Decker Rohl

[Trudy Adler] (ooc: Just want to double-check that people are fine with the fact that I am lazy and haven't put in Trudy's sacrifice like, a week a go. I'll post it later, when someone kicks me.)

[Blood Summons] [*LOL* I never post sacrifices. I am a lazy, lazy bitch.]

[Trudy Adler] (ooc: awesome. I don't feel so bad, then, lol.)

[Joe Holst] It is an odd change, when Joe is at rest, his attention bent inward. The boy is a creature of waiting violence, made of brutality and its many expressions. Knee jerk reactions. Tunnel vision bigotries. At least one can say he's never a halfway sort.

Now though, the boy seems- really- thoughtful. His expression smoothed from effort. Shoulders relaxed. His attention on the blood spattered dust and gleams of bone shards mixed with the sand in the challenge circle. His arms are crossed over a formidable chest, the muscles along his forearm twisting like snakes as he squeezes his hand absently into a fist, over and over again.

Nah- that's not ritual. That's a tic. A problem with many Modi, really. Taught to use bodily control to keep a grip on their rage, the body- some motion of it- is needed to think.

Eventually his eyes slice at Blood Summons like razors. Pre-emptive aggression meant to cover up what is obviously more than a little unease. A cover for doubts. Its not easy, leveling a challenge at one's elders.

"We aint gonna fight. Kemp-rhya taught me dat's only paht of bein' Jarl. An' yew don' needa fight like a Modi ta know how ta tell us ta go fight sumpfin else, yeah?" Joe grits his teeth briefly, nods to Blood Summons, then continues.

"He said leadahship is best tested fah dis." Joe's eyes skate left and right, embarassed to be doing this like... like...

well.. it certainly doesn't taste like a Fenrir way of things in his mouth. But then, Kemp had been an Adren.. it is not for cliaths to assume they know more. Just to try hard.

"Sah weah gonna staht widda Staredown. Self control is foyst in leadahship. Den, I'mma test yew on yowah knowledge uh how ta guide Modi. An' den, yew test me on how ta guide Godi in what dey dew. My questions is all gonna be mostly logistics, not da tactics of fighting. Yew don' gotta outfight us ta know how ta use us, like I said."

You're wandering, Joe. Finish up.

He clears his throat. "I'd appreciate it if yew dew da same fah me. 'Cause I'll be th' foyst ta tell ya I dunno shit about da Spirits demselves..."

Joe's thick neck swings toward Trudy

"Dat soun' like a goodt way ta dew t'ings ta yew?"

[Blood Summons] After the Revel, most of the Sept's warriors are starting to slog back towards their territories, to their Kinfolk or their beds or a combination of the two, to drink and to eat and to continue celebrating their having survived another passage of the moon.

The Fenrir, though, have unsettled business.

Blood Summons, despite his recent travails in the Umbra, despite the depletion of the Revel and the hunting of the Englings led by the Ahroun Elder rather than a Wyrmfoe--there is no Wyrmfoe now, not since Truth in Frenzy died, not since sklora-Myrgen followed him--holds himself as though he has energy left in his body, as though he has pride yet. It's unusual to see such strength of purpose in a sin-born, almost as unusual as seeing one of his breed having attained the rank that he has.

Seeing a Full Moon, let alone a Modi, fidgeting when having to do something other than fight, when his Rage is burning bright to match the face of Luna overhead, is not so unusual. Whereas the Godi can stand still and focus, he does not appear to think any less of the Modi for not being able to do likewise.

This is a Modi he has followed into battle before, who he has charged with leadership of a mission because he believed in his capabilities as a warrior. War-Handed is the greater fighter; Blood Summons is the greater thinker. As the Modi says, there is more to leading a tribe than fighting. Blood Summons does not argue with him. He just listens: to the conditions of the challenge, to the steps they will take to determine who will emerge victorious.

If he has any qualms about the challenge, if he disagrees with anything, he knows it is not his place as the challenger to contest them. He had named the place and time, at the challenge circle after business was concluded. Now he looks to the newcomer, the only Forseti their comparatively large tribe has, and waits for her verdict.

[Trudy Adler] Fistful of Reason stands with the two Fenrir challenging over the leadership of the Tribe. She stands at ease, wearing dark gray sweatpants, a simple t.shirt and a pair of sneakers, all that have seen better days, but are loose and comfortable when the moon rises high and full.

She looks between them both with eyes that are not blue but a drab olive green, sharp and intelligent.

Joe speaks and she listens to him, carefully - his accent demanding it, and when her opinion is asked, she gives it.

"Since your Tribe here has a representation of more then Godi and Modi, I suggest you both tell, or show, how you're going to lead the Tribe, as a whole. Jarl is leadership of us all, and each of us, at the end of this, will be following you in a time of War. Our lives will be in your hands. I am no Godi, and," - pointing to some of the others, "-that is no Modi."

"It's good to question how you would best lead one another, but this is a challenge that affects us all War-Handed, Blood-Summons. Lets incorporate that." It's her opinion, but she leaves the current Jarl, the challenged, to decide ultimately.

[Sorrow] Sorrow stands outside the challenge circle, watching. She is a tall creature, long-limbed and loose-jointed, her eyes bright from the hunt, gleaming in the pale light, her hair pulled back sharply from her face in a loose French braid. Like most of them, she wears ordinary, well-worn clothes shot-through with her spirit - a black t-shirt, proclaiming her love for late '80s indie rock (PIXIES across it, in white-ish letters), worn, well-fitted jeans, scuffed Doc Marten's, bracelets at her wrists, a black choker around her neck, leather, braided and thin. Her arms are loose, her fingers tucked into the front pockets of her jeans, the posture is easy - but alert, her attention swinging from her Alpha, to Blood Summons, and ultimately to the Forseti who stands with them now, intent and watchful.

[Joey] Joey watches from beyond the circle. She watches thoughtfully as the young Modi speaks of their fallen Jarl and the words of wisdom he left behind. She listens to the Forseti standing over the challenge. Her gaze flicks to she who offers sorrow, but ultimately, it comes to rest on the challengers.

Challengers who will not be combatants. The corner of her mouth twitches at that. The tall, athletic, leanly muscled Rotagar is dressed in dark clothing. A black and grey raglan, the sleeves pushed to her elbows, fitted jeans of a dark wash, sneakers. Her blonde hair is down, sweaty from the hunt, her bangs pushed back from her forehead.

Eventually, she crouches outside the circle, elbows on knees, hands dangling between them.

[Joe Holst] A drawn out exhale as Trudy's offering to the challenge complicates things further. Nevertheless, the bullish Modi can see through his embarassment to the wisdom in the words. A bare glance at Blood Summons- Joe's bright eyes stabbing again at the Fostern's face before he looks back to Trudy.

"We'll have a third part then. Yew ovahsee dat one yahself. Yew ask yowah own questions."

Joe's weight shifts from foot to foot. The Beast under the skin insists that this isn't right. Not the correct way at all. Threaten to name the Sword a coward.. Putting aside his reservations, Joe fixes his attention on Blood Summons again.

"Ready?"

[Silence] After the moot: the fires burned down low. The dawn staining the east.

He was alone at the moot, and he's alone now, far from the rest of his tribesmen. In his direwolf form, hulking and savage, his paws are planted wide, head level with his shoulders. He looks terrible. Taut, feral, unhinged. Like he hasn't eaten for a week. Like he's eating himself up, rage consumed by rage.

He interrupts, a low snarl:

"What Tribe are we?"

[Trudy Adler] Trudy looks from Joe to Blood Summons and then over to Silence.

"Are you challenging Silence-rhya?"

It would be a lie to say that her heart does not beat harder and faster in the presence of the insane Garou.

[Joe Holst] Joe's posture buckles with the shift. Folding, then growing again into something murderous and grey. High Tongue is to be met with High Tongue, so Joe snaps into hispo himself.

We are the Get of Fenris.

[Blood Summons] This is the first time that Blood Summons has been close enough to Silence to feel how powerful his Rage burns, the first real time that he has even been in his presence since his arrival in the city. The Godi's head swivels to level his eyes on the much higher ranked Fenrir when he skulks over, feeling like the Apocalypse on four legs, and in an instant War-Handed is shifting into his dire wolf form to meet the Athro.

Blood Summons remains in his alien human skin, arms at his sides, respectful but not outwardly fearful. Fistful of Reason asks Silence if he would like to challenge, and the metis's eyes flick to War-Handed as he answers the question.

He watches the two of them without speaking, still within the drawn line in the sand.

[Silence] Silence does not snap his jaws at Trudy. He does not growl at her, or snarl at her, or leap at her and pin her to the sandy ground.

He -- quite simply -- ignores her altogether.

When Joe answers, the response is instantaneous: "LIES!"

His eyes are pale in this form, utterly devoid of color, chips of ice glittering in his face. Beneath a pelt still heavy with winter, his musculature bunches and releases, absorbs his weight and passes it on. He paces around the drawn circle, legs stiff, hackles up, tail low and saber-curved.

"What Tribe are we, that we settle our leadership bloodlessly?" He's reached Joey. He sniffs at her, pushing his muzzle into her ruff, snorting. "Children of Gaia?" Sorrow: sniffing at the backs of her knees, snapping at her heels. "Bone Gnawers? Glass Walkers?

"What Tribe are you, imposters of Fenris?"

[Trudy Adler] Her tongue licks across her front teeth as the Athro continues to rant over top of them all.

[Joe Holst] (Rage: uuh.. I think its perm you roll. Guh-bye, Joe!)
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 3, 4, 4, 4, 8, 8

[Sorrow] (switching comps!)

[Joe Holst] The elder names the sin.. lays it out in the open. Bloodless. Nothing given or taken. The exchange of Other Tribes brought to their own. It proves too much for Joe's already thinly stretched sense of dignity. The shame of it overwhelms him, and the boy explodes forward in Crinos. His eyes blaze with the unseeing Frenzy that only the Wyrm ever gives. In a moment Joe becomes a slave to Beast-of-War, and means to eat the Messenger.

[Joe Holst] (Inits! Put em up! ....ath...ro..>.>) +8
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 5

[Silence] [dice! inits +20]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9

[Sorrow] +6 in homid!
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 3

[Blood Summons] [+7]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 9

[Silence] [sekret wp check: i'm batshit!]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 2, 2, 3, 8, 8 (Failure at target 8)
to cricket

[Joey] [I hate you all
+7]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 5

[Trudy Adler] 6
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 3

[Silence] erm. -1WP.
to cricket

[cricket] D:
to Silence

[Silence] [init order:
silence 29
blood summons 16
joe 13
joey 12
sorrow/trudy 9]

[Silence] [your declares!]
to Sorrow, Trudy Adler

[Sorrow] [1 WP - Resist Pain; 1 Rage - snapshift to Crinos.

