely around her petite frame. Sunglasses mask the hazel gold of her eyes and her at present auburn hair is pulled away from her face in a sleek ponytail. Despite her appearance, she glows with a sense of selfconfidence born not only from experience but from the pedigree that pulsed from her heart into her veins. Hers was a renowned bloodline, one she is ignorant too but nonetheless, it is a lineage of various heroes - Garou and Kinfolk alike.~

[Joey] Joey bobs her head and tries for another sip of her drink. When it doesn't scorch her lips, she takes a long pull, hoping to be warmed from within. Her rage is weak in comparison to Caleb's and Daniel's. It is not the blast furnace of some, blazing hardly any brighter than a candle flame. But like the Fang, she was born to much warmer climes. This is the coldest it gets while the sun is out in Las Vegas, and it's only expected to get worse the deeper into December they go.

Caleb comes to the park because it's peaceful. Daniel is here because he was exploring the protectorate.

"Me, too," she says, which could be a response to either Garou, or both. "I've only been here since like, June, but I still like lookin' around. Is it always so fuckin' ugly in the winter?" She casts her glance around the park, and the barren tries and browning grass.

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] A touch of a nod was given Daniel's way, Caleb's hands finding their way into the folds of his coat's pockets against the chill Chicago air. "I had the same problem when I came here," he said. "It comes in time, finding your way. If all else fails, I'd suggest hailing a cab and telling the driver where you wish to go."

Common sense being what it was, and all. Nostrals flared, and light green eyes flicked around, catching the scent of pedigree. In the distance, some yards off, his gaze settled onto Laila. Silver Fangs had an uncanny knack to finding those with pedigree. Perhaps it was her, perhaps not, at this distance, but even so there was something a bit striking about the girl.

"Yes," he said to Joey. "White snows turned to gray slush from the grime of the city, litter on the streets. While I may of grown up in Lafayette and New Orleans, I spent much of my time in the bayou. I can't abide the smothering confines of cities for long." That Caleb wasn't urrah might come was a shock. Most Fangs were, except in rural areas. "I live in the Tekakwitha. A much cleaner, more peaceful place. Though it makes travelling to and fro in the dead of winter that much more tricksome."

The way Caleb spoke, it was more like he said Laff-yette and Nawlens.

[Daniel] "Where are you from?" He's talking to Joey. They're packmates, but he knows next to nothing about her. The question is utterly abrupt. So is the turn of his head, and the fix of his eyes. Daniel looks like a human, walks like a human, talks like a human, but he's not human and will never be mistaken for one. Something's simply missing there; some basic human socialization. His stares are too intense and go on too long. His questions burst out of nowhere, like thunderbolts out of a clear sky.

[Laila Frolich] ~There's utterly no mistaking Laila for anything other than what she is: Kin to monsters. Her confidence and breeding are the hallmark traits of almost any Garou, but she's missing that spark of Rage that elevates the Werewolves on the food chain. She is, probably, less than 30 meters from where the predators of Chicago have chosen to gather this afternoon. And, to her, 30 meters might as well have been 3 feet. There was a heaviness that hung over the group like a dark gray, ominous thundercloud. Not only did her skin crawl but every nerve in her body become hypersensitive and she felt her body release a rush of adrenaline which nearly made her queasy. There's a dark sweater hung over one arm casually and without thought, at 20 meters from the group, she finds herself easing her long arms into the sleeves.~

[Joey] "Las Vegas Nevada!" says Joey with as much pride and excitement as one might say, I won a decathalon, or, I found the cure for cancer. "I'm not used to bein' outta the 'burbs, though. An' I miss the desert. It's so fuckin' cold here." There is no comical shudder to emphasize her point, nor a genuine one. She and Daniel are packmates, but they don't know each other at all. He's heard her voice across the totem link, but beyond that they've never spoken. Aside from speaking with exhuberance, Joey is loathe to show weakness in front of a tribemate.

"I like Tekakwitha. I wanna go north, though, like Wisconsin? Lookin' at maps and shit, they've got bigger forests. And wolves're protected there."

As the Fenrir kin draws nearer, when her breeding is close enough to be felt on the wind, Joey turns her head to her, like a dog catching a scent. Her head tips curiously, watching her slide into her sweater as she comes closer to the small knot of predators.

[Daniel] "I've never seen a desert," Daniel replies, the same way someone might say: I've never been to Mars.

Then he falls quiet, too. It's probably for the best. Daniel is a terrible conversationalist; no sense whatsoever of give-and-take. His attention is caught elsewhere, though. His head turns toward Laila, and he stares.

Now there are two sets of eyes fixed on the kin; one curious, the other faintly narrowed, watchful. Daniel's chin lifts, and his nostrils flare, as though to pull in scent that his human shape, truthfully, cannot discern at this range.

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] Joey and Daniel stare as if they've seen a succulent morsal in view of Laila. Caleb, however, has been given a measure of tact and manners that the two likely haven't been afforded in life.

When the Kinwoman comes near enough for him to speak, if she comes near at all, Caleb will turn slowly and offer a charming smile. "Good afternoon, cher. I am Caleb," he said pleasantly.

Hands loose at his sides, he even managed to seat himself on a slab of stone nearby. Why stand when you could sit? Even if the theurge could manage to stay perched on his feet for hours without moving. Heron Wades Through the Rushes was an excellent sword-form, teaching one balance as well as endurance.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine Bellamonte could quite easily be mistaken for a regular mortal woman. Were it not for the strength of the blood that ran in her veins, declaring her pedigree to the world at large, or the Rage that was tempered just beneath her skin.

Standing at just under 6' in boots, the lithe Silver Fang was striding purposefully along one of the many pathways that connected the park to its central fountain, the water gurgling softly in the pale afternoon sunlight that streamed through the trees, dappling the pavement and warming patches of grass, only to vanish as clouds swept over the skies once more. In a winter's coat as fair as her hair, her legs encased in black knee-high boots, the Philodox was a study of monochromes.

As she nears the gathering of true born, Caleb can feel his pack-sister's approach, the subtle flare of her presence like an extended sense, a shared knowledge.

You have come out of hiding, Monsieur comes the silent reproach, a waver of pleasure clear in her projected greeting.

[Laila Frolich] ~Joey notices her. That in and of itself isn't so bad, Joey's gaze she can weather and Caleb's eyes had come to rest on her from a distance - which left her hoping he'd been looking at someone behind her. Daniel. Well Daniel made her skin crawl. It was as if she'd strolled upon a group of neerdowells up to absolutley nothing good. She slowed long enough to watch people pass them. She watched they way skirted past at the opposite edge of the pathway, avoiding the group likely without even realizing it. Oddly enough, she felt herself doing the same thing - actions paused only when Caleb speaks to her. Daniel she found to be very much like a viscous stray dog - you weren't supposed to look it in the eye, but out of fear and a need to know it's placement near you ...you couldn't help it.~

Good afternoon Caleb. ~Her response is succinct, her voice lacking any hint of an accent. Laila, inwardly, panicked. Her etiquette skills screamed that she offer her name, but inside a part of her feared that even just giving a name to the handsome man was giving up just a little too much.~ I'm Laila...

~Still, there is a comfortable space between herself and the gathered group. She has not yet entered their circle of space fully~

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] Laila hadn't entered the grouping formally, and Caleb was gentleman enough to let it be. He did dip his head slightly to her, a courtly gesture. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, madamoiselle. New-come to Chicago? Welcome, in any case." A flicker of an eye to Joey and Daniel, and a slight grin curved his features. "Please, do not mind these two. They don't bite." Much.

