sam.

[Samuel Cutler] Samuel tugs the zipper to his thick camouflage jacket down a couple of inches after leaning the large metal shovel he'd just put to use digging out the padre's car against the side of the church. Steam rises from his flushed chest from the work, over two feet of snow compounded by the blasted plows enough to give even one of Mighty Fenris' a run for his money. It rises to mix with the steam of his breath and smoke, lighting a cigarette as a gift to his labored body and waving to the padre's car as it pulls off.

Turning away from the street and traveling across the sidewalk to the stoop he takes a seat and rests his leather-gloved hands on his knees as he takes another drag from the cigarette that now hangs from his lips, and leaning back reveals the small beer-gut that even his thick jacket can't hide.

[Will Reiter] There's something about a catholic cathedral. Even if you didn't believe in a god, or at least not in the same god, there's something to be said about the air inside one. Something about the way those tall heavy doors shut behind you, and all the world seems sealed away. Something about the cool, dark silence within. The vaulted ceilings, the orderly pews. The stained glass casting shattered rainbows on the ground, and the candles burning, prayers at the feet of saints.

Will Reiter takes care to hold the door behind him, shutting it with infinite care until it's closed with nary a sound. The young Forseti seems younger yet in his solemn black coat, his grey scarf. He tugs the latter looser as he looks up and all around, drinking in the hush. There are a few worshippers in the pews, sitting quietly or kneeling in prayer. There's a girl, fair-haired and lovely, lighting a candle before Saint Anne's small representation in one of the alcoves to the side.

Up the aisle Will comes, the great cross looming ever larger with each step. At the forefront of the church, off to the opposite side of the pulpit, a statue of the Virgin Mary presides in her infinite mercy and sorrow. Will stands before her for a long time, looking up at the marble face. It's a coin-toss who was the lovelier of the two, the virgin Queen of Heaven or this thin, seraph-faced youth that didn't look a day over seventeen, and certainly didn't look a terrifying judge of Fenris. Eventually, he lights a candle at her feet and, with something of a surreptitious look around, crosses himself quickly.

Old habits die hard.

Afterwards, Will goes to sit in the last row of pews, to the right. Unlike most in that church, he looks around frequently, his pale eyes sharp and alert, looking for some sign of the caern he's been told lies within the church.

[Samuel Cutler] Some old habits die hard. Some die quite easily. Some are smart enough to never even start them at all.

When Samuel’s finished with that cigarette he stands and flicks it into the street, shattered shards of cherry quickly extinguished by the layer of ice covering the roads. He spits and begins tugging off his gloves with his teeth as he turns around and heads toward the door, letting it shut with little attention payed to the noise it makes as he enters the church, tapping the sides of the construction boots he wears until all signs of snow are gone except for the stain of wetness. Once again, he makes no attempt to feed the solemnity that shrouds the innards of St. Michael’s in quiet.

True Fenrir had no love or respect for this White Christ, trappings of Gaian faith that tainting the church-facade or no.

Folding the gloves and stuffing them into one of his front pockets so that the fingers hang out, he lets his eyes drift over the current petitioners. Samuel’s demeanor would be hard for even the busily praying flock to miss with its hints of rage and trained intimidation. The deeper [warriors] aura [heroes] of breeding [champions] calls out directly to every instinct, primal or tame, of Will’s. This was a Cutler. This was a Kottler. This was a descendant of the Battle-Blessed, the Mountain-Binder, and Aegir-Quick-To-Rage, before the Garou even thought to honor the Weaver-kin’s surnames.

Turning away from the congregation, Samuel grabs the door that would lead deeper into the bowels of Philadelphia, about to descend and leave St. Michael’s behind for sacred ground closer to Gaia’s heart.

[Will Reiter] Almost immediately upon spying Samuel, the young Forseti rises to his feet. There is purity of breeding there; there is an electric current of rage sharply reined by a powerful will. He's aptly named, this Will Reiter. Others may pride themselves on their strength, their beauty, their mind. He is, first and foremost, defined by his control.

He comes down the side aisle of the church, purpose in his stride now. "Wait." He doesn't raise his voice, but the acoustics of the church amplify it. For such a thin, narrow-shouldered thing, Will had a surprisingly compelling voice. His eyes are pale and perceptive, calm and steady, and they flick over Sam, assessing as he approaches. "I'm looking for Sam Cutler. Told he comes here a lot. You wouldn't be him, would you?"

