[Will Reiter] Will's at the bar, though the bacardi-and-coke in front of him has no bacardi. This was, after all, a legitimate establishment, and it wouldn't do for it to get shut down for serving alcohol to a minor. Still, no one comments on the lit cigarette balanced smoking on the edge of the tumbler, a blue-grey curl rising like a cobra from its tip. His lean hands are folded loosely before his face, his bony elbows on the edge of the bar. He props his chin on his thumbs, frowns, and thinks on matters he doesn't care to share.
[Aaren Whistler] Nocturnal activities called for another visit to the Brotherhood, armed with a new font of knowledge about the establishment and its residence. The blistering wind cut through the slim, petite frame of Aaren’s as she fought with the door, slipping inside to escape the cold. It rattled behind her with a violent thud, announcing her presence from the front hall, long before she emerges into the main room of the bar. The heels of her boots beat out a rhythm as she walks; hands sliding across her body to pluck the buttons on a leather coat, letting it hang open. A quick tug on her scarf to slide it from around her neck, and the knit cap swept off her head to cause a platinum blond hair to tumble down around slender shoulders. Her eyes fall upon the bar seeking out the familiar sight of William, and praying to Gaia he doesn’t toss her out on her ass after the last time.
[Will Reiter] ...but the bar is temporarily empty. It is, after all, 2am. Closing time for most bars. Not this one, of course -- this one's unique. Still, customers are few and fewer still, and the bartender, it seems, has gone AWOL.
"Don't fret," Will Reiter doesn't look up from his deep consideration of ...whatever, "he's just gone to the can."
[Aaren Whistler] A quirk of an eyebrow lifts up as she takes notice of the emptiness, pursing full lips together in a near-pout. She regards Will at the bar, head canting just a little. “You so sure about that?”
She heads over to the bar, folding up her scarf and cap to stuff it into her pocket. Aaren pauses by a stool, looking Will over, “Hey, you’re the kid from the other night.”
[Will Reiter] The young Forseti's clasped hands unclasp. One picks up his cigarette with that certain cool, thoughtless precision that marks his every moment. The other comes to rest on the bartop, long and slim-fingered and sleek-knuckled, the hand of a violinist. He turns to Aaren with a brief and ironic smile, "Yeah, I'm sure. I've been here all night."
The irises of his eyes are shaded by lashes as long as a girl's. They're pale, though, the color of ice, and stabbingly perceptive. His eyes flick over her, calm and steady; in that moment he seems to have seen all, and effortlessly placed her.
"Yeah," he fits his cigarette to his lips. He seems too young to do that, too fuckin' pretty to blacken his lungs. "And you're the girl from the other night. What about it?" and he taps ash off the end of the smoke.
[Aaren Whistler] “Nothing,” she shakes her head at him, “Nothing at all.” Aaren swings her gaze away, turning slightly to glance over the bar, pausing to look towards that back room. She can hear only the dead of silence coming from it. Her face contorts into a scowl, remembering that pissy man that she had to deal with.
Which brings her eyes swinging right back on Will, her hands lift up to cup over her mouth, blowing on them as they rub together to bring circulation back to her fingers. “Aren’t you just a tad young to be smoking, let alone in a pub.”
[Will Reiter] It's the smile again, but this time it lasts longer, curves wider. Will Reiter is beautiful. That's the long and the short of it. He's beautiful the way michelangelo's seraphim were beautiful: abstractedly and unambiguously, with a sculpted mouth and smooth high cheekbones, a delicate jaw, a pair of fierce and troubled eyes. He turns toward her, and looks her straight in the eye.
"Aren't you just a tad young to be questioning a Forseti of the nation," and even though the pub is momentarily empty save for them, instinct will still make her startle at the bluntness of that line, "let alone in a pub?"
But he's calm, amused, and this is not the prologue to anger. He sets his cigarette down, stubs it out. A last breath of smoke out, "If it bothers you, though, I can quit for a night."
[Benjmain Keyes] The Brotherhood, a structure built for the sole purpose of giving the Garou some breathing room in the festering stinkpot that was the Scab, strewn and slopped with the remnants and fecal inconsequentiality that was Humankind. He use to be part of that world, integrated and arranged, but that was before the first slaughter. Before the first word and measure of what it was to be Garou came to be.
That's when the Humans went from Clever to Cattle in .4 seconds. He became a Super Hero. Then a Crusader. Finally a Hushman as the world delivered those hard choices you knew you were supposed to make.