1a. Grapple Joe
1b. Block Joe's attack
Rage 1: Block Joe's attack]

[Trudy Adler] [Willpower - Resist Pain. Rage - Hispo.

Bodyslam Joe. ]

[Joey] [1WP Resist Pain, 1R snapshift to Crinos
1a: Body slam Sorrow
R: Held]

[Joe Holst] (SORRY!)

1a: bite decker
1b: bite decker

1r: bite decker
2r: bite heem some mo'

[Blood Summons] The Godi remains in his human skin and does not move forward, but his voice is no less monstrous when it comes out in something like a roar.

[Reflexive: "Cliaths, stand down!"
Action: Held.]

[Joe Holst] (Or like- no splits. Because he's frenzied.)

[Silence] [-1WP: preemptive resist-urge-to-flip-lid WP.
1a. jump on top of Joe!
b. jawlock
R1/R2/R3 - held.]

[Silence] [thaaat's assuming all the cliaths stand down, btw]

[Trudy Adler] [Changing action: Blood Summons is wise; let the Modi make the mistake - Standing down, in Hispo.]

[Sorrow] [Changing action: Sorrow will stand down; reserve the right to block Joe's attacks if Silence doesn't succeed in jumping on top of him.]

[Joey] [Since the other Cliaths are standing down, so does Joey]

[Silence] [folks -- okay with everyone if lessa is mod? speak now or forever hold peace!]
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 3, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7, 7, 8, 10 (Success x 9 at target 3) Re-rolls: 1

[Silence] [whoops. errrr. YOU DIDN'T SEE THAT.]

[Blood Summons] [*gibbers*]

[.fly.] [Willing to mod if folks agree - but mostly that means I'll step in if you mess up. All of you know what you're doing. *L* And I'm tired and cranky and hurt all over. So. Be nice. :) ]

[Trudy Adler] (ooc: I'm fine with it.)

[Joey] [i'm cool with it]

[Blood Summons] [I'm totally down with it.]

[Joe Holst] (mod it up.)

[Sorrow] (fine w/me)

[.fly.] [puts on hat, answers Damon's question, gestures to continue on. :) ]

[and I really love ya'll. honest. :) ]

[Silence] [okay -- lessa called a long jump, which means i actually don't have to reroll (str+ath-2(split) works out).

b. jaw lock! dex+brawl+2(hispo)-3(split)]
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 2, 4, 5, 8, 8, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 5 at target 6)

[Silence] [jaw locking: resisted str + ath roll.

str + ath + 3 (hispo) +3 (eagle) + 4 (succ)]
Dice Rolled:[ 17 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 2, 4, 4, 5, 5, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 8 at target 6) Re-rolls: 3

[Joe Holst] (str/ath)
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 5, 6, 6, 6, 7, 7, 10, 10 (Success x 6 at target 6)

[Joe Holst] (WAIT, REROLLS)
Dice Rolled:[ 2 d10 ] 4, 4 (Failure at target 6)

[Joe Holst] (yew may pro-ceed)

[Joe Holst] (Str/ath, diff is 9. NINE. The number. *glares*)
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 7, 9 (Failure at target 9)

[Joe Holst] (roll should have been strength/brawl? but its the same number.)

[.fly.] (its... yes. *waves absently* continue!)

[Joe Holst] (uhhh.. still my go? Joe's got a total of 3 actions, the two rage will switch to attempts at escaping. I don't know how long he ought to stay frenzied or anything, but his stamina spec is tireless, so it could be a while.)

[.fly.] (you dont' have a split - that's it for you for round one. Anyone else or is everyone standing down?)

[Silence] [joe has 2 rage actions! should i roll to resist the failed escape roll, btw?]

[.fly.] He failed - he's locked. No need to resist the failed roll (cuz that makes no sense. *L*)


And I'm aware he has rage actions - they just need to go in order. If you're just holding on - then yes, joe, you're up again. (assuming everyone else remains standing down...)

[Joey] [standing down]

[Silence] [question: is it an action to resist an escape attempt, or is it reflexive?]

[.fly.] [Action]

[Silence] [continuing to hold rage actions to resist getaway attempts then!]

[Joe Holst] (looked at a foal real quick. back now. same thing- trying to escape. Roll is str/brawl diff 9)
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 3, 4, 5, 5, 5, 6, 7, 8, 10, 10 (Success x 1 at target 9) Re-rolls: 2

[Joe Holst] (and again for when its...relevant.)
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 6, 6, 8, 9, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 3 at target 9) Re-rolls: 1

[Joe Holst] Ignore those rerolls- the spec doesn't apply.)

[.fly.] [as they're added in, and could be your success - reroll it.]

[Joe Holst] (sure. banging out both real quick)
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 3, 3, 3, 3, 4, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 9)

[Joe Holst]
Dice Rolled:[ 11 d10 ] 1, 1, 1, 3, 6, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 10 (Failure at target 9)

[Silence] [R1]
Dice Rolled:[ 16 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 4, 4, 4, 5, 5, 5, 6, 7, 7, 8, 8, 8, 9, 10, 10, 10, 10 (Success x 13 at target 5) Re-rolls: 4

[.fly.] [I'm pretty sure Joe be stayin right where he is. *L* Any actions left?]

[Silence] [ok -- asking for mod opinion to get back to RP: can we just assume joe's frenzy eventually tapers off as his rage depletes w/o rolling over and over? alternatively, decker can try to knock him out with his two remaining rage actions.]
to .fly., Joe Holst

[.fly.] That's actually what I was going to suggest - What say you, dirge?]
to Joe Holst, Silence

[Joe Holst] (Sounds good. Its basically going to go like that until he is out of frenzy or gets knocked out, something like that. I'm not sure as to the mechanics of coming out of frenzy though, aside from being really tired and in this case, tainted.)
to .fly., Silence

[.fly.] When he's outa rage, he's outa frenzy, so yes. tiiiiiiiiiiiired. Empty. but able to think again.

Back IC.
to Joe Holst, Silence

[Silence] All I feel, he said to Imogen, is anger or nothing. He feels anger right now. He's bleeding fury -- outraged at his younger tribesmen, outraged at their challenge, outraged that a Cliath is attacking him,

outraged because he knows he's not fit to lead like this,

outraged because he knows Kemp was. And Kemp is dead now.

As War-Handed comes at him, eyes empty, jaws slavering, the world crystallizes around him in his rage. Everything seems vivid, frozen, already-seen. He feels like he's fought so many battles. He feels like he can predict every last wolf's actions down to the millimeter before they twitch a muscle. He feels an almost-irresistible tug to slip phantomlike amongst that tapestry of frozen strands -- and cut them all down.

Just destroy. Just kill. Just tear the pup to shreds, and then the one next to him, and the next, and the next, not because that would sate his anger, but because that would feed it. And that would give him something to feel. Something to fill the thundering chambers of his heart.

He thinks: it would be easy.
He thinks: I'm on an ill path.


It takes will to do what he does instead. It takes will, and his will is not quite up to the task anymore. His will is iron, but his rage is white-hot flame, and his will melts before it like butter. It takes will that he can ill afford to hold back from the urge to destroy, and though killing would be so easy, this is hard.

It's hard for him to draw himself back to the present. To draws his legs under him and leap forward, upward, arcing over the younger wolf to land squarely on his back and seize him by the scruff of the neck --

firmly, unshakably, but what passes for gently between the Fenrir

-- and force him to the ground. To hold him there without biting down.

It's hard for Silence to muster the will to do this. But he does it. And he waits for the frenzy to pass, as all storms eventually must.

[Joe Holst] The world eventually thaws from the scatter of red- wrought shapes and the shine of bloodlust. That mad kaleidoscope- becomes sand in Joe's mouth and the grit of pebbles under his fingernails.

Nothing is left of that savage burn in his chest. The fierce, hungry joy that can drag worlds down with him. The feeling is not unlike rising from a warm bath only to drop on cold tiles afterward. His muscles are slack, feel unhitched from his limbs..

No. Something remains. A shred of black to mark the passing of a denied Beast-of-War. A foul, hidden mark on the skinhead's soul. Slowly his eyes open, and even that is hard. Joe's lips- for he has lips now, tossed from the hot sea of urge to the shoreline, he's left in homid. Left in homid seething.

Its a whisper. One so quiet it only just reaches Silence's ears. Finality in it. Hatred. Hatred as a shield against shame.

"Don't yew dare.. Don' yew dare name me Urrah den ack like dat aint a woyd feh killin."

[Joe Holst] (Yeah so the aforementioned lips. They move. Right. As opposed to just being his lips. Sheesh.)

[Joey] It takes will to hold still when Silence stalks behind her, presses his nose to the back of her neck like some hugely oversized dog in a moment of curiosity. Feeding her arm to a Fimbul wolf was nothing compared to the feel of Silence's nose, the whuff of air as he snorts against her hair. But Joey holds still until he passes.

And she continues to watch events unfold. She listens to the Athro condemn them all, the challengers for their combatless challenge, the witnesses for simply watching, holding their tongues and waiting. As if this were normal. As if the Get of Fenris could do anything without it leading to violence.

It erupts from the Cliath Modi, already standing tall and war formed and vicious. The other Cliaths explode upward. Kora to defend her packmate, her alpha. Trudy to likewise interfere. Joey hasn't even started in the Skald's direction when the Godi calls the Cliaths to hold back. And watch, as Silence doesn't simply throat the Cliath.

He might now, though. Abruptly, where there stood a grey and white furred monster, scars across her stomach and crisscrossing her throat, one eye dark and intent while the other gleams white, there is now a blonde woman.

Joey doesn't speak up. She doesn't move to the side of any of the other Fenrir. She stands there, watching, fists clenched at her sides, jaw tight.

[Sorrow] (OOC: Just a correction given the narrative in Joey's post. Kora's intent was to stop Joe's attacks on Silence, not to defend him. Her declared blocks were meant to be blocking Joe's attacks on Silence. So that everyone who read her intent gets it, and her declared grapple was again, to stop Joe from attacking Silence, not to defend Joe from Silence's attacks. :) )

[Blood Summons] [Primal-Urge+Perception: Hmm...]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 3, 4, 5, 7, 7, 9 (Failure at target 8)

[Joey] [oops, that's right, her declares were blocks. pretend i didn't say defend in that post!]

