ben's honor.

[Johnathon Putin] *he steps outside of the bar tugging the coat tightly around him as he hits the alarm on his mustang and slides over to it.. slipping inside. turning the cobra seline over.. he leans down to a glowing pad at its center tapping on a few touch screen buttons.. locating the directions.. he glances around and reverse out of his spot... heading for the church*

[Linnea Bartlett] "Sure, anytime." The girl flashes her usual friendly smile over her shoulder as she disappears, adjusting the armful of coat to reel back in the stray flapping end of her scarf before one of the unfortunate kitchen workers trips over it. She's thoughtful like that.

In the back room, while Ben busies himself with the jukebox, Linnea tucks her coat over a ladderbacked chair and stuffs her scarf into the sleeve, so it doesn't get lost, so she doesn't forget it when she goes to leave. She circles the chair, hands flat on the topmost slat, leaning forward, tipping the chair onto its back legs: not bothering to sit. "I was reading, and there was- oh! I talked to Severina yesterday. She smelled like - she smelled like a cheap floozehouse!" Linnea malaprops. Beneath her usual enthusiasm, the supple thread of something darker. "She - well - " the girl hesitates, her shoulders twisting into a shrug that dismisses her last sentence without dispelling it. "She's in - you know - " a glance toward the closed door, careful. "The pack I mean."

[Aaren Whistler] The day was long and the night had just barely begun, a meager fare brought Ren over to this side of town and left her glancing around the neighborhood through the windshield of the dark sedan parked out on the curb. Right hand reaches out, wrapping nimble digits around the small, black receiver of the taxi’s radio. It lifts off its frame, tension pulling on the little spiral cord that connects it to the dispatcher radio’s base, a thumb sliding over the side button to press it gently as it was raised up to her mouth. “1313 to Outpost 61, going offline, tell Papa Bear Goldilocks will be in at 23 hundred.” click Thumbs lifts off the receiver button, listening to the air play of static over the speakers as Aaren leaned over to adjust the dispatch radio’s volume.

”Roger, 1313. Czar’s in th’ can. See ya at base.”

A smile breaks out upon her face, chuckling a little, “Roger, Outpost 61.” The receiver replaced back on its hooks, as Aaren flips off the lights on her sign and starts the car up, pulling it away from the curb to head into a parking area that brought her closer to the Brotherhood Pub. She exits the vehicle, making certain the doors were locked and alarm set. Arms folded across her chest tightly as a gust of wind whips through the lithe frame of the small woman, forcing her to quickly retreat to the side walk at a brisk pace. She finds sanctuary from the wind under the awning of the entrance way to the Brotherhood, arms drops to grasp for the handle and pulls hard. Fighting wind and door to slip inside quickly, it shuts with a bit of a loud slam behind her after entry.

Boots stop on the welcome matt as Aaren lifts her head up to look around at a sea of strange faces, glowering and grim, at the presence of the pretty girl that just entered their establishment. William raised an eyebrow from behind the bar, staring skeptically at the new face. Hers was not a face that frequented here. Ever.

[Benjamin Keyes] He chuckles, one of those subdued behind the hand type things that could be mistaken for condescending in the right person. Ben was often the right person in these sort of situations.

"...Yea' I hoped she would be. We're good and solid now then. No line on any worthwhile Gibbous or Crescents unfortunately. Most have been snatched up or spoken for but I think we can cover most of the happenings on their end until we can locate someone else. Between you and Junior, enough Breeding to be able to stand up and look impressive doin' it, much less telling our deeds. As for spirit matters..."

A pause, Ben's glass hitting the table with a clunk and a slosh that fails to spill a drop, from the liquid within.

"...I'll see to that." He slips into a seat, kicking those black hard-toes up onto the long table, the puff of cheeks forcing out the last of the chill-brought-red to leave behind those even and anonymous features, Green's repetition "I Know"s drifting almost aimlessly around them.

"...And what about plans? We've got ourselves the numbers now and we can talk to a Theurge about the Totem. What then oh glorious leader?" Teasing? Maybe? He's not smiling though "Goals? Dreams? Directions? Possibilities? Anything you want to do? Anything you need to do? Anything you'd like to do but probably won't be able to?"

Questions, Questions, Questions.

[Linnea Bartlett] "I know it's your job, but I think you ask too many questions, Ben! All at once - I can think of that many things all at once. I - I - It's not that I can't it's just that - " Her knuckles got briefly white across the slat-backed chair. She looks down, sees them, and uncurls her hands, metacarpal by jointed metacarpal, releasing the chair to fall back to all fours with a distinct thud.

Linnea's pale gaze flashes back to the door again. There is a city beyond it, a city she barely knows, a city surrounding their Caern, a city overrun with enemies. "I don't know the city, Ben. I - I don't know it at all." She slices at glance at him, then looks back to the door; her shoulders carve forward through the air. The gesture would be little more than an adolescent shrug if not for the restrained tension of the gesture. "I'm not right for this - you know that, you have to. Not - not yet. But - I - " She doesn't look back at Ben, she stares at the city hidden by the Brotherhood's walls, whose presence she feels as a choking haze, as a tight, constricting rubberband when she unlocks those doors within herself.

Abruptly, the teenager stuffs her fists into her front pockets, white-knuckled. "I want to break the war across the backs of our enemies," she says, low and fierce. "and do it right. That - that's a long way off, Ben. That's - that's like forever from now."

[Aaren Whistler] A flush of color stains smooth cheekbones as eyelashes flutter to hide the confused expression creasing over her features. She stands stock-still at the door, tilting her chin up and puts on her game face. Soft brown eyes dart around to some of the faces that bother to look her way with an unwelcoming stare and look away again to huddle over their pints. She fidgets with her mittens, pulling them off to stuff into the deep pocket of her long coat. A tug and pull at the buttons allows for warm air to heat her cold bones.

She removes the black knit beanie from her head, combing her fingers through a long tousle of platinum blond hair to smooth it out. “Any calls for a cab?” a cheeky grin and the question left hanging as Aaren makes cautious steps to the bar and to the scowling visage of William. She sets herself up onto a stool, shifting and sliding a denim-clad rump around until she was comfortable. “A coffee, please, cream, sugar and a shot of Jack.” She says, beginning to peel off her long coat and lay it down on the empty stool beside to her. Knit cap tucked into the pocket to busy herself, as William fetched her order. She looks around the pub once more, over the shoulder and back, passing eyes over the back room briefly and on the bartender.

[Benjamin Keyes] "Well aren't we organized."

Too many questions. Too many answers she could possibly give and a whole lot of 'What Ifs'. The girl didn't have any life experience beyond the walls she's been handed and given. She knew battle, the kind he knew but for the most part that sort of experience was touch and go. Here or there. Then again...

"...You need some more experience in the city depths then. That's all. We can't show you everything of course 'cause we're two Moons short of a full stack, but I'm pretty sure 'rina and Junior can cover you on a few of the Litany and Do right/do wrong sort of measures. Pretty sure 'rina could teach you a thing or two about Womanly stuff, especially if she's doing the...well...floozehouse formula..."

The flickering fingertips rolled themselves along the table top, dancing an imaginary object in and among the spaces between those fluttering digits.

"I'll take care of a the less pleasant aspects you need to get used to and I'm pretty sure Junior can help you along with your Leadership Tutoring. Keep your head up 'n yer wits 'round..."

Casual, calm and delivery.

"...And if you really want to get down and dirty with your own Moon. We could always wander our way into a Fist fight somewhere, or Better yet. Find our way to the edges of The Gorge..."

Click goes the Tongue.