The Brotherhood door swung open, failing to slam against it's moorings while the little bell overhead dancing irately around on it's bobbing chain. He came inside, draped in his favoured hoody, the dark gray three sizes too large one that obscured features, limbs, torso and half the thighs. The cargo pants were scuffed with dust and dirt, the boots much the same, while the face inside that cowl was...shadowed...obscured.
What couldn't really be denied was the running sound of silent dogs, snapping and snarling at the air, a taste of Beast whispering around him like some faint miasma unwilling to die or be shirked away by a casual shrug. Instead it clung and writhed and boiled, thrust outwards before him like some herald to his mood.
William the Bartender already has a Gin and Tonic on the Bar top for him, hasty expertise putting the glass down on the edge ten steps before Ben's through the door, the 'tender back peddling into the alcohol and peering on his favourite cup with a decided frown.
The glass is plucked up without stopping, heel crack steps proceeding towards The Den without much dallying.
[Benjmain Keyes] ((Scrap that last part about William the Tender. Ben'll by pass the bar completely and head for the Den.))
[Cassian Nikolaus] There's the distant sound of plumbing stepping up to some challenge, the vague knocking of old iron pipes within thick walls, which subsides just before the lavatory door is thrust open by a meaty palm. A figure, head lowered as he intently tries to cajole the zipper of his jean to seam up and close, emerges with slow heavy steps. He's large, built like a refridgerator, a block of a man with toffee colored hair pulled back into a short, inefficient pony tail. Strands of errant locks escape it, and as he finally stands still, giving up on walking and zipping at once, he blows a thick strand out of his eyes with and then through main force gets the zipper zipped.
Straightening, pushing back his shoulders, his large hands falling free of his crotch to hang by his side, he gazes about the dim interior of the Brotherhood and locates his bar stool/chair, reserved if only by the presence of the large, battered leather coat that is draped over its back. Having locked onto his target, he begins to walk towards it, his gait perhaps just a little unsteady.
[Aaren Whistler] It wasn’t often Aaren held the presence of such beautiful company. Will and his seraphim beauty were quite easy on her eyes, which were a soft shade of light brown. Her hands drops from her mouth, running down the length of her coat to the lapels, starting to slide it back off her shoulders, confusion begins to play across her pretty face as he says words like ‘Forseti’.
“I’m sorry, what did you just say—“ a pause, the sound of the door slamming open snares up her attention, reluctantly peeling her eyes away from Will to settle on Ben. Her mouth twitches, biting down the plump line of a bottom lip, tucking it inward. Heavy lashes lower to curtain her eyes, kissing along pale cheeks. She hisses, breathing out a quick breath that catches in her throat.
Aaren’s movements stop, frozen as every fiber of muscle locks with tension, the primal ferocity of Ben’s rage rolling off and washing over her senses like a tidal wave; Aaren’s reaction is the opposite of what most people would have. She doesn’t balk or bat an eyelash, just blatantly stares and starts to shiver, all over. The pulse of her heart skipping a beat...
“I’m sorry, you were saying something?” she finally manages to say to Will, cutting her eyes across the room to glare at Ben’s back until he disappears.
[Will Reiter] But he won't repeat it, now that Cassian, who is unknown to him, has made his way from the toilet. Will's pale eyes skim over Aaren's shoulder at the opening door, then return to her when he sees it's not the barkeep after all.
"Looks like William will be a while. I'm a William too. Will Reiter," he puts his hand out to shake, and when she has, nods her toward the back room. "You look like you got some issues with Ben back there. Why don't you go on back and work 'em out." What a thing to ask of a stranger, and yet Will, in that moment, speaks with a gravity of command far beyond his years. He doesn't seem about to take no for an answer.
"I'll be along in a second myself," he adds, "to make our introductions formal and all."
[Benjmain Keyes] No pauses. Bodies would be woven around, hands slapped out of the way, words ignored or shaken off. The direction, the goal, was the Back Room for the moment.
The Double doors leading into the backroom are shoved open, the left with a splayed hand, the right with the point of a slender throwing blade, jutting from the Wood at a slight 45 degree angle. His own personal 'Beware of Dog' sign, that swings into place as the double doors swing through several back and forth revolutions towards closing.