[Sorrow] (ooc: perfect! thanks. :) )

[Blood Summons] [*rerolls*]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 4, 7, 7, 10 (Failure at target 9) [WP]

[Trudy Adler] Everywhere there is an explosion of fur and fangs, an instant reaction to an opinion that were taken as insults. Reason is also in that fray, her human form becomes the great Direwolf meant for violence and war, and her intention had been to knock Joe off course. But Blood Summons yells for them to halt, his voice commanding enough to jerk her more sensible reasoning - let the Athro handle it; which had come after her instinct to follow a direct command.

She waits, breathing heavier, focused on Silence and War-Handed.

[Silence] As the hispo becomes a homid, Silence's teeth relent by slow degrees. He stands over War Handed a moment longer -- long enough to hear those quiet words.

It rouses a low growl in his chest, the first sound he's made since mocking them all for bone gnawers, for children of gaia. It's a slow rumble, so deep that it's more felt than heard, more pressure than sound. He steps over the younger Modi, circles around before him. His tongue licks between his bared teeth once.

"It was," the word-thoughts are conveyed clearly, unflinchingly, "wrong of me to mock my brothers and sisters as pretenders to the Tribe. Fenris chose every one of you. It is not my place to deny him."

An exhale, a growl beneath the breath.

"But the Fenrir do not choose their Jarls by talking. The wisest and most honorable Garou are nothing when they lie dead on the battlefield."

[Silence] [percep+pu: does he notice joe was flipped?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 5, 5, 10 (Failure at target 8)

[Joey] [percept + PU: does ANYONE notice?!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 2, 6, 10 (Failure at target 8)

[.fly.] [Lessa TOTALLY notices...]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 6, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 8)

[.fly.] (HAHAHAH! TAKE THAT)

[cricket] [the cricket said to the fly, that dude is so tainted, man.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 8, 8, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 6 at target 8)

[Sorrow] Sorrow: Per + Primal-Urge
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 6, 7, 8 (Failure at target 8)

[vikthya] [I WANNA ROLL SHIT.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 6, 6, 8, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 8)

[Sorrow] Again! THAT IS MY PACKMATE.
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 8, 8, 8 (Success x 1 at target 9) [WP]

[Blood Summons] Were he a son of any other tribal spirit, the metis would have tried to stop the Cliath Full Moon from attacking the Athro. Were he a Child of Gaia, or a Bone Gnawer, or a Glass Walker, his first instinct might have been to protect the lower-ranked warrior from certain death. He would have recognized Rage madness when he saw it and sought to keep yet another of their blood from staining the sand tonight. He would not have told the Cliath's own packmate not to try and stop him from attacking the Athro. He might have encouraged her to, even commanded her.

The Cliaths are not Children of Gaia, or Bone Gnawers, or Glass Walkers. Maybe it isn't his tribe that has him nearly snarling out that order for the Rotagar, the Forseti, and the Skald to stay their hands and let the Modi handle the Modi. Maybe it's wisdom, or recognition, or being his own brand of insane.

What facts there are stand thusly: Silence provoked War-Handed, War-Handed gave into the Wyrm, and the only one physically capable of putting him down without being torn to ribbons in the process is the one who is too out of his mind to lead them anywhere but down an inwardly-reaching path.

Blood Summons is the last one standing in homid when the dust has settled, and his hearing is not acute enough to pick up the whisper that slips out of War-Handed's throat as he lies pinned beneath the great purebred Athro. He is not out of breath from panic or indecision or even that roar he had loosed earlier. The Rotagar soon joins him.

His blue eyes flick to she who offers sorrow, the only one of War-Handed's packmates present tonight. He has no idea that what just occurred was the fault of the Eater-of-Souls. It was over much too quickly for him to view anything more in the quickness of his claws and the slavering of his jaws than what he did see.

That is what he had been hoping for: rapid resolution.

The Godi reaches up to rub at his chin, then stays his tongue as the Athro issues an admission of fault to precede his point: that the challenge was not indicative of worth on the battlefield. That's where they are now. The entire city is a goddamn war zone. His nostrils flare, once, and his brow furrows, but he says nothing yet.

[Sorrow] When her Alpha returns to his humanskin, so, too, does Sorrow. Her dark eyes flick to Silence when he speaks, watchful, alert; and then, quickly return to her packmate. There is a neat knitting of her brow, a certain gleam in her dark eyes. The calm, quiet blank-face that marks internal communication.

[Joe Holst] The minor tics and spastic muscular hitches are things anyone who's ever frenzied would understand too easily for any to really catch the eye. A twitch of the thick Modi's jaw. The flutter at the corner of one eyelid. Fingers tweaking over and over again. Not to the palm. Not the motion of a man recovering strength of limb and sureness of form. Joe's fingers flick outward. Lend room to claws that are for now not even present.

The bleak hunger in his eyes gives it away.

Joe doesn't argue with Silence. Opens his mouth once- the knee- jerk reaction of the youthful. An offering of reasons why. Explanations. All learned recently at the shoulder of a Garou now dead. It all feels like ashes in his mouth- none of the reasons are his, so he closes his mouth again. Breathes deeply, his attention resting at the bridge of Silence's nose.

Irritation flashes across Joe's face then, and he flicks a glare at Sorrow.

[Sorrow] Sorrow does not flinch from Joe's glare. She looks back at him; direct and sure. In this, she gives nothing. The body language between the packmates is clear, the thread of internal tension that is knitted between them.

[Joe Holst] This won't work. This standing and waiting. This doesn't feel right either. Joe's weight shifts from foot to foot, he chews something bitter, then spits in the sand.

"Yew gonna be owah Jarl again?" He resents, but it sounds like the fading echo of Bone Gnawer to attentive ears. Joe rolls his shoulders and watches Silence with deadened eyes.

[Joe Holst] (That was not clear. Translation: Joe sounds churlish and angry. But its not a kid whining. He's still smarting from the comparison with grody other tribes.)

[Trudy Adler] (ooc: so, I have to go. If someone would be so kind to send me the transcript later, or give me a run-down, I'd appreciate it. Thanks for the scene.)

[Silence] It's no small thing for any Garou to admit fault. Much less a Fenrir. Much less an Athro amongst Cliaths and Fosterns. Much less this Garou, who has lost precisely one battle in his entire life, and who did not lose this one.

Nevertheless: there it was. Spoken plainly; moved past. Now they're all silent, watching, waiting to see what he'll do next, and deep in the core of him a pilot light of fury flickers back on. Flames. He doesn't care that Joe flipped his goddamn lid over being called a Bone Gnawer. He doesn't care that this smacks of weakness, that it's something he should care about, should do something about as an Athro. As his elder. He doesn't care about any of that.

He cares only that they're standing there. Like sheep. Staring. Waiting for instruction. He's a second from roaring at them to say something, do something when Joe speaks again.

The great wolf turns to look at the younger Modi. Their eyes meet like a thunderclap; like a force of nature. Instability at the core of the elder Modi. Rage almost beyond his grasp. His head lowers after a moment; tension, thought. Rises again.

"No. I don't want to." Flat, that. Blunt and unmerciful. A moment later, something more of an admission, "And I am not worthy to lead like this."

[Joe Holst] Alarm flickers across Joe's face, and the resentment is wiped away in its wake. The boy nearly rocks on his heels, like a boxer tagged on the jaw just enough to take the weight out of his knees. Bloodless Challenge.. that had been dangerous territory enough. Something alien to his nature and his schooling. A splinter of wisdom planted in his brain by his dead alpha.

This is something even greater in magnitude. Joe had felt something awfully like relief when Silence's wintry voice had filled the circle. He'd known, way down, that the rumored madness had been just a rumor. That the world would return to something expected. Put right again.

Bitter hate still boils up in the kid's chest. A new and secret sort of shame he was going to have to address. His eyes flick to Sorrow again, perhaps a touch more accepting. That will have to wait. This is the world on its ear, and Joe scrambles inwardly to keep up.

"You'll get bettah." He says it like a forgone conclusion. Like he's trying to ram the idea into his tribesmates. His gaze swivels, colored with threat, amongst them.

"When ya dew, we'll dew dis again." He chews thoughtfully. Nods.

[Blood Summons] Inaction is just as huge of an affront in their culture as weakness is. One could say that inaction is a form of weakness, that choosing to stay silent when one could just as easily speak up is choosing to be a coward. The Fostern, who is only a few years younger than Silence yet eclipsed when it comes to rank, has not opened his mouth since he made a decision for the Cliaths. He's been standing there, looking for all the world as though he is waiting to see what happens; or, worse, watching, which is about as effective as walking away would have been.

He didn't acquire a reputation for being a wise man because he shoots off at the mouth, though, because he speaks before he thinks. If anything, the Garou of this Sept would say that he needs to do more of that: speaking. His attempts at communication are largely nonverbal, and when he does speak it is after periods of silence where it's hard to tell if there's anything going on inside of his skull.

The man--monster--cannot tell that Silence is growing irate with the younger members of his tribe's refusal or unwillingness to speak. What he sees, though, is a respected elder of their tribe struggling to contain his Rage even after he's burnt so much of it off. What he sees is loss. What he sees is anger without an outlet.

"You were worthy enough when you saw an unfit challenge," the metis says. Not 'to speak up' or 'to interrupt' or 'to lead.' "Was that the Rage driving you then, or was that you?"

[Sorrow] (Sorry folks! I've gotten poof. It's way too late, and I've been out of it for a while.)

[Silence] The rumored madness is, indeed, just a rumor. It's something worse than madness that grips the Modi. It's apathy. It's detachment. It's not a flaw in the mind, but in the spirit: something come undone. Ripped loose.

Anyone who looks can see it. All that remains is inconsolable anger and what thin fibers of will remain to bind it.

The direwolf's eyes meet the younger Modi's eyes silently, unflinchingly. He says nothing. When Blood Summons speaks, his head whips sharply toward him and his teeth bare with every snarl.

"There is no difference." There it is again: anger spiking again and again. He takes a step back. Then another. A pivot then, a fluid, flawless turn on his haunches. "Finish your [fucking] challenge."

[Joe Holst] (Hey guys, I've reached the end of my awake-ness. Mind if we pause this here?)

[Silence] [fine by me, but decker's most likely leaving on that note, so don't wait for me tmrw!]

[Blood Summons] If there is anything to be done for Silence, it isn't to be done in this moment, this sliver of time that they have when they're all exhausted. Exhaustion has never stopped any proper Fenrir. A lot of things have never stopped any proper Fenrir. A lot of things have ended proper Fenrir.

