3/5?

[Alexander Vaughn] Even downstairs, everyone can hear the sounds of ... gunfire. And explosions. And shouting, and screaming. If it's a movie, it's gotta have the longest action scenes in history. But it's not a movie. It's Alexander playing Call of Duty: World at War. On the common room's television. He's camped out on a beanbag chair 5' from the plasma screen, two bottles of beer beside him, his Xbox hooked up to the TV.

[Wendy Berber] *Wendy's dressed a little differently today as she makes her way through the brotherhood. Still the same terrible old lady skirt, but instead of the huge sweltering sweater she's wearing an oversized man's t-shirt, in tan. Its just as unbecoming, falling off her narrow shoulders like a nighty, but at least its cooler. She's ascending the stairs in order to check the bulletin board. Maybe someone had furniture to part with. Her eyes widen as a particularly loud explosion rattles the floor beneath her, blinking in shock at the television.*

[Alexander Vaughn] "That," Alexander must have killer peripheral vision, "is the ugliest shirt I've ever seen." He ducks sideways as imaginary bullets fly at him onscreen. His eyes never leave the action. "Where'd you pick it up, a garage sale?"

[Wendy Berber] yes. *She states quietly, frowning slightly and inching past his video game set up, towards the bulletin booard.* It w-was fifty c-cents.

[Alexander Vaughn] "FUCK!" Alexander shouts at the screen.

[Wendy Berber] *The bulletin board rattles as Wendy jumps backwards into it with a high squeak, eyes wide.* Wh-what?!?

[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander throws the controller aside. It's wireless, hits the floorboards, skitter. "Dead!" His tone is of deepest disgust. He sinks back in his beanbag chair moodily, glaring at the screen as his POV drops to the ground. "And," snorting, "you sure got your money's worth." He spares the awkward kin a glance. "God, I can't believe I almost fucked you that night."

[Wendy Berber] *She gets pale, shaking her head.* N-no. No you di-didn't. *She curls one thin arm around her torso, the other hand coming up behind her to steady the notice board. She swallows a hard lump in her throat, blinking at him rapidly. Eyes magnified behind those ridiculous cat eye spectacles.*

[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander barks a sudden, sharp laugh. Then he vaults to his feet, all compact, quick strength, like a cat. Or a pit bull. Yeah, let's call it the latter. He goes to pick his controller up, and then closes in on her. "What, you saying you weren't interested? I remember you grabbing onto me on the back of my motorcycle."

[Wendy Berber] You t-told me to. *She looks down and away from him, tall kin preferring the floor to his handsome mocking features.* s-s-so I wouldn't fall off. *She's pressed her thin body back against the wall to put some distance between them, biting her lip.*

[Alexander Vaughn] "That," he points out, literally: using the Xbox 360 controller to point at Wendy, "wasn't an answer."

[Wendy Berber] n-No. Not int-interested. *She shakes her emphatically, still looking pointedly at the floor.* S-S-Sorry.

[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander doesn't say anything. He just watches her for a moment, studying her keenly. It's not that he's an utter blockhead. He can be quite astute sometimes. He just chooses not to be, most times.

This is one of the exceptions.

[Alexander Vaughn]

[Alexander Vaughn] (HAIL KAHSEENO. sheesh!)

[Wendy Berber] **She swallows hard, pressed againstthe wall and waiting for.. who knows? Violence? Doom of some sort, red as a beet.*

[Alexander Vaughn] Whatever he sees in her, it makes him cock his head to the side. A pause. Then, unexpectedly perhaps, he turns and goes back to his game. Flops down in his beanbag chair, restarts the level. For a while Wendy seems to have been forgotten as gunshots blare out of the speakers.

"You some kinda rape victim or something?" Just like that.

[Wendy Berber] N-no. I j-just don't l-like you like th-that. *She says curtly, wiping under her glasses and unfurling her arms from around herself. She manages a little glare though shaggy hair, before turning her back on him.. almost. She begins to read the bulletin board.*

[Alexander Vaughn] In response, Alexander just casts her a wry glance. Then his eyes go back to the screen. "Nah, that's not all. You're scared shitless of something." And then he laughs. "Then again, what aren't you scared shitless of, peach?"

[Wendy Berber] *She scowls a little over her shoulder, thin woman looking at all the notices and huffing. Her face falls as he laughs at her, Spidery kin straightening her spine as she mutters.* I'm m-mated. You c-cant j-just b-bully me Alex.. ..

[Alexander Vaughn] "Mated?" He almost drops his controller. And then he laughs. Not a small, surprised blurt, but gales of thigh-slapping laughter. "Are you shitting me? Who?"

[Wendy Berber] B-Boy. *She says, raising her chin, eyes bright behind those specs. His laughter was battering at her new found moxie like waves against a seacastle.* Wh-whats so f-funny?

[Alexander Vaughn] "Who the fuck is -- " then he remembers. "Oh, him. No wonder he looked so damn sore when you rode away with me." She wants to know what's so funny: it makes him burst into laughter again.

"Nothing, peach," when it finally subsides. "Just... I was just wondering who the fuck would want you."

[Wendy Berber] *Alex's words hit her like a kick to the stomach, and she steps back into the wall, tears spilling from under her glasses as she stares at him in pained shock.* (wp)

[Wendy Berber] *She sniffs, glaring at Alex teary eyed, a little like Carrie, only nothings in flames yet.* N-No wonder n-no one wants y-you. You're c-cruel.. and b-broken... *She makes to move past him, rubbing her nose with a sniff.*

[Alexander Vaughn] There's no response, and Alex's eyes are on the game. It's not until some twenty seconds later that, hearing the sniff, he looks over. "Aw -- " he starts, and then she starts, and whatever he might've said after the aw is lost. He snorts sharply. "Jesus, you talk like being mated to a Garou is some sort of good thing. Deluded little thing, aren't you."

[Wendy Berber] It is a good thing! W-why won't y-you just l-leave me alone?! *She sobs, a little louder than she'd intended, tears dripping off her too small nose. She rubs at her eyes, glasses pushed up. Which means she can't see.. and she catches a foot on one of the end tables and stumbles over with a crash.*

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Gabbie had been downstairs during this whole scene, it seems. Getting herself something to eat, a chicken breast with some sort of a mushroom wine sauce, to be precise. She ate at the resident table in the kitchen rather than out in the restaurant, allowed herself a glass of white wine to go with the meal, and was carrying that with her when she came upstairs.

You're cruel and broken, she hears a voice stammer through tears. Gabriella appeared at the top of the stairs, looking a little curious, and a little skeptical. She spied Alex on the couch and that poor bespectacled girl that had nearly broken the very skinny Bone Gnawer kinfolk in two the night she (sort of) met her. She remembered her vaguely from the bonfire, too. Of course. Alex had made her cry.

Wine glass in one hand, held like she knew how to drink it and had been doing so since the age of eight, Gabbie patted Wendy empathetically on the shoulder and passed her to sit on the couch. "That he is."

She didn't sit directly beside Alex, but she wasn't on the far opposite side of the couch from him either. She was dressed in her sleep clothes already, having absolutely no intention of going anywhere tonight. This consisted of a silky pale green camisole with darker green trim and a pair of shorts to match. She kicked her feet up onto the coffee table, stretching out her legs out and crossing them at the ankle.

To watch whatever the hell Alex was doing with the TV and to try and enjoy her wine.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] (( Urk. As we post at the same time. Damn. Fixing. ))

[Alexander Vaughn] He tries not to laugh. He really tries. But between the tears and the leave me ALONE! and the trip and fall, Alexander can't take it anymore.

He bursts into laughter. It sounds something like: "Pbbbth...HAAHAAHAHAHA."

Oh, and on TV: he gets blown to bits by a hand grenade. At least there's that.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Gabbie had been downstairs during this whole scene, it seems. Getting herself something to eat, a chicken breast with some sort of a mushroom wine sauce, to be precise. She ate at the resident table in the kitchen rather than out in the restaurant, allowed herself a glass of white wine to go with the meal, and was carrying that with her when she came upstairs.

You're cruel and broken, she hears a voice stammer through tears. Gabriella appeared at the top of the stairs, looking a little curious, and a little skeptical. She spied Alex on the couch and that poor bespectacled girl that had nearly broken the very skinny Bone Gnawer kinfolk in two the night she (sort of) met her. She remembered her vaguely from the bonfire, too. Of course. Alex had made her cry.

Wine glass in one hand, held like she knew how to drink it and had been doing so since the age of eight, Gabbie reached out to pat Wendy on the shoulder, to try and offer some sort of comfort. Don't worry, he does this to everyone.

But then the poor girl spins, probably to leave, catches her foot on something, trips, and falls. Gabbie managed to catch onto her elbow, to keep her face from smashing into the ground, but she couldn't save her from a pair of skinned knees. Gabbie really wasn't that strong, after all. Her eyes went a little wide, and the girl in her pale green pajama set stared at the girl.

"Oh dear, you really shouldn't listen to him... He's spiteful and hates everything."

[Wendy Berber] (wp)

[Alexander Vaughn] (just a heads-up: i'm going home in a little bit, but will be back asap.)