Katherine's presence flared in his mind, a mental beacon. Any where in the city he could locate his packmate by Perun's blessing, but bemusedly he thought it akin to how the MacLeods realized they were in the presence of other Immortals. Turning momentarily from Laila to view his cousin's pretty visage coming to meet him, Caleb smiled. I have been out of hiding for weeks now, Katherine. It isn't my fault that you decide to secret yourself away, doing Falcon-knows-what. A touch of wryness to the totem-sent message.

When the Philodox came near to him, he slipped his arms loosely about her waist to place two chaste kisses to both of her cheeks. "Cousin," he said. To Laila, Joey, and Daniel, the two did look something alike in the way that distant relatives did. Even if their relation was more over an entire House rather than direct bloodlines. "I would like to introduce you to Joey, Daniel, and Laila." In an undertone to Joey and Daniel, he added: "My alpha."

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] ( err. replace alpha with packmate. )

[Jeff Pyeon] At some point, Jeff had walked away to take a phone call; he was quiet, he was polite, he was discreet, and then - now - he returned to his spot near the fountain. His lunch is still in a bag from a nearby deli, and the cup from his latte, long since finished, has been discarded. He still has his paper and still looks like a very well dressed professional.

There are lots of people now, and Jeff only knows - sort of - two of them. He's quiet, watching them all, taking it in. It's interesting, watching the posturing and politics, and in his head, he compares it to a business meeting.

[Joey] They're staring at the kin girl. Caleb at least has the manners to greet the woman, to be polite. To use tact. Daniel stares, and there is no disguising the wild monster that he is. Of the Fenrir present, he is the one who most closely resembles the standard of the tribe. Lean, fierce, a barbarian in modern times. Joey is smaller, compact and athletic, her blonde hair mostly hidden by her grey knit cap, her face young and splashed with freckles.

There is a comfortable distance between the kinfolk and the Garou...for about five more seconds. Then Joey is crossing that distance, invading the woman's personal space as if she could actually sniff her over. There is breeding there, a feeling of fierce warriors, conquerers, heroes. What else the Rotagar picks up is what any other human would, perfume or soap or shampoo, and that faintly.

She moves like she's going to circle Laila, but stops at the woman's left and smiles broadly. "Hey. I'm Joey."

[Daniel] One look at Daniel's face and there's no mistaking his heritage. The scandinavian north is stamped all over his face: lean cheeks, prominent cheekbones and brow ride, strong nose. Joey's estimation is right -- Daniel is well and truly a standard of the tribe.

And at the same time, he's not. Fenrir tend toward tallness, toward broad shoulders and deep chests, toward boldness; arrogance. None of these are traits Daniel possesses. The man is lean and wary, with a sort of sinewy strength that's hewn close to the bone. His eyes are a wild animal's, cautious and on guard in the heart of the city.

A second after Joey starts toward their shared kin, Daniel follows. And where Joey moves toward the woman's left, Daniel prowls to her right, and there, folds his arms across his chest.

She's ours, his mind telegraphs to Joey -- a sort of mixed exultation and tension, as though he expected to have to defend the purebred kin of Fenris from the ravening attentions of weaker tribes any second now.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine exchanges the traditional greeting with Caleb, her lips painted a pretty peach shade today, and turns her pale blue eyes upon the gathered. Caleb introduces her, and there's a subtle expression of contained humor, she knows Joey, has fought beside her on occasion. The other is a stranger to her, and the Philodox stares at him for a moment, speculative.

Then her attention drifts to the Kinwoman, the Silver Fang breathes in her scent, hmms and turns her eyes back to her Cousin as if disinterested already. "It is good to see you, Caleb. I have not yet had the chance to tell you of the new additions to our number here in the city, though perhaps you have met them, I do not know." Here she shrugs, a polite lift of slender shoulders and links her arm through her pack-mates in a friendly, almost conspiratorial manner.

"Keith Sommers, Savage Dawn, Ahroun of House Wyrmfoe, and also a new Kinswoman by the name of Genevre de Provence, she is the Niece of Queen Anna de Provence of House Gleaming Eye." The Philodox's head was like a vault for the ranks and titles of those of her blood. One could almost envision the filing cabinet of Silver Fangs Katherine knew of, awaiting the moment to be plucked out.

[Laila Frolich] ~There is a distinct insubordination about Laila. Her spine remains pulled straight, her shoulders holding a posture than any mother would be proud of. Light bluish hazel eyes are outlined with a kohl liner leaving them looking smoky, sultry in the shading. As Joey approaches she is like a cat, all careful and watchful eyes that move even though her head remains still. Perhaps it's her age that leaves her so willful and independent. It was an odd enough sensation with Joey circling her like the predator she was, but as Daniel approaches Laila takes an instinctive step back. It's just one, and it does little to put the much needed space she's craving between them, but it's something.~ Hello ...Joey...

~There is hesitation in her voice, a moment of uncertainty that slowly becomes dismantled and replaced with an inner fortitude - a pool of confidence and strong Willpower. Caleb and Katherine were, at the moment, the least of her concerns. With Joey to her left and Daniel at her right, the two Werewolves further away were not pressing on her senses. To both Fenrir she smells decidedly female: expensive, yet soft and clean smelling, light fragrance. A soap that whispers of lavender. Her shampoo smells citrus like. And, beneath that, lingers the faintest hint of other men - one male in particular. His scent is strong and seems woven into hers so intricately that they must be involved. Even still, there are a lack of Garou scents etched within her own. ~

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] Joey and Daniel make off toward Laila, and Caleb momentarily has the urge to intercede. He'd scented that familiar line of wolves, the scent of seafaring men and women, the tribes across the Scandinavian North tundra... No, best not to. Joey was enough to collar Daniel if necessary, and the two Silver Fangs would best not be motivated to get involved between a tribe and their Kin. Unless said Kin ran for safety. As unassuming as Caleb and Katherine appeared, at any rate.

"Truly?" he said. "I hadn't heard, aside from that Ahroun that showed up at your manorhouse the day the... shall we say, shit hit the fan." American euphemisms were not Caleb's strong suit. "The same man? I hadn't learned his name. It's good to know we have a Full-Moon among us finally - I can fight, and so can you, but our talents lay elsewhere, Cousin."

The Kinfolk's name and lineage caused eyebrows to raise. "Niece of Queen Anna? Mon dieu, of all places what is she doing here?" Caleb made a sound in his throat. "You know, if any harm comes to her, the two of us will be hung up by our ankles." Katherine and Caleb being two of the pre-eminant Silver Fangs here. A weary sigh escaped his lips as he shook his head.

And, to make matters worse, Caleb cocked an eyebrow and muttered sullenly: "My father also wishes to come for a visit," he said. By what the theurge didn't say, is that it could also be a good thing or a bad thing.

[Jeff Pyeon] They're stalking some stone fox blonde chick, the two he (sort of) knows are - this gets a raised eyebrow. The Silver Fangs aren't exactly ignored, but Laila's discomfort is clear, and so.

Jeff steps closer (though certainly keeps a wary distance - he's not in easy arms' reach of either Fenrir) and gives Laila an easy, relaxed smile. "Hey, are you my four o'clock? I've got some plans in my briefcase, just there," he says, indicating a bench not far away, where there does, indeed, rest a briefcase.