One such proper Fenrir has been turned to ash and interred into the Graves of Hallowed Heroes to lie there until the Apocalypse comes to claim the rest of them, felled by, of all things, a Bane and his subordinates' blind trust. A few of those subordinates are gone now, either departed for the west or departed for the homelands.

Blood Summons doesn't know Silence from any of the other heroes manning any of the other Septs in any of the other states he has never been to before. Before tonight, before he took the bone and introduced himself, Silence had never seen Blood Summons before. There is doubt as to whether he saw him then, whether he saw anything that took place tonight that didn't involve running, killing, vainly attempting to burn off anger stronger than anything any of his Septmates have ever felt before.

He should stop him, attempt to counsel him, attempt to steer him away from that path of darkness he's heading down. What words a stranger could offer a stranger, though, are inadequate. Without a pack, without distinction between his Rage and his self, without anything other than solitude and fury, words are nothing more than flies at his flank.

The Godi takes a breath as the Modi turns away, but ultimately says nothing. He doesn't watch him go. He turns back to War-Handed, and he raises his eyebrows.

[Pause!]

[Hatchet] The moon's almost full now, but the vibe downstairs is relaxed. Spring has sprung, and even though it's still not warm enough to hint at summer, the snow has turned to rain and there's enough sunshine peeking through the overcast of clouds above the lake to cheer most of the citydwellers. Dinner is winding down towards the Brotherhood's closing hour, but upstairs in the common room a certain Fianna Philodox is setting himself down on the sectional couch with a plate full of roast beef and potatoes, tucking in with a nice dark stout in a tall frosted glass.

[Adamidas] She smelled roast beef.

It drew her out of her =room, where she had been doing who-knows-what. It had, apparently, involved gibbering in unknown languages, and left white powdery streaks on her cheeks, left her fingers feeling raw. Left her feeling still.

Surprisingly still. She came out of the room, her hair a mess and without any shoes on.

Attire was comfortable. And boring.

"Oooh, potatoes," apparently, her attention wasn't that ironclad.

"Hi, rhya."

[Hatchet] "I know," Hatchet says with almost childish glee at the mention of the potatoes he's procured for his dinner. He has a fork, and he uses it to stab one of the small, boiled, red-skinned things covered in butter and rosemary and cooked with garlic. "You may commence thanking me, as representative of the Fianna, for our home culture's contribution to worldwide cuisine. You are welcome," he goes on, without waiting for accolades, taking a bite of one of the potatoes and swallowing it down before he continues speaking, "for the humble yet versatile potato."

[Helen Moore] Helen had already ate, she had a dinner with some colleagues after they broke up for the day - yes, she works on Saturdays, not every Saturday but enough of them to make her weeks too long for her liking. But when they had decided to head back to one of their homes, get ready for a girls night out, Helen had bid her goodbyes and made her way through Chicago towards the Brotherhood instead. It seems ridiculous to grab a bottle of wine to bring or something like that, especially considering where she was heading, but she felt strange without anything. Bringing wine or a gift is always a great excuse and an ice-breaker. So the entire drive over she is wondering what it is she could say, a reason to be there, and came up empty.

She took the back door through the establishment, since she's not staying to eat or grab a drink - though the latter was tempting, and made her way up to the second floor of the Brotherhood, where the Garou and Kinfolk sometimes gather. She's been here a few times now, and each time had only come across one or two of the Nation, other than the staff. But she's been assured that there's a number of them that fills the rooms on the second floor, even if she hasn't met them yet.

A skirt, free flowing and suited to spring, along with a pretty blouse and a waistcoat was elegant and stylish enough. A thin line of gold, too fine to be a chain, wrapped around her neck with the drop-pearl hanging in the hollow of her throat, and a delicate wrist watch rests on her left wrist - accessories that make the part. Helen is certainly a woman with an eye for detail, and she makes her way up to the second-floor common room, listening to voices.

[August Grant] The door from her room opened and the young blonde woman stepped out. Her blonde hair was slightly a mess - like she just got up from a nap. Her eyes were a soft hazel, her make up light. She gave a slight stretch as she walked, barefoot, towards the common room.

The kinswoman had an obvious pedigree, which was slightly unusual for the Coggies. And, also notably.. she was pregnant. Her little baby bum was evident under her tight-ish white shirt and mid calf length light pink skirt.

[Adamidas] "What's appropriate chiminage? Gnosis or baclavah?" she plods over and sits a few seats over from him. Not in Hatchet's space, but close enough that she doesn't have to yell across the room.

She crosses her legs, criss-cross applesauce, and she rests her hands on top of her calves and leans back in the chair. It makes her look younger than she is. Makes her look more flexible than she is, too. August comes into the room, and Adam's eyes go frm her face, to her belly, to her face again.

Brows knit and push up, mouth closed, and expression thoguhtful. It fades with

"Hey," she says. Helen gets a similar look, and she waves, "and hi to you too."

[Adamidas] [forgive typos!]

[Hatchet] [NO.]

[Adamidas] [*sbos* *sobs*]

[Hatchet] A few moments after Hatchet starts eating and Adam sits down on the sectional, two well-bred females with pale hair and eyes enter the room. The Philodox glances up at one of them, then the other. He's been aware of the presence of the pregnant girl for a little while now: there were meetings, brief as they were, going around the Brotherhood making sure everyone was accounted for and had some idea of what the evacuation plan is. If he has any particular interest in her or her welfare, it hasn't shown.

On the other hand, coming from another doorway, there's Helen. Her blood is of his tribe, and he knows her favorite color -- or lack thereof. When she comes in he looks at her, and the corner of his mouth moves, and he takes another bite of roast beef.

"I will accept simple thanks," Hatchet says, to Adamidas. "I hear your sisters returned."

[Helen Moore] Coming up the stairs and into the common room, she finds Hatchet, a pretty pregnant woman and a young, pretty girl waving at her and greeting. Her smile is instant in return, "Hello." She's British, as in, arrived in the country two-years ago British, and it shows in the way she talks. Maybe, even, in some of her behaviour - the tea tray and the biscuits, as Hatchet knows.

Then she's meeting Hatchet's gaze, briefly, smiling more, and walking further into the room towards one of the spare places on the seats. She sits closer to Hatchet then she does Adamidas. But before she does, she pauses to extend a hand to the woman that greeted her. "I'm Helen."

[Hatchet] Pretty, pretty girls. There's enough of them up here, truth be told. Granted, more than a few of them can and will rip off your face and feed it to you, but thankfully these days the inhabitants of the Brotherhood live in relative peace. Relative, that is, to the sheer fact that so many of them are werewolves.

That peace, relative or otherwise, is about to be shattered. But for the moment, Hatchet's eating his dinner and seems quite content to go on doing so no matter how many pretty girls are in his immediate vicinity. He is a Big Man. He is not scared of pretty girls, no sir.

Chewing on some of his dinner, he reaches and pats the cushion next to his. There's no eye contact made, but since a moment later Helen sits nearer to him than to the unknown brunette, it's pretty clear who he was patting the couch for.

[August Grant] "Hey." August smiled and a hand rose in greeting. A few fingers wiggled. "Anyone mind if I join ya'll out here for awhile?" She was lonely, and bored. Most of the time, it didn't bother her that most people tended to ignore her.

But, tonight.. the quietness of her room, was driving her crazy. August didn't care if she was included in anything, she was just happy to be near real.. non crazy people.

[Adamidas] [[pay no attention to the Fury behind the curtain!]]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 5, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Adamidas] He hears her sister returned.

There is a life there that comes to her. Something bright and... not obviously pleased. Subtle. Her Sisters have returned.

"Yeah," she says, "they did. I'm pretty excited, I think they learned a lot when they went on their quest."

What is not said, however, is important. And it lingers, unsaid, unpressed, and deigned unimportant. It is forced away from her eyes when she licks her thumb and wipes the bone powder off of her cheek. It turns chalky and disappears. she then wipes her hand off on her jeans, realizing Helen's is in front of her. She takes the female's hand.

"I'm Adam," she offers. Despite being under five and a half feet tall, she is not exactly delicate. Her right hand has archaic callous patterns. Once up, once down, and Adam releases Helen's hand to offer it to August, "nice to meet you both."

[Helen Moore] "Nice to meet you, too, Adam."

Moving over to sit down on the patted cushion, she had offered a quiet smile to the Garou busy stuffing his face with potatoes and roast, before she throws a glance over to August. "I don't mind, but I don't live here." It's not up to her. This isn't her territory and she's not the one eating either.

Crossing over her legs, she smooths out her skirt over the skin-coloured hose that keeps legs warm, and sets her purse into her lap. "Good food?" She asks Hatchet quietly. There's far too many calories on that plate for her liking, but it smells homely.

[August Grant] The blonde girl smiled sweetly - yup, she just looked like a naive country girl, and took the hand. "Nice to meet you.. Adam.." What an odd name for a girl.. "I'm August."

A slender hand brushed at her skirt to get it to sit correctly after she found herself a chair, not too near the others, and sat.

[Hatchet] "Beyond description," he tells Helen blithely, in an offhand way that indicates either total, thoughtless sincerity or utter meaninglessness. Either the food really is so good that he honestly doesn't dare try to put it into words, or he's just saying whatever pops into his head from moment to moment. It's hard to tell if the wisdom he's attributed with is real, or if it's simply honor given to him by those who choose to see him in the best possible light, rather than the worst.

All August gets is a shrug; Hatchet sure as hell doesn't seem to care if she joins them or not, though things might be different if she were to try for a bite from his plate or a mouthful from his beer. She lives here, too. The common room is exactly that: common to them all, residents or guests.

He's inhaling his dinner. "So where did they go?" he asks Adamidas, looking over at her curiously.

[Silence] The Gauntlet abruptly shreds open.

Something comes plummeting through: some long, scaled, slimed serpentine thing with no arms, no legs, nothing but a great snapping maw and a lashing, stinging tail.

As wide around as a man's torso and a good fifteen or twenty feet long, it instantly makes chaos of the common room. A flick of its tail sends the coffee table flying. A writhe of its long body sends the sectional couch skittering back several feet, Hatchet and friends on board. Warm ichor splashes those in a three-yard vicinity. Clearly wounded, a dry hiss rattles in the back of that fanged maw as it coils to strike. An instant later the Gauntlet ruptures again, and this time it's a furry, snapping thing that crashes through, that lands scrabbling on the serpent. Seizes it in his crushing jaws.

Bites down.