[Wendy Berber] *She just sits there a moment. Radiating with the effort not to just sob in hurt and frustration. Vibrating.. and then Alex laughs, and she loses it completely. She makes a high pained keening noise, tears rolling down her cheeks as she gasps for air, choking on sobs and curling tightly into herself.*

[Alexander Vaughn] The noise she makes is barely human. It unnerves Alexander a little, and he hits pause on his game, twisting around to see what the fuck happened. For all he knows she tripped and impaled her eye on something.

"What the fuck's wrong with her?" he asks Gabbie, as if she might know. "Jesus, I'll get a first aid kit."

(annnnnd i'm going home! Alex is off getting a first aid kit!)

[Marrick Fisher] She was spending a lot more time on the roof than she used to. She was up there because she could feel the wind. She could feel the air, she could see the moon, and she could feel the shift in directions. There were implications tied to each direction, thoughts and wisdom that, for her part, Marrick did not understand the language.

She functioned on intuition.

The wind shifted. From the north to the north west, and she took it as a cue to come downstairs. Or, well, down the fire escape. Down the ladder, and then through her window. The Fury stopped, hearing something that sounded downright pained. She inhaled, tilting her head to the side and then headed off to the common room.

She didn't even give her customary exclamation of the fuck is goin' on? Must have been an emergency.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] The look that Gabriella shoots toward Alex is very similar to the way a sister would look at a brother that's just done something painfully idiotic, like burnt the bottom out of the pan by putting it on the stove to boil and forgetting about it. He pauses his game and goes to get the first aid kit after asking her what was wrong with her.

She shook her head slowly at Alex, didn't bother to reply to him. Instead she knelt down beside Wendy and wrapped one arm around her painfully slender shoulders, hand rubbing the shoulder and upper arm that it came to rest on.

"Tranquillité, it's okay. Whatever he said, it doesn't matter."

A pause, then she held the wine glass out in front of Wendy, about level with where her hands are, to offer it to her. She was hoping to enjoy the beverage herself, but it seemed that wouldn't be the case. "Here, you need this more."

[Wendy Berber] *Wendy flinches away from Gabriella's kind touch, skin twitching like a horse shaking off flies, and the kin tries to curl even further into herself, a tight ball of lanky limbs and sobbing shame. She takes one look at pretty gabbie, and sobs loudly. Burying her face into boney knees. She'd be better off if she had impaled herself on something.*

[Wendy Berber] ((is that will power botch going to last the whole scene.. or Can I roll again after awhile folks. Verdict?))

[Marrick Fisher] (I'd think you could roll again later!)

[Wendy Berber] (groovus))

[Marrick Fisher] Marrick came out of her room, off to the common room and then off to see-

She looked at Wendy and her natural inclination was to head over. Her natural inclination was to see what was wrong, to ask if there was anything she could do to help, to do whatever she could do that she would with a little sister.

But, well, Marrick did what she did with a distraught little sister.

She stayed her distance.

"... Wendy?"

She shot the room a look. Something sharp- "What happened?"

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Wendy flinched, shied away from the pretty freckled and fragrant Silver Fang Kinfolk that had knelt down behind her. Her glasses were fogged and tear-splattered when she glanced up to her, and Gabbie had a bit of a difficult time registering exactly what it was about herself that had caused the tall, painfully thin woman to sob even harder into her knees. Gabie's eyebrows lifted, an expression of puzzlement flew across her face, then she sighed and glanced toward Marrick when she entered and demanded to know what had happened.

"Alex happened."

'Nuff said.

She rose to her feet and stepped back two steps, frowning down at the dark-haired woman, and bit at the corner of her lip in an expression that portrayed conflict. "....For some reason I think I'm making it worse."

[Marrick Fisher] (Don't flip your shit, Ms. Fury...)
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 3, 3, 7, 9 (Success x 2 at target 7)

[Wendy Berber] S'okay. S'okay. S'nothing. I t-tripped. *She manages to blurt, shoulders moving away from the sounds of Marrick's voice.* I'm s-s-sorry for the n-n-noise m-m-miss. *She's trying hard to breath, words coming in little gasps between quick choked breathes. She still hasn't looked at Gabie or Marrick, lifting her head off her knees and swallowing hard. Her face splotchy and red.*

[Blood Rust] (Everybody upstairs in The Brotherhood?)

[Wendy Berber] (yups!)

[Marrick Fisher] (yep!)

[Gabbie Bellamonte] [Ayup! Not sure where Maija is though.]

[Maija] (Maija hasn't entered yet. :) she's a figment of yer imagination!)

[Marrick Fisher] Marrick looked at Wendy, coming a little closer and then- then she stopped.

She stopped and she didn't come any closer to Wendy. She raised her ahdns up, outward like she was trying to prove that she was not armed... which they both knew was a load of bullshit. Marrick was always armed, she was always dangerous, and she was trying to very, very hard to keep a grip on herself. She hadn't slept well today, not at all. Not by a longshot.

And Wendy was just there, on the couch, sobbing her eyes out. Marrick clenched her fists, and had to exert a great deal of force to keep from pacing.

"Oh, Wendy," she said. It was as soft as she could be. "Shhh, don't apologize, I'm not upset..."

[Wendy Berber] I'm s-so s-s-sorry.. *She looks to Marrick, tears dribbling down her cheeks as she rises to her feet shakily. Its hard to tell if she's apologizing for apologizing, or for crying, or maybe for having made noise and knocked over the end table. Maybe for skinning her knees and bleeding a little on the floor. Or perhaps she was apologizing for being the pathetic, worthless little scrap of kin her brother had mad his mate. Maybe she was just sorry for everything. She ducks her head like she's expecting a solid beating. Shoulders drooping.* M-My fault. *And she smiles a hopeless little smile in apology, hands limp at her sides.*

[Alexander Vaughn] (folks, i'ma keep posting short'n'quick :D i kinda liked that rhythm.)

And right about now Alexander comes pounding back up the stairs, a first aid kit -- probably borrowed from Reuben or something -- in his hand.

"Okay, what'd she do? Poke out an eye?" He stops short when he sees Marrick. "Oh hey, Marrick."

[Maija] She's not sleeping. She hasn't been sleeping well in some time. Just when she thought it would be quiet enough to at least grab a nap, a certain kinfolk decided that using the xbox on the big screen would be AWESOME. Kinda like his drumset was AWESOME too.

Maija, however, isn't one to complain. She learned that lesson well, at a very early age. Instead, she'd gone downstairs to grab something to eat, and is now returning upstairs with her plate. It may be surprising to find out she does eat - as thin as she is, a thinness accentuated by the boxers and tank top she currently wears. Waif, the term was, in the modeling world. Too bad she's not even close to being a model.

Thus, she's pressed herself against the wall as Alex barrels up the stairs with an first aid kid, and then follows at a near silent (after his thundering!) rate, balancing her plate in one hand, an unopened soda in the other.

[Marrick Fisher] She seemed completely out of sorts. Marrick could understand that Wendy was upset; she didn't know why she was crying. She didn't.. she didn't know what the Hell to do. She paced, though it was more the gesture of a distraught animal than a pensive young lady.

Alex says hi, and the reception was as follows: "Th'fuck did you do?"

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Gabriella's standing away from Wendy, looking utterly baffled and torn.

One part of her told her to go throw her arms around her, try in vain to be comforting for the much taller woman, but Wendy had looked at her in the face and sobbed hard enough that the Silver Fang Kinfolk had worried that Wendy's scrawny back would snap in half. Because of this, the sympathetic part that wanted to help everyone was silenced.

Gabbie just folded her arms so that her free hand tucked under the other elbow between her belly and breasts, shook her head slowly, and took a long sip from her wine glass.

Alex rumbled back into the common room, followed by the silent, other scarily thin girl that frequented The Brotherhood of Thieves. This time she shook her head at her roommate. "No, you just succeeded in permanently rending yet another girl's emotions. What's this, number five in a week?"

[Alexander Vaughn] There's no blood, no eye-goo, nothing of the sort. Guess she hadn't stabbed an eye out after all. Alexander sets the first aid kit down on the coffee table and snorts at Gabbie. "Get a little more dramatic, sweetpea."

[Wendy Berber] ((Anyone mind if i reroll that botch now?))

[Alexander Vaughn] (Whoops, i missed marrick -- )

"I have no fucking idea," he retorts to Marrick. "I was joking around with her and suddenly she bursts into tears and told me to leave me ALONE!, all Chris-Crocker and shit. So I laughed at her. And she acted like I stabbed her eyeball out. Almost gave me a fucking heart attack." And he picks up his Xbox controller again.

[Wendy Berber] (Wendy gets her groove back?))
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 5, 5, 5 (Failure at target 6)

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Gabbie's reply to Alexander was a simple huff of breath exhaled through her nostrils. He flopped down onto the couch, grabbed his controller, and resumed his game. Gabbie looked to Marrick next, to 'fix' Alex's explanation no doubt.

"Granted, generally Alexander's idea of 'joking around' involves taking a person's very character and dragging it through the dirt, but..." She shrugged, and now opted to sit on a section of couch that wasn't occupied by an asshole or a weepy mess. Her legs stretched out, ankles crossed, feet propped up on the coffee table, and she did her best to enjoy her wine before something happened to cause her to put it down.