[Aaren Whistler] Life returns to the bar, if not a little more wary as its patrons mull over their daily lives and alcohol. Aaren watches them with mild amusement, shaking her head slowly. Hands lift to cup over her mouth and nose, breathing out to warm chilled fingers. Her chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm, covered by long sleeved Steelers shirt with a thermal underneath for added layers of clothing. Low-rise jeans hug the curve of round hips, flaring (and frayed) pant hems drape against worn out doc martin boots, the leather once burgundy now a faded reddish-brown.

She lets out a sigh, dropping her elbows on the surface top edge, draping forearms over each other as she waits for the coffee, eyeing the bartender every now and then. Then her eyes flick up to the television above, mounted to the wall and provides some form of entertainment to those that watch. A “Thanks,” comes out once the coffee mug touches down on the counter in front of her with a small bowl filled with cream and sugar.

”Coffee with a shot of jack, shouldn’t be drinking on the job, Miss.” William’s voice cuts out, still scrutinizing Aaren.

“Off duty and thanks again.” Reaching for the cream and sugar to assault the black liquid with it, dumping in as much as it was willing to hold without overflowing, she sticks her finger in it to stir it and then sucks the coffee off. “Got a menu?” Another glare from the bartender as one is produced, “Solid!” wiping hands on the back of her jeans before grabbing the menu and flips it open.

[Linnea Bartlett] "I - I want kill something - " she says, flatly, and hard on the heels of his mention of the gorge. "I could kill something every night and it wouldn't be enough. I - I don't want - I don't want to spend our strength foolishly. I just want to - " her nostrils flare with an expelled breath as she repeats herself, vehement, her skinny frame flexed with tension. "get it right. I'm waiting - I'm waiting for for Carmen and Lennox to get back with - with stuff on Grecco - and the factory - I know, Ben - we have to go soon - " she flashes him a bright smile, sudden and full in the midst of her bloodthirsty speech. " - I know it's like, I'm Alpha, but you all are too and - and - "

Somehow. she manages to uncurl her fists from pockets and grabs the chair again, upsetting her neatly folded cloak in a flurry of black. From the depths of her pocket, she pulls out a folded map of the city. "I - I bought this, and - and a book, look -" The map spills open over the scarred tabletop. Her breathing comes in short, rapid bursts and her fingers dance like firecrackers over the veins of red and black. "You know - one day at a time. Sometimes that's - I - sometimes that's really hard to do. But - " Her fingers trail over the unfolded paper - tracing the line of distance between the Caern and the Welsh towns strung out along the main line. " - oh, and my mom," she nonsequitors, dancing from topic to topic. " - she wants to have you all to dinner." The last bit draws her up short. Her brows pull upward, and she flashes the Rotagar an almost apologetic glance in the midst of her excitement.

[Benjamin Keyes] He's watching her throughout the entirety of the stuttering speech, flickering fingers continuing that pace against the table and around the length of an object yet to be defined. He listens politely as she explains her plans for 'waiting', the smile on his features wane if courteous for her Breeding and tastes. He sits quietly as she expresses her opinion about 'Their' Alphaship and the need to kill something each and every day.

The smile is waning now, the Rotagar's features falling back to that passive mask of plain and ordinary as she lays out the map (spare hand rising to flatten one corner and keep it flattened), his gaze regarding her running finger as it dances throughout sectors and sections of the city as if it were...just that large. Measured in inches instead of miles.

...And it outright pans to a flat line at the mention of her Mother. The jaw cracks askew once again, right before he slugs back his drink, tossing the glass out onto the table to let it spin dangerously on it's base before rolling to a halt. When all's said and done he's staring at her. Nothing glib, nothing sarcastic, nothing even humourous in that stare. He's just...staring (where to begin)...

"One: There's a good chance that it's never going to be enough 'Nea. Two: We're Garou. We don't Wait. Gaia gave us Rage to fight the Bad Guys, Live the Hard Life and to keep us from sitting and having Tea all the time. Three: You don't win battles waiting for others to bring you the info. Four: It's not our Alphaship. It's yours. Plain and simple. We'll teach. We'll help. We'll even hold your hand for a time until you're comfortable but you're Alpha. Period...."

Pause, standing on the balls of his hard-toes, stretching out his back as the chair goes scraping backwards, body language suggestive that he's heading for the door.

"And Five: You want a Real Pack. You want to be taken seriously. You want to be a Leader. I'm not asking, or questioning, I'm telling. That's you. That's your tribe. That's what you do. You better pick a starting point somewhere rather then sit on your ass for this long. You think about all that while I go get another drink."

A finger pointed at the map, eyes lancing into three to five different areas.

"...And pick some territory. Somewhere we can all be happy guarding. I'll be back."

And he's around on his heel, towards the Doorway, hands slipping into his cargo pockets, leaving the Alpha-to-be, to her thoughts, his words and decisions yet to be made.

[Giselle de Laine] Not long after Aaren entered the quaint traditional-flavored pub, the great oaken doors opened to allow another to slip in from the frosty bite of Philadelphia's wet winter chill. She was a slim figure, her gender ascertained by her diminutive height and bearing, bundled in a long coat that near touched the ground, lined with faux-fur. It, and the thick white scarf wound about her neck, along with the matching cloth hat pulled low to her brow, obscured her features save for the tell-tale whisps of darkened-tresses, threatening to spill forth.

The door closed behind her, shutting off the tendrils of ice that crept from the blast of outside air, and for a long moment she simply breathed, leaning against it, letting the shockingly warm air fill her lungs, and begin to seep into her extremities. A breath. Two. Finally, with shivering hands she began peeling off layers. The hat revealed the spill of hair the color of sable-in-shadow; a silken waterfall. Each, subsequent unwind of her scarf displayed more of her delicate features. Eyes were almond-shaped, and wide-set beneath regal arches. The irises were dark bistre pools. - forest in shadow - brown only to the boorish. Her pert nose was a straight line above lips made for a cupie-doll, reddened as rose petals, while her tanned peach complexion was a reddened sting from the numbing cold followed by the blast of sudden warmth.

The coat followed, slipping from her slim shoulders, leaving a beige turtleneck sweater that she's not warm enough to part with, over black dancer's pants that fit over her subtle curves as a second skin. These outer garments were left at the coat-rack, in complete confidence they wouldn't be stolen in this setting. When she finally walked to the bar, her arms were still hugging herself, rubbing warmth into icicle fingers, and her glossy shoes clipped audibly.

Those faces she knew were met with a ready smile, that blossomed upon those lush lips with a flash of white, unabashed in her pleasant expressions. A little wave was offered William even before she placed her slim hands upon the counter. She was a pretty little thing, with a fragile beauty that seemed so easily perishable in such environs. A breeder, no doubt, but even of their ilk she was a slim-ankled fawn, and compared to her scarred wolf cousins, she seemed a flower too delicate to weather the details.

Her walk deposited her near Aaren, sliding into stool that happened to be empty, engaging William in pleasant discourse that any who overheard would recognize as a decidedly french accent; lilting with soft consonants blending with awkward english. The drink placed before her is a red merlot, in a thin-stemmed glass suited to her. If/When Aaren looks in her direction she's offered the same pleasant smile as others.

[Linnea Bartlett] The young Silver Fang stands deer-in-headlights still throughout Ben's speech. First the blood rushes to her cheeks, filling them with feverish color. Then it begins to drain, leaving behind first a ghostwash of the color red, then, finally - stark underground blind-thing white, overlaid by a half-hundred ghostly freckles. Her fingers peel back from the miniaturized city, with its spokes and wheels, with its black veins and strange, hidden currents, with its order and all its definition. She doesn't look at Ben as he chastises her. She sets her jaw, mulishly, and shoves her fists back firmly into her pockets, returning to the map - brushing her narrow hip against the table's edge - only when the Rotagar leaves the room.