He's about five foot nine or ten, Jeff is, and not exactly skinny but not fat or muscular either - he's a study in averages, but for that very fine suit and those very fine shoes. There's not a drop of breeding (though only the Garou know that) to be found; he is, or could be mistaken for, just a guy.

"Jeff Pyeon," P'yon, it sounds like, "by the way. You talked to my partner, Artie."

So easy, so casual, but for the nerves instilled by predatory-protective Garou.

[Daniel] (SNIIIIFF: percep+primal urge)
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 8, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Daniel] While Laila is speaking to Joey - if 'hello, Joey' counts as speaking - Daniel has closed the distance once more to an arm's reach; less. The Forseti draws breath -- a series of short inhales, sniffing -- before his dark eyes flick to his packmate again.

Mate... not Garou, he reports.

[Joey] Joey pays very little attention to the Fang conversation going on between Katherine and Caleb. Her attention is primarily on the kinswoman, her kinswoman. She doesn't lay claim to the kinfolk of Chicago. Laila is hers as John and Drew are hers, the way that they are also Daniel's. Should the Wyrm erupt around them this very moment, Joey will lay down her life to keep the kinswoman safe.

Even though all she knows about her is that her name is Laila. It doesn't matter. She is a daughter of Fenris. She hears Danie's thought across their link, and Joey lifts her head and smiles at her brother in arms. There's pride in the close-lipped smile. A treasure has been found within the dreary, filthy city.

It passes as the Glass Walker nears. Joey whips her head in his direction, dark eyes hard, face set. She watches Jeff, the sort nice-ish guy she met on Thanksgiving. He's Echo's, or Sinclair's. She doesn't know, and she doesn't care. He keeps himself out of reach of the Fenrir wolves, and with good reason. For a moment the sense of cheerfulness that clings to Joey like a veil dissipates. Her stance shifts slightly to angle toward him, a guard dog resting near the end of its chain.

It passes. Joey's expression lightens when she turns back to Laila. She looks at the woman as if she's an old friend she hasn't seen in a while. "You really got a meeting with this guy?" she asks, jerking a thumb at Jeff.

[Katherine Bellamonte] "Mm,"Is the elegant blonde's response to Caleb's remark about Genevre. "It had crossed my mind also, Cousin. We shall have to keep a watchful eye on her, with her breeding, she is bound to attract every sort." Katherine's lips compressed into a thin line, her eyes narrowing a fraction in thought.

"They crawl from the sewers, suitors for our relations." Her expression lightens, turning teasing. "But now, what is this! A visit from your Père does not have you jumping for joy?" She laughs, a silvery tinkle. "But I am shocked, Caleb. Tell me why, he cannot be as bad as my Uncle."

[Laila Frolich] ~There's a flurry of interaction occurring all around her that threatens to leave her dizzy. Jeff speaks and relief slowly washes over her body, it can be seen the way her shoulders relax ever so slightly and the tension at the edges of her mouth dissipates. But, that's all for nothing as Daniel closes the space between them and sniffs her. That takes a moment to register. Perhaps she was mistaken, her mind logical considers that option even though she was more than certain the blond devil of a man had sniffed at her. Laila was a woman used to dealing with men - men that were haughty and arrogant and violent and emotional wrecks. So it is unconsciously that her hand lifts and her palm comes to rest firmly, insistent in its pressure, on Daniel's chest. Her eyes lift and find his - that one deviant act draining her of a hefty amount of her own strength of will.~

Stop it.

~She says to Daniel, her voice low and intimate. This is a tone that should be used only after their clothes are on the floor and their bodies are tangled mess of sweaty limbs.~

Yes...actually...I was...going to meet him...~Perhaps she's choosing the hot skillet for the boiling pot of water, but Jeff at the moment seemed safer a bet than Daniel. And Joey, while not as intimidating at the moment, was with Daniel. Somewhere, though, in the back of her mind she can feel the protective way Joey moves between her and Jeff. It causes her brows to knit together, and then...unless Daniel has smacked her - or her hand - away, it only then falls from his chest. ~

[Laila Frolich] (oops - deviant should be defiant)

[Daniel] (truth of gaia! - laila)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 2, 2 (Botch x 1 at target 6)

[Daniel] (why did i not buy more empathy. now on jeff!)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] "Indeed. We wouldn't want the wrong sort scratching at her door, now would we?" Caleb said with a bit of disgruntlement. One more Kinfolk to look after - just what the doctor ordered. Shaking his head, his arms folded over his chest as he eyed Katherine. "Speaking of which, how is Gabriella? The girl has been strangely... absent of late. I haven't seen her, and usually she makes a habit of twitting me about one thing or another. If it isn't my clothes she pokes fun at, it's something else."

Now Caleb truly did grunt. "I have not met your Uncle, Katherine," he said softly. "But I do know that Father has expressed concerns over whom I am packing with. He is a difficult man to get along with at the best of times; a staunch Royalist. Ordinarily I would not mind a visit from him, except that he hasn't told me when. I know he is only coming to check up on me, and in turn the Unbroken as a whole. I suppose you will have to see for yourself when he arrives - Father is most concerned with meeting you, and your mother if she is still here. I presume he has met her once or twice."

[Daniel] The restraining hand meets a solid wall of muscle; lean rather than thick, but hard as iron. Daniel's is a bony, sinewy sort of strength, no spare, no waste.

It also fails to dissuade him in any way. Like a dog held at bay with someone's knee, he merely stretches his neck forward, a short staccato series of sniffs shivering through his chest again.

Then he turns -- not as a man does, pivoting the head, but as an animal does, from the shoulder and the neck -- and fixes a stare on Jeff. A beat. Back to Laila.

"Is that the truth, kinswoman?"

These are the first words he's actually spoken to the woman he considers his, ours, of Fenris. His voice is as nondescript as he is -- or as he would be if not for his utterly inhuman behavior -- rather light, with the faintest touch of some hard-to-trace accent.

[Laila Frolich] ~Daniel's movements remind her of a dog. An ill mannered dog that is insistent on sniffing your crouch and other unmentionable areas. For the faintest of milliseconds she's tempted to flick him on the nose. The lean, sinewy muscled man leans his head forward toward her still and she finds herself leaning her head back. Her body remains still, feet firmly planted on the concrete path, it's just her head that rears back away from the stranger - the action dangerously exposing the smoothness of her neck. ~

Kinswoman? ~She asks almost incredulously. It was a term she'd never heard used, really, and that he uses it in reference to her only leaves her feeling a little more sick to her stomach.~ I have to go, I'm sorry. I've an appointment with Mr. Pyeon...I think you must have me mistaken for someone else...

~This is said as she eases back from Daniel and starts toward the other stranger she doesn't know - Jeff~

[Daniel] (DON'T F'ING BOTCH THIS TIME)
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 1, 2, 4 (Botch x 1 at target 6)

[Daniel] (WHAT THE SHIT, KAHSEENO)

[Katherine Bellamonte] At mention of her sister, Katherine's eyes lowered to the ground and she frowned. Her response came slowly, each word drawn out as she tried to sort out her feelings regarding Gabriella's recovery from the attack by two of their tribe -- both who had since fled, or, more likely, laughed their way out of Chicago.

"She has been staying mostly at Loft since… well, for some weeks now. She is well, I believe. As well as she would ever tell me she is." The Philodox sighed, and strolled the length of the park with her Cousin, their steps easily falling into a casual rhythm, the Fenris left behind to sort their own out. "Since maman has returned home however, she seems quieter. A little withdrawn."