There's an audible snap. The serpent twitches from head to tail, then abruptly goes limp. Stillness brings recognition: it's a direwolf that holds the dead thing in his jaws, iron grey, white at the shoulder and chest. There's a nasty gash along his ribs, but it's the four small puncture wounds at his shoulder that won't stop bleeding.

Silence drops the wyrm-serpent on the hardwood floor. His sides are heaving; breathing labored. He sways where he stands. Eyes glassy and staring flash around the room and its occupants without recognition. Slaver runs from his jaws. He takes a single wooden step forward and keels over on his side.

[Helen Moore] Chuckling softly at the strange mannerisms of the Garou next to her, she left him to eat without any further questions or scrutiny. She doesn't like to eat around people unless they are to, it makes her self conscious but he doesn't have any such problems. It looks as though the food is hardly touching his taste-buds with the way he devours each forkful.

She looks over to August, takes in the way the woman is dress, how her face is slender, like her arms and legs, and double-checks that the woman couldn't just be putting on fat.

-- The question doesn't come though.

Screaming does. Her hands fly up to her face on instinct, just like her legs, as she's thrown back with the sofa, and something, a monster, is in the common room. She hasn't made sense of it yet. It's just instant, horror-shock.

[August Grant] August screamed - one of those ohmygodI'mgoing to die! sort of screams. The coffee table went flying and.. the couch went flying? As quickly as the kin could, she removed herself from the chair and proceeded to hide behind it.

She cowered behind it, actually. Only peeking out once the sounds of the struggle had stopped. Her breaths came rapidly, her heart raced. What the hell was that?! Now.. and unknown wolf also lays motionless on the floor. "Can someone help him?" The frightened kin doesn't know what to do..

[Adamidas] The Gauntlet shreds-

Her reaction is immediate. She's not sitting comfortably. She's not resting, she's standing and she's reacting. Teeth are bared, but her eyes are calm. Incredibly calm. The female is on her feet, and she takes a posture that indicates she's ready. Admittedly, that serpent could eat Adam whole in homid (and possibly in Crinos) and wouldn't bat an eye. And her attention is there for the time being. It bleeds, it tries to continue on, but fails. Alethea Adamidas tries to place it; she tries to remember what it is or if she's seen it.

She hasn't.

It wasn't batting its eyes, though, it was twitching, goes limp. Those are death throes. Truth knows them. Alethea knows them. Amanda knows them.

She stands by the kin, and stands still again. Attention goes from the kin, to Hatchet, to Silence, and rests finally on the Fianna. He's not her alpha [what may have been], but she waits anyway for some indication of what is permissible.

[Hatchet] [-1G. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? WHATWHATWHATAREYOUDOING?]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 4, 4, 5, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 5)

[Hatchet] It says something about Hatchet's mental stability that when that rip down through the gauntlet opens up in midair, his first response is not to overturn the coffee table his plate is on, shift to crinos, and dive right onto the thing that comes through. It says something about how much he's changed over the past year that when the serpent appears, lashing its tail and slamming the sofa back, he's in hispo in an eyeblink.

His fur is thick, iron-colored, and the tips are rust-red. Dried blood. Sunset. His eyes go from silver to gold in an instant, and though he doesn't check to see if August and Helen are injured, he's lunging in front of them as soon as his hands become paws, mouth opening in a snarl as his claws plant down and flex against the ground.

He lands at almost the same instant that Silence comes after his prey, one direwolf taking down his quarry while the one that lives here stands between it and a couple of kinswomen. He recognizes the wolf that comes after the wyrm.

Hatchet does not attack. He stands his ground, his guard, whatever you want to call it, until the moment Silence falls to his side. And then he's straightening up, blinking. He makes a small, curious noise in that thick canine throat of his.

Then he takes one step forward. He looks over his shoulder Adamidas and sounds come from him, low growls and chuffs. To Helen and August's ears they're meaningless. To Adam's, they mean: "Stay with Kin."

Truth be told, Adam probably would anyway. She's a Black Fury and a Theurge; the Kinfolk in question are not only female, one of them is pregnant. The beast on the ground, bleeding onto the flooring, is an Athro Modi who has precisely one remaining link to any shred of sanity or humanity. Anyone who drifts anywhere near his territory can smell the rot of his prey. Yet: he's bleeding from wounds that aren't closing. He does need something, even if Something is just Time.

It isn't that Hatchet doesn't want Adamidas, the daughter of the Wyld and the Crescent-auspiced healer, to help. It's that he's just a teensy bit more likely to survive the effort.

Hatchet pads forward another couple of steps and nudges Silence roughly with his muzzle, then his paw. Floorboards creak under his weight, under Silence's. No sounds otherwise, no Hey dude. Dude. Wake up. though he may as well be saying that. Decker gives a growl, a grunt, weak and inebriated-sounding. Hatchet whuffs -- it could be a laugh, though a dry one.

The next time he touches the Modi, it's with a heavy paw on top of Decker's foreleg. He grunt-growls, and from the very depths of his fur come swirling, green-gold... sparkles, glowing like will-o-wisps and twisting and twining around his leg, working their way down to his paw and leaving effervescent trails of color and light in the air behind them like streams left by jets across the sky. They latch onto the ends of Silence's fur, and work their way into his coat, and spread across him, looking for his wounds.

It isn't much, in the end. But it's what he can do, and what he's called to do. When it's done, Hatchet removes his paw from Silence and takes a step back.

[Helen Moore] Helen does not just sit there and scream, not after the initial one. She watches some thing writhe around in front of her, taking up a good space of the room, and a massive, nightmare dire-wolf comes in after it. There's wet stuff everywhere, red and growling. More furred forms erupt, snarls happen.

When she gets control of her body, her mind, she's sliding over the back of the sofa that had skid across the floor, breathing in that way frightened people do, in short gasps, crawling for the door to the hallway, the exit to the chaos of the room with the coverage of the sofa. In the hall, she sits with her back to the wall, mind scrambling to make sense of what the hell is going on. She's no hero. She's out of there, leaving it to Garou to handle. There's not a single part of her that wants to be in that same room anytime soon.

[Odins Eye] The sound of heavy soled leather boots are heard in the stairwell, making their way up to the common room. A figure ascends incrementally... First, a thick mane of blond hair is seen to flow from the scalp of a fair complected man with gray eyes... A rugged looking man with a thick jaw and small beard, a small beard encroached upon by the unshaven gristle upon his cheeks. Upon his neck, two red-eyed ravens peer wordlessly, the tattoos stark and intricate against the fair complexion. A skull, stylized and twisted, sets upon a black tee shirt stretched taught by the Modi's heavy frame. It is only as the thick soled boots of black leather reach the top step that his size is revealed... He was massive, seeming equal parts viking and professional wrestler.

As the commotion and tumult continue, his head tilts to the side curiously... Surveying the scene before him.

[Adamidas] "C'mon, let's go downstairs," she says. She informs the kin, she tries to put a hand on August's shoulde roturge her away, and Helen seems to have the idea of-

"No, not downstairs! My room!"

And she's trying to usher people off to the room that sixty percent of Chicago's female Fury populace lives in.

"Helen? I can get you something to change into."

Don't turn your back on what's going on...

[Silence] (okay folks. LET ME POST.)

[Silence] The direwolf laid out on the floor may as well be paralyzed. Actually, he might actually be paralyzed. Poison: that's what instinct whispers. The wyrmserpent, the drooling, the ataxia, the stiffness of limb and posture.

His eyes roll toward the Fianna as he approaches. Weakly, viciously, the Fenrir bares his teeth when Hatchet whuffs.

Then a moment later healing is creeping through him. Not a lot, but a start. The Modi's shaggy head lifts a small distance from the floor. Thumps back down. That alone seems to cost him great effort, makes his panting ramp up, dry and wheezing. A moment later he tries again and gets his head off the ground. Rolls to a sprawl, forepaws and elbows under him.

The heavy head droops, then, ichor-stained muzzle almost touching the floor. The hispo's ears are back, balance uncertain. After a moment he masters himself, the spinning world, the urge to retch.

"Make sure dead." It's not gratitude that growls out of him. Of course not. It's a command, gruff and slurred. "Cleanse. The kin too. And me."

[August Grant] The chair seemed like perfectly good cover for now.. and she wasn't planning to leave, but Adam had other plans. And, when shit comes tearing out of the umbra and it plans to eat you - it's always a good idea to default to the Garou in the room. So, if she wanted her to be elsewhere, that seemed like a damn good idea to her!

August stood, nervously. Yup, the girl was shaking actually. A hand came to brush away some of what she could only describe as goo from her arm.

[Hatchet] His shoulders are tense. His ears are pricked, partly folded back. They swivel forward in attention when Silence starts to move. It takes effort, hearing the heavy breathing behind him, not to turn away from the Athro. It takes even more to listen when he senses another of their kind coming up the stairs, filling the doorway.

A sharp whuff of assent. He turns around and barks at Adamidas. "Stay. You cleanse with."

With that, he goes to the serpent, steps on its head, and twists until something inside snaps. It was already dead. This is not the killing blow. But that snap is satisfying, and certain. A moment later, Hatchet unfurls back into his birth form, in jeans and boots and t-shirt. Just like he was when this all started. The smell of beer is not quite overcome by the ichor in the room. He looks over at Matthias.

"Well, howdy. We're cleansing. You helping?"

[Helen Moore] Something to change into? Not quite what she was expecting to hear, but, it was something to focus her attention elsewhere and it was practical. From where she was in the hallway to the dorms, she slowly peeled herself off the floor to stand up. She uses the wall, holds onto it, legs shaken, as she steels herself to look back in the room and detail what was happening in there.

It's quiet and still compared to seconds ago.

"Okay," she says, breathless.

[Adamidas] "It's going to be fine," she says. It's for the kinfolk, but she says it with the sort of conviction that it's very... very hard not to believe her when she says it. What's worse is that she believes it.

The Fury nods, once down, and has been given orders. She needs to stay, because they're going to cleanse. She doesn't say anything, she just goes to her room. Quickly.

And returns. Just as quickly. With pure water and a couple branches. Twigs. Something wyld, something wild. Something pure. Let it be said that ritual components are almost always at her fingertips. She hands Hatchet a twig.

[Silence] The serpent is decapitated now, body kinked at strange angles where the spine broke. The head is eyeless, a series of deep pits where eyes ought to be, and the mouth, gaping open, reveals a set of four slender, hollow fangs.

Its skin is coated in some slick, unpleasant fluid. Hatchet's mouth feels warm and numb where he bit down.

As the Philodox organizes the Cliaths and the kin, the Modi's heavy claws push at the hardwood. Muscles bunch under his hide, quivering as though they pulled against some burden greater than the weight of his body. He gets himself to his feet, unsteady, still swaying; his head swings loosely as he glares at Odin's Eye; at Adamidas; at the frightened kinswomen.