It's meaningless to her; her city consists of a half-dozen arteries - subways and buslines, trains running out to the suburbs - and a coiling nest of tunnels surrounding the only whole (and holy) place left in the festering blight of Philadelphia. She doesn't even want to look at the map, she hates it, suddenly - that fucking map, nice fucking map Linnea - with all the streets so neatly tucked together, with everything left off - and the more she looks, the more the neighborhoods melt together, the more the fat black parallel lines split and split and split into meaningless infinity and it's not fair and she hates it. "Fucking map." the girl mutters, defiantly, as the door swings shut behind Ben. "I hate it."

[Aaren Whistler] The Blond perched on the bar stool, browsing through the laminated menu, eyes drifting over its usual fare of pub food. The cup of coffee clasped in one hand, lifted up to hover close to the soft, pouty curve of her lips, taking the occasional sip. Her shoulders stiffened under the weight of eyes that fixate on her, whether from William behind the bar or the random patron that frequented the joint. It was enough to unsettle a person and make them feel just a tad unwelcome in the joint; the curve of her spine straightens, squaring off her shoulders as flips the menu closed and slides it across the bar.

Her face lifts up to glance at the bartender with a smile, “I believe I’m ready to order, darling, hope the food’s worth it.” a hand drops down to the menu, tapping it and taking another sip of the coffee, finishing it off. She sets it down on top of the menu, “Steak sandwich and more coffee please. Might want to add two shots this time, I barely tasted the first,” babbling her order to William before he collected up cup and menu and left. She looks around the bar again, shaking her head and begins to fidget with the mop of platinum blond hair, combing it back from her face to twist it up, tuck it around, and knot it off at the nape, getting it off her shoulders. Blond hair tumbles down around slender shoulders, falling in a half-twist down her back. Attention drawn up by the crisp, click of high heels and the flash of white.

A low whistle released in appreciation of Giselle, mouthing a “Wow!” and trying not to gawk.

[Benjamin Keyes] The steady tread of hard-toe boots, clump-clump-clumping against the mahogany, filters through the hallway. Past the Kitchen closing down as the night draws onwards towards the early morning and beyond. He's keeping his shoulders hunched forward, his eyes on the floorboards, bracing against the sudden Heat that plunges through the crack of the double doors leading into the Den, to bite at his heels sullen and irate. (16 years of Rage and Hormones makes for a chaos in waiting, Ben. Remember that next time...?)

He's passing through the edge of the hallway's cusp, flicking fingers out at the air, as if to be rid of some cigarette butt, the imaginary item discarded in favour of a fist (Necessary, Necessary, Everything is necessary) that cups and strikes off his hip with each left foot step.

When Aaren's whistle hits the air, it brings his eyes up to the pair at the Bar. From rough and rugged, fit and hot, to prim and proper, slim and sweet, it's hard to know which to look at first, unless of course you taste the Edge of something distant in the blood. That instinct deep down within, bubbling and flickering and ultimately...

...Dying. Ben's no Beast. No Beast to taste that subtle blend of Prey and Predator each Kin gives off like syrup. He stares as the approach slows, catching Will's eye with a glance and a nod, which lasts only as long as it takes him to hit the bar railing with a hip. He stares, brow perked on those plain features, first down at 'Ren and then across the way at the petite little French number with the high pointed nose and the dainty soft touch.

"Another Will." Murmured. Lost in...thought (And other things).

[Giselle de Laine] It had been a lull in conversation; a time when William was seeing to the many needy patrons at the other end of the bar, and she was left in quiet respite amid the pleasant din of the majority-kinfolk crowd. Delicate fingertips idly circled the rim of her glass; soft as angel-wings, so that she didn't make that annoying sound her for which her parents had rapped her knuckles so many times.

The whistle draws her attention, her eyes - lined in kohl, almost egyptian with their exotic feel - slipping beneath those thick, langorious lashes, to mark Aaren's position. Her expression was a combination of startlement and bemused askance; as if a joke had been rendered in her periphery to which she was not privy. Her smile was undaunted, simply unsure, as she spoke, "Pardon?" emphasis on the 'don', and her chuckle started unsteadily.

She's oblivious of Ben as he nears, her head turned away, face hidden by those resplendent tresses. To most occupants she's simply a beautiful young woman. Mayhaps worthy of the whistle Ren graced her, mayhaps not. But to he, and that Garou vantage, it was heightened, haloed by a glorious blood purity only he could detect. It spoke of kings, nay, concubines of such; bedecked in silks, perfumes and sweet perspiration, sight and scent affecting him on a primal level.

And she spoke to Ren, "Did I miss something," those full lips wanted to split into a grin, wanted to flash white.

[Aaren Whistler] Unlike the pristine and proper white lady to which Aaren found herself gawking at, there is no pedigree to mark the Blond as anything, but a mortal. No secret notations in the line of her tight, small physique, half-buried under a pair of old jeans and a Steelers’s shirt, nothing in brown eyes hidden under dark lashes, inherited from a Sicilian mother, and the blond hair, shining pale as platinum under the dim glow of oil lamp light, to hint at one drop of Nordic blood. It was there, just not obvious to the supernatural who could detect it. Unlike Giselle, Aaren was as common as mortals came with only her pretty face to make her stand out.

She begins to feel the scales tip on the social level as she pulls eyes away from the Frenchwoman, “Sorry, bad habit I picked up from a Jersey Cabbie. Whistle at anything with better legs than mine.” Turning away with a widening and roll of her eyes to focus on the counter, glimpsing Ben in her peripheral; hands begin to tap out on the bar. Just waiting for her coffee and food, head bobbing in time to the beat drummed out.

[Will Reiter] It seems the weather's turned against him. Some sort of tease: the promise of a thaw, and yet it never seems to get above 31. One fuckin' degree's all there is between ice and water, winter and spring, and it's the longest degree in the world. But then that's something he should be familiar with, Forseti that he is, standing on the razor's edge between the dark moon and the bright, the right and the wrong.

Outside, the sidewalks are treacherous. Ice so thin you can barely see it glittering on the pavement like mica in sand -- just waiting to get underfoot. Will picks his path with a certain instinctive care, each foot placed solidly before the next. His hands are tucked in the pockets of his coat, which is old leather, worn soft as butter, draping in smooth lines from his narrow shoulders. Most kids his age didn't wear their clothes so well. Which isn't to say he's well-dressed per se, because he isn't. It's not the cut or the fabric or the label. It's something innate in him. A confidence. A calmness.

Most kids his age don't have that. Then again, most kids his age don't have a lot of things he has. His strength. His speed. His ability to shift. His burden of a war that can't conceivably be won, but must be fought nonetheless.

The young Forseti has been watching street signs and numbers. He stops before the Brotherhood now, and with a last check at the sign, pulls the door open. The warmth inside is nearly suffocating for an instant, dry heat blasting from a dozen vents. Will waits to be seated, until of course he realizes it's a matter of seating himself. He picks a table near a window, midway between one wall and the next. The menu only gets a cursory glance; the drinklist not at all. For the most part, he seems to focus on the patrons, watching one after another. In the sudden warmth, the hollows beneath his cheekbones begin to flush. He shrugs out of his coat in two or three motions, lumps it into the corner, and folds his long-fingered hands atop the menu.