The Jukebox. First on his lips of things to do. Always first, fingers already ricochetting through a half-dozen numbers before they've even hit the keypad. First, Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth, Sixth...Ninteen, Twenty, the sheer alacrity and precision might be impressive were it not so mundane a task. The Jukebox is scheduled for more then three and a half hours of music after only a minute or so.
...Starting out with a rather viciously opened Operatic ballad, that kicks the walls sharply with a violin crescendo that dims after that brief hectic note.
...Sigh. Peace. Calm. Breathe. (Breathe. Music. Breathe)
[Cassian Nikolaus] The stool is pulled back ungently, the legs skidding and bopping across the floor as friction does its best to arrest their passage, and then it's half swung around to catch his frame as he sits down heavily. He fills the little wooden chair quite completely, hulking his form forwards over the bar to form a well with his hands around the quite obviously empty glass. Shifting his weight, reaching down at one point to quickly readjust himself, he shrugs his shoulders as if about to step into a fight, and then raises his face to say something to the bartender.
Who is missing. Cassian closes his wide mouth, and frowns. This was clearly not part of the plan. He scans the length of the empty bar, and then sits back, nonplussed. Scooping up his glass, he holds it to the light and examines the fraction of a centimeter's worth of amber liquid held in its bevelled depths; clearly not enough to hold his interest. Setting it down hard so that it spins away, careening around on its geometric edges, he sighs, grimaces, shrugs.
Finding nothing to hold his interest behind the bar, he turns to those before it, reaching up to scratch slowly at his heavy jaw as he watches the angry young man disappear through double doors.
[Aaren Whistler] Formality. Introduction… something gnawed at the back of her brain as she spoke with Will, who seemed determined enough not to accept her refusal. Her mouth opens to say something, but quickly shuts again, reminding herself of just where she was. Aaren extended her hand out to take his, the palm rough with callous, like one who dealt with crafts, than soft and supple.
Those features, the soft and supple variety could be found in the tight curves of her small frame, molded over by denim jeans that flared out at the hem, and rode low on her hips, or the tightness of the jersey that stretched across her chest. She draws her hand back, pulling her jacket back onto her shoulders. “Aaren Whistler.” She gives Cassian a brief glimpse, pulling away from the bar. “Sure, I’ll go chat it up with Ben. See if I can get him to toss another table.”
Without hesitation, she leaves the bar to follow the angry path cleaved through the quiet bar by Ben, pausing at the double doors to stare at the knife poking out. Her ears prick up at the sudden wail of music, wrinkling up her nose and muttering under her breath. She squares off her shoulders, reaches up for the knife to pull it out and slips through the doors.
Aaren side-steps into the back room, leaning her back up against the wall, body poised as shoulders braced against wood. Her head bows forward, casting long platinum locks across her shoulders to frame her face. The knife in her hands, playing with it, “You know, tiger, should be more careful where you leave your toys around. Someone might get hurt with the cutlery.”
[Will Reiter] "Good to meet you," he raises his voice as Aaren gets up and goes into the back. His eyes stay on her a moment, and then move on.
"He must be taking a shit. Here." Will, with a deft motion, slides his bacardi-less bacardi and coke down the bar to Cassian. It was meant well, but the bar is old and unsmooth, full of ruts and furrows. The tumbler catches on one, topples, and arrives in front of Cassian on its side. Coke splashes across the bartop and drips off the edge, liberally dousing the big man. Will has the good grace to flush.
[Benjmain Keyes] The Hoody is doffed, the small cabinet behind the folding tables popped open and the spare white T within pulled out and donned with haste and the kind of agonized tension one normally puts their clothes or hair or features through unnecessarily fierce stretching, that tests the elasticity of the material with a severity born of frustration.
It's when he releases that shirt, fingers on both hands dancing that imaginary flutter of composing, as if he were trying to speed up the flow of cellos and strings that guide themselves through the easy rise of a Thunderstorm Opera, eyes slipping shut to attempt to blend with the music, fuse his thoughts and Rage with it, perhaps to bleed it off...bleed it off into something worthwhile and-
Tiger
Ever hear a Turbine kick on a piece of Industrial Machinery? The growl is something similar, bulging in his throat and thrusting itself out between gritted teeth and a rapidly curling body. Yet instead of the explosion, there is simply the turn of the body, a sharp Snap of fingers, followed by a pointing index digit squared at 'ren's Heart.
"You want to taste the Dawn again, little girl and you'll play nice..." The voice is deeper. On the verge of some edge somewhere in his own head, eyes still closed and free hand still dancing among the weaving tunes of the Opera.