The Theurge moves on to speak of his father, a staunch Royalist, concerned with whom his son was packed with. The Philodox's fair brows rise at this, and her mouth puckers into a frown of contemplation. "I would be pleased to make his acquaintance, and I am sure, pass along my mother's best wishes, but why should he worry so now about your running with the Unbroken? Is it simply our change of totem, or the fact that we follow the lead of a Shadow Lord?" The latter Katherine says wryly, adding a touch of theatrical gravity to the tribe's name.

[Jeff Pyeon] It's . . . not quite a flinch when Daniel looks his way. Nor is it a step back. It very definitely wants to be, but he stands his ground (for now). Then there's Laila, and if Daniel is relieved, he hides it very well. "Just this way, Ms. Frolich," he says, and though it's still friendly, there's also a more businesslike vibe to it - as if they really did have a meeting. "We can discuss options here in the park, or we can return to my office?"

Either way, Jeff is making away with the Get kin.

In a very gentlemanly fashion - he doesn't touch her, doesn't stand too close. It's a businesslike making off with, nothing more.

[Daniel] Daniel's head turns to follow Laila as she steps around him. His eyes, narrowed, flick past her to Jeff. Caution. Suspicion.

And then, acceptance. Daniel draws a short breath that resets his posture -- straightens him up, takes him forward a few million years' worth of evolution, gives him an upright stance again rather than a beast's agile slouch.

"Go home to your mate directly after, kinswoman," he advises. "This part of the Scab looks harmless, but it gets rough after dark."

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] "I had heard about her incident from Gina," he said softly. "I would heal her if you'll allow, of course, but I thought not to do so without your allowance." A slight, imperceptable shake of his head. It appeared the two Russians have gone, but even so Caleb felt a bit like taking revenge. But then what did it matter? Gabriella was still alive, and so was Gina.

"Perhaps I will stop by to pay her a visit," he said gently. Whatever Katherine's feelings toward her sister, Caleb still felt as though the girl were his sister by default. Even if he had enough of his own siblings. Silver Fangs, after all, were family to one degree or another beyond tribal ties.

"Both," he said in response to her question. "Father has never liked Shadow Lords - I'm afraid Lukas will have to win him over. Nothing I say or do will change that, and Perun being a Shadow Lord totem..." That Gregor wasn't pleased was an understatement. An eye was cast in the direction of Jeff and the two Get of Fenris. His lips compressed into a firm line - someone would have to teach Daniel some ettiquette, but it damned sure wasn't going to be Caleb. Trying to teach a Fenrir anything in that regard did as much good as slaming your face onto a concrete block.

[Daniel] At the Sept of the Seventh Isle, Daniel's mindvoice breaks as abruptly into Joey's mind as his questions do into a conversation, kinfolk are kept safe in a village close to the bawn. How are we supposed to ward our kin when they wander all over the wyrm-scab?

[Joey] Jeff incercedes on behalf of the nervous kinswoman. They have an appointment. Joey takes them at their word and lets them go. She remembers the drink in her hand, and she brings it to her mouth. It's cooled significantly by now, with nothing but sugar left to warm the Fenrir's blood. She finishes it in a series of gulps and looks around for a waste bin.

She stops when Daniel's voice cuts across her mind. Joey just shrugs, and at first that seems like it'll be her only answer to his question.

We do what we can. Check up on 'em from time to time, make sure they're not hurt. Beat the shit outta anyone or anything that tries to hurt 'em.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine smiles, a rare thing in itself, and rarer still for the lack of pretense behind it. It softens her features, and turns them to a replica of her mother's gentler expressions. "She would enjoy that, I am sure." They walk along slowly then, the Half Moon for the most part silent as Caleb speaks of his father's beliefs, of beliefs that Katherine herself was very familiar with. She was a loyal Royalist herself, as all her family had been for generations so she could easily understand Gregor Delacourt's stance on his son's following of a rival tribe's totem -- and worse still -- one of their own number as Alpha.

"Lukas is very adept at providing good first impressions, I am certain he will do nothing to embarrass you, he'll be on his best behavior." She glances side-long at her Cousin, her eyes gleaming. "Perhaps I too can help... soften his views about our pack, oui? I can be quite convincing, when I put my mind to it."

[Caleb Delacourt-Alden] "Come, Cousin," he said softly. "Let's go visit Gabriella and plan for my father's arrival."

Caleb slipped an arm around Kate's waist and began to lead her away.

[Daniel] (*ditches*!)

[Daniel] Response is that same low sound - hnh. The Silver Fangs depart. The Glass Walker leads their kin away. Daniel drifts closer to Joey again, standing shoulder to shoulder with the Rotagar.

Another sudden question: Why aren't you mated?

[Joey] Daniel moves to stand beside Joey, and Joey tilts her chin up, her eyes remaining on the ground giving her a hooded look. This is the first time since the Jarl holmgang that Joey has been around one of her tribemates. She is at once happy and...wary.

He questions her across their totem. Wherever they are, the rest of their pack can hear them. Joey considers for a moment. She eyes the nearest waste bin, lines up a shot, and tosses her empty cup across the distance. When she answers him, she answers aloud.

It starts with a sigh. "Can't take a mate 'cause I can't have cubs. 'Least not a pure bred one." She starts walking then, her hands shoving deep into the pockets of her bomber jacket. Her direction is south, because whenever she finds herself in Grant Park, she always heads south.

[Daniel] "Oh." As if the news jarred him out of their totem link, Daniel reverts to more mundane forms of conversation. Joey walks; he falls in beside her. Seems natural. Is natural. Wolves move together. Lower ranked follow the higher.

"That's a pity," he adds. Then, "You're not metis, are you?"

[Joey] She laughs aloud at that, a low chuckle that starts in her scarred throat and doesn't quite make it past her lips. "Nah." Then again, "Nah."

It's a step or two before Joey says, "Back in Vegas, like, right after my Right of Passage I hunted with these guys I trained with. We were gonna take out a Spiral pack we'd heard about. One of 'em ripped me open," she looks down at her stomach. Pulling her left hand from her pocket, she spreads her fingers as far as they will stretch, and pantomimes a downward slash across her abdomen. There's even a sound effect. "Schooop!" It's not a very good sound effect.

"Must'a scarred some of my insides, which is kinda cool I guess. I don't get my period anymore or nothin'. But I can't have kids, either, so..." she trails off and shrugs.

[Daniel] Daniel is frowning. He only frowns more when she calls it kinda cool. A beat. Then the inevitable question: "How is that cool?"

[Joey] Joey quirks a brow up at Daniel. "Dude, do you know anything about the female reproductive system?"

[Daniel] "These are the Last Days." Daniel ignores the question completely. His eyes are fixed on Joey now, dark, absolutely unwavering. "We have fewer warriors than the Enemy, and their numbers keep growing while ours keep shrinking. We're sending cubs into battle a month after their First Change because we simply don't have time to wait for a proper fosterage. We need every cub we can get.

"How is it cool," he presses, "that you've lost your ability to bear cubs?"

[Joey] Joey stops, and she meets that intense gaze. The look on her face says Are you on something?

"What makes you think that's the cool part? Of course it's not cool that I can't have cubs. Do you have any idea how fucking huge a loss that is for me? That there's this, this whole big part of our world that I'll never get to experience because I got killed right outta the gate? Not to mention it's a god damned waste of my breeding."