[Benjamin Keyes] Flesh prickled and danced under the clothes, forcing goosebumps through limbs and extremities for a moment, before he manages to tug his eyes away and to the bartop where rested his Gin and Tonic...for the last half a minute or so. Will's sort of looking at him with an expecting grunt and a perked brow and it's perhaps the first time he's given what few others have witnessed: an uncomposed Benjamin.

He jumps slightly, eyes snapping wide and then closed again in admonishment for being startled. A hand fumbles in his pockets for somethng that isn't there, the pat down performed a second and third time, before the closed eyes snap harder forming a wince in those features and a faint twitch to his upper lip that threatens a snarl.

"Tab it. I'll be back out later." Will's stare is flat. Uneven. Displeased, but accepting. The Tender slaps the counter with his Rag, muttering under his breath in an unintelligable measure, even as Ben plucks up the drink with a click of his tongue and a faint 'Fuckin' 'ell' cresting his lips. It's only after anther moment's consideration for his would-be Alpha, that Ben lifts his eyes towards Will, an almost apologetic wince creeping to his eyes.

"...a Hot Chocolate, Will. For the Sprat. " Will's gaze is momentarily annoyed, but inevitably relenting. A nod is tossed in his direction and then towards the backroom. It would be delivered soon as time allowed.

"Thanks. You know the drill. Newbloods to the back." Tossed over a shoulder (with a Last glance tossed for the asses sticking out over those stools, from Highblood to Military fit) before he's heading back to the Lions Den, glass in hand, slow in step.

[Aurora Jones] Philadelphia.

She's lived here all her life and she feels like she barely gets the chance to see the damn city. Oh, she sees a certain side of it. But it's the side that people switch the TV off from, the side that people ignore because they can, because they can't concieve of what they're being exposed to. She works the stories and she feeds the public what they don't mind reading filtered through somebody's words on the printed page.

She's currently freezing her ass off across the street from The Brotherhood, rocking back and forth and stamping her black Italian heels against the pavement, shivering and finishing off a cigarette. Addiction, god knew Aurora Jones had enough of those. Smoking was, sadly the healthiest of the bunch. She tucked her free hand deeper into the lining of her leather coat and turned her head, watching cars speed past her before she exhaled and with a deft flick of elegant if ink stained fingertips, tossed the dying cancer stick into the gutter.

It hissed and smoked.

She ground it to wet mush beneath her foot as she stepped from the curb, a tall blonde with sharp eyes the pitch of the bright blue day's sky.

[Giselle de Laine] If Ben had been a little slower, she might have noted him, following the blonde's glance to his position, but by the time her head had turned, she saw only his retreating form, luckily missing his cursory glance back for a final glimpse of her heart-shaped posterior to commit to memory. This action caused her to miss Ren's gesture after her words, and the young woman felt doubly, baffled.

Indeed, the joke in her periphery had been missed.

So those eyes returned to the rough-edged cab driver, beautiful in her own rough-hewn way. She hazarded the glance to turn overlong, as she lifted the wine glass, pressing the rim to the pillow of her lower lip. It tasted of earth, and care; if a bit hurried. This young country wasn't patient enough for older vintage. She allowed it to linger, loving the velvety nose, before sitting it on the coaster and its rings of condensation, anew.

"It is.." she began uncertain, her smooth brow knitting, "It is no bother," she offered, forcing that fleeting, shy smile, letting her lashes droop over those doe eyes, before moving her glance to front. She caught sight of the mirror, not lingering long over herself (do not mistake: she did look, as she was not without her vanity, and made no apology for it), but caught sight of the happenings behind her. Fingertips again idling over the glass rim.

[Linnea Bartlett] Linnea turns and stares honed daggers – honed goddamned grand fucking klaives - at the door, which has done nothing to offend her, and which has (in the near and distant past) withstood the attentions of other Garou, more powerful, more terrible, more confident, and more frightening than the teenager. She hip-checks the table in a desultory fashion, finds some satisfaction when it yields to her attention and is shoved barely askance – then hip-checks it again, more aggressively. The long planks shudder, the clawed, carved feet groan with friction against the wooden floor. The room is too small; the ceiling feels too close – too narrow. She shoots a sullen glance up, into the rafters. There’s another floor above that, and then beyond that – open that up – open that all the way up, unlid the roof, and beyond is the sky and all the stars, and Luna somewhere, lost in the orange-light-haze of the frosty winter night.

She unearths her hands from her pockets again, folds her arms across the narrow ledge of her hips, burying her knuckled fists beneath her elbows. Her pale eyes fall back to the stupid stupid map she was going to tape up on the pristine, untouched walls of her narrow room above her narrow, well-made bed in the subbasement of St. Michael’s Church. Some Guardians put up pictures of sunsets or half-naked women or native American gods or arctic wastes, Linnea leaves her walls as she found them: whitewashed cinderblocks, scrubbed down vigorously every other week. She could – she could –

- she grabs the map with a frown and folds it into ungentle thirds, searches the room – briefly, furiously, not even close to thoroughly – for a highlighter or pen. There are a half-dozen scattered along a deep niche in the wall beside the dart board, but she doesn’t see any of them. In lieu of a writing instrument, she simply rips her mile radius from the middle of the laid-out city, finding some finger satisfaction in the hiss of ripping paper.

[Will Reiter] Will's eyes are pale and even as a field of ice. From one to the next his attention pans: Aaren and Giselle, the bartender, the woman across the street. His gaze breaks, flickers up and around as Benjamin gets to his feet and goes into the back. Then it's back on the woman across the street, crossing the street now. Strangers meeting eyes. Maybe he should wave -- nah.

He's back on his feet, headed for the bar. Perhaps he's decided the service in this place needs improvement. Perhaps he wants to try his hand at getting a drink, underaged. He waits for the bartender to approach (another Will, though Will Reiter doesn't know that), leans over the bartop. The two converse in low voices. Then the 'tender jerks a thumb toward the back, and Will nods his thanks.

Passing his booth again, Will picks up his jacket, slings it over one narrow shoulder. He's tall, lean as a blade, pretty as a picture. Skin and sinew and bone and blood, with a dash of straight nose and straight brow and sculpted mouth: delicate. Not like a Fenrir, some would say -- though, best not to his hearing.

It's darker in the backroom. Mood lighting, only not. If there's uncertainty in him, coming unannounced into unknown territory, it's not there in his face: abstract, calm as a painting. He looks around. Benjamin, Linnea. A nod of greeting, "Bartender told me to come back here."

[Aaren Whistler] Fingers stop drumming, her body poised to lean low against the bar again, straightening the line of her back as Aaren came to rest her elbows there. Denim-clad ass sticking out just slightly over her seat as legs intertwined with the stool’s legs. She tilts her head to the side, playing the waiting game for food as the bartender suddenly got his schedule full for orders. Her eyes dart up to dance along the wall for a clock and mutters under her breath. She listens to the exchange between Ben and the bartender, a lack of monetary funds needed to pay for drinks. Her tongue clicks against the roof of her mouth, setting full lips to pucker out and twitching with a small grin. “Hey, bartender, I’ll cover his tab just put it on my bill.” giving William a wink, which only rewarded the surly bartender with an eyebrow lift. She gives Ben a fleeting glance, left eyebrow lifting at his comment about “Newbloods to the back..” Unfortunately, she never got up from her stool to follow.

She lets out a sigh, “Mhmm?” half-turning her head to regard Giselle with a look. “Come again, I didn’t catch what you sai—“ her words cut short, distracted by the other Will that bounds over to the bar, head turned quickly, flicking hair over one shoulder and back again. Her eyes follow his movements, taking them to the doorway that leads to the back room, Aaren straightens up instantly. She stares at that door for a long moment, and then shakes her head, returning her attention to Giselle.