Things weren't ever still around here.

[Wendy Berber] *She just shrinks as Alex addresses her, already scrawny kin disappearing further into herself as she nods.* .I ..I sh-should go. .. I'm j-just.. I should go. I'm sorry. *She whispers, looking to Marrick dismally.*

[Maija] She skirts around the familiar kin on the floor, and those helping her, to move to a chair in the corner, folding herself into it, her feet hooking on the edge of the seat, knees pressed to her chest, plate balanced atop them, as she picks at her meger meal.

[Marrick Fisher] Marrick Fisher was not a philodox. Marrick Fisher was not fair. Marrick was-

"Wendy, come on," she headed over to reply. And, in her quiet, blonde glory, she didn't know what to do. She didn't know what she was supposed to be doing here and it became clear through her cautious motions and rage with no direction. "Please stop apologising, you don't have to-"

She sighed, and unthinking she came closer to Wendy.

[Wendy Berber] *Wendy stands, head down as Marrick speaks. No apologizing, just standing humiliated. Alex was probably right. What good could she do for anyone? Especially if this was how she behaved. She swallows, tensing at Marricks approach. She takes a deep breath* ((One..More..Time. Go go wendy moxie!))
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 5, 9, 10 (Success x 1 at target 6)

[Maija] Finally, quietly, though it carries. "Hey Wendy. Wanna go to my room? I got some new books..."

They'd met over a book, after all. And she offers her an escape...

[Alexander Vaughn] (sorry folks, got distracted cleaning out and reorganizing my gallery!)

[Marrick Fisher] She stopped, folding her arms across her chest and then looking between those gathered like she was looking for a bus and couldn't read the schedule.

[Wendy Berber] *Maija.. Wendy's head swivels around to her, shoulders straightening just a little. The bookworm bites her lip. A swallow as she gets herself together. Who cares what Alex said.. Boy mattered. Not Alex "I'm a jerkface" Vaughn. ....right?*

[Sinclair] Sneakered feet come clomping, tromping, stomping up the narrow staircase. A hurricane of profanity bounces back and forth between the walls with no seeming object. The word 'Fang' comes up a few times, along with another F-word that is far more furiously and far more frequently spat out. This diatribe seems to be brought to you by the letter 'D' as well, as she keeps saying 'Dee' as she storms upward.

Joey is customarily cheerful despite it all when she enters behind Sinclair, but heads almost immediately to their bedroom, her Louisville Slugger in its case across her back. Sinclair goes, too, muttering as she walks.

She's in a pair of beat-up white Nikes with blue and red stripes on the sides, a pair of athletic knee socks with green and yellow strips across the tops, red gym shorts with white trim, and a bright yellow A-shirt. The strap of her bra -- which is pink -- peeks out from under the tank top. On her left bicep there's a thin, three-inch metal bar pierced through the skin. Beneath it are three tattooed spikes, all pointed downward. On her right bicep are three names. Metal glints in her ears, too, but her hair -- dark at the roots -- is down now, just barely brushing her shoulders. It hides a lot.

The eyeliner surrounding her pale blue eyes does not hide the fact that she is one pissed off motherfucker.

About fifteen seconds after she passes through the common room, she's back again, this time with a half-full bottle of scotch, held by the neck. She's still swearing. "Pissant mothercatfucker put me in a fuckin' hold I'll fuckin' breadboard his needledick I fuckin' swear to god..."

[Maija] There we go. Wendy's shoulder's straighten, and she starts to get herself back together. She lets her concentrate on a book, on something tangible, to bring her focus around. she takes a bite of her sandwich, and let's Wendy make the decision, either way.

She has to learn to stand on her own. Maija just handed her something to grip tight until she can. For Wendy it's books. For Maija... well. That would be telling, wouldn't it? Sinclair gets a flicker of dark eyes in her direction, then back to Wendy.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Sinclair finds her way upstairs, enraged, bristling, ranting and cursing... and by the look of the bottle in her hand, either drunk or on a fast road there. So Gabriella opted to take her leave. She rose, patting Alex (for some godforsaken reason or another, perhaps to try and maintain an at least semi-friendly relationship so they didn't get into a war and start breaking one another's things) on the knee when she passed him by, and made her way down the hall and into the room.

A few minutes later she passes through the common room again, now dressed in a simple white dress that was pretty, mid-thigh in length, a halter-top, and primarily made of lace. A pair of white wedge-heel sandals went with it, and she'd looped her hair into a fast, quick loop of a ponytail that rested behind her left ear. The wine glass in her hand was now empty, so downstairs she went.
So
Through the kitchen doors, and out into the dining area, where there were scattered tables that had guests at them but not too many. Wednesday wasn't a terribly busy night for The Brotherhood, those were from Thursday to Sunday. So there was no trouble, not a whole lot of background noise, just a dull and indistinct chatter in the air, when Gabbie crossed from kitchen to bar to return her glass and take a moment to chit-chat with the lanky red-haired man behind the counter.

[Blood Rust] The door opens, and a large man enters the Brotherhood. It's dark without, and he brings with him the cold smell of the night, trapped in the spaces beneath his jean coveralls, enmeshed in his beard, afire in the piercing depths of his wild eyes. Entering, he brings the night, and something of the wild. Wolf at the door, mother. Wolf.

He enters, stalks forward. Been here once before, he has, earlier that afternoon when the golden light of the dying sun splashed pools of gold across table and booth and honey colored floor. Enters, and swings out, eying the bar, the bakery stall, the rafters, the patrons. Enters, swings out wide, moving, circling, though he's not yet set his heart on any prey. Simply gazing, watching, learning. Feral, uneasy, trying not to sniff as he goes.

He's big. Broad shouldered, the muscles across his chest and back visible, striated. Despite his bulk he's still lean, the kind of lean you get when you wolf run for months on end and yet maintain that terrible vitality that all Garou possess. He's wearing jean coveralls and nothing else; no shoes, no shirt, nothing but his bare, ruddy skin and the beard of gold and crimson and hazelnut that grows in clean, rich snarls from his cheeks and throat.

He prowls around the room, until his gaze is drawn by the slip of a girl in a white dress. By her long hair, the delicate cut of her jawline, the easy langour with which she leans over the bar. The expanse of pale calf that is revealed, tense with the weight poised on the ball of her foot. He slows, each step silent, soundless, and stops.

He's at the back of the room. A tall, looming shadow, a feral shape with wolf eyes that looks at her and feels his own rage, his own control, battle to a stand still within his own system.

[Marrick Fisher] She had finished pacing. Instead, the Fury sat herself down on the couch and looked forward. People were dispersing, moving wherever they needed to be and found herself listening to.. well, Marrick wasn't listening to much of anything. She just laid back on the couch, reclined, comfortable, and trying not to get mud on it.

Silence, and then? She looked over.

"Whatcha playin'?" because she had to ask.

[Alexander Vaughn] All this time, Alex has been absorbed in Call of Duty: World at War. Gunfire, explosions, and the shouts of men blare out of the common room's plasma TV. Occasionally Alex, sitting about 6' from the huge screen on a beanbag chair he's moved there for that express purpose, physically dodges to the side as though this might help him avoid getting shot in-game.

Suddenly he shouts: "FUCK!" Onscreen, his point of view slides to the ground, dead again. This is right as Gabbie's passing by. "Goddammit, Gabbie," he complains, as though this were her fault. And he reloads the level. And looks over his shoulder, glowering.

"Call of Duty, World at War." He holds the controller up. "You wanna play?"

[Wendy Berber] *She moves towards Maija, eyes red beneath her glasses. Her confidence tenative at best.* I.. I should really um, go..I.. *she ducks her head.* I don't w-want to be here.. any more. Kay? *An apologetic smile.*

[Maija] She nods, the movement slight, barely noticable and then points with her sandwich down the all. "My room - number one. Ya ever wanna come over, or anythin' that's where I usually is."

Open invitation. "Ya be safe goin' home."

[Gabbie Bellamonte] How does someone not notice when a man dressed in jean coveralls and nothing else enters a building smack dab in the middle of a metropolis? Blood Rust stepped through the door, and the establishment more or less went quiet, staring. After a half a minute, hushed whispers picked up, people nervously gossiping. Hands went up, asking for checks from the waitresses, who suddenly had to bust ass double time because everyone wanted to finish and get out the door.

Danny trailed off at the end of a sentence, cautiously keeping an eye on the bearded man as he stalked through the tables. He'd seen him before, he'd been in there earlier, so he did his best to pick the conversation back up with the resident pretty-girl Kinfolk while washing some dirty glasses and placing them back in their display racks.

Gabbie, however, cautiously watched the man for a little bit longer. No normal man looked like that, walked like that, dressed like that. He had to be a Garou looking for bed and board. They weren't out in the middle of Western Iowa, after all. This was the midwest, sure but it was Chicago. A city.

She glanced away from him, back to Danny, perhaps a solid dozen seconds before Blood Rust took notice of her. Her arms were braced on the counter to keep balance and support her weight, and they adjusted so that one crossed over her chest and the other was propped so that her chin could rest in her palm. They were both a little uneasy, but they did their best to feign cheer for one another.