What started out as a simple conversation has turned into a tirade on the part of the Rotagar. She's upset, obviously. It's in the angry flush creeping into her face, just starting to drown out the freckles. It's in the flashing of her dark eyes.

"And it's so unfair, when you look at all the kinfolk out there, not takin' mates, not continuing lines. I want that, and I'll never have it. The only thing I can do is go out there," there, the city, the world, indicated with a sweep of her arm before her hand finds it's way back into her pocket, "and protect the ones that can do all that shit."

[Hatchet] They all patrol. They have no set territory, they have no established and border-marked protectorate, and so those patrols that the Sentinels go on two to four times a day range as far as wide as the packmates themselves determine.

Also, sometimes: they just go on walks.

It's hard to tell which Hatchet is doing when Joey and Daniel come upon him. He's got the hood of his jacket over his head, he's sitting on the ground with his knees up, and his forearms are resting on top of them. One of his thumbs strokes absently over the other where his hands touch. His breath steams past the edge of his hood. He can't hear them now, as he could earlier. He didn't chime in on the discussion about Kinfolk.

Or when Daniel asked why Joey isn't mated. Why any of them aren't.

[Daniel] When Joey's voice starts to rise, Daniel's eyes cut away. The Forseti's shoulders hunch and he pushes his hands deeper into his pockets. He coils on himself like a spring, bracing. If he could flatten his ears against his head, he would.

When she falls silent, unviolent, he slides a sidelong glance her way. A few seconds go by.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he says then. "Truly, I am. But... if it's not 'cool', then don't try to pass it off as such, Joey. Being Rotagar doesn't mean you have to laugh at everything. Your own death is one thing."

Their Alpha is just ahead. Daniel reaches across the totemlink, unaccustomed to such things, clumsy and inexpert. A brief impression of greetings bursts across the link.

[Daniel] (*blink* i totally forgot an entire sentence. it should read:

"Your own death is one thing. The loss of your unborn cubs, all the generations of your descendants -- that's completely different.")

[Joey] Joey's shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. "I know. It's just...a sore subject, man. I didn't mean to get all pissy screeching high school bitch on you."

When she turns back in the direction they were headed, south along the path, she sees Hatchet sitting on the ground. Joey picks up the pace, stopping just a few feet away from her alpha, within the angry beat of his rage.

Daniel sends greetings over the totem link. Joey is and probably always will be more vocal.

"Heya, Boss."

[Daniel] (goming folks! should be back quite quick.)

[Hatchet] The moon is too close to full tonight for anyone in Grant Park to feel close once they can sense this man. They don't even have to be able to see him to suddenly feel afraid, to feel a gut-deep clench of self-preservation. It's not unheard for wolves of his moon to have so much rage, it's not a mark against his honor -- so long as he controls himself. Which he does. He controls himself better than most, or can.

That doesn't mean he is any more perfect at it than any of them. He doesn't hear them before Joey's Hey, Boss but he knows they're nearby. He can feel them. And he lifts his head a moment before the Rotagar speaks, as every member feels that awkward, nonverbal greeting through the spirit that binds them.

The answer to both of them is broader. It reaches out to Echo, wherever she is, and Charlie, not so far away now. It's like a rousing from sleep, a slow and heavy return to awareness.

And then a sudden, aching weight of affection: My pack.

[Charlie] No one wants to be anywhere near Charlie this evening.

No one wants to stand next to him. No one wants to pass him by on the walkway. No one wants to catch his gaze or talk to him or give him any indication that they are something he ought to be paying attention to because there is the distinct sense that anything he pays attention to is going to be summarily destroyed. He looks like he's going to slip a knife between someone's ribs for pocket change, like he'd break a man's arm for asking him for the time. He looks dangerous, which is painfully incongruous with the demeanor that most people attribute to him normally.

He doesn't seem like a sweet, somewhat spacey young man right now. He seems like an unhinged killer, and he's walking east through the park with long, stiff-jointed strides, wearing a gray henley and stained jeans and blown-out hiking boots without a sweatshirt or coat in sight. His hair is cow-licked and unwashed, his eyes are smudged with bruises, and his Rage, while nowhere near as high as his brothers', is still heavily palpable. The moon is visible on the distant horizon, peeking through the waning daylight. He's seen it. That's half his problem.

Just south of the fountain is his pack. He twitches slightly, then veers in their direction.

[Joey] My pack, he says, and Joey's smile widens, brightens. There is a flash of straight white teeth, not a challenge, just a simple smile of complete happiness. Joey likes being in a pack with more than one other person. These are people that she gets along with, that she at least on some level knows. They're her family in a way that Sinclair and Dietrich never were. It's the family she just told Daniel she'll never have.

Even if she thinks they're all assholes right now. It's as cold today as it is in Las Vegas, as cold as the deepest part of winter in the Mojave. Joey is dressed in her usual layers, bomber jacket over deep purple hoody, jeans, boots, a grey knit cap pulled low over her ears. There is no scarf to hide the scar on her throat today, nor the angry red weal that currently overlays it. Her hands, shoved into the pockets of her bomber jacket, are dressed in a pair of black fingerless gloves, small white stars dancing around her wrists.

And everyone else is wearing a light jacket. A sweatshirt. They're dressed for early fall. Meanwhile Joey feels like that kid from that Christmas movie that gets played every year.

She moves around in front of Hatchet, drops into a crouch, balancing easily on the balls of her feet. "What'cha doin' out here?"

[Echo] Echo has been -- well, working. That is to say she's been piloting a helicopter around the city for the past few hours and listening to a couple of contractors babble excitedly about the prospects of some acreage they're planning to build on. It's incredibly likely at several points her pack heard the woman groaning to them over their shared link.

Fuck, if I have to listen to these dipshits erupt in their pants over a slab of land one more time ... HAHA, like that, boys? Let's dip lower.

And at some point, later, they likely heard End Transmission's elation as she left her job and started toward where-so-ever her new pack-mates were. So, it's not shocking that at some point in the next few minutes, the shadows spill together and a form detaches herself from them; a tallish, lean form with a head of short brown hair wearing what appear to be coveralls of some sort with an insignia on the breast. They're a horrid shade of green; pale and sickly and yet somehow -- with her cigarette in place in her mouth, and her heavy-duty boots on her feet -- she makes the outfit look ridiculous - but fitting, somehow, with the aura the young Glass Walker gives off.

Sup, home dogs? Echo's greeting is brash, much like the girl herself.

[Daniel] Following in Joey's wake, Daniel is quiet once more. When he joins the growing coalition of their pack, he turns: faces away from his packmates, like a sentry or a lookout.

There's a tree behind Hatchet. He puts his back to that, too, leaning easily against it.

[Hatchet] Charlie hasn't been seen, but he's been felt. They're alone. It's frigid in the park tonight, the Garou heated by Rage or experience or simply desensitized to cold, to pain, to the things that fell mere mortals.

As though they, themselves, are not mortal.

Hatchet's seen the scar on Joey's neck. He knows what it means. He's aware of the flickers earlier this month when both his packmates died and snapped back to life only seconds later. He has made no comment about the close call, asked no questions. The sheer number of scars on his body -- where his arms were nearly ripped off, where he was impaled, where his head almost separated completely from his body, where Wyrmtainted venom was pumped into his body from the mouth of a giantfuckingsnake in the Amazon -- go just as unmentioned.