[Benjamin Keyes] "What are you doin' 'Nea?" A brow is perked as the Rotagar comes wandering into the Den once more, his eyes regarding the young Silver Fang and her attempts to maul the Map into a section capable of being handled. One wide world versus a few paltry blocks is difficult and hazardous at best to decipher. Each has their pros and cons. Each has their faults and possibilities...

"...The Map is fine. Leave it alone." Admonishing without meaning to be, the Rotagar's words were trained for Get. Trained for Warriors. Warriors among warriors. Ruthless was his reflex and cruel was his unconscious. If he seemed somewhat exausted with Linnea's efforts it might only be because he was a touch uncertain of her motives. Her actions. Her capability...

"...I've ordered you some Hot Chocolate. It should be her-" He pauses, halfway to the table as a voice creeps up behind him (Tha' Fuck?) eyes snapping 'round to peer upon Will's entry and explanation, the plain faced No-moon offering a twitch of the lips (Damn it, bad timing...) before it's smoothed over (...Can't be helped) by a stoicism almost instantaneous in falling into place.

"...First thing you better come to understand then, mate. This room doesn't like strangers. Name, Duty and Business here and make me interested in all three..."

Emphasis seemed to be in each word, despite the lack of tone or pitch change. Linnea was...well...Linnea. She'd handle this as she pleased.

[Aurora Jones] Had he waved, the likelihood is he would have been reciepted with a blank stare, shades of blue meeting and clashing whist cars pass by and a woman struggling with her squalling child and a handful of groceries interrupts the almost transition from curious strangers meeting eyes to something else. As it was, Aurora was bad with the opposite sex -- something to do with the line of work, she estimated when her last boyfriend was collecting his personals and moving men shifted out boxes while she smoked, silent and contemplative on the window ledge.

So when she pushes open the door in a rush of cold evening air and the stale cloying scent of cigarettes, it's not even a passing thought to look back toward that window seat. She approaches the bar, stops, changes course and takes a seat somewhere across the way. Hunching her shoulders, the reporter opens a small notepad and begins writing, a small tape recorder set on the table in front of her.

She'll only order coffee, and she won't make a fuss.

[Linnea Bartlett] "I picked out terri - " tory. The word is broken in half as Will enters. The teenager thrusts her map fragment at Ben, then withdraws it abruptly, folding the whole of the city of Philadelphia crumpled against her stomach. She turns as Will enters, her pale eyes widening, then narrowing, shaded by a fringe of blonde lashes. There's something mulish, still, about the set of her jaw - and beneath it, the supple weight of the supernatural anger that fuels the expression. Her cheeks bulge prodigiously as she blows out a long stream of calming breath, and she stares but she says nothing more. For the moment, Ben speaks for the both of them.

[Will Reiter] Benjamin receives a few seconds of consideration, Linnea another few. There's the sense that the Forseti's seen all there is to see in that time. He unconsciously seems to draw a little taller -- evenly, taking his time, he makes his reply.

"I'm Will Reiter." He's soft-spoken, this Will Reiter; this startlingly handsome boy of 16, 17, perhaps 18. There's an undefinable melancholy to him; it's there in the pauses between his words, and behind the cool clarity of his eyes. "Kaldrthvari, the Cold-Arrow of Fenris. Cliath and Forseti."

His eyes pause on Benjamin. His smile is like his voice, solemn. "I'm here to make introductions, yuf."

[Benjamin Keyes] (Fuckin' 'ell...Just what I need...)

"Names Benjamin Keyes, called Slays~Before~the~Warcry. Rotagar, Cliath of the Get of Fenris. Come inside and sit down." He turns to regard Linnea, taking up his seat again and offering her everything he wanted to say in that half a minute via a single stare (Take it easy, Calm down and don't flip your lid) before the newblood came around to the table to sit down. Whether she got it or not was a big question, one he couldn't be sure of an answer on. Sixteen year olds were notorious for their odd behaviour.

He would wait until Linnea had introduced herself and paid the Forseti any words of wisdom, his eyes meanwhile, regarding Mr. Reiter, assessing and gauging each movement and twist of the body as if it could tell him something about the Fellow's motives. Ways. Paths. Decisions. Fate and Destiny.

...Sipping at that Gin and Tonic like it were liquid calm. Liquid cool.

[Giselle de Laine] She notes them all in her periphery. The way they constantly shift positions with frightening alacrity, from one side of the establishment, to the back-room. So abrupt, mercurial and filled with tension. More than most of her fellow kin she could spot them. The way their stares were a little too hot, and their leers a little more frightening, she'd learned to key upon it, spot the minutea.

So when Ren snaps her attention around to them, she understood. However, she didn't look, as she was doing her utmost best to tune them out. Instead, she watched the blonde's reactions, studied them more. The odds dictated that she was kinfolk, the same as her, but it was never wise to assume. Even though the kin were good at presencing the noninitiated from the ranks of the bar's patrons, every now and then one would slip in. It was best to be cautious.

Her glance slid to William, her elegant arches rising in query. The response she received was less than encouraging: a subtle shrug and headshake. William did not know Aaren as family.

Armed with this knowledge she returned Ren's final glance, as politely as she could, and poised her lips to speak, her mouth - so made for love - a full pout. Finally, they jealously parted, emitting that exotic accent with its dulcet sound, "I was only conveying? There was no need," shaking her head slightly, white teeth peeking behind those lips, "To apologize? In fact, I think I should thank you?" Her laugh was nervous, and covered by a quick sip of her glass, "I am Giselle," she introduced herself.

[Will Reiter] Will's grin comes and goes, flits by quick as a shadow. "Jackson told me I'd find you here. You and one other of Fenris. Know where he is?" and he sits at the table, all arms and legs, elbows and knees -- yet self-possessed, contained. Whether or not Linnea caught the look, Will certainly did. Will misses nothing. He doesn't comment, that's all.

[Linnea Bartlett] Perhaps that is all it takes to pierce the bubble of Linnea’s contentiousness: a simple introduction. She doesn’t want to pay attention, but she’s been far too well-trained in simple politeness to indulge herself, or ignore Will or Ben. And so she watches Will studiously and listens to his introduction with all due solemnity. The furious set of her jaw eases, and the corners of her mobile mouth prick upward in the first inklings of her generally friendly grin, curving the apples of her cheeks, sparking light in her pale eyes as Ben responds. Then it is her own turn.

“I'm Linnea George Katherine Benjamin Bartlett.” The parade of names is soothing; the names are all her, and all hers. Her skinny shoulders set, straight and sure, and her body expands through the torso, the spine, as she stands up that much taller – a trick of nobility, deportment, or something bred into the noble bone.

“Vanguard of the Dawn, Silver Fang Ahroun. Daughter of Atlas, son of Blade of Justice, son of Eventide, daughter of Deathwatch - ” the recitation of lineage could continue for hours, and perhaps would, with a different Silver Fang, in a different place and time. For her part, Linnea claims each of her ancestors clearly – enunciating each name with love and respect – while dismissing the whole formal business of naming and being so named with the quickened curl of her mouth.

She needed the reminder: her lineage, her charge, her duty. After the introduction, she shoots Ben a flashing, almost unreadable glance, the sort that rarely emanates from a Silver Fang: an apology.

[Will Reiter] "Glad to meet you both," and Will rounds out the introductions, simply. It does not sound like mere lip service.