[Samuel Cutler] Before Will can get to Sam, and thus the door, the Godi turns and shuts it behind him. His hand still rests on the door's handle as his eyes take in every inch of the other. He stands in defense of the portal to the deeps, his other hand coming up to find an itch under the broad beard that covers the bottom half of his face and hangs down to his chest. Squinting as his eyes finally meet Will's, he looks suspicious.

"That'd be me. Who're you?" Despite sharing rank with Will, Sam is a few years older, and while that may not translate into a few years wiser he's learned trust is a commodity more valuable than gold, one he doesn't give out very often.

[Will Reiter] "I'm Will Reiter," says the handsome boy, this unmarked, clear-skinned, marble-featured youth with eyes as level as a glacier. He looks at Sam and he does not squint, does not look away. Indeed, he seems to be drinking in the Godi's demeanor, weighing his every breath and gesture in his mind. At last, carefully and precisely phrased: "I'm one of yours."

[Samuel Cutler] "Are you, now?" Another squint, as if he's looking for something on Will. Scars, maybe. "Well, you're not one of His, yet- I think I'd recognize you- so down there's not for you." He lifts his hand off of the door and makes a fist with it, gesturing toward the same door they'd come in through. "Mind talking outside? This isn't the place for twenty questions, but I'll take you somewhere that is."

[Will Reiter] "Yeah, cool," he says, and follows Samuel. As they leave the church, Will winds his scarf around his neck again, and shoves his thin hands into his pockets. It's already dark outside, overcast and bitterly cold. February now, almost March -- Will wonders when spring comes to this land, but that wasn't worth dwelling on. Whatever pace Samuel sets, Will matches it exactly, staying abreast of the other. Not before, not behind. Some would read something into this, or maybe it was just a matter of politeness. Will is (almost) always polite.

[Samuel Cutler] Samuel walks Will around the corner in complete silence until they happen upon the sanctity of the stone-wall-surrounded graveyard connected to the church. The wrought-iron gate gives when Sam throws his weight into it, throwing his head to ushed Will through and then following him into the land of tombstones and picturesque statues of Christian origin.

Samuel finds a patch of bark to lean against beneath one of the leaf-barren trees in the graveyard and patiently waits for Will to explain himself, eyes and ears attentive to the other Fenrir.

[Will Reiter] Will chooses a tombstone for himself. Not out of disrespect for the dead, nor some gothic flair for the melodramatic, but because it was a reasonable place to sit. Brushing snow off the stone, he braces the heels of his hands against it and hoists himself easily, fluidly up. His long legs dangle off of it, and his long hands from the ends of his bony wrists, the elbows on his knees. He looks for a moment like some sort of bird, some icy-eyed, sharp-featured raptor in black.

"I'm Will Reiter, Kaldrthvari, Forseti of the Get of Fenris," he begins, with neither haste nor pride. These are the facts, your honor, and he'll state them. "I was fostered at the sept of the Storm Hammer, passed my Rite of Passage 'bout four months ago. I came down here with my kin brother Alaric 'cause we heard about what happened to the old guard. I've been in the city about a week, thought I'd introduce myself at the moot tonight. Been talking to our tribesmen though. Heard we don't have a Jarl, so I figure it's about time we got together for a tribal moot and pick one. I came to tell you it'll be Thursday night." A pause. "And to see what sort of Fenrir you are."

[Samuel Cutler] Samuel soaks up everything, nodding at the end of every statement he thinks of as important. Forseti. Storm Hammer. Kin brother. Tribal moot. Thrusday night. No need for words when it came to these things, only the casual bob of his head as he crosses his arms in front of his ches and waits for something worth breaking his silence.

That last statement is enough, an eyebrow raised and lips parted to speak a moment after Will has spoken it.

"And how do you plan on doing that, Kaldrthvari?"

[Will Reiter] Will grins, suddenly. It lights up his whole face, transforms him. "Well, hell, I'm doing it right now, Sam. I'm looking and seeing, aren't I?"

[Samuel Cutler] "Are you, now?" Once again, those same words he'd given when Will had said he was one of his. He gives a snort, thought it's not the deriding kind, shaking his head as a faint smile, a shadow of the one of the Forseti's face, flashes across his own and disappears. "What kind of Fenrir do you see?"