The pack has no Galliard, and he has not run with one since Belinda. He has not shared the oldest stories of his life with a Galliard since Nikolai. And then, he hardly had any stories to tell, anyway.

Daniel faces away, but he's within arm's reach. Joey crouches, and she's close, too. Echo and Charlie are closing. Hatchet closes his eyes and breathes deeply. They are not a pack of plotters and planners, ambitious and cunning. Though they follow a spirit of war, they are each of them a healer. Bear is mother and father, earthbound creature and starry constellation, and in a couple of nights they will stand together as a pack for the first time at a moot. There's a slow, quiet awareness of this in Hatchet's mind right now, and he shares it with them over their link

though he doesn't say a word. For awhile.

It's not until Charlie and Echo are within a matter of yards that he opens his eyes and answers Joey's question.

"Sitting," he says, "and thinking."

[Echo] "Is this a Zen moment you're having, or can I come and ruin it with my obnoxious and ignorant ways?"

The Glass Walker asks as she finally reaches the others and throws herself bodily to the ground with a small grunt of exhaustion, turning over to drape one arm behind her head, and use the other to pluck her cigarette from her mouth and blow out a ring of smoke, blowing it away from their general vicinity.

[Charlie] One of them died last night. It was not a permanent death, not a long one, but the fact that they briefly felt one of their number being pulled towards the other side only to forcibly drag himself back was something that all of them felt across the link last night. This is the third time in the last four weeks that the Sentinels' Theurge has had to call on his intense desire to continue living to keep himself rooted in the realm rather than being allowed to drift into the Umbra without hope of returning, and it's clear from looking at him, from feeling his approach, that whatever happened last night had worn him down.

He's tougher than he looks. That isn't saying much, given that there are days when he looks as though a stiff breeze will blow him right the fuck over, given the fact that two of his four packmates have beaten him so badly that bones have broken and internal organs have ruptured without a similar dose of pain being doled out in return, but Charlie has not survived as long as he has, in this city or in general, without a degree of tenacity that is not found in a lot of Cliaths. Despite whatever it is that has happened to him that he has had to learn to accept healings and companionship and words of advice as they are and not as preludes to punishment, he does not wish for death, nor does he embrace it when the chance of escape is in sight.

It's hard to tell whether he simply enjoys being alive, or whether he feels as though he has not sufficiently fulfilled his duty enough to let go, or whether he is actually afraid of permanently dying. No one has talked to him after any of his close calls, and he has not volunteered any information, either in person or over their totem connection. Last night he had given a brief explanation of what had happened, and that had been it.

As he comes upon his pack standing in the middle of the park, he looks at Joey bundled up in her jacket and hoodie and Gaia knows how many layers underneath that, and comes to stand, and then sit, beside his Alpha.

He doesn't smell like pot smoke today. Yet.

[Joey] Joey hmmms. Her dark brown eyes move to Daniel, taking up a place as sentry over the rest of them. She hasn't picked up on the way he is with her, the way he defers to her, treats her like she's of a higher rank. Charlie and Echo are closing in, she can feel it. She hears Echo's greeting in her mind, turns her head to smile up at the elder of her auspice.

Echo flops down on one side of Hatchet, Charlie comes up to sit on his other side. Joey lowers her butt to the ground in front of him, despite the fact that she's cold, that the cold is seaping into the seat of her pants despite her layers. She was born and raised in the desert. This cold is fucking ridiculous.

She chuckles at Echo's question, and turns back to their alpha. He's not the father figure of this little family gathering, more like eldest brother. And he is the focus, like the hub of a wheel with his packmates ranged round him in a loose circle.

"About what?" Joey asks Hatchet curiously.

[Daniel] In Daniel's estimation -- accurate or otherwise -- his place in the pack is clear. Hatchet is Alpha. Echo, by rank, is immediately subordinate to him. Follow that with Joey: seniority and bloodline both. Daniel, the newcomer, no pure breeding to speak of, ranks near the bottom. The only one below him is the mule.

That's his worldview. That's what comes into play every second he's with his new packmates, who are also his first packmates for longer than he cares to remember. Joey hasn't realized this yet, that subtle deference he gives her because she's higher than him,

(though perhaps only slightly)

but perhaps she will now, when she sees Daniel look directly and unflaggingly at the only metis member of the pack, a Theurge who, tonight, feels more like an Ahroun. Or a chainsaw murderer.

[Joey] [oh, does she?]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 1, 2, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Charlie] He settles himself down without verbal greeting. Maybe he's not capable of social niceties right now. He looks as though there's a small electric current pulsing beneath his skin, keeping his muscles tense and his eyes sharply alert. The two sharing Room 8's boundaries with him know that he hasn't been in the room much since yesterday, that his bed is still tightly made and his clothing is still neatly squared away, the battered lavender Jansport book bag beneath his bed the surest sign that he hasn't gone anywhere for any great length of time. They have not been living together long enough for them to have learned each others' circadian rhythms, what they do when they aren't sleeping.

They've been in that room long enough to know that End Transmission has as much physical stuff as Broken Hammer and Lights Out put together, perhaps more, that at least two of them are cursedly nocturnal, that one of them smokes enough marijuana that the smell of it is always lingering on his side of the room.

As he sits, legs folding themselves into a modified lotus position and arms draping themselves into his lap, he becomes aware of the weight of someone's eyes on the side of his head. He stares at Joey's shoelaces for several seconds, waiting for it to go away, perhaps; it doesn't go away. The Forseti is staring right at him, and if he were smart he would just let him, but he doesn't. The abomination who is painfully close to earning the right to challenge for a rank that few of his breed ever dream of seeing pulls his eyes away from his sister and looks over at the stringy older man. There is anger in his eyes, but it isn't aimed at him.

What Daniel can see beneath all that, beneath the barely-caged fury and the fire in his veins, is questioning.

[Hatchet] "That's sort of your job," Hatchet says mildly to Echo, some of his thoughts rolling back in on themselves across their bond, as inevitable as the tide going back out.

The only one standing of them now is the newest, the other Philodox. And it's without malice or flexibility with which Hatchet reaches around with his right arm, grabs Daniel by the wrist, and yanks downward.

"Whatever comes to mind," he informs the younger New Moon, letting go of Daniel a moment later. His will's been expressed. It's up to Daniel whether or not he gets on the ground with them or not.

His eyes flick between Forseti and Theurge. He waits.

[Daniel] That interrupts Daniel's scrutiny of the Theurge.

Were Hatchet not now Daniel's packmate and alpha, the quiet, cagey Forseti would've instantly snatched his hand out of the way. Would've leaped back two or three paces. Would've gathered himself to meet an assault head-on.

They are packmates, though. But even so, a jolt of reaction runs through the lean, bone-hard wrist beneath Hatchet's hand. Resistance is stark, as much to the downward tug as to contact at all. It's only several seconds after Hatchet's let go that Daniel even realizes what the point was. Another few seconds go by before he drops down, as much crouching as kneeling, as much kneeling as sitting.

"Why is your Rage out of control?" Daniel has such a way with his questions, which is to say: he has no finesse or tact whatsoever. He drops them out of a clear blue sky. No leadup. No warning. No real explanation.

[Echo] That's sort of your job, he says and the Glass Walker's features spill into an openly friendly grin. She smiles easily, this one. And a lot, even when she's furious at you, she can be smiling -- which, to be honest, was really weird. "That is true," she muses aloud, and takes another puff from her cigarette.