[Cassian Nikolaus] Cassian has the wits to turn his head when addressed by the kid, and even lean back as the glass comes sliding and hiccupping down the length of the bar at him. He does not, however, have the presence of mind or reflexes to do more than start when the glass capisizes and dumps coke all over his jeans.
For a long moment the only sound to be heard is that of the glass rolling slowly along its side, curling towards the edge of the bar. The large man extends an equally large hand and takes hold of the glass, lifting it with suprising gentleness to set it upright. Then, that accomplished, he looks back down at his lap, and at the edge of the bar where coke still falls like sporadic drops of acid rain onto his legs.
Almost mournfully, he looks up at Will, his broad, strong face made almost bovine by his dismay, and says, his voice a deep basso rumble, "Now look at what you done. I'm all wet."
[Will Reiter] For an instant, Will says nothing, does nothing. Then -- sudden as a summer storm -- he laughs, bright and young and carefree, the weight of his destiny dropping from him like a shed skin. It's shortlived. It's barely begun before he shuts himself up with a fine-boned wrist pressed to his mouth. The edges of his lips keep twitching for another second or two before the young Forseti composes himself, and, composed, manages a solemn apology.
"I'm sorry. I meant to pass you a drink, 's all. Here," Will leans over the bartop, agile and supple and quick and thin where Cassian is, it seems, just the opposite. He snatches up a rag and ferries it down the bar to the big man, handing it to him. Again, "I'm real sorry about your clothes."
[Aaren Whistler] “Mhmm.” Her voice thrums in the base of her throat, a thoughtful look, appearing as she just caught the end of Ben dressing. The way his hands swayed in the air, trying to compose to the music made her first think he was drunk, or just fucking insane.
…little girl
Her breath caught in her throat again, held so tightly, her chest constricts with pain. Every part of the Blond becomes wrapped in a coil of tension, starting to ride on rush of adrenaline that grows with each quick heartbeat. She can feel that thrum of Rage batting against her senses once more. Aaren doesn’t balk; her chin merely tilts up, eyes flashing with some hidden emotion veiled beneath heavy eyelashes.
One hand slips behind her, curling her arm along her lower back as it disappeared beneath the back of her jacket. Her fingers hooked into the waistband of her jeans. The other held fast to Ben’s knife, eyeing it as she taps the blade tip against her chin, “Empty threats,” she starts to say, “You don’t scare me. And I do play nice…”
[Cassian Nikolaus] "Aw, it ain't my jeans I'm sorry about, so much," says Cassian, standing carefully so as to knock over the tall chair on which he sits, reaching around to pull it out from under him and deposit it to the side. He takes the rag and wipes the edge of the bar, catching the pregnant drops before they fall, and then giving the bar itself a few half arc wipes till most of the coke is absorbed, the rest left in grooved curves like the ridges of an old vinyl record on the bar's varnish. "It's the drink."
Cassian looks down at his jeans, frowns and then looks at the now very sodden bar rag. His frown deepens for a moment, and he turns his consideration to the kid. "Anyways, it's alright. Apology accepted. You meant no harm." He looks Will in the eyes, as if performing a brief check with his plain, muddy eyes, and then looks away, nodding slowly to himself. "I think I'm going to go round this bar and grab a bottle."
His frown disolving into merely pursed lips, he leans forwards over the bar, looking down the length of the bar into the dark recesses into which the bartender may have disappeared, and turns to regard Will.
"You think the bartender would mind much?"
[Cassian Nikolaus] (so as to not knock over the tall chair...)
PMed to: Aaren Whistler, Benjmain Keyes, Will Reiter
[Benjmain Keyes] He sets the pace: Steady trot, kick-step-kick. the slow floor-wearing movements driving his feet into the mahogany, pushing chairs out of the way with minimal shrieks of wood legs on wood flooring, stepping 'round support struts and setting them against the walls and rafter beams that hold up the roof. Soon enough the space is clear that his hands find purchase on the table. His hair disheveled, scattered and constantly re-plastered to the top of his scalp by an errant fidgetty hand.
Humming with the Opera while she twitches, pauses and speaks, her movements and motions measured out of the corner of an eye, when it's not flickering closed mid-step to taste the diminishing instruments slowly winding down towards completion of the piece.