That was just who they are.

[Wendy Berber] K-Kay. Thank you. *She nods and swallows, slinking away and heading for the stairs, a look shot from under shaggy hair in Alex's direction that is both hurt and hateful.*

[Blood Rust] Blood Rust was aware of the disturbance he was causing. The ripple of discontent that he left in his wake like chummed water behind a shark hunting boat. Heads had turned, followed his passage, returned to their dishes as he passed them. Until he took his spot at the back of the room, not leaning back as a human might, not crossing his arms over his chest, but rather simply standing there. Shoulders relaxed, arms by his side, fingers loose. Hands that were strongly callused, with nails that were clean but long. Thick. Sharp.

When Gabbie looks back at him, she sees his face - strong, plain, hard. Not handsome, but not ugly; what it possessed however was a fierce vitality, a cast to the plain features that made them arresting. The kind of image that lingered in the eye like a light corona after staring at a lamp, or the sun, or Luna in all her terrible glory.

She returns to talking to the man behind the bar, but he's no fool. He can read prey, can read people, his eyes pick up the change in her posture, so slight and impossible hard to read as it might be. He reads the stealthy run of tension that passes through her body, the shift in her arms, the controlled nature to her quiet conversation.

And something within him stirs.

Moving forward, he leaves the depths of the Brotherhood for the bar. Gains it perhaps two yards down and to the left of her. Stops as if balked by the wooden expanse of it, sets both hands on its waxen surface. Stares at Danny till the tall kin steps over.

"Water, please," he says, and his voice is strange, rich, a subtle baritone with alien intonations. That said, he turns his head and looks down at Gabbie.

[Marrick Fisher] "How do you play?" she started to perk up. Leave curiosity be, this seemed like a game she might enjoy. Pixels and explosions.

The Fury got up, work boots making a resounding thud on the ground and she headed over. There was quiet curiosity; Marrick cocked her head to the side and slipped her hands into her pockets. She looked back at Wendy, but for her part she could only barely place the expression. She blinked, and then?

The Fury plopped down and took the controller.

She had no clue what to do, but she was up for it anyway. "This is gonna be like shooting fish in a barrel."

[Sinclair] Walking into the common room again, Sinclair flops onto the sectional, slouching so far down her back is nearly horizontal. She looks at the screen and unscrews the cap on the bottle of scotch, knees akimbo and eyes narrowed. She doesn't recognize either of the players; they weren't at the bonfire and she hasn't really run into them here. She doesn't even given Wendy a second glance, nor Maija. Her eyes are focused on the screen.

[Alexander Vaughn] Alexander starts to explain, this button does this, that button does that, point your gun like this, aim for that...

...and then he stops.

It's not the hurt and hateful look he gets from Wendy. It's not even Sinclair tromping in spitting invectives. It's a look of unholy glee in his eyes as he says: "I've got a better idea. Wait here." And he rocks back, flips to his feet, and jogs off to his room.

When he comes back, he has a new game, plus a second controller. The game is Soul Calibur IV.

"I think," he says, dropping down to load it into his Xbox, "you'll like this one a lot better."

[Gabbie Bellamonte] The large, somehow simultaneously broad and lean, in the same way that she knew Hatchet was-- broad at the shoulders, rangey and tapered around the waist from a life of hard running, constant motion, and a less-than-consistent diet-- slid up to the counter entirely too close to Gabriella for her to be one hundred percent comfortable with. Danny looked over to the man, Gabbie did as well. Danny approached, Gabbie did not.

At the request for water, Danny forced a smile, nodded, and went about filling a glass with ice and water for him. Danny was used to Rage, he'd felt it plenty before. There were more than a handful of residents at The Brotherhood of Thieves at one time with a force of heated glory gifted(cursed) by Gaia that he's had to deal with before. Not a whole lot phased him in that respect anymore.

Gabriella too was accustomed to Rage. However, she was raised in high society, and was entirely more accustomed to tuxedos and evening gowns than she was unkempt beards and coveralls. That combined with the strange, memorable intensity of his otherwise unimpressive face, the Rage, and the sharp predatory edge to his eyes, however, was what put the Kinfolk on edge.

He looked at her, she was looking at him. Unlike most, she didn't drop her eyes or quickly pretend she was looking somewhere else entirely. Rather, she forced a very polite smile and nodded to him. "Hello."

[Wendy Berber] *And Wendy hurriedly makes her exit, shamed and silently slipping out. Relieved to no longer be the center of attention.*

[Wendy Berber] (Alright. Catch you fine folks later!)

[Blood Rust] He smiles then, a genuine expression, his teeth white against the russet hues of his beard. It brings an almost child-like expression to his face, though his eyes retain their piercing nature. There is something to the smile that seems a little forced; as if it were an expression he had taught himself - as such, while it seems genuine in intention, it perhaps does not come across as warm as it might otherwise have down.

"Hello," he says. "My name is Blood Rust." He half turns, pressing his hip against the bar, and for a moment seems unsure as to what to do wit his arms. He lays one across the bar top, and then lets the other simply hang by his side.

A moment as the glass of water is set before him. He takes it up, careful, and sips it. Pauses, and then practically inhales half of the rest of the contents.

"What is your name?" He then asks, setting the glass down. His rage - there is something subtle to it, a sense of natural control. Not the raging, spiking maelstrom that might consume others, but an ebb and flow as of the tide, one that, for the moment, he does not seem to struggle against, but rather simply inhabits.

[Maija] Sinclair doesn't spare her a second glance, though Maija's dark eyes follow her, marking her progress, her anger, her bottle of alcohol. Her spine stiffens, briefly, and her gaze flick to Alex as he jumps up with glee. Marrick's place is noted as well, and she simply eats her sandwich, taking her time.

She seems content to be out of the spotlight in any way shape or form, and simply watches the screen.

[Marrick Fisher] "Ooh, sweet," she said.

Aww, it's cute. She was gleeful, and a distinctly more pious version.

"Just like any other fighting game?" Because, yes, Marrick had seen the commercials. She looked back, looking at Maija- she who blended into the wall, and Sinclair- she who looked royally... well... intent on the screen. "If this is anything like the arcade version of mortal kombat..."

Well, shit.

[Sinclair] When Alex returns, Sinclair's eyes flick to the cover of the new game. She snorts, and takes a swig of scotch.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] He introduces himself with his Garou name rather than what Gabbie would call his 'real name', though many would disagree with her on which name was actually the real one. Danny becomes preoccupied with working the register, people were eager to get out, Blood Rust had bothered quite a few of them, so he slides the water onto the counter, then turns his back on the pair. That sweet polite smile that was well practiced stayed flawless on Gabbie's face, even as she watched him down half a glass of water as though he had just come in from a very long run.

Her name?
"Gabriella Bellamonte. Gabbie works just as well, though." She held out a hand to shake with his, as she was taught was proper when in casual company. When in a hoity-toity blue blood setting, though, she was supposed to hold her hand palm-down, fingers limp and partially curled, an invitation for the person she was speaking to to kiss it. Or, if it were a woman, she'd shake hands in a much more delicate manner than how she was expecting now.

"Do you have a more.... people-friendly name?"

[Alexander Vaughn] "Yeah, sure." Alex is so nice. He lugs over a second beanbag for himself, letting Marrick take the one he'd just gotten out of. "Just mash buttons and win." And he throws himself down with a sigh of satisfaction, rapidly scrolling through the pick-a-fighter screen.

He chooses some dude in armor with a mutated arm and a gigantic fucking sword. The name is Nightmare. Then, while Marrick picks her character, Alexander cranes his neck around to look at the new chick. The blonde. With the booze.

"You gonna share that?"

[Blood Rust] "Gabbie," he says, "Gabriella Bellamonte." The name sounds funny coming from his mouth, like the translation of a translation. Slowly, be degrees, he seems to be relaxing. Almost you can hear the ticking as of a car cooling down after a long drive.

"A people friendly name?" He mulls that one over, and his lips quirk in a more genuine expression. "Like Henry, or Bobby Joe?"

He laughs then, amused, and shakes his head. "No, I don't." Said without animosity, simply stating the facts. "My name is Blood Rust." He shrugs his shoulders, finishes the water.

Leaning in close, pitching his voice so low it's barely audible, he asks, "What tribe do you belong to, Gabbie Bellamonte?"

[Alexander Vaughn] (for you OCD folks:

http://soulcalibur4.namcobandaigames.com/ )
to Blood Rust, Maija, Marrick Fisher

[Alexander Vaughn] (agh! sorry phil, wrong click. *clicks marrick*

http://soulcalibur4.namcobandaigames.com/)
to Blood Rust, Maija, Marrick Fisher, Sinclair

[Maija] She finishes half her sandwich, and then just leaves it there on her knees. She doesn't seem to be inclined to bring attention to herself. She simply, watches the screen - while simultaneously keeping track of each person, where they are, and keeping her back firmly facing the wall.

better safe than sorry.
always.

[Sinclair] She cocks one dark eyebrow at Alex. "What do I get if I do?"

[Marrick Fisher] She looked at the screen for a minute, going through the select like she would with a shirt. Take the one that's pretty and looks interesting.