Charlie arrives, a walking volcano amidst eruption and the dark brows of End Transmission draw lower. She glances at Daniel as he asks after the Metis' Rage and Echo can't help it, she snorts. "And people tell me I have no tact."

[Charlie] Truth be told, people tend to find that they get further with directness than they do with plays on words and long-winded soliloquy if they are trying to either get a point across to Charlie or attempting to extract information from him. He is not human. He has never been human, and it is not one of his goals to ever be mistaken for human. He wears a human's body the majority of the time because he chooses not to reside at the Caern, but it does little to hide his deformity or what he truly is from the rest of them. Just looking at him, one can tell there is something hideously wrong with him. On a good day, he looks as though he exists in a fog, and he talks as though he has half of his attention anchored somewhere else. Today is not a good day. Today he looks as though he could snap at any second, but he takes no offense to what the Forseti asks him.

And people say Echo has no tact.

His nostrils flare, once, and he frowns, fingers tightening up on themselves in his lap as he considers the question. His gaze stays on Daniel even after he crouches, but he is not outright staring at him. This isn't a challenge or a bid for dominance. The muscles in his shoulders twinge once, and he says, "I looked up."

[Joey] Joey notices the direct way Daniel stares at Charlie, and it makes her think. Back to the conversations earlier, the way Daniel followed before walking beside her. The way he looked away when she raised her voice, upset more than angry when his abrupt and direct questioning stabbed at an old wound Joey ignores the way she ignores the scar on her throat.

She comes to the conclusion that Daniel defers to her, at least a little. And she doesn't know what to think of that right now, so she files it away to be mulled over at a later time.

Instead she watches the interplay between Hatchet and Daniel, and Daniel and Charlie. She adjusts the way she's sitting so her legs are crossed in a butterfly position, her hands wrapping around her ankles. Her back is straight, but there's a sense of ease in her. Until Daniel crouches. Tension ripples through her, but she doesn't move.

Charlie looked up, so Joey looks up and sees the moon hanging heavy and low in the sky, Luna's full face upon them. The winter days are getting shorter and shorter, with the onset of nightfall coming sooner. This is the first time Joey's seen the moon tonight, the night turning velvety black around it. Of the gathered, she is by far the most human. But when she looks up at the moon she feels the beast within her shift and awaken. Her rage pulses out in a flare.

And she looks back at Charlie. "Wanna fight it off?" Because that worked so well the last time they fought.

[Daniel] Echo's snort draws a glance from Daniel; he keeps his mouth shut in the end, and his attention goes back to Charlie.

"You've lived with Rage longer than most of us have been Garou." That's an observation, unweighted. This veers much closer to censure: "You should learn to check it."

[Hatchet] "You don't," Hatchet says to Echo, just as benignly as his agreement that her job was to ruin Zen-like moments by being obnoxious. He's the last person, however, to truly judge another for tactlessness, whether it's another Half Moon or a Ragabash of his own rank.

His attention is mostly on Charlie now, watching how he reacts to the question, how he answers. He glances over at Joey with her suggestion of fighting it off, the entire pack of wolves low to the cold ground now. Daniel has a different idea. Hatchet keeps his eyes on the Theurge, who will always be the odd man out. Echo and Hatchet are both Fosterns. Joey and Daniel are both Fenrir. Echo and Joey are Ragabashes. Hatchet and Daniel are Half Moons.

And then there's Charlie, who expends his will before his Rage on a regular basis. Who is reluctant to use the gift of inner strength and resistance taught by their own totem. Who never seeks healing in a pack of healers.

But it's possible he's not thinking of any of that right now, staring at the sinborn Fury. Still: his gaze is heavy, and colorless, and unrelenting.

And patient.

[Echo] Joey asks Charlie if he wants to fight it off, and the No Moon is instantly attentive. She sits upright, ignoring blades of grass that have imprinted to her arm. "You wanna rumble? Let's rumble!"

[Charlie] Those sitting closest to Charlie can hear his next breath snarl as it leaves his sinus cavity, can see the lengths of muscle in his jaws tense as he grits his teeth, but he doesn't snap at or lash out at the member of the pack he is least acquainted with, doesn't use sarcasm or pointed words to try and make some sort of point. It doesn't matter where on the proverbial totem he actually is, and it doesn't matter that he was the one who led the pack while Hatchet was away. It was a smaller pack then. Their number has almost doubled, and for the first time in almost a year, Charlie is having to adjust to being not one of three but one of many.

Joey offers a suggestion, Hatchet has his gaze on him, and if they were expecting him to prove Daniel's point by physically attacking or verbally assaulting the other man, he does no such thing. He bristles, but he doesn't erupt.

"Yeah," he says, "but you don't know how long I've lived with this much Rage. So you don't know if I'm still learning to check it or not."

The women are raring for a fight, but Charlie doesn't rise to his feet just yet.

[Daniel] Fair enough, another man might say. A deliberate blink takes the place of that on Daniel; an animal's response, wholly inhuman.

Then another question. "Are you?"

[Charlie] The Theurge's thin chest visibly rises and falls for several seconds, his agitation waning and ultimately eclipsed by mistrust. Hatchet and Joey are the only ones who knew Charlie back when he had the Rage he was born with, when his anger matched his moon. He never lost his temper back then, he never talked back or gave any indication that it was physically possible for him to get mad.

All Daniel has is what is right in front of him, which is a wise, intelligent young man struggling with something that he should have gotten a handle on years ago if this was the Rage he was born with. That's what the question is asking after.

Another twitch, a chuffing breath out through his nostrils, and Charlie gives a jerky nod of affirmation.

[Hatchet] He turns his head to look at Echo and just shakes his head once, his expression relatively mellow, considering the sheer amount of rage beating off of him in pulses as they sit there under the full moon. He reaches out, though, to the Walker lying alongside them on the grass, and his hand rests briefly on her upper arm before he turns his attention back to the others. The touch lingers, even if his gaze doesn't. And then the touch, too, drifts away.

"Charlie," he says, his voice low. It's almost soft, but for the roughness that comes with disuses and cold, the rumble that is his speaking tone. When the Theurge gives him his attention, Hatchet goes on: "Almost all of us have rage almost grotesquely beyond what is expected of our auspices. You know this. You can sense it."

He exhales. "You know you're still learning. There are at least three Garou in front of you that you can ask -- and could have asked -- at any time to help you with exactly this problem."

There's a slow blink, lazy. Almost tired. "But the problem you need to work most on is your reluctance to ask for help, or even accept it."

[Hatchet] [disuse, not disuses!]

[Echo] The Fianna touches her arm and while she follows the motion intently with dark, attentive eyes, she does not shy away from it or display any signs of open hostility. Instead she seems, well, curious. Openly curious to hear what Charlie has to say and then a moment later: to hear the Alpha's not without gentleness lecture.

Or, easy solution.
Whatever.

She stays silent though, maybe it was the touch to the arm, maybe it was that she was older than most of them, at least in rank and she'd seen enough to know when to keep her mouth shut. Naw -- she'd never learned that, but she does stay quiet, a solemn, smoking statue lolling on the grass.

[Daniel] With the nod, Daniel's affect changes subtly but noticeably. Some tension runs out of the Forseti, recognizable only for its lack. He raises a hand to his short sandy hair, scuffing fingers against the grain. His eyes skate the middle distance for a moment while Hatchet speaks, and then return to Charlie.