[August Grant] Finally, the Coggie kin gathers the courage to look over at the dead creature on the floor - and then towards the injured wolf. Every fiber in her being wanted to help.. but on the other hand, she wanted to run screaming and go hide in her room for awhile and wish she'd never come out tonight.

August took a deep breath.. and a hand went to her belly. It was going to be ok, she'd said it would be. Everything was going to be fine..

[Odins Eye] Matthias nods and answers in an impossibly deep voice.

"I can."

Then, he enters the room and considers Silence quietly for a few moments, before shifting into his lupus form. The giant melts away into a gray furred wolf whose only blemish was a set of parallel scars running the top of his stomach and lower ribs.

Then, he awaits the moment in the rite for the otherworldly howl to banish the corrupting influence. Tail wagging steadily as he sits.

[Silence] [erase bit about hatchet biting. he didn't bite it! his paw probably just stings faintly.]

[Helen Moore] When the large wolf swings his head in her direction, even though she's partially concealed in the doorway, she's sure her heart seizes in that moment. There is nothing remotely comforting about Silence. He is Rage. Frightening, lethal, I'm-going-to-kill you, Rage. Helen's knees almost buckle under it, but she's very still until he looks beyond her. Any wolf can easily pick up the stench of fear that leaks in cold sweat from the Kinswoman's pore. The moment Silence is looking away, though, she ducks back behind the wall, back flat against it and waiting. Garou were as bad as monsters - some of them.

[Helen Moore] (ooc: Poor Helen, WP 5 to Rage 9. *watches her stroke and die*)
to Adamidas, August Grant, Hatchet, Odins Eye, Silence

[Hatchet] While he waits for Adam to get back from the room she shares with her packmates, Hatchet lets his eyes go over to Helen. Finally. They track quickly over her, checking, but the expression on his face is ...distant. When he notes that she's not bleeding, that she's not holding any limbs at odd angles, he turns back to the lower-ranked Fenrir at the door, giving him a nod.

"I have a stick," he muses aloud, wiggling it between his fingers, listening to its faint swish.

He does not shift again to join the rite. He simply herds Helen, August over to the closest point to Silence and the wyrmserpent he thinks they can stand. He stands, notably, nearest to the kinswoman of his own tribe, though that's not terribly surprising. And gives a nod to Adamidas to begin, to lead the rite.

[Hatchet] [I say we actually roll this shit!]

[Adamidas] [Roll that beautiful bean footage!]

[Adamidas] [Rite of Cleansing!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 4, 6, 6, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 7) [WP]

[Hatchet] [I HALPING! :D I HAS THE HALPING STIK!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 4, 4, 5, 10 (Success x 2 at target 7) [WP]

[Helen Moore] Helen is herded where ever. She's not saying or doing much of anything other then trying to keep her shit together, maybe even literally.

(ooc: afk for a few.)

[Odins Eye] ((Charisma + Rituals, diff = 7 [wp]

Hail Kahseeno))
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 3, 8, 9 (Success x 3 at target 7) [WP]

[Adamidas] She leads the ritual.

She has done this ritual dozens of times. Alethea Adamidas has performed it in combat, she has performed it before combat, after combat, for the wounded and the injured, and she pours forth effort into it every time. The theurge leads the ritual, watches those who are going to assist and participate.

Watching her perform the Rite of Cleansing, it's easy to forget how spacey she can be because Alethea is nothing but single-minded focus at that moment. Cleanse the area, cleanse the wounded, the poisoned, all of it. In the end, it is equal effort though, it is equal exertion and it is balance. A modi, a philodox, and a theurge all perform a rite together. She could muse poetical over it, that she's performed this rite with her own sisters- a full moon and a philodox respectively.

Doing this particular ritual with these particular participants almost feels right.

We don't care what it feels like, just so long as it got the job done. Because a ritual's elegance is nothing without purpose.

It serves its purpose.

[August Grant] August just stands there.. trying not to lose her dinner over the dead thing before her, and the overwhelming rage surrounding her.

[Odins Eye] The gray wolf waits until the appropriate moment and as the time in the ritual arrives, lets out a long, mournful howl... It seemed to bounce upon the boards of the common room, to echo down the hallway to the bedrooms. It seemed to linger in the air for a long time indeed...

Until, like the dwindling of a spring rain shower, it slowed and stopped. Leaving naught but silence in its wake.

Once the ritual was completed, the wolf melts again... Reforming itself into that of the viking giant that had stood there mere moments before.

[Silence] Through the rite, Silence stands glowering. It's hard to operate under that stare. Even with his rage spent and depleted, it's impossible to forget what sort of creature Silence is. What his bloodline is, his tribe and auspice, and what that means.

There are few things in this world more suited for violence and death than a Fenrir Full-Moon. And right now, this particular Fenrir Modi is riding a razor's edge. His control is tenuous. His rage is an ocean of fire. When the Cleansers stray too close to him, he bares his teeth. When cleansing water falls on him, he shakes his fur out unsteadily, bristling. None of this seems to mean anything. It's as reflexive to him as breathing.

When it's finished, though, he feels better. Some of the numbness, the stiffness, the inability to control his own body is gone. He has not left his feral, ferocious form once in the meantime, but he does now -- warping from a enormous, pony-sized wolf to a hulking, primitive near-man. His clothes are battered and worn. He's bleeding through his shirt, but that's a minor thing.

Silence wipes a coarse, calloused paw over his face. Then he leans down, seizes the dead thing's head in one hand, body in the other, looping its long coils and boneless kinks over his shoulders like some macabre cloak.

"Thanks fer tha cleanse," he says -- his voice rough and low in this form, like boulders grinding. "Yer kin're fuckin' cowards though."

[August Grant] ...and he expected exactly what out of the pregnant kin?

[Hatchet] The Rite of Cleansing disturbs the diners downstairs. They hear something awful coming from upstairs. Howling, animal and human. They ask if someone's watching a movie. The stupid ones, at least. The hopeful ones. The waitstaff covers it as best they can. Jenny gets a migraine.

Upstairs, Silence is shifting to glabro, thanking Matthias, Hatchet, and Adamidas. The Philodox's ire doesn't flash at the other comment, but he does look at the Athro for a moment.

"The pregnant one isn't mine," he says, "but as for the other: don't insult my kin to my face, -rhya."

Even those last few words, blandly spoken, carry no anger. It almost sounds like he's giving well-meaning, common-sense advice: don't chew so fast, you'll choke.

[Silence] "Ain't an insult if it's true," Silence says, the same low flatness. The last loop of dead wyrmthing slung over his shoulder, he cracks his neck with a slow roll of his head. "They wanna survive without you takin' take'a 'em every fuckin' minute, they best learn ta do somethin' other'n scream 'n stare."

His eyes flick sideways, pin the pregnant one. "Ya hear me?"

[Helen Moore] Throughout the Rite, where the Garou do strange, primitive Garou things, Helen is quiet and standing closer to August. They share something in common, their instinctual fear of Silence. It's clear in the way they probably huddle closer together and try and keep their distance from him more then the dead wyrm thing, which is ugly and frightening in its own right - but it's dead, and Silence is very much breathing, snapping, and baring teeth at other Garou.

Helen does not make a show of herself, wanting to be invisible while the high ranking Get of Fenris is present in the upside-down common room of the Brotherhood. She thinks he's right too, that she's a coward, but she doesn't goddamn care. She cares only enough to want to be out of there, but doesn't ask, not yet. Her eyes might though, the way she looks up and over at Adamidas. She doesn't look at Hatchet, he's talking to It.

[August Grant] Her gaze immediately shifts away, and towards the floor. She just doesn't do well when she's being stared at.. she's the submissive type. It's just the way she's learned to survive. Garou, fight to live, Kin learn to stay the hell out of the way and not to argue to do the same.

"Yes -rhya." it's all she manages to say.

[Adamidas] Whatever strength of will was there, whatever single-minded devotion had been there remains.

There are still things to be done. There are still actions to be taken. She looked at the headless serpent thing, and there was a spark in her gaze, a hitch in her step, a desire withheld [what is that thing?] She runs her tongue over her teeth, sucking a bit of something out that wasn't there.

There were things to be said, and she moves over to the ladies.

They looked disgusting. Things to be done, "you're a size four, right? You might want to hop in the shower, I'll get you something to wash up with. The drains've taken some weird stuff."

[[afk, loves!]]

[Hatchet] "Oh," Hatchet says thoughtfully, "so what do you suggest? Next time they see a wyrmserpent jump out of the penumbra at them they should pull out a couple of magnums and fire away?

"Fear," he goes on, a little more flatly, "is not cowardice. Neither is shock. And if you have a Kinfolk who's born into this world already inured to fear and shock, that's not a courageous woman, that's a sociopath."

Hatchet shakes his head. "Beyond that, -rhya, they're not your kin. Nobody fucking asked you."

[Odins Eye] Throughout the exchange, Matthias waits quietly, nodding as Silence thanks him before considering the scene stolidly. His arms fold over his chest, the intricately tattooed celtic knots upon his biceps peeking from beneath the black tee shirt as he does so.

After a few moments, he moves to the serpentine corpse, and begins considering it. The fangs, its musculature, how it was built... Its natural weaponry. It was almost as though he were considering the creature for how best to kill its kind, were he to run across them in the future.

[August Grant] August had already gleamed that Hatchet didn't care for her - or at least, had no distinct feelings either direction.. which was fine. But, at least he didn't try to throw her under the bus just because she wasn't 'his'. She wasn't anyone's as a matter of fact. She took care of herself..

[Hatchet] [Heads up: In about 10 minutes I'm going to be heading home, but I'll be back online 15-20 after I leave.]

[Silence] Silence's answer isn't verbal. He turns to Hatchet, [i]on[i] Hatchet, closing ground between them in a few long strides. He leaves a trail of blood. That he's wounded, and not lightly, does not seem to signify in the slightest. He bears down on Hatchet all the same. He moves with the same swaying power, compelling, physical. In this form, he's the taller, his shoulders wide as a mountain range, prehistorically hunched.

The air around him is bending with rage. His lips peeling back from teeth sharper and longer than any man-thing's had a right to be. His eyes are glittering. There's no human empathy in them at all.

Softly: "Watch yer mouth with me, pup. 'less ya wanna eatcher tongue."