"Oh, sweet, she fights with a giant hula hoop," she said. Stated. there was a statement about booze. She looked back at Sinclair. The woman with the... scotch? Whiskey? Hmmn, admittedly, Marrick was paying more attention to her than the screen.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] She watched him with a slightly quirked eyebrow, light in color because she'd washed off all the make-up she'd been wearing perhaps an hour ago, as he rolled her name in his mouth like she'd fed him a line of Mandarin Chinese to speak instead. She nodded, listened, responded properly to everything he said, continuing to lean against the counter rather than choosing to perch on a barstool. Apparently she didn't want to make it seem like she was staying to long, or really commit herself to the conversation with this strange, intense, but polite enough man.

Her hand, shaken or not, falls onto the counter, arm positioning itself to cross over the other in front of her chest, and her eyes followed the glass as it was set back on the counter once finished. He drank like he was trekking across the desert, and she didn't know quite what to make of it. It made her feel like he was way too accustomed to limited resources, something she knew absolutely nothing about.

When her eyes returned to his face, it was much closer than it had been before, and that startled her just a little. She didn't jump, but her pupils restricted a bit, her pulse spiked, and she swallowed back the taste of wine that was still in her mouth.

What tribe do you belong to?

"Ah..." She started, as though she couldn't quite remember in the current situation. The information came back after a second, though. It always does. "Silver Fang," she responded quietly in kind. "And yourself?"

[Blood Rust] "Silver Fang?" he says with genuine interest, and looks at her with new eyes. Almost it seems he wants to reach out and take her by the chin, turn her head from one side to the other. Almost she can imagine him leaning forward to sniff at her hair, or circle around her. Instead, he just shakes his head and leans back, resting his weight on his elbow. "Silver Fang," he says again to himself.

"Ain't never met a Silver Fang kin," he says, simply stating a fact. "You have proper cousins in town? Spoken for and all?" He's watching her face now, eyes traveling over her bone struture, her lips, the tension that rides the corners of her eyes.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] What he finds on her face isn't precisely what one would expect from Silver Fangs. She isn't blond, her jaw isn't square and strong, her eyes aren't cool and arrogant, she isn't particular strong and doesn't carry herself like a queen. Rather, her hair is some light brown-copper color, her face is a mantle of freckles, her eyes are soft, curious, and kind, and she is petite, perhaps 5'6" in her current wedge heels.

However, her bone structure is regal, her cheekbones high and defined. Her eyes are the same clear blue that one would expect of a pure bred Silver Fang, and her blood absolutely sings.

She almost expects him to reach out, take her by the back of the neck, and draw her in so that he can sniff at her hair and get a better, closer look at her. It was hard to say how she'd respond to that, whether she'd yell at him and slap his hands and chest until he let her be, or if she'd go stiff and still, as one does when playing dead for a bear that just barreled onto the campsite.

None of this happens, though. He simply leans into his elbow on the counter and throws another question her way, which she responds to with a lift of both eyebrows this time and a faint tip of her head in one direction. She was curious as to why he wanted to know. "My sister is here. That is all."

Oh, don't think that she forgot that he deflected her question. "I never caught yours, Blood Rust." Tribe, that is.

[Alexander Vaughn] "That's a ring blade," Alexander corrects, aghast. "Not a hula hoop. Ready?" Without waiting for her to say yes, he clicks quickly through the arena selection screen. The countdown begins, and Alex shifts his seat eagerly while their computerized avatars swagger about the screen and issue threats at one another.

3...
2...
1...
FIGHT!

The speakers roar with the sound of clashing blades, warcries and wounded yelps. The screen shakes with the impact of blow after blow. Needless to say, Alexander is very fucking good at this game, having owned it and its predecessors for years and years. He's also utterly merciless about smacking Marrick's hula-hoop-girl all over the screen. No taking it easy on Marrick because she's a girl or a beginner, here. He cheerfully trounces her ass, finally pinning her character against a wall and unleashing a devastating series of combos. Long after her health is depleted, he's still walloping away -- about 17 deathblows in a row later, Tira finally slumps to the ground at Nightmare's feet.

PERFECT VICTORY!

"Aw, better luck next time," Alexander says, and flashes a grin. "Go again?"

[Blood Rust] "Fianna," he says with easy grace, that quirk of his lips returning as she persists with her questions. This close even her human nose can detect a smell to him; not a rancid, sour smell, but rather the kind of scent that sun will bring out from skin; he smells of undergrowth, the kind of cool, still scent that belongs under shaded trees, close to the earth.

"Your sister," he says, and his brow quirks. "Is she like me, or is she like you?" A beat, and then his smile widens. There is something to him that passes beyond confidence, and is a simple lack of affectation. As if he's not conscious of the figure he cuts, the way he sounds, his bare feet, the riot of snarled red hair that covers his face. Or, perhaps, he simply doesn't care.

"And no mate? For one such as you? Why not? Have none asked for you?"

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Fianna. Of course.

Her hands folded together, right fingers rubbing over the ringless left hand, shrouding it from view, and she chewed thoughtfully at the corner of her lip as she contemplated his questions. Some might perceive him as nosy, digging for information that was absolutely none of his business. Gabriella would instead call him conversational, or inquisitive. This wasn't personal, not for her.

Katherine might object, but that was not the discussion at hand.

"She's like you," she says after a few moments. "...Better groomed, but like you." She adjusts her stance, shifting which leg carried the most weight so the other could have a rest. She straightened, turned so that she was facing him directly rather than talking to him past her shoulder, so this way one arm was on the counter, mirroring him, but her other arm crossed under her bust so that hand could clasp on its opposite wrist.

"And no, no mate. I'm.... not prepared for that responsibility yet."

[Sinclair] The Rage on the other blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman in the room is not nearly as intense as Marrick's, but it's potent. Her legs are long, her skin is tanned -- though only slightly, whatever sunlight she's gotten recently isn't enough to really darken her -- and her shorts are on the loose side.

Alex starts the game, trounces Marrick, and Sinclair busts up laughing.

[Maija] Her gaze SNAPS to Sinclair as she starts to laugh. Then back to the screen.

[Blood Rust] "Not prepared for the responsibility?" He stares at her in quizzical silence for a moment, and then snorts, laughs. Leans back, his smile easy now, coming with no effort to his face. Turning that strong, plain features into something more. Something alive, truly so. "Gabbie Bellamonte, there is no time for waiting in this life. Like this we die." He snaps his fingers, but seems suprisingly upbeat about his pronouncement. "So we must live today, yes?"

Another laugh. "And what must you do but take a mate, sleep with him, care for him, bear children, and hope for a few years together? Nothing can prepare you for that that you do not already have, know."

He leans forward. "In our blood. All the important things? In our blood."

Leans back. Seems some what spent for the outburst, looks down bearded chin almost touching his chest. A rumble sounds from deep within his chest, and then he shakes his head. Whatever thought prompts him to do so he keeps to himself.

"Your sister," he finally says. "What is her name? Her... rank?" All this spoken quietly; one blessing of his Rage is that it quickly clears spaces for the privacy of quiet conversation.

[Marrick Fisher] "It's a ring blade, excuse me. Just like Xena carried a chakram and not a Frisbee-of-ultimate-death."

Affirmation that, yes, the Fury had watched Xena. Or course she watched Xena, it made up the better part of her childhood television watching. Not to say that she watched a lot of television, but that was neither here nor there.

---

She just sat there, blue eyes forward; she didn't even have the chance to press a button. She didn't have the chance to make any sort of progress. She just sort of stared at the screen, watching the green-haired character bounce from side to side, floating comboes and hit... after hit.. after hit... and things she had only seen in the demo.

"Fuck.." she had started. But then? The Fury stared, and then?

Then? She blinked. Sinclair laughed, and the ahroun snorted. "Oh come on, it ain't that easy-" she said as she started to hand the other blonde the controller.

"I call dibs on whoever wins."

[Alexander Vaughn] "You of all people -- " this is during the 'fight', if you could call it a fight, " -- should be the last to diss Xena. She's like your sister-in-spirit."

--

And then the controller gets passed to the other blonde. "Oh, I see how it is," Alex says, "you play my game but I don't even get a swig of your booze. Good thing I'm a generous guy."

This time Alex picks a 6' white-haired dominatrix with a whip-sword and enormous tits. And while he waits for Sinclair to pick her poison, he picks up one of his two bottles of beer -- the opened one -- and swigs.

"You should play Zasalamel," he advises. Zasalamel is a gigantic figure in a white hooded robe, bearing a scythe. "He's pretty easy for beginners. Just button-mash."

[Gabbie Bellamonte] She couldn't help but frown a little bit when he told her that there was no time to dilly dally, in his own poetic and inspiring way. Slowly, once again, she changed how she was standing, folding both arms across her chest and tipping one hip further outward than the other as one knee locked to support her weight and the other popped out in a more relaxed manner.

"Her name is Katherine, and she is of the first rank."

For a second she thought she may just bite her tongue about the rest, refuse to address it, but the initial sense of chilling, hunted fear she'd had when he walked through the door was fading as conversation progressed. Despite his haggard, unkempt, and positively primal appearance, the man smiled easily and spoke intelligently. She believed him civil enough not to strike her across the face or otherwise for disagreeing with him.