"...You don't need to be scared of me. You don't need to be threatened. You don't even need to be warned becuase I don't give three tugs of a Dead Dog's cock what you choose to do. Just so long as it doesn't have anything to do with pissing me off, I think it will be just fine..."
The Table is hefted with a flicker of strength, a scraping struggle pushing it across the floor towards the wall, leaving a rather...large open area direct centre of the room.
[Will Reiter] His lips pressed together to seal in the last bubbles of absurd hilarity, Will watches Cassian clean up the bartop. "Not if you remember to pay."
By then, he's wholly in hand again, too solemn for his years. He pulls up a barstool about three or four down from where he'd been before, and only one away from the one Cassian had recently emptied. The small spotlights over the bar carve his face into relief, dark in the hollows of his smooth cheeks, bright on the high bones of his face, glinting in his short dark hair. He keeps watching Cassian, perceptive, calm as still water.
"Y'know," he says a while later, "not many people come down to this place. I been watching. They prefer the ones next door, and all. In fact usually people only come down if they've heard about it from someone else, or was looking for someone. Like their buddies, or somethin'." A slender-wristed hand draws across the tip of his nose, "You just passin' through on chance, or what?"
[Aaren Whistler] Time was ticking by slowly in the back of her mind, seconds feeling like minutes as the sparse conversation continues more like bantering. She doesn’t leave her spot on the wall, feeling relatively safe for the moment. The distance between her and Ben was enough, as he focused mainly on clearing out a spacious area on the floor, redecorating the back room with all the furniture against the wall.
Her eyes flick down to the knife, flipping it between her fingers; she seems to study the blade, looking at the craftsmanship, gauging its effectiveness in a fight. “Throwing daggers…” she murmurs, more to herself.
Then what Ben says caught Aaren’s attention, she inhales deeply, releasing it out in a sigh. “You know. The kid—Will sends me back here to make nice with you, but I really don’t know why.” She watches his quick, jerking movements, the rapid footwork eating up the mahogany floor. “So, Fred Astaire, how long are you going to monkey around?”
[Benjmain Keyes] "...'Cause he seems to think he's smart, you've got a nice Rack and people seem to be looking to make my fuckin' day a lot harder then it needs to be..."
The table is put up against the far wall with a last grunt of puffed out air, his exertions seeming only to bring out that aggression in more prominent ways, where once precision steps were clipped and dogmatic, now they seem a touch more fluid and unbalanced, swaying him from left to right without actually toppling him to his knees or sending him sprawling. A once, twice, three time check over of the area to ensure the space is clear and clean of every and all things that might constitute an obstacle.
...Giving him a nice little twelve by twelve foot space, cornered by four support struts. He peers up at her finally, the words registering after only a few moments of consideration. Those eyes, hollow black and wild regard her up and down...a slow sort of tease that forces his head to one side, his fingers to still...
"...Finished." Pause. "You want to stay back here, fine. Go get two shot glasses and a bottle of Tequila..."
[Cassian Nikolaus] "Hmm," rumbles the large man, straightening as he gives up on the bartender. Will takes his seat, but Cassian moves down the length of the bar, hand trailing over the barchair tops, ghosting over the seat back till he reaches the end and lifts the wooden slab up to allow himself entrance. Once within, he grows tentative, casting occasional glances towards where the bartender might emerge at any point, roaring and yelling like some Jabberwock.
"This bar?" He pauses before Will, placing both hands on the bartop, leaning forwards and suddenly looking like the barkeep himself. "I like this bar. It's quiet, you know?" His voice is slow, easy like molasses and strangely rich in timbre. Turning, he casts his gaze upon the assembled host of bottles, arrayed before him on shelves like some glittering phalanx of seraphim. Reaching out, he takes hold of half filled bottle of Jameson, and sets it between them.
Leaning forwards, bending at the waist, he narrows his eyes for a moment and sniffs at the air. He could easily be sniffing the contents of a pot, savoring the aroma, but for the lack of stew. Instead, he leans back and hefts the bottle. "Nice atmosphere, yeah, plus I hear Garou come round these parts to relax." He gives Michael a perhaps overly pleased grin at his own delivery, and then grips the cork with his teeth and pulls it free with a pop.
[Benjmain Keyes] ((Alright. Scene's saved for the time bein'. I need to hit the bed though, blagh.Ben ain't comin' outta tha' backroom anytime soon. In the meanwhile, take it easy, eh? Talk to you another time.))