[Silence] [[/i] *fixes html!*]

[Helen Moore] She takes Adamidas up on her offer. Her hand, trembling still, reaches for Augusts to guide her away too. "Come on," she says very softly, moving to head out of the common room and to where the Black Fury will direct them. Any excuse to be out of the room, especially when Silence advances on Hatchet. There is no sound reason for them to be there, when everything screams danger.

[August Grant] Oh hell yeah, she's right there with Amadidas and Helen. Any place where the crazy one wasn't.. would be a good place.

[Hatchet] He'd cower if he were a pup.

Truthfully, he'd cower if he were a little more sane. Tuck his tail, so to speak. Lower his eyes, the way that every other fucking werewolf in Chicago seems to do when it comes to dealing with Silence. It isn't that he knows Decker very well, or wants to, or imagines some esoteric emotional connection between them that isn't there. Whatever is motivating Hatchet, it's damn near impossible to puzzle out.

He speaks quietly. Unseen inside his chest, his heart is hammering faster. Instinct is struggling with intellect. It's will alone that has him standing his ground while Matthias stays quiet and Adamidas ushers Helen and August away.

"-Rhya," he says when the three of them have left the common room, "with genuine respect, what was the point of snarking about the cowardice of kin of other tribes? Because you should fucking know better. You could smell it: one of them is mine. Did you just want to see if I'd let it slide because it's you?"

[Hatchet] [Comp sleeping! Back in 20-30!]

[Adamidas] People have been ushered away, off to a room where the beds are pushed into the middle. The room smells nice. Nice, of course, is relative. There's the hint of cigarette smoke and fabric softener. She goes to her little section of the closet. She's all smiles and calm and confidence.

No, strike that. She's all inspiration.

"Helen, you're about a size four, right? Because if you're a smaller they're gonna fall off of you and if your bigger you're gonna get muffin top. Not that muffin top is bad, you know, but some people don't like the little fencemark things you get when your pants are too tight."

[August Grant] August makes it as far as Amadidas' door. "I have my own room there.. I.. think I will go there. Thank you, for getting us out of there. I'm not sure how that scary one thought I should protect my child and not be a coward about it.. if I got killed, how would that help?" The last comments were kinda muttered.. the whole situation seemed a little fuzzy. Hiding was.. instinct. How was instinct wrong?

[Odins Eye] As for Matthias, he merely continues considering the serpent... After a few moments, he shrugs and lets the steel eyed gaze move to where Hatchet and Silence were having what amounted to a heated yet silent exchange. Wordless, without moving...

But aware, nonetheless.

[Helen Moore] "It's okay," she tells Adamidas, "I'll take whatever you have." Being that Helen is five foot ten, there's not too many womens clothes that will reach her ankles if she's wearing pants and fit her at the waist at the same time. She doesn't buy too many clothes at Wal-Mart either, but she's not concerned with what clothes she's going to be putting on, as long as they cover the bits they are meant to and they are clean.

She does not want to think about what it is that's on her clothes and in her hair, and maybe on her face. Helen has not reached up to touch any of it yet. Her purse is back in the common room and it can stay there for all she cared. Some part of her is worried about Hatchet facing that very monstrous Garou, but it's some distant concern right now.

"Where can I find a shower?"

[Hatchet] [-1R to Glabro
-1WP for RP
1. Block]

[Silence] [1. backhand!]

[Adamidas] She thumbs through her clothes, looks for something that might be nice or comfortable. In the end, she moved for comfortable instead of nice. August speaks, and Adam looks at her directly.

"If you are ever in my care, I would die for you."

conviction. She doesn't explain, and it is not at all a lighthearted statement. Just fact.

She inhales and starts folding clothes. A pair of jeans, a tee shirt, a towel and a little caddy full of shower things. "Showers are in the middle of the place. It's kind of like a college setting so... yeah."

[Silence] [rollin!]
Dice Rolled:[ 9 d10 ] 1, 1, 5, 5, 6, 6, 7, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1

[Hatchet] [Block! Dex + Brawl]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 4, 4, 7, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6) [WP]

[August Grant] Well hell.. she needed this woman as her friend. Everyone else she knew -might- help her out. There's a good chance Paul might bail. Luis.. was.. a little flaky.. and well, Erza? He'd probably kill her himself if he got the chance.

"Thank you, Adam. I hope we can be friends. I live just over there - I don't have a roommate.. so, it gets a little lonely sometimes." She pointed to her room ((which I don't recall the number of)) as she spoke.

"And.. take care Helen, hopefully I'll see you again. But - for now, you want me to show you the shower that works best?" August had every intention of showering herself. Whatever this ick was.. was.. well, she didn't want to think about that.

[Odins Eye] Silence swings, Buried Hatchet blocks the attack. Matthias tilts his head curiously again and stands slowly.

He makes no move to intercede; it was not his place to do so.

Instead, he merely backs away enough to give the pair room to settle the matter.

[Adamidas] "You'll know if I'm here," she says, and there is a surprisingly bright smile attached to it, "there's usually incessant giggling."

[Hatchet] [1. Block]

[Silence] 1a. grapple
b/c/d. punch!

[Helen Moore] "Thank you," she tells Adam, taking the bundle of items from her. She holds them away from her body and had turned to nod at August. "Yes, please." Following her, when she was ready, she would head for the showers and to the one that worked the best. There she would tell August thank you, again, and go about her own business of getting cleaned and changed.

While, elsewhere, Garou fight.

[August Grant] "Alright.. thanks again.." August smiled - it was hard not to when the other woman was smiling so bright.. and then headed towards her room to grab some clothes, and then into the shower. If Helen followed, well, she'd show her the showers first.

{Night all. Thanks for the scene}

[Hatchet] [Change that block to a headbutt.]

[Silence] [redeclaring as well!
R - hispo
1a. body tackle
b. jaw lock
R1. held!

+1 diff all around!]

[Hatchet] [*waves magical pretendy-roll wand*]

[Silence] [alright, to save time, kai and i just agreed to assume rolls. sorry dicefans!]

[Odins Eye] At some point during the fight, Odin's Eye decides he has no place in the matter. His consideration of the serpent exhausted, the viking man makes his way toward the door...

((gtg folks; thanks for the rp))

[Helen Moore] (ooc: is, uh, that the end of the scene then?)

[Adamidas] (I think so! Thank you for the play, lovely, I'm gonna log out! Ping me on aim sometime!)

[Silence] And then there was violence.

Somewhere in the middle of what Hatchet says, a light flares in Silence's hurricane eyes. Some higher-order system of judgment and reason clicks off; some primitive, basic instinct kicks in.

He lashes out with a brutal backhand. Hatchet blocks it -- narrowly, but neatly. It only seems to set the Modi off more. When he pushes off his back foot, near-man becomes near-wolf. Somewhere in there there's a headbutt, a crack of the Fianna's hard head off the Fenrir's. Somewhere in there, a lunge, a tackle, the bonejarring thud of half a ton of muscle and bone hitting the ground, making the brotherhood groan on its foundations.

When the proverbial dust settles, the Fenrir is pinning the Fianna, teeth bared, growl subaudible in his chest.

"In what tongue," he snarls, "does 'watch your mouth' mean 'keep on talking'?"

A beat. Two. The moon is nearly full. His rage is choking.

Then -- he steps back, and off the Philodox. His tongue swipes his muzzle, pink against grey, against black lips, against white teeth. A beat later he's manshaped. Not Glabro, but homid: a surprisingly lean creature, head shorn, knuckles scratched and bruised. He crouches on the floor, spine curved, wrists on knees, balanced as a gyroscope on its axis.

"Don't 'xpect every kin ta fight," he says then, returning to the previous topic without preamble. "Don't want 'em ta. They kin still be useful if they never pick up a gun. They kin clean shit up. Bind wounds. Worst case, they oughta have tha brains ta run tha fuck away 'stead'a standin' round gawkin' like retards."

A rough hand comes up, swipes under his nose. Drops again, relaxed now.

"As fer why'm 'snarkin'' atcher kin. 'm sick'n tired'a weak, stupid kin actin' like fools. 'm sick'a weak, stupid Garou coddlin' 'em."

[Hatchet] The look on Hatchet's face when his forearm connects with Silence's and actually manages to deflect it is a sudden blink, made feral and ugly by the upward rush into glabro. He looks stunned. That look lasts for half a second before he's slammed to the floor of the Brotherhood common room, right into the blood, and the ichor, and the spilled stout that has finally stopped foaming. The smell is horrendous. The seeping of it into his clothes and skin is repulsive.

He's not paying attention to any of that, though. He's got a Modi on him, and that seldom ends well. He looks up at Decker, into that snarling maw then into those gleaming eyes, and he says nothing.

Two beats -- a heartbeat -- later, Silence climbs off of him and Hatchet slowly sits up. They're alone again (naturally). He watches Silence shift down, and a second later, so does he. There would be a red mark on his forehead, if he had never left this form. He seems mostly untouched, though. Rattled, to be sure. But still less injured than Decker was after fighting the snake...wyrm...thingy.

He braces himself on his hands, leaning back on his arms, staying seated. Nevermind the mess. May as well be a grad student hanging out talking to a colleague, the way he looks. Breathing a little faster than strictly necessary, but that's not unexpected.

"Decker," he says, after awhile, exhaling, "you scared the shit out of 'em. Or really, the giant tainted snake thing that was able to paralyze you scared the shit out of 'em first. You don't know who those women were, what they've been through, whether they found out they were Kin yesterday or this morning or twenty years ago. Being untested does not make them cowards, and it was..."

This hesitation, here. It isn't fear. It's rolling his own words around before he speaks them. Is it true?

"It was presumptive of you to say so. Now," he says, eyebrows up, "like I said, I'm not arguing with what Kin can do, whether they fight or not. Not arguing with the uselessness of standing around screaming, or how unbelieveably tiresome it gets," and here his eyes almost close, his brow furrowed with quite sincere aggravation, "watching them run around flapping their hands shrieking like panicked lemurs when something happens.

"But y'know what? 'Yer kin're fuckin' cowards'," he says, imitating Decker's contractions without his accent, "was about as helpful and useful as their screaming, right then. The only fucking thing it accomplished was making you look like a judgemental asshole. It wasn't even as effective as 'Shut her up' or 'Go get the fucking bandages'. Those are at least directives. And in my experience, people don't panic and flail about as much if you tell them what to do."

He shakes his head, shakes his hair out, and looks back at the Fenrir. Stout and blood drop from a lock of hair onto his cheek. He blows the wet lock upwards, irritated.