"You die like that, for starters. I'm not going anywhere for a while. I can take my time where you cannot. However, I do agree with you on the point that we should live today. That's precisely what I'm doing-- living my life, rather than the life that others want for me. When I am good and ready I will have children. Until then, no. I'm nowhere near patient enough for parenthood, and entirely too young."

Sure, her mother was sixteen when her older brother was born, but no one needed to know that.

[Marrick Fisher] "Those had better throw off her balance," she said with a snort. Marrick Fisher did not approve of Ivy's tits.

[Blood Rust] The Fianna looks confused. His brow creases, and he for a long beat he simply stares at her, his eyes painfully bright, unwittingly intense. As if he knew no other way to look.

"I don't understand," he says at last. "You speak of your life as if you had many lives. Different lifes to live. You only have one life, no? You are you, Gabbie Bellamonte." Her name is starting to sound familiar in his mouth - or perhaps the way he says it is starting to sound familiar in her ears. "You are Silver Fang kin. You are kin to Garou." He says this, not slowly as if she were slow herself, but carefully, as if he were testing each statement of fact for veracity. "Who else can you be but yourself? What else can you be but kin?"

He doesn't shift his own weight, but rather stands comfortable as if he could hold the position forever.

"And... what other life could a kin live but one bound to a Garou?"

[Sinclair] She can't stop laughing. From Marrick mentioning Xena to Alex calling Xena her sister to Alex trouncing her to Marrick just staring and swearing to... being handed the controller. In fact, that last one makes Sinclair let loose fresh peals of hysteria. She kicks her legs a bit, sneakers thumping on the floor. Her left hand is wrapped tightly around the neck of her scotch as she -- well, it's not quite giggling. It's snickering, though. Definitely snickering.

Sitting up, Sinclair pushes herself to her feet, walks around the coffee table, and slams the bottle of scotch on its surface. The contents slosh as she flops down between the bean bag chairs, legs all a-folded, back straight. She takes the controller from Marrick and in a matter of seconds has chosen a monster with a huge, rocklike axe.

"Astaroooth!" she bellows in a sepulchural voice. "You. Never answered my question about what I get out of giving you a swig of my fuckin' booze. Therefore, you did not get a swig of my fuckin' booze," she says, while she picks an arena.

[Maija] She studies her sandwich a long moment, and then simply unfolds from her chair, bare feet hitting the floor with a light thump, before she makes her silent way - plate in hand - across the commons toward her room.

She's careful to walk behind the players. She's very careful, always, to stay out of the line of sight, to hide right in plain view. Old habits are hard to break.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] If she wasn't truly frowning earlier, she certainly was now. The more Blood Rust talked, the harder Gabbie's features became. Hard, but never cold. Her eyes still suggested warmth, patience, kindness, but now that was clouded over by the heat of insult and temperment that the Bellamonte children seemed notorious for.

If anyone thought Gabbie was bad to piss off, they should meet Ed and Kate. Gabbie was a kitten compared to them.

"One where they make choices for themselves, where they decide when and with whom to have children, what career paths to take, where to live, and who they would like to share company with. We have the right to lead whatever life we please. If we want to be alcoholic messes or childless old maids, that is our prerogative."

[Alexander Vaughn] "My bad," Alex replies, "I was distracted, pwning Callisto's ass all over the screen."

Sinclair picks Astaroth. Alexander reaches back for her abandoned scotch, picking it up and swigging hard before setting it down just in time to see the countdown end.

FIGHT!

[Blood Rust] Blood Rust raises his head, rears it up as if Gabbie were suddenly exhuding a heat all of her own, a Rage that he could not define but neither deny. He looked down at her, at the sudden intensity that thrummed through her body, the anger that caulked her words, the context that he could hear behind each word, in her eyes.

But, rather than get angry, he simply relaxes again, leans a little closer so that their conversation remains private.

"You say things that are obvious," he says, again speaking slowly as if not quite trusting the words, or the language within which he speaks. He pauses, frowns, hesitates as he selects what he is going to speak next. "Why would you mate with a Garou you did not desire?" He shrugs at this, not understanding.

"But more. Of course you have a choice, but there is really only one decision to be made, yes? Whether to follow Gaia, to love her, fight for her - or not." He raises his eyebrows. "From there, all other decisions follow. But that is first, no? And if you wish to serve Gaia, why deny your blood? Your ability to have Garou children?"

Another pause, as he wrestles - not with her words, but what seems to lie behind them. "You are so angry. Are Silver Fang so different from Fianna? Family is a good thing. Mating is a good thing. Trust, love, growth, strength. Companionship. Cubs. These are all good things, that please Gaia, please your mate, should please you. Why do you act so angry at these thoughts?"

[Sinclair] Again, Sinclair cracks up. Apparently she knows who Callisto is. Apparently she thinks it is very, very funny to compare Marrick to Callisto. And she doesn't even know who Marrick is.

She is not a beginner. She's a goddamned Glass Walker, and there's not a whole lot to do with other cubs when you're stuck wearing one-size-fits-all clothes that are less flattering on a body like hers than scrubs -- though, thankfully, about as comfortable -- and waiting to be allowed back into the world. Once the 'fight' is on her laughter dies on her lips but not in her eyes.

"Yeah, that's right, motherfucker, take it," she says, presumably to Alex, as she is making Astaroth slam that axe repeatedly into his big-titted avatar. "You take it and you like it! Oh... oh you didn't like that one much, did you, you little bitch? Well here's another one. OH!"

Maybe she's talking to Ivy.

It's over. Alex put up a better fight against Sinclair than Marrick did against Alex, since he does more than just sit there staring at the screen, but in the end the bouncy-boobed character onscreen is in a crumpled heap of epic fail, Sinclair is dropping the controller on her lap, and twisting around to take another swig of scotch. "It's Callisto's turn. You're in her seat."

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Her frown softened a little when Blood Rust leaned back some, then leaned in, utterly relaxed, and spoke calmly to her. He agreed with what she had just said, but was confused as to where she was coming from.

He seemed to have missed a Silver Fang history lesson somewhere along the line.

She felt a little bad. She didn't need to be angry with him, he did nothing wrong. He wasn't the one lining her up with suitors and not even giving her the courtesy of a warning before they showed up on her doorstep with a paper-wrapped gift and a fistful of intentions. So she shook her head a little, took a deep breath through her nose (he smells like the outdoors), and exhaled it past her lips in a sigh.

"I apologize, you didn't deserve that. I just..." She paused, glanced about briefly. There was one table left, and that was only because their food hadn't arrived when Blood Rust walked through the doors. At the moment they seemed to have calmed just a little, and while they were quick to eat, they weren't staring nervously over at the bar anymore, powering through their food or even abandoning their plates just to leave.

The Garou were terrible for business.

"Silver Fang Kinfolk often do not get a choice in who they are with. They are set up with mates. It is arranged, and there is little room for dispute. If the Garou accepts them--- if a suitor were to decide they wanted me, I wouldn't be able to argue it. It is up to him and my sister and uncle."

[Alexander Vaughn] "Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, don't-- FUCK!" (This is when Astaroth plants the axe in Ivy's head.)
"SHIT!" (And spins her around.)
"OH YOU BITCH." (And whales her into the wall.)
"FUCK, STOP!" (And knocks her down again as she's trying to get up.)
"OW. OW. FUCK. STOP IT. Oh my God. I'M DEAD ALREADY." (And hammers in five deathblows in a row.)

Epic fail. Alexander hands the controller over to 'Callisto' and gets to his feet, issuing a threat of "Oh you'll get yours, Astaroth," as he goes to haul a third beanbag chair over. He settles back to watch the next round, snagging Sinclair's booze again for another hefty swig, and chases it with a gulp of beer.

And burps.

"'scuse me." He's so polite.

[Blood Rust] Blood Rust's brows draw low over his eyes, and he quirks his head to one side. He thinks about it, simply staring at Gabbie as he words trickle through his mind.

"I suppose things are different in every tribe," he finally says philosophically, shrugging. "But that is not the way I was raised. That seems very unnatural to me." He grins at her then, stands tall, opens his arms wide as if presenting himself to her, filthy feet, jean coveralls, beard and wide smile. "But what would I know? I am not groomed."

He holds his arms out wide for a moment longer, and then lets them drop back at his side. He seems pleased with his joke; he grins at her for a moment longer, and then shakes his head. "But I am sorry for you. No wonder you are so angry. Defensive."

He muses. "Though, perhaps, a Garou of another Tribe that you liked could lay claim to you. Challenge your sister for you as a mate. Then you could escape, no?"

[Marrick Fisher] "Dude, I don't even know who you are but I'm buying you a beer when I'm old enough," said with a quiet degree of amazement. Quiet glee in watching people play video games. the ahroun wasn't quite watching what was going on on the screen, though, she was watching the players. She was watching what they were doing.

And, well, she was trying to get a feel for her opponent.

By the middle of the ordeal, Marrick was trying not to laugh too hard. The axe slammed into Ivy's head and Marrick made a sound that was not unlike someone trying to swallow a sneeze.