"I don't really have a right to berate you for your rage," he admits, as sudden as his questions; as sudden as anything that ever bursts out of his mouth. "It's not as though mine didn't use to ride me like a beast of burden. Even now, sometimes, my anger runs ... completely beyond my control. But it seems better. With Bear, I mean. And with a pack.

"I don't know you very well. Any of you. But -- " a halt, awkward, before he presses on, "I can feel the pack in my mind. And I think that helps."

[Charlie] He hears his name, and little time passes before the Fostern Philodox has the younger man's attention. Dark eyes flick away from Daniel to rest on Hatchet's face, and he listens. Everything Hatchet says is true, up to and including the assertion that his real problem has less to do with his Rage and more to do with him.

Rarely has he dealt with problems or confrontation by avoiding them. It is not a trait that he possesses, and he doesn't withdraw or pull away now. The night that Hatchet had given him a lecture in the Brotherhood's entryway, he had needed time to digest what had been said to him, had stepped away so that he could mull over the other man's words and come back to give him an intelligent response. He doesn't do that now.

A glance is cut over to Joey, as if looking for confirmation of the veracity of what it is that Hatchet is saying, and when he looks back he reaches up to idly scratch at his sternum. A frown has flattened out his brow, but he isn't wired with temper right now.

"I gotta lotta stuff I gotta unlearn," he says.

And then Daniel speaks, an admission leading to a small floodgate being opened, and Charlie folds his lips into a straight line. He nods his comprehension of what it is that's being said, but he doesn't address the Forseti directly. There are three other people here, two of whom outrank him and two of whom are female. His reticence in group situations is yet another lesson he has to unlearn.

[Joey] Joey suggests Charlie fight off his rage to lower it to something he can control, and it sparks interest in the Fostern Ragabash. Sometimes it seems the only difference between the two No Moons of The Sentinels is rank. They're both strong, tough fighters considering their Auspice is traditionally used more for steal and reconnaisance. The Rotagar loves to fight, loves to be in motion, whatever the activity. Although Echo is eager for a brawl, Joey doesn't jump at the chance.

Hatchet points out something Joey herself brought up to Charlie not so long ago. He doesn't want to lean on them, ask them for assistance or accept their support. Charlie is a lone wolf within a pack.

Daniel speaks up again, and Joey's dark eyes flick to him. He can feel the pack in his mind, like all of them can. They're not alone anymore. It was one of the reasons Hatchet invited Joey into the pack in the first place. To be bound to Charlie in a way that would (hopefully) make moving on from him easier. Most of the time, it feels like it's not working, like Joey's feelings haven't abated at all. Sometimes, though, she finds she can think of him as brother and nothing more.

Charlie nods to the Forseti's words, and Joey frowns.

"Stop that."

[Hatchet] There's no Beta in this pack. None named, none challenged for. Charlie led the pack while Hatchet was away, but that was before the addition of another Fostern and another Half-Moon. That was before Hatchet knew Joey much at all.

There's only the Alpha. When the other Fianna under Bear disagreed about Joey, Hatchet listened to his counsel, acquiesced to a one-month trial period, and then made it unavoidably clear that the decision was not Curata's. When he sees something he doesn't like, he calls the packmate in question on it. When they are in battle, he leads. They have no Ahroun, no Galliard, no Garou with his experience or his abundance of rage to take that role in combat. He did not speak to Charlie or Joey before he rather simply told them that Daniel was joining them. They'd gone to the Ritesmistress as a group, Echo agreeing that yes, she wanted to be with them and stepping under Bear's shadow with Daniel and the previously bound Sentinels beside her.

They are not a democracy. They are not a committee. Ultimately, the direction and purpose of the pack lies in Hatchet's hands. The four of them trust him, have to, or they wouldn't be here. They are rare, in this sept: those who trust Buried Hatchet, who are willing to submit to his judgement and leadership on a daily, hourly basis.

"Say it," he says, rather flatly, to the Theurge.

[Charlie] Stop that.
Say it.

What is keeping Charlie's Rage in check right now is not his innate sense of self-control, but the fact that he is more spiritually aware than almost all of his packmates. That side of him is more powerful than his anger likely ever will be, and though it does not provide him an impenetrable barrier behind which to hide, it does afford him a sort of buffer during times like this.

He looks cornered for a moment, his eyes looking wider than usual by virtue of the fact that they are so darkly rimmed, and when he sits back, he scrubs his face. This kid cannot lie to save his life, has given up trying to around his pack and his friends, so when he speaks there is an exceedingly low probability of him saying so just to get out of speaking up.

"I forgot what I was gonna say," he mutters as his hand is rubbing at his eyes.

[Hatchet] [Perception + Empathy: I call bullshit.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 2, 3, 3, 4, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Daniel] (i'm turning into a pumpkin here, guys! daniel will be quiet, most likely. i'm gonna start washing up etc.)

[Joey] [GE OU]

[Joey] Charlie forgot what he was going to say.

The tension releases from Joey's shoulder. She reaches up to her face, rubbing both gloved hands over her eyes and cheeks.

And she rolls to her feet easily, stretches her spine once she's upright.

"I gotta get back. It's almost fuckin' time for night patrols. Anybody need a ride back?"

She looks around the gathered. If any speak up, Joey leads them to Cassius, parked in a lot not too far. She never did make it to Shedd's today, but that's alright. There's always tomorrow.

[Echo] Echo doesn't stand, or do anything much other than listen at present. Sometimes, she surprises you by her capacity to see through the bullshit -- then again, as Hatchet said earlier, that was kinda her job. Joey gets to her feet and asks around if anyone needs a ride.

Echo shakes her head in the negative. "No, I think I'ma chill a little longer than swing back. Catch you later, girl." She's sort of watching the Metis out of the corner of her eye, it's not threatening, her gaze, but clear and free of any sort of condemnation or pity. She's just waiting, apparently.

[Hatchet] For a few moments, all Hatchet does is watch Charlie as he rubs his face, claiming to have forgotten what he was going to say when his lips pressed into that thin line and he silenced himself. If the Theurge is bullshitting them, Hatchet, at least, does not call him on it. Which, if any of them are starting to get to know him at all, should tell them whether Charlie is bullshitting or not.

He's quiet for a little while, and then he starts to rise to his feet almost at the exact same time as Joey. He shakes his head to the Rotagar, does not remind her to take someone with her. Nor does he offer to go with her. He'll be out there. Hatchet mostly sleeps, during the daylight hours. Hibernates.

Har, har.

His eyes stay on Charlie for a bit longer before he speaks. He and both Fenrir have now talked to Charlie about the same problem. Without realizing it, without knowing that, he says almost exactly what Joey was thinking, or what she's observed: "I have no patience for a lone wolf within a pack, Chuck," he says levelly, "and I've completely lost my tolerance for a group of disparate Garou who just happen to fight together occasionally. I don't think there's a one of us who isn't willing to help you. To unlearn. To learn. To control yourself. To fight better. To do... whatever it is you need. To give you whatever it is you need. Stop making it harder than it needs to be."

An exhale. His rage is throbbing in the air around him, and Gaia only knows how he keeps it in check, himself, given the fact that he's got a slight reputation for being out of his fucking gourd. "I have to piss like a Russian racehorse." He looks over at Echo. "You and I should talk soon. Drop by my room at the Brotherhood when you get a chance."

With that, he takes his leave.

[Hatchet] [I gotta eat something and try to get some sleep, folks. Thank you so much for the scene, but I gotta cut out there.]

[Joey] [meee toooo. thanks, guys, it was fun!]