[Aaren Whistler] The history of the Brotherhood of Thieves plays across Aaren’s thoughts as she tries to remember everything that she has heard about the old pub, a tour guide as much as she was a cab driver. Her eyes wandering back towards the door of the Den, curious to what went on with boy that just slipped in there to speak with Ben. She remembers how the pub had served as a meeting place for secret organizations in its Civil War glory days. Lips purse together, so lost that she stares blankly into nothing as if lost in a daydream. No attention paid to the coffee cup sat down in front of her by the bartender and a plate of food, along with (gasp!) her bill with added items. A clearing of William’s throat draws Ren to the present time, “Sorry.” murmured as she missed the exchange between Giselle and the bartender.

Aaren lifts herself off the bar, straightening up on the stool as it creaks and turns, facing the Frenchwoman. Soft brown eyes alight on the fine-boned structure of Giselle’s face, dipping down to follow the curve of full and kissable lips, eyes stare, lingering. She blinks a few times, “I’m sorry. You’ve completely lost me…” grasping for the name, “Giselle,” mulling this over in her brain as Aaren extends a hand, “Ren and it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She offers Giselle a smile, “I know this will sound ludicrous, but are you a model. I mean you’re stunningly beautiful and French. So very hawt.”

[Benjamin Keyes] Click goes the tongue as Linnea's glance is received, Ben's eyes falling away from the young Fang to regard the Young Fenrir seated with them. His eyes are narrowed in that scrutiny of consideration while the flicker of those fingers running gauntlet on the back-again imaginary object is almost furious. Swift and speedy.

" Vanguard~yuf is current Wyrmfoe of this Sept. She's got eyes for a number of those present in our Ranks that have made Packs for themselves. As far as our numbers go however, the Fenrir you're talking about is Sam. Godi Cliath. Highblood and fury throughout. You make your way to the Sept grounds and you'll most likely meet him come next moot. That's if the Grand Elder likes you enough to let you play in his Caern."

A cigarette pack was tossed onto the table top, open and spitting three cancer-sticks out to roll across the Mahogany, polished but worn. He takes another sip of his drink, eyes rarely leaving Will but to blink or take an almost over-protective glance at Linnea.

"...Beyond that, I can't help you much, Mate." Cool, frosty even. The Jukebox has long since gone silent as the tunes have played out, leaving the air ripe with a faint touch of dead air. It's only when Ben notices the paper in Linnea's hand that he holds out his free one.

"Let's see the Turf."

[Will Reiter] "Excuse me," polite, is what Will is: unfailingly so, "but we aren't finished." A glance to Linnea -- "If you don't mind, yuf, I need a word with your packmate? I've been looking for my tribemates for three days, and it's important."

[Will Reiter] Sophia:

Infuriating.
That is what he is. All the more so for his sheer apathy. Should she turn up dead in a gutter would he bat an eye?
...no.
Not the cool, calm, comfortable Prince Ivanov.

Her eyes narrow... one slow, distinctive rise of her chest, a slow curve of her lips where white teeth dare to show themselves briefly.

...why give him the pleasure?...

Deliberatly slow her hand slips from his wrist. Deliberatly feeling. Deliberatly keeping her eyes on him...
...then back to the keys and she begins to play. Brahms. Brahms, the eccentric, devoted bachelor whos depths of music rises like atumnal moods. Plays with the fire within her pouring forth in music... rather than other outlets set upon this man who simply feels nothing.
...or is just a master of giving that impression...

"No. I don't know."

Spoken above.. within.. around.. through the playing that occupies not just her hands but her whole being...
...she's not reasing the music from the sheet he brought.

PMed to: Linnea Bartlett
[Will Reiter] Sasha:

Cool.
Calm.
Comfortable.

CRASH! The tumbler hurled across the room to smash in the cold fireplace. Turning - beautiful in motion like a winter's wolf - a slash of his arm flings the sheet music to the ground, a flurry of black-marked white, music falling like snow to pool at his noble, purebred, savage feet. It all happens in half a blink of the eye. Rage hums in the air.

And finally.
Very deliberately. And very gently.

He lowers the casing over the keys.

"Excuse me." He laughs. It's low and tense. Frightening. "No, what?"

PMed to: Linnea Bartlett
[Linnea Bartlett] "It's nice to meet you, too." Linnea responds, impeccably polite, on the heels of Ben's response, her voice lost in the rejoinders. She flickers an apologetic glance at Ben, her mouth hardening at the corners of her smile. After a moment's drawn out tension, she unfurls the torn and twisted map from where it is cradled against her body and thrusts it out to Ben. "If you wish to speak to the Warder and the Grand Elder about entry to the Caern, we can introduce you. Security's tight, but as long as you - as long - as you're willing to take your duty shifts - "

Her mouth compresses again, as Will inserts himself and asks her to leave: a perfectly polite command. The hairs on the back of her neck bristle and the wings of her shoulderblades pull taut the cotton tee, such that the waffle-wave of her thermal undershift is clearly visible against the thin fabric. "I - " Her voice is quiet, the furious fit subsumed entirely, replaced by a moment's uncertainty. "I have duty soon, Ben. Do - "

[Aurora Jones] Meanwhile, out in the front section of the bar -- Aurora is still sitting quietly, scribbling notes and occasionally rewinding the small black tape recorder back a few paces.

More could be said, but there's little to describe at this point in time, blonde hair obscures her features and she's just not striking enough to garner attention, though those that knew her well enough (few and far between) would argue she had no problem being a bystander.

Not everybody had dreams of being a hero(ine).
Some just wanted a steady supply of cigarettes and paper.

[Giselle de Laine] Her laughter was bells chiming, fast and sudden. Slim, delicate digits lift to cover her mouth at the embarrassingly spontaneous reaction. Its stifled fairly soon, with the biting of the lush pillow of her lip, "I am sorry, but that seemed very funny. No. No, I am not," she was edging between flattered and amused. It bears mentioning that is not without her vanity.

The hand that covered her mouth slipped down, extending forward to clasp Ren's stronger hand with her slender grip, "I am pleased to meet you, as well," After the gesture she withdrew her fingers, letting her elbow rest on the countertop, propping her delicate chin in her palm. She turned her body to Ren with the motion; body language signifying comfort. Young, she was a sucker for praise, and she looked barely old enough to be paying for that glass of wine she so enjoyed. Maybe, she was even breaking the law.

"I am actually a college student. Abroad study, no?"

[Giselle de Laine] ooc: bears 'repeating'. No I would not let that slide.

[Benjamin Keyes] If anyone was ever in doubt about a Ragabash's ability to get angry, then Ben would be the first to show them how wrong they were: By delivering those words, a hard-toe and some lube up their ass until their tonsils danced on the edge of the boot rim.

The Rage flickers out and around him, the moment Linnea's eyes are cast in Wills direction even if only for a moment's hesitation. His hand is hovering in mid-air to accept the piece of paper, as eyes slowly turn to regard Will with an even and discreet sort of hardness rarely touched upon in the Rotagar's more 'Normal' lifestyle (No knives. No claws. Easy...). That smart mouth with the quick tongue is about to reply, when Linnea's stammer brings it right back 'round again to momentary silence.

Momentary: the time it takes for Ben to reconsider what he was going to say, peer at Linnea out of the corner of his eye and regard the young Silver Fang and the position they are currently in.

"...Of Course, 'Nea. The Warder will be expecting you, sorry. Wasn't meaning to keep you so long." Polite. Kind. Warm even in it's courtesy. What few people that knew Ben back home, would be clenching jaws and ready growls right about now. To 'Nea, he's all faint smiles and nods.

"Tell him I'll be 'round soon to start my shift, alright? We'll talk more about your plans later, maybe pick the others up and let 'em listen to their Alpha's decisions." It was as much an indication to Linnea on who was what in this situation as it was to Will.