By the end of the ordeal, Callisto.. erm... Marrick figured out what button was what, and what buttons hurt when you pushed them all together. She plopped herself down in the nearest beanbag chair. There she was, in her element as the observant newb. Who would, well, at the very least deprive Sinclair of a flawless victory.

"I told you those things would throw her off," she said.

Then again, Marrick was adept at getting her ass handed to her and not landing a single blow. She thumbed through the character select screen. Essentially, she picked... well, she picked like a newb. She took Zasalamel in that... well... Alex had said that he was button-mashing friendly.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] When he opened his arms, she was startled. Her fleeting initial thought was that he was about to wrap them around her, crush her face against the bib front of his coveralls, and wring the life out of her with a bear hug. Or that he expected her to step forward and hug him first. Something involving bodily contact and arms going around a torso.

But his arms drop, and she grins a little bit at the joke that he made himself smile with-- or more, at the fact that he smiled happily at his own joke, unconcerned about the fact that it really wasn't that funny at all.

He mused a thought that she'd been kicking around in her head, more so in the past few days than what she has done in the past, and she shook her head slowly. "I'm pretty sure that would only be if the challenge was accepted. Isn't that how it works? Someone can turn down challenges, right?"

He might be able to stand forever, but Gabbie shifted her weight over to the other leg. She wasn't uncomfortable yet, but she wasn't nearly so sturdy as her Garou cousins were.

[Sinclair] "Oh, will I," she 'asks', after Alex's promise of getting hers. Or Astaroth's.

She moves her ass into the vacant bean bag chair she'd ignored earlier, wiggling her feet out of her Nikes and kicking them to the wall. The names down her right bicep -- in simple black script -- are Kenneth, Regina, Colfax.

"There's no excuse for you," Sinclair retorts immediately when Alex burps and 'scuses himself, without looking up. She's busy picking Yoda, as Marrick is settling in to play against her. "Hand it here, man," she says easily to Alex, holding out her hand. She... probably means the booze.

[Alexander Vaughn] "It wasn't her tits," Alexander says in disgust, "it was the AXE IN HER HEAD."

Marrick picks Zasalamel. "Woot," he says, "I love Zas'. He's badass-looking. I want a scythe. Can you get me a scythe? Don't you Furies carry scythes? Wait... no, you carry those big axes."

He takes another swig of scotch, passes it to Sinclair. She's got names on her arm too. He knows why his names are there. He doesn't ask about hers. Probably assumes the same.

"If you wanna power up," he tells Marrick, "you push those buttons here and here. But don't do it while she's pounding on you."

[Blood Rust] He shrugs. "I don't know. I've never challenged for a mate. I've never really thought about it. But if you wish, I can ask? The Master of Challenges would know." Again, as is his style, simply said. An offer with thought of obligation, payback, or anything more than simply satisfying her curiousity.

His face grows still, and then he looks at her with a new solemnity in his face. "Gabbie Bellamote, may I smell you?" A beat, and then his lips quirk. "I promise to leave your bottom alone."

Again that grin. An indication that he had made what he thought was a clever joke-or something that he thought she might funny, even if he did not quite understand it himself.

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Her eyebrows flew up when he said that he could ask. Her first thought was that he meant he could ask if he could challenge for her, speaking about personal conditions rather than a question in general. But comprehension dawned and she relaxed a little. Her elbow found the counter again and she leaned against that, watching him and his scruffy rust-colored beard as he spoke.

He had a crinkle of a smile to his eyes through most of their conversation up until a sudden point where everything went still and blank. Very seriously, he asked if he could smell her. This was followed with a smile and a jest about her bottom. She had no clue that he was wolf-born, she didn't realize he was talking about sniffing her bottom. In her mind it jumped to fondling.

Her spine stiffened, she eyed him cautiously, studiously, then answered slowly after a few moments of thought.

"I... suppose."

[Marrick Fisher] Can you get me a scythe?
"There's not a feed an' seed store 'round here. Don't know where I'd getcha farm equipment."

She shrugged. And, well? It was off to do what a Newb does best: hit buttons until she hit something. Marrick was, however, one of those people that leaned while she fought. And, alas, she was the only non-glasswalker here. She was the one who, well, could not stand being kept up inside.

She inhaled.

She glanced at Sinclair. "Got a name?"

[Blood Rust] He nodded. It was simple enough; he took a step forward, leaned in, and pressed his face close to the nape of her neck. This close, his rage envelopes. Washes over her, seeks to immolate her in its core - and might, were it not for his easy control, his unconscious grace under the force of his natural, Luna given anger.

His beard, snarled and clean, brushes against the side of her neck, and his nose stops but an inch from her ear. Then, in quick succession, two quick sniffs, and followed by a long, slow inhalation.

Blood Rust pulled back. His eyes had grown heavy lidded, and then he nodded, once. "Now we have met, Gabbie Bellamonte." His head quirks to one side again, and his smile returns. "I do not have a people friendly name, but you now have a wolf friendly smell."

[Sinclair] "Oh ho," she says in mock sympathy to Alex, turning her head as he starts advising Marrick. Her lips are pushed out in a pout that is not... nearly... as innocent-looking as she apparently is going for. Something about the shape of her mouth doesn't allow it. "I think he doesn't want me to win again," she says, and turns back to the screen to pick an arena.

She does not, at least, start the fight before Marrick knows what's going on. She fights in a slightly more leisurely fashion this time, putting the bottle of scotch between her knees on the floor in front of her bean bag. She gives Marrick some time to adjust to the game, but doesn't hold back. She still comes at Zasalamel with that tiny green man and the lightsaber, chuckling to herself.

When she smiles she doesn't look quite so vicious. She looks younger. She looks closer to Marrick's age than a jaded post-grad or something. She keeps 'pounding' on Marrick, which precludes the power-uppage spoken of before, and she doesn't move around as she plays. She reclines, slouching and lazy-looking, while she plays. "Sinclair," she tells Marrick, without an accompanying glance. "But you," she says, as Yoda's strike sends Zasalamel flying, "can call me OH GOD MOMMY PLEASE MAKE THE PAIN STOP."

[Alexander Vaughn] "I just feel bad for Marrick," Alex says, all magnanimity. "She's a noob."

And then he watches, amused but unsurprised, as Marrick proceeds to bite the dust. Alex practically snatches the controller out of Marrick's hands the second Zasalamel hits the floor, bellowing, "REMATCH!"

This time he picks, appropriately enough, Darth Vader. Before he starts, he makes a big show of cracking every knuckle on both hands, shaking his fingers out, slicing a grin Sinclair's way.

"Okay, Sinclair-oh-god-mommy-please-make-the-pain-stop," he says, "let's see what you got." And a swig of beer. "Oh and no low kicks with that little green turd. That's just cheap."

[Gabbie Bellamonte] Blood rust leans in a bit closer than she expected, and in a very different place as well. She thought he'd smell the top of her head, or her shoulder, something a little less intimate. But instead his face all but buries into her neck, and her heart skips half a beat. Something with that much Rage couldn't put its mouth so close to her throat without her feeling very strongly that teeth would find the soft, prone flesh and tear it out in a shower of crimson and life.

This didn't happen, though. Instead his beard scratched at her neck, his breath whuffed under her ear, and she found herself buckling both of her knees unwisely. Thank goodness for her arm on the counter, she might have stumbled sideways without it.

What he picked up, first and foremost, was her scent. Her, the smell of Gabriella Bellamonte, not her shampoo or deodorant or perfume or fabric softener, but her. Then followed the smell of a floral-fruity cocktail for her shampoo, the strongest and most easily noticeable smell on her. Underlying that was the slight tang of the glass of wine she'd had several minutes ago. These superficial smells aside, though, she smelled healthy, vital, and clean. Adrenaline was spiked, nerves were fraying, but she was in good health, perhaps even sturdier than she looked in her pretty clothes with her fine, regal features.

When he leaned away and smiled at her, informing her that she had a wolf-friendly smile, she stared at him in a way that was hard to figure out-- incredulous, invaded, intrigued. She smiled back, though the expression was a little shaky. "Well, ah, wonderful then."

[Marrick Fisher] "Oh shit, ohshitohshitohfuck-" she looked at the screen, then leaned back some and bit her lower lip.

"Don'tfalloutdon'tfalloutdon'tfall-HA! I actually HIT something!"

She beamed.

"Somebody get me a goddamned cookie."

She scooted over and watched the next fight.

[Blood Rust] Blood Rust nods back, as if her response were the only natural one.

"I know you now, Gabbie Bellamonte." The final time he'll say her name tonight, strangely inflected as if he were from another land, one that nobody could buy a plane ticket to. Strange, but increasingly familiar. "I will keep your question in my mind."

He pushes away from the bar with his hip, and begins to move past her, toward the door. The night outside, the open sky. Pauses as he draws abreast of her, turns to look down at where she stands, their opposite shoulders almost touching, those his rides some six inches higher.

"I would like to meet your sister." He looks into her eyes, holds her gaze. There is no question of asserting dominance in his look; to him, such an issue is never in doubt. "I am staying at the Caern. Could you let her know I wish to meet her?"

He holds her gaze for a moment longer, and then nods once, in parting, and moves toward the front door.