PMed to: Aaren Whistler, Cassian Nikolaus, Will Reiter
[Will Reiter] Will seems nearly as pleased as Cassian. The smile that spreads assymmetrically over his face is incandescent, and for a while he just grins at the big guy. Then, still smiling, he pulls the now-emptied tumbler back in front of himself and flashes his eyebrows at it, hope springing eternal and all. "How 'bout a nip? I'm too young to buy here." And, looking around satisfied, "Yeah, to relax. I'm Will Reiter, the Kaldrthvari." There might've been a shadow on his brow, but it's short-lived. "It means Cold-Arrow," he explains with a shrug. "I'm a Forseti."
[Cassian Nikolaus] Cassian leans forwards on one elbow, his bulk seeming to rise up from the line of his upper arm to expand at the bowling ball shoulder and then expand like a billowing main sail where his muscled back his visible behind his head. He frowns once, narrowing his eyes as he glances up and around again, and then pours a generous double shot into the glass set before him. The whiskey is pungent, high in quality and fills the bottom third of the glass.
"Too young?" This said with almost quiet amusement, a sardonic expression appearing on the broad face. "Forseti's are never too young, mate."
Reaching below the bar, he draws out a second glass and pours a similar amount into it. Corking the bottle, he straightens, and sets it aside. He takes up the glass and holds it up to the light again, examining the golden liquid as if it contained a bug in its depths. The expression of simple delight on his face however shows that its only appreciation that he feels.
"I'm Cassian Nikolaus, called Slow Avalanche." He pauses, glancing down at the kid with a half smile, "Though I don't know why. Anyways, I'm a Godi. Drink up."
Enough with the small talk, it would seem.
[Will Reiter] Cassian doesn't need to suggest that Will drink up. He's already got the tumbler in hand. Actually, he'd never released it. Those long fingers, fine-jointed and dextrous, never once unpeeled. When it's filled, and generously, the young Forseti grins again.
"Thanks man." -- and then he pauses a second. "Godi, huh? Cool. To chance meetings and all," and he tosses down half of the doubleshot in a gulp, setting the glass carefully down before screwing up his face into the classic liquor-burn Ahhh! Wiping his mouth on the other wrist, "You been in town long? I've been looking for tribesmen this past week, but haven't heard your name tossed around."
[Cassian Nikolaus] The Godi raises the drink, holds it for a moment, gazing again into its depths, his gaze growing slightly unfocused for a moment as if in presage of the effects contained within the liquid, and then pours it slowly down his throat, finishing with a loud lip smacking that is followed by the clack of the glass being set on the bar top. He seems content to remain where he is, standing before the Forseti, but then seems to realize that he's usurping a place not his, and after a second guilty glance down the line quickly steps back down and around to settle his bulk back in his old chair.
He blinks several times, laying his slablike forarms on the bar before him and leaning onto them, letting his head hang down slightly between his shoulders, and considers Will's question as if there were many sides to the answer that could be debated. Finally, almost as if reluctant to commit himself, "New in town." A nod accompanies this, and he seems almost about to subside when he continues, "I was over in DC when I heard of the troubles. I came to help, but looks like I've arrived a little late."
[Will Reiter] Cassian takes his time. Will's already figured out he tends to do that. It's fine with him. He enjoys the second half of his whiskey like what it is -- something to be treasured. He's on his third tiny sip when Cassian replies.
"No, you're just in time for the fun stuff." Will is wry, the humor in his voice only barely reflected in the slight lowering of one eyelid. "Don't know how much you know so I'm just going to spit it all out for you. Shit went down and a lotta good Garou died, including the local Fenrir Jarl. Since then no one's claimed leadership of the tribe, and far as I can tell we're pretty scattered, everyone keepin' to themselves and stuff. There's a Modi I've met, Jackson Ball, and the angry fella who just thumped into the back there is a Rotagar. Other than that there's a Skald, Adrian, and another Godi I haven't met yet. So that's," quick headcount, "six of us.
"On Wednesday or Thursday, we're gonna get together and pick ourselves a Jarl, tooth and claw. I don't know where or when yet, but if you got someplace I can find you, I'll let you know."
[Cassian Nikolaus] "Hmm," rumbles Cassian, and its a sound almost more felt than heard, the shifting of boulders under enormous pressure, or the groaning of ancient ice. Reaching forwards with his massive hand, he takes the Jameson again and pours himself another generous measure. He sets the bottle down carefully, with the slightly exaggerated caution of one well into their cups, and then frowns at his glass.