Ben accepted the piece of paper she Held, setting it beside his drink and leaning back in the chair to watch the young Wyrmfoe, nary a glance given to Will throughout.

[Linnea Bartlett] The torn fragment of the map covers the Caern's eastern borders: Kensington to the Delaware. Linnea surrenders it easily, accompanied by one of her flashing smiles, then grabs her coat and scarf from the ladderbacked chair onto which she flung them earlier. "I'll tell the Warder." Her pale gaze flickers back to Will. "Nice - nice to meet you, Will." Then she's out the door, shaking out her coat as she wanders through the kitchens, out to the bar - and beyond it, the front door.

[Aaren Whistler] Giselle laughs, pretty and melodic, pleasant on the ears. The little bodily gestures were digested as Aaren studies the object of her attention, even going so far as to openly flirt with the girl. It was the French that did it. Her uncle, Marlo, would rave to Aaren how beautiful and sophisticated the French were. Here was Giselle, her delicate hand, skin soft against the rough callous palm of hers. She clears her throat, envious with admiration reflected in the soft pools of brown eyes. “So, it is no that you’re not a model, or no you’re not stunningly beautiful?”

A chuckle ebbs in the back of her throat, propping her arm up on the bar as she faced Giselle, reaching for her coffee cup with her left hand and brings it up to the full and pouty lips, sipping at it. She watches Giselle through a lowered veil of dark eyelashes. “School girl, my oh my. You’ll have to forgive me my uncle would just adore you. He loves anything French, including the woman. What do you study?”

[Will Reiter] To give the packmates their privacy (...despite intruding upon it.), Will drops his eyes from them. His lashes are long and dark, and they shade the cold clarity of his irises completely when they drop, almost to his cheeks.

When Linnea speaks to him -- "I'm sorry to interrupt, Vanguard-yuf."
Give him this much: he's honestly apologetic.

But then: then, after Linnea departs, he looks at Benjamin again, there's a hardness in his eyes that hadn't been there before. "I thought you would've snapped at me for that, at least. We're a strange bunch of Fenrir in this city, aren't we. Greet a brother of the tribe with smart words and distrust. Sit around on our own lands, Jarlless, disjointed, scattered. Ready to fight it out for dominance at the fuckin' moot, in front of the sept, like dogs squabblin' over a bone."

To hear the obscenity dropping from Will's michelangelian lips seems a sin. One wants to tell him to wash his mouth out with soap; that he's too young (too fuckin' pure) to say a word like that. Nevertheless, there it is, hanging in midair, filthy. For such a thin chest, such a narrow ribcage, Will's voice is surprisingly low, full of bass. And, right now, full of ice.

"That's not how it's going to happen. I've already spoken to Jackson and Adrian. Sam the Godi's next. And now, I'm telling you how it's going to happen: we're going to meet. Before the moot. We'll settle tribal matters privately, as it should be. We'll bleed the ground red, and if you don't like me, you can try to kick my ass there. When we're done, the strongest of us will lead, as it should be. And when we come to that moot, one pack or five, we'll come as one tribe. As it should be."

Will hadn't straightened. Not an iota. He remains in his chair, his thin chest slouched, one slim-boned hand picking idly at the tabletop, his eyes flat as stones.

[Giselle de Laine] The incongruence of the exchange was a little jarring, but just new enough of an experience to keep her intrigued. While Aaren keyed to body language, the young woman did likewise, as well as timber of voice, how long her eyes maintained contact. She attempted to dissect what was tease, and what was genunine. Flirting with, and being eyed by a woman wasn't an experience with which she was accostumed.

But, then she didn't seem put off, did she?

Her mouth quirked at the corners with her grin, "Political science," He smile became more subdued, hiding her teeth, pressing them closed to contain her giddy mirth, "And you? What do you do. No wait! You were allowed to guess, no?" It didn't work, a flash of white showed with her mischeviousness, "You? Ah.. you are a police woman. Under cover. And, you are here investigating a crime, like on the television programs?" How could she miss that amalgamation mash-up of CSI-Law&Order-theShield cop shows that seemed to pervade this culture?

[Benjamin Keyes] He's settled in to listen. Not overtly like most might to the Fenrir beside him. He's watching after Linnea's departure, right through the swinging doors, right up until they are firmly and entirely closed and will's gotten to the 'That's not how it's going to happen' part of his speech.

Then Ben is turning back around in his chair, slow and steady and firm, his eyes swivelling to regard his drink with a casual demeanour plastered on his features and a decidedly enriched arrangement of fine lines that speak of tension, stress and exhaustion of past, present and probable future, that leap out from the faint furrow of his brow and drag of his jaw down, seperating those lips just enough to seem ready to whisper...

...And it's only when the room again fills with silence, Ben's fingers setting the glass on the table, that he reacts...

The curved blade is wicked, a throat-cutting edge tipped enough to catch the juggular just shy of the last two inches leaving delicate flesh. The handle was a yin 'n yang symbol, stretched to four inches, black and silver metal polished and taken care of, gleaming against the dim low lighting of the back room.

...And it was sticking out of the Table top half a second before either of them could see it.

He left it there, firm and resolute, before reaching for his glass again. It hovers before his lips, eyes regarding the table top. The hardness is gone. The face is dreadfully ordinary once more.

"...Since you're new here, I'm going to cut you some slack and some advice. Namely, I don't threaten people. I want you to understand that, especially considerin' you're tribal family. I don't threaten people. Ever, 'cause that implies I might not do it if you behave."

Breathing into the clear contents of his glass, eyes on the warped reflection of his face.

"...So that in mind, here are Three things kid you need to know: One, you don't make rules in a Sept you aren't a part of. Two, you keep your mouth to yourself until I give you an opinion to speak on and Three, if I ever catch you gaslighting my Alpha, Wyrmfoe and Packmate like that again, Tribesmate or no? I'll put you under that knife when next I find you sleeping..."

Sip. Gulp. 'Ahhhh'. He wasn't intimidating enough to worry his Tribesmate. Not here, not now. Ben didn't have the face or demeanour for it. Bravado? Ego? Rotagar Certainty? The two didn't know each other well enough to figure that out. Not yet.

[Will Reiter] I'll put you unde that knife when next I find you sleep--

The knife goes flying. So does the table, for that matter. It smashes into the wall, splinters. Outside, in the front room, there's only a muffled crash to indicate something's going down.

Inside?

"You honorless fuck." Will's on his feet, the acrid scent of his rage spiking the air like ozone. He'd snapped to Crinos and back in the blink of an eye, his voice cold with tension. There's a single grey tuft of fur floating slowly down in midair. "You've forgotten the name of Fenris crawlin' in the city filth. Consider yourself challenged."

[Aaren Whistler] It was Aaren’s turn to laugh, a rich, languid tone filled with depth, rising in volume as she laughs a little harder, thoroughly amused by the line of questioning on her profession. She sets the coffee mug down, turning to eyeball the plate of food and picks at it, a French fry disappearing into her mouth every few seconds. She turns her attention back to Giselle, contemplating on what to say to the girl.

“It’s nothing exciting, no chasing cops or bad people. Though I deal with them on a regular basis,” she wiggles her eyebrows, “I’m just a lowly cab driver trying to make living. I wish I could be something cooler.” Her chest lifting up, pretending to puff up and square off her shoulders, causing another round of laughter to disperse.

“Political Science, very nice,” nodding her head a bit, “I attended a tech school and managed an two A.S. degrees in Information Technology.” Her face scrunches up, wrinkling her nose and turns in the stool to face the bar. She wipes grease-stained fingers on her pant legs, hands pushing up the sleeves of her Steelers’ shirt to the elbows. The sandwich becomes devoured between bits of conversation. “I’m still paying off the student loans for that bitch.”