[Helen Moore] After showering, washing and scrubbing down both skin and hair, she had stepped out of the shower and toweled off. The clothes were pulled on and may be too short for her legs but she wasn't going to complain. She took her time to wipe off the toiletries from extra water, as people do when packing them away in suitcases and the like, and her dirty clothes are taken with the damp, used towel.

At the door, she looked down the hall, listening, before she headed out and directly towards Adamidas' room. Heeled shoes hang from her hand, the belongings held in the arm, close to her chest. She looks into the room, checking to see if the Black Fury is there before she steps, just barely, into the threshold of the room. "Thanks for those."

[Adamidas] Alethea Adamidas still looks disgusting. She's washed her face since then, but she's still ichor-splattered, and looks like she might need a shower herself. She has cleaned up her ritual components, she has cleaned up as much as she can. She doesn't like to touch too much.

"It's no big," she tells Helen, "they're just clothes. besides, you couldn't very well walk out a mess."

[Helen Moore] "No, you're quite right," she agrees quietly, looking down to the things she's holding. Moving into the room she offers them back to her. "It looks as though you could use a shower though." Stating facts and keeping things simple.

Since her shower, she's got a hold of herself. She's still not feeling the best, not anywhere near her usual friendly, outward self, but that's to be expected when something like that happened. It's not as if she's commonly in these sorts of situations and may have never found herself in anything remotely similar before. They don't know and she doesn't tell. But she's pulling herself together, enough to look up at Adam and ask: "Do you know if Hatchet is okay?" She's afraid to go back to the common room and check herself. "Or do you need any help cleaning anything up? If that... Garou is gone." Not man, no, she'd never mistake Silence as a man and it was a sharp reminder of how all Garou can be.

[Helen Moore] (ooc: edit to - Buried Hatchet.)

[Silence] While Hatchet speaks -- and speaks, and speaks -- Silence lets his head hang down. Brings his hand up and scrubs his palm over his buzzcut hair; the curve of his skull. Crouched like that, he's a picture of consummate strength, living rage carved out of rock and flame. The gash on his side is still bleeding, a red bloom along his ribs. Somehow, that only accentuates that air of indestructibility: as though even mortal wounds couldn't stop him for long.

Which is the truth. Which is the truth for many, many Garou.

Toward the end, when Hatchet is finished or almost finished, Silence abruptly drops his hand, raises his head. "Do ya ever shut up?" is the first thing out of his mouth. "Fuck."

He's on his feet, then. The serpent slipped from his shoulders when he lunged, when he shifted. Its head rolled away. He picks the pieces up now, hoisting them over his shoulders, digging his fingers into the pits in its blind head, gripping it the way a man grips a bowling ball. Some air of pacing the cage in the way he moves, his balance low, strides long and purposeful, heavy and felt.

"You don't git ta fuckin' lecture me 'boutcher experience, Buried Hatchet. You come back ta me in another rank 'r two. You tell me then if yer still happy ta tell fuckers what ta do -- over. 'n over. 'n over. You tell me if y'ain't sick'n tired'a watchin' 'em stand around like cowards, idiots 'n sheep 'less ya open yer mouth."

A last loop of sliming, limp wyrmsnake thrown over his shoulder. Then he turns to Hatchet.

"I know how ta command," he says. It's flat. Hard. And absolutely confident. "'m sick 'n tired'a everyone else not knowin' how ta do anythin' but follow."

[Adamidas] "He should be," she said, "though I'm pretty sure they're both still here."

Which is to say she could still hear talking. If Buried Hatchet were dead, obviously, there would be no talking. She leans against the doorfacing; she's pretty calm and relaxed at that point. She's pretty comfortable. She crosses her legs at the ankle and folds her arms across her chest.

There's a lull in conversation, she picks up the tone, or enough of the tone to reply- "yeah, you might want to chill here for a minute unless you're packed here. Go downstairs and grab a beer, calm down, things are fine."

[Hatchet] Not the first time someone's complained about Hatchet's length of speech. Won't be the last. He looks drolly back at Silence til the Athro's done, and after a few moments he finally hauls himself to his feet, sticky and -- to be honest -- hungry. There's a strip of roast beef over by the television stand, in a puddle of grime. It's a disappointing thing to look at. So he doesn't.

"Silence, I'm two ranks your inferior and I'm already sick and tired of it. Me being sick of it doesn't change it. But it also doesn't alter my fucking point: calling people cowards doesn't change it either."

He walks over to the sectional, to start to turn it over. He does it with effort, but not much. A steady push, a thump of the couch's feet on the floor. Bear's a strong totem. Hatchet's a strong Garou.

"I'm still trying to figure out what you were trying to accomplish, if anything."

[Helen Moore] "Is it okay if I stay here until it's over?" Helen didn't want to just leave, despite her earlier action. She would stay and help them do what they must, as long as it didn't involve coming across Silence face to face. As much as the idea of cleaning the common room might make her stomach squirm, she'd stay and do it anyway. But what kept her there was her Tribesmen. He had put himself in harms way, like Adam had, and then stood up for them - not very sensible, but honourable, and she appreciated that. Moreso, she wouldn't forget and just leave him to the wolf.

So she would wait. There was plenty of cleaning to be done, too.

[Silence] The laugh Silence gives is not unlike the one he gave when Hatchet asked him, a week or two ago, if he had James's body: nasty, brutish, short.

"Was tellin' 'em ta piss 'em off 'r shame 'em."

He lifts the severed head of the serpent, eyes it for a moment. Thinks about shoving his hand inside the skull cavity. Making it talk like a sock puppet. Wonders if that's a fucking unhealthy thought to be having, and lets the head back down to his side.

"'cause then either they git stronger 'n quit annoyin' me. 'Else they decide I'm a big mean bully 'n stay that fuck outta my way ... 'n quit annoyin' me. Fuckin' win-win.

"You done now? 'r you gon' keep tryin'a counsel me?"

[Hatchet] He lifts an eyebrow at Decker from across the room. He just looks at him for a moment, even after that dry eyebrow lowers back down. Then, quite seriously, a nod: "I'm gonna keep tryin'," he says, as though this should be obvious.

[Adamidas] "You can crash in my part of the bed if you want, just FYI, though, I sleep in the middle... so... if you're not down with sleeping in the crack, I'm apologizing upfront."

She smiles a little at Helen. Grins, even.

"Want a beer?"

[Silence] Not the expected answer. Most Garou would have backed the fuck off already. Long ago. Most Garou wouldn't even meet his eyes.

The Modi is silent for a while. Some of the jeer goes out of him, replaced by a certain inscrutability; faint-frowning regard that goes on for some time. Then: "Why?"

[Helen Moore] "That's okay, I won't stay that long." She hoped, but may very well end up sleeping in the room with the Black Furies by the end of it. It depends how long the others talked and how long it would take to clean up the mess and calm everyone down. The owners can't be too impressed. But then, that was war.

Having moved to sit down on the end of the bed, she looked over to Adamidas and nodded once, offering a faint smile at her grin - though her own is a little detached compared. "Yeah. Sure."

[Hatchet] Not the expected answer: because it wasn't flippant, and it's Buried Hatchet. Because it was brief and to the point, and it's Buried Hatchet. Because the Right Answer, given Silence's attitude, was Yeah, I'm fuckin' done. Or something. The correct response was to give up and realize all this is unwanted. And even if it wasn't right, wasn't correct... that's what most people would do.

"My reasons," he says, leaning over to start picking up shards of the plate his dinner had once been on, "are twofold: practical and personal. On the practical side," a glance is tossed Silence's direction, "the way you're headed coils in on itself."

A spiral.

He says it seriously, and with the gravity due a statement like that. He says it with utter conviction. Straightening his back, walking over to the upended coffee table, he sets down a double handful of shards. Gives his attention back to what he's doing, rather than Silence's face. "That's something to try and avoid, since there aren't a lot of Garou left alive in the world, much less Chicago, who could do a damn thing about it after the fact, too. I don't see anyone else reaching out to you to do a damn thing about it now, so."

No end to that sentence. So: I'm doing what I can, which is talking a lot. So: I'm doing what I can, which is counseling those who don't want it and didn't ask for it. So: I'm doing something, fuck if I know if it's the right thing. So: I'm trying.

He starts to pick up what's left of his dinner. This is messier work. Slimy meat and potatoes, now. Very sad.

"More personally..." that trails off, too. He shakes his head. "Fuck it, I'm not interested in inviting your sneering." Hatchet glances up again, looks over, his eyes the color of steel tonight. Glinting like it, a little. "Suffice it to say: I see how alone you are. And I give a shit."

Back to work: cleaning up the mess the Wyrm and the War made.

[Silence] There's a moment when Silence's face goes still and hard as marble. When the air around him coalesces with an anger wholly unlike the irritation and annoyance that had fueled his callousness, his comments, his rather rough assertion of dominance.

This is something else altogether. This is true fury, not hot like rage but cold, ice cold. It's in his eyes, which are the color of raw steel, of concrete, of stormheads. It's in the way his teeth go on edge, and his nostrils flare. It's in the way his voice drops to a silky murmur.

"I ain't as weak as you think," says the Modi. "'n I do not need yer fuckin' charity."

He's done here. He starts out of the room -- up the stairs toward the rooftop.

[Hatchet] [Slow down, crazy. Slow down.]
Dice Rolled:[ 5 d10 ] 3, 3, 6, 7, 10 (Success x 3 at target 6)

[Hatchet] The look Hatchet gives Silence as those eyes that very nearly match the color of his own -- tonight, especially -- is unreadable, yet not blank. He looks at him. Yes: he looks him in the eye, which is either foolhardiness or a trust of both their abilities to not only control primal response but to recognize it's not a fucking challenge to his dominance for Hatchet to do so.

Probably just makes Silence angrier, to see the barest flicker of understanding in Hatchet's expression just before he looks away. Maybe.

"I didn't call you weak, Silence," he says. Serious, that. But he did, in a way: alone. And that much is true, painfully so. They're Garou. Alone is weak, almost without exception. Tainted, or courting taint, is usually judged as a sign of weakness. Pointing out: you're on an ill path may be true. It may be a guess. Doesn't make it less harsh, less sour on the tongue.

The Modi tells him he doesn't need charity, then heads out. Hatchet thinks, then calls after him: "You sure as hell need something, though!"

[Silence] Not surprisingly, Silence neither answers nor turns back. Blood and ichor drip their way up the stairs -- more of the latter than the former. What weakness, what flaws the Modi may have were never in his body.

Eventually, the rooftop door slams open and shut. And a little after that, the rage in the area drops a notch. It's easier to breathe when Silence and his rage are gone.

[Silence] [thanks for the RP, guys!]