[Will Reiter] "I'm still deciding, Butcher." It's not coyness. There's no dissemblance to Will; he doesn't seem capable of it. He may be polite, but there's a forthrightness to him, a straightness. The grin has lessened now, and become something touched by melancholy. "I'm not that good, you know. So lemme ask you this. Who do you think should be Jarl?"

[Samuel Cutler] "The strongest of our number." It's a mix of rote and instinct, the kind that could only flow from the mouth of a pious Fenrir raised in the womb of their tradition. Then, to clarify, "I'm not sure who that is. Once it was clear, but ever since the Battle and Blood-Eclipse-rhya's death I cannot say."

[Will Reiter] "Yeah," Will nods immediately to the answer. Rote and instinct. The strongest shall rule. And only after: "But what do you call strength?"

[Samuel Cutler] Another snort, this time punctuated with a laugh. "Luckily we've managed to instill some of our values upon the Nation as a whole, though we still hold them dearest. Strength is honor, glory, and wisdom. A Jarl cannot rule unless he's proven himself to possess all three of these- or at least he cannot expect me to follow him."

[Will Reiter] The grin's back, but modified. Quieter this time, a smile that goes much deeper than the skin. Will wears his emotions on his sleeve, though his aren't the quick-tempered flashes of your Get of Fenris posterboy. He's got a lopsided smile, Will -- an imperfection on his perfect features that makes him look younger still. For a moment the Forseti lowers his head to scratch at his scalp with one hand, his elbows still planted on his knees. Then, raising it again, "Follow? You don't wanna lead?"

[Samuel Cutler] "If it comes to that, and I'm found worthy, then I will. I'm not itching for it, though." His shoulders rise and fall as he says this, arms still crossed. "Another way to see what kind of Fenrir I am, Kaldrthvari?"

[Will Reiter] Will laughs, as sudden and clear as the first grin. "You could say that. But I'm not here to judge you, Sam. I'm just here to get to know you. Though I guess some people don't see a difference when it comes to a Forseti, huh?

"I'm going to be straight. None of us are worthy to lead. We're all Cliaths, y'know? But I gotta -- " it's the first time Sam's seen the collected young Forseti falter, even for a second, " -- I mean, it's my duty to try to see that the best of us keeps the rest of us in line. I'm not some king-maker, but I am ... true to Fenris."

[Samuel Cutler] Samuel stays stoic as Will laughs, though no more aggressive in his unerring demeanor than a statue might be. "There is no more worthy cause for one of us than to follow Fenris' path. I trust he will give us the leader we need, if we stay true to it."

[Will Reiter] "Yeah," Will replies. He doesn't have Sam's unbudging faith. He has something both shallower and deeper: a sense of duty, an awareness of inescapable fate. For a moment the light in him is gone. He looks past the Godi into the grave-studded darkness, and wonders where his grave will lie. Then it passes. He returns his attention to Samuel.

"One last thing. I heard you've been here a while, since before the Battle. Anything I can do to help the Caern?"

[Samuel Cutler] "I was born and raised here. I pray I'll have the honor to die here. As for how you can help, we can always use an extra judge to deal out true justice. The last Forseti seemed more caught up with being brutal than we being fair. You'll have to talk to the Elders for specifics, though."

[Will Reiter] Will seems to catch for a moment. He'd had his palms on the tombstone, ready to push off. He pauses now, and in the darkness his eyes of flickers of pale, chips of glinting ice. There is no malice in Will Kaldrthvari, but there is a certain solid weight in his eyes, some sense of a steady calm beyond his years. He completes the motion a second later, landing graceful and soft in the freshfallen snow. A storm had brought a foot of it during the night. Philadelphia is a white city today, and Will is all dark and pale amongst it.

"It's a greater honor to live." He smiles then, to take the edge off his words. "I'll go see the Elders before the Moot tonight, and present myself at the Cracking. It was good meeting you, Sam Cutler." He sticks his hand out to shake, and puts an extra ounce of pressure in for emphasis -- "I mean it."

[Samuel Cutler] Samuel returns the shake, resting his left hand on the back of Will's in a nod. "And a pleasure to meet you. I think we find the leader we're looking for, and I think you'll have a hand in doing that."

Samuel stays in the graveyard, leaning back against the tree again as Will heads toward the Caern to meditate on the conversation he's just had.