[Giselle de Laine] The laugh was infectuous, Aaren began and Giselle fed right into it, their voices a blend of the former's rich tone, and the latter's bell chimes of mirth. Her bistre eyes sparkled and glinted as she listened to Aaren's self-disclosure,

She was already shaking her head in negation before the stronger woman was finished, "No, No! There is nothing wrong with a cab driver. It is cool, no?" The tone went slightly more serious as she divulged her own scholastic credentials, and the french woman's elegantly arched brows rose, "Well that is someth-"

she stopped cold, the crash from the backroom sending a spike of tension down her spine. It reverberated through the sea of slim crowd, all of the Kin reacting as one. Silenting their words, turning their heads. A room full of bated breath, all waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Giselle herself turned away from Ren, glancing at the room. Who knew what transpired, there? Unconsciously her hands were fists, balled up, ineffectual. The Kin, as one began covering their tension by picking up subdued conversations, in essence, covering for their cousins by acting as if nothing was amiss.

She couldn't quite feign it. The smile was a memory, long since replaced with a brow knitted with concern, shoulders bunched.

[Benjamin Keyes] The flying table, the drifting wisps of Rage that wander almost effortlessly through the air around them, the casual way the Fenrir Brothers touch base with the Beast below. It wasn't hard to imagine something like this happening. Daily. Hourly. Threatened at every single moment that the Fenrir were gathered in numbers bigger then 1.

...That's usually where the confusion comes in of course. Even among those of the Fenrir number (Especially) there is that nagging little idiocy that life is fairplay and that Honour is above all else, the necessity.

Ben is standing after a moment's reflection on the loss of his knife (Oh Gaia be damned, I'm gonna be polishing you for a week...) his movements barely in synch with his thoughts, even as those dull black eyes turn to regard Will, eye to eye, breath for breath, the snarl on his lips failing to echo on Ben's own.

"...You say that as if it's a Bad thing." Half his mouth is grinning, the other half is smirking a line of condescending attitude back at the Forseti.

"...I'm a No-moon, Kid. Honour's the least of my troubles. That's your bag. I can get along on Killing Shit and Intelligent discourse for years to come and the High Brows will smile and praise me right to Adren if I so wanted. My life, though harder 'cause of braindead bullseyes like yourself, is freedom. Freedom to play. Freedom to worship. Freedom to offer to Fenris what I think is a worthy sacrifice. A worthy trophy..."

The smile wanes to something ghostly. Haunted. Brief and hovering on vanishing entirely.

"...And if that includes your scalp when you aren't being vigilant enough, so be it. More glory to me for you and your fuck ups. So you can either walk out of here now and go play your tradition card elsewhere to someone who it is going to work on or you can pick up that table, sit back down and have a drink, like a True Fenrir should be doing. There ain't any wyrm in here. Just us boys..."

Click goes the tongue, double blink-wink and a flash of a grin, back-peddling from the forseti a few paces before he's turning for the Jukebox, intent on some more music. Some more feel-good-vibes of the Night.

[Aurora Jones] Blue eyes lift from a point in her sentence involving the bruising pattern of a homeless woman found beaten to death in a local park -- the tape recorder keeps rolling, however. A qualified voice rasping out in a crackle that '...the bruising is consistant with trauma to the head, likely from a blunt instrument such as a baseball bat' -- at the dull noise from the back room.

It's not enough to be of concern to most, but her spine prickles with anticipation, curiosity, dread. She spins the pen between her fingers in a telling motion of nervous energy.

Christ, but she craved a cigarette.

Her eyes travel around the bar, weighing the chances she could light up and not be asked to leave. Seconds tick by, the tape recorder button is hit and Mister Authority is cut off, mid stream. The leggy blonde rises from her table, snags up her bag and treks toward the ladies' room.

She needs to change her patch, not that it stops her anyway.

But she's a fan of habits.

[Will Reiter] For a moment, a second, a beat, Will's face is frozen, nearly unrecognizeable. The points of his cheekbones hard, the slant of his jaw working, the pulse in his temple pounding. Beneath the seraphic features lies a beast. It had been there for an instant, like a nightmare barely seen: all grey fur and black claws, white teeth and ice-pale eyes glaring in empty hatred. It's there inside him, more rage than any Forseti should have -- rage held in check, balanced by his steel will.

And his melancholy. It's back now, a second later. His brow furrows; he looks away. Something seems to go out of him. He raises a thin hand, rubs the back of his neck. His clothes are all dedicated. They had grown and shrunk with him, but now they sit on him just a little awry, as if a hurricane had blown through just for him.

"Y'know," he says, "what you say is true enough, but not right. You don't need no honor to advance, yeah. But you need honor to be Fenrir. It's what separates us from the Dancers. Lotta Rotagar forget that."

Pale as mist, Will's gaze comes back to Benjamin. He watches the other punch buttons on the jukebox. The hardness is gone from them now. What's left is young and troubled. "There's just us boys, Ben. But that don't mean the wyrm can't be here with us, if we let it in." And abruptly, he laughs, a short sound with little in the way of humor and much in the way of weariness. "But shit, you already know that."

He looks about, casts a glance over the room, wrecked. A twist comes to his mouth. After a second, Will straightens the table the best he can. One leg's snapped clean off, and there's a crack down the middle. He props it up on a chair. It's makeshift, but better than nothing.

"I'm gonna go look for the Godi. Maybe get myself introduced at the Sept too. But if the tribe gathers -- " it's the first time Ben'll see that confidence slip, in the way the sentence lilts up at the end in question, " -- you'll come?"

[Aaren Whistler] The crash came loud and clear as a hammer pulled back and released on gun. She knew that sound, and was probably the only person in that entire bar that did not flinch. Aaren, however, did hesitated her next sandwich bite, poised in hands, the meat and sauce dripping between soggy bread to wet her fingers and drip onto her plate.

Her eyes slid to the back door, she could feel the quick rise of the tiny hairs on her nape, gooseflesh spreading down her arms as a tingling runs along the spine, sending little warnings into the sensory part of her brain. Her heart skips a beat, breath exhaled in a quick, shuddering rush, feeling the pump of adrenaline in her veins. It rushed to her head, she knew this feeling, oh so well, and Aaren lets the sandwich drop.

It splashes in a mess on her plate, pushing the porcelain dish away from her as her hands drop to wipe across her thighs, clean. The tension had grown heavy in the main room of the pub, a little too thick for Aaren’s pleasure. She makes a face, setting her features into a slight scowl and thinks, “Excuse me a moment, Giselle. I’m going to the bathroom.”

Without thinking, Aaren swings off the stool, hands planted firmly on the bar to help leverage herself. Boots hit the floor with a slight thud and quickly pound out a rhythm as she heads in the direction of the back room. Her head bows down, spilling blond hair across her shoulders. The restrooms located at the opposite end of the bar near the front door, in the hallway.

[Benjamin Keyes] "If only to slap the lot of you around when you get all blah blah blah'ing over Fenris this and Fenris that. Remember what I said Kid. I'll be there."

He's not looking at Will. Not even glancing in his direction whilst the younger fellow is offering what words and mentions he can. Uncertainty mixed up with the Ego of youth. Given the strength and power of the Garou form, let alone the Pride and Ferocity of the Fenrir Name it was enough to turn any kid into a Super Hero.

(We're not super heroes though. We're Monsters. Plain and simple. Right Ben?)

"...Right." A soft whisper, probably not meant for Will's ears. His fingers jam the keys on the Jukebox, Will's presence gone from his mind it would seem. The last little vistiges