"In time for the fun, eh?" He doesn't seem censorious of Will's light tone; instead he seems simply contemplative. Taking hold of the glass with the tips of his fingers, he swirls the contents, urging the whiskey higher and higher with each rotation, till the peaks reach just below the lip of the glass. When it seems sure to splash over, he lifts it quickly and drains it.
"Are there any Adrens or the like in these six?" It's said with an almost childish tone of hopefullness, undercut by the sad expression on his face that seems to indicate he knows the answer.
[Will Reiter] This time, Will doesn't ask for a shot. His glass still has a finger or so of whiskey in it, and he seems content with that. The swirling liquid in Cassian's glass is hypnotic; the young Forseti watches for a moment, transfixed by the motion and his own tiredness at this late hour, before his clear pale eyes snap back to Cassian on the question.
"Nope. Not a one. We're all Cliath." He props his cheek up against his fist. Most Fenrir have big knuckles, scratched and roughened. His are not. He's so damn pretty, to be blunt, that one wonders which way he runs when battle comes -- towards it, or away. "But even Cliaths need a leader, right? Why, you interested?"
[Cassian Nikolaus] Will's question takes Cassian completely by surprise. He rears up like a provoked bear, startled from slumber by an unwise spear poke, and turns his large face to look down at the svelte Forseti next to him.
"Me? Slow Avalanche? Jarl?" For a moment his eyes glitter, and then he slams the flat of his hand down on the bar, the impact sounding out like a shot, and he laughs, a belly laugh, almost a bark, savage and amused and then he's shaking his head, reaching up to wipe at his eyes with his scarred and large knuckles. "No, no no no."
The rigidity melts from his frame, and he stoops forwards once more onto elbows. He chuckles once more, the aftershocks of the original laugh, and shakes his head slowly, his voice dropping, "No, Cold Arrow, I ain't looking for the Jarl position." He turns his head to look the youth straight in the eyes, and there's a guileless amusement within their muddy depths. "How about you?"
[Will Reiter] Will hadn't shared his amusement, though he'd not exactly exempted himself either. He just sat there, a half-smile on his well-formed mouth, and he'd looked straight at Cassian, and he'd never looked away. Those sharp pale eyes, keen as a raptor's, had fixed on every detail.
"Why not?" he interjects, between the answer and the question.
Then, when Cassian asks him the question back, his eyes close for a moment, amusement and something else. Weariness? He shakes his head. "No, Cassian, I cannot be Jarl. I won't lie. The idea's appealing, isn't it? A Cliath, and Jarl of the Get of Fenris in the grand old sept of Philadelphia. That's something to brag about to your grandkids." Spoken soft, spoken with reverence. And then it hardens again, cold bitter truth: "But it won't be me."
He tosses down the last of his whiskey. The emptied glass rolls in his long fingers, easily and thoughtlessly handled. Will Reiter had a grace about him, a beauty about him, that was at odds with the fire and steel of his blood ancestry. With a soft and deliberate click he sets the tumbler upside-down on the bartop, atop some other patron's discarded napkin. With a smile he looks up again.
"Doesn't mean I won't try to put the best Garou in for the job, though."
[Cassian Nikolaus] Where Will is smooth grace and dangerous control, Cassian is careful restraint fused with unconscious strength. Should his mind but wander, it seems, he might be capable of any number of clumsy and amusing mistakes.
Will asks his question, almost shooting it back at him, his 'why' hanging in the air for a long moment like a musical chord struck in the hallowed silence before the concert begins, filling a pregnant pause until its answered by the Godi's rumble.
"I ain't no leader, Will." It's simply said, a fair assesment that's perhaps been both reached naturally and drummed into his head. "I don't mind. I'll support the right guy for the job, but I ain't bout to try and make myself a big chieftain when I can barely, well." He frowns and looks down at his sodden lap.
"Anyways, I'm young yet, though maybe not quite the babe you are. I've got time to grow and grow wise. Hundred Man used to say I'd do alright if I got my head cracked open just right. Just enough to let some light in, he'd say, but not enough to let my brains out." He chuckles at this, shaking his head with genuine amusement and affection, an old joke that still manages to make him smile, though Will can perhaps guess at how much mileage it's already received.
"Nah. I'll be bannerman, sure, but not Jarl." He shifts his weight in the stool, causing its joints to creak in protest, and then drags his gaze away from the scarred and varnished bartop to gaze at Will's cherubic visage. "And what 'bout yourself? You make it sound like you ain't got no choice. What's your story?"
[Cassian Nikolaus] ((You still there?))
PMed to: Will Reiter
[Will Reiter] (yeah, sorry, this post is taking me longer than expected *grin* i gotta sleep soon too)
PMed to: Cassian Nikolaus
[Cassian Nikolaus] ((Cool, no worries.))
PMed to: Will Reiter
[Will Reiter] "I'd make a shitty Jarl, Cassian," Will replies - simply, evenly, and with great finality. Then, to soften it, he half-smiles, "That's not the job Fenris gave me, and I'm one of the lucky few to know exactly what job Fenris gave me. That's a pretty good story to tell the grandkids too, huh?"
There's light in the east now, if you looked hard enough. Night was coming to an end, and while Will would never in his life look haggard, it's clear enough the kid was tired. It's there in his drawn cheeks, and the long unbroken stare he's fixed on his tumbler until he realizes he's staring. With an effort he tears his eyes away. Yawns into the crook of an elbow as he gets to his feet.
"I gotta go to bed," he says with a chuckle - but pauses, head down, lips compressed. A moment to consult with himself. Then he turns to Cassian, and low, with the urgency of a dam breaking, he adds: "But here's the thing. None of us are leaders. We're all Cliaths. Hell, I had my Rite of Passage four months ago. It's just better to have a guy who knows he ain't no leader trying his best to follow Fenris' pawprints, than a guy who thinks he's ready for the job acting like he knows best for Fenris and all his Get. Now I'm not sayin' you're that guy. I don't know your heart, and I haven't even met Sam yet. But I've met Jackson and Ben. They're good warriors, and I think Ben thinks he might be a good leader. He might even be right. But they aren't -- they aren't Jarls of the Get of Fenris."
There, on that last faltering line, Will shuts up. Might've said too much there, and all at once. Christ, what'd he do, drink too much? Vaguely abashed, the young Forseti twists his mouth into a grimace and laughs a little. "Didn't mean to unload."
[Cassian Nikolaus] Slow Avalanche listens to all this, his expression serious, all clumsy humor hardening away and leaving a Get of Fenris in its place. He listens, eyes heavy lidded, unfocused, but something about his posture indicates that he's fully aware of what's being said.
When Will rises to his feet, he half swivels to keep him before him, and leans back on one arm. The sudden torrent doesn't take him aback; perhaps he too has had enough to prevent such normal reactions. Instead, he slowly climbs to his feet, a process which seems more akin to erecting a scaffold of bones and pulling himself slowly up it, and stands - looms - before the young Forseti, looking down at him.
Reaching out, without thinking about the gesture, he laws a heavy hand on Will's shoulder. Purses his wide mouth and almost lowers his head to meet the young man's gaze. Holds it for a long moment, his brown eyes occluded under his heavy brows, hidden in shadows but direct now, intense. Finally, he nods, and sits back down, releasing his grip on Will's shoulder in the process.
"You're alright, Will. Wise for a four month Cliath." Said with his customary honesty, more appreciation than praise. "Let's see how this moot comes round. Let's meet these other Get and see what they're made of, eh? Methinks you and I might see eye to eye on whom we put our weight behind."
He shifts in his seat, and an easy smile appears on his face, "And I got plenty of weight to throw around. Get some sleep, lad. I ain't got a cell number, but I'll check back here later this week for any messages you might leave me."
He turns in his stool and picks up the bottle of Jameson. Seems like Slow Avalanche ain't finished just yet.
[Will Reiter] The appreciation only draws a wry shrug of Will's narrow shoulders, a similarly wry twist of his mouth, but the rest of it -- something there, or maybe the whole of it, brings the smile back to the young Forseti's face.
It's lopsided, imperfect on his perfect features, and maybe as recently as four months ago, there had doubtlessly once been a hint of mischief in it. The Forseti of the tribe grow up fast, though, and Cassian might be right. There's no such thing as a young half-moon. The mischief is gone. The genuine goodwill still remains.
"Yeah. Cool." He nods to this, vigorously even, thinking. "I'm in West Philly, with my brother Alaric. It's 1182 Grant Street, 209 upstairs. You can find me there, or leave messages." He's backtracking toward the door. "I'll see you, then."
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