[Sinclair] "Oh, I can tell. You're a fuckin' saint, you are, Mister..." her eyes flick to his arm, the names on it, but she doesn't use one of them, "Man. Gentle and caring as a widdle teddy beaw." She sticks with Yoda, and he tells her no low kicks. Her eyebrows go up a bit.

"Now how much would you enjoy winning -- and I'm not sayin' you're gonna win, just go hypothetical with me, here --" she cuts into her own speech to belch, doesn't excuse herself, goes on: "if I could always hold it over you that you won because I treated you like a wussy pussy who can't handle low kicks?"

He cracks his knuckles; she rolls her head on her neck, takes a pull of scotch, and looks at the screen. "By the way. She can call me oh-god-mommy-please-make-the-pain-stop. I'll come up with a nickname for your use after I'm done pwning your ass."

[Gabbie Bellamonte] He moved to walk away, and a flutter of relief touched her chest. He was friendly enough, but he was strange and intense, animal in a way all Garou were, but much, much more open about it. He said he would keep her question in mind, and she smiled and nodded her head, a silent thanks for his offering to ask the question for her.

He paused, though, with his shoulder about level with the top of her head, and looked down at her. She wasn't used to people towering over her, matter of fact she was quite familiar with the sensation of being loomed over, but that didn't make it any more comfortable when someone who was a nigh-perfect stranger was the one staring down at you.

"I.. certainly will. It was a pleasure, Blood Rust."

He keeps his eyes on hers, she smiles politely and nervously, and then he nods and makes his way for the door.

Gabbie, in turn, makes her way up the stairs, through the common room with only a half a glance toward the cluster around the fight game on the TV, and into her room. She figured she'd just stay in there for the rest of the night.

[Alexander Vaughn] "Fine, fine," Alex sighs, much put-upon, "use your silly little low kicks. I'll still -- "

He cuts off here, because the round starts. The next handful of seconds are dead silent on Alexander's end, filled only with the frantic clacking of buttons as they tangle, clash, spin apart, press the attack, come together again in a flurry of onscreen blows and lightsaber hums. Projected onto a 60" plasma screen, it looks like something out of a goddamn movie.

"....FUCK!"

Alex savagely jams his thumb down on the controller, killing the YODA WINS sequence before it even properly begins. Then he thrusts the controller back at Marrick and grabs up the scotch again. He's getting progressively more inebriated. He doesn't have their sheer rage to hold back the intoxication. Grimacing at the burn after he sets the bottle down, he slouches down lower in his beanbag chair, his knees open aggressively wide where they hook over the edge.

"Best three out of five?" he offers. "After Marrick takes her beating, that is."

[Marrick Fisher] "Ohh, no no no. I wouldn't want to interrupt some epic jedi battle," she hands it back to him, grinning ever so slightly. "I gotta admit, I like watchin' ya get yer ass handed to you. Ranks right up there with seeing you beat things faces in and kittens in my book."

[Sinclair] After Alex loses -- again -- Sinclair reaches for her scotch and takes a long pull, quiet for a few moments as he is shoving the controller at the Black Fury. She watches him with open amusement, then nods sagely as Marrick chimes in and says that she likes watching him get beat. Apparently more than she likes playing. Sinclair takes another drink of scotch, slower this time, looking a bit thoughtful.

"You and I are going to be friends," she says to Alex, something ferocious in her tone, in her eyes, that offsets the casual air of it. "I can tell."

[Alexander Vaughn] "Of course you like it," Alex retorts to Marrick, "you dominating bitch." They're on the character select screen again and Alex, indecisive, flicks through the choices over and over and over before settling on the samurai dude with the katana.

"Is that so," he has a retort for Sinclair, too. "You don't even know my name."

[Sinclair] "Hey Cervantes," Sinclair says in greeting to the character she chooses since she seems to be tired of Yoda now. "You're looking well. "Make up your goddamn mind," she mutters at Alex as he flicks and flicks and flicks and flicksandflicksandflicks.

"I could call you Goose," she offers generously to Alex, "since you bite it so often and you look like you'd probably like to fuck Tom Cruise. Callisto over there your girlfriend?" she asks without missing a beat, even though she damn well heard Marrick's name a minute ago.

[Sinclair] [Ignore the extra "]

[Marrick Fisher] "Dude, no way. If you fuck Tom Cruise you'll catch scientology, eww. Not okay," she said. Stated. As a matter-of-fact kind of thing. Like it was something she had read earlier in a text book and was imparting to the world.

Sinclair called her Callisto; she didn't flinch. She didn't really seem to mind. Then again, the full moon was pretty... well, no. Full moons were not, by nature, laid back creatures one would think.

[Alexander Vaughn] "It's Alex," Alexander decides this is probably better than 'Goose', or any insinuation of wanting to fuck the Cruisemeister. "And nah. She just uses me for rough sex." He doesn't miss a beat either. His tone is bland; he could be kidding, or he might just be serious. Either way, Marrick doesn't seem like the kind of girl

(she's not a girl. she's a Black Fury.)

who'd get all tittery and blushy and embarrassed about it. Being the second man to choose a character, Alex picks the arena, and off they go.

[Sinclair] [OH GOD MOMMY PLEASE MAKE THE PAIN STOP]
Dice Rolled:[ 10 d10 ] 2, 4, 4, 4, 4, 5, 6, 6, 7, 9, 10 (Success x 5 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1

[Alexander Vaughn] (sdlkfjlsdkjfdslfhsldfj FML, 10 succ @ diff 4.)

[Sinclair] [Apparently that was -- yeah what he said.]

[Alexander Vaughn] (LET'S SEE HOW BAD WE LOSE.)
Dice Rolled:[ 8 d10 ] 1, 1, 2, 4, 4, 6, 8, 8, 10 (Success x 4 at target 4) Re-rolls: 1

[Sinclair] Sinclair doesn't chime in on the conversation about Cruise or Scientology at that point, nor does she respond to Alex telling her his name. Her eyes are locked on the screen after Alex chooses the arena. She's not always the most focused creature, but apparently video games get all of her attention. She is calm, and quite still as she plays, her fingers a rapid blur over the controller. She doesn't trash talk this time. She's beaten Alex twice, hell if she's going to let him beat her the third time just because he's attractive and she's getting buzzed.

This is about Honor.

When it's over -- and it's over so very, very quickly -- she lets the controller drop into her lap. She exhales a satisfied side, swivels her head around to look blandly at Alex, and says: "Apparently you like it rough."

[Alexander Vaughn] This time they're both intensely silent. Or well. He's intensely silent. She's just cruisin' into shore on a longboard, effortlessly smacking Mitsurugi down all over the arena before -- in a final act of humiliation -- booting his ass off the edge.

Alexander doesn't even bother to curse. He just throws his controller down, the hard plastic hitting hardwood with a sharp clack!, and slumps back in his chair, disgruntled.

"Fuck my life."

[Alexander Vaughn] Also: "Pass me the booze."

[Sinclair] With a deep breath, Sinclair looks back at the screen and smiles slightly. "That was satisfying."

She picks up the scotch, takes a drink, and hands it over.

[Marrick Fisher] Somehow, Marrick imagined that this is what her challenge for ahroun elder looked like.

A battle that was over before it started.

She blinked twice, and couldn't quite come up with words.

[Marrick Fisher] Eventually, she stood, and the Fury took a moment to straighten herself out. She was solid, she carried herself with a sort of presence. She was, for lack of better wording, a seemingly feral creature. Untamed. And with that? Marrick started to head back to her room.

"I'm gonna go run," she said. "Don't get too trashed, Alex."

[Alexander Vaughn] "Fuck you too," he retorts, a little grumpily, and grabs the scotch over. When he tips it back this time he keeps it upended for a very, very long time. Bubbles break through the surface. He guzzles down a fairly obscene amount before passing it back, and then he slouches down even lower.

Now he's almost afloat on the big, squishy beanbag chair -- like a kid chilling on an inner tube in a turquoise-blue pool under a dazzling blue sky. In Florida. Where there are pools, and dazzling blue skies all year round. The lights on the ceiling are bright; he puts up a hand to shade his eyes.

"So how the hell does a werewolf get so damn good at video games, anyhow?" No one should be surprised that Alexander's guessed her breed by now. There's something about Sinclair that's not quite human. Not quite tame. There's something about both the females here that marks them as feral, as wild, as beasts. "They teaching you that shit in boot camp now?"

[Sinclair] And it isn't the Rage. Not just the Rage. The way she watched Marrick and Alex play the first round was calculating; she may as well have been lurking in the underbrush, watching her prey slink by. The way she sat on the floor, her back not necesarily straight but taught with a flexible, sinuous strength. She is not very in control of herself, seems on the verge of lunging once she puts down the controller, but during that last bout, she seemed... calmed.

Her eyes slide off the screen and over to Alex. Past him, over her shoulder. She gives a small nod. "Later, Marrick," she says, like they're old pals.

Sinclair tracks back to Alex, though there's little chance that she wasn't aware of him in her peripheral vision even when she was speaking to the Fury. Now she doesn't even blink. She shrugs one shoulder. It's interesting; Bull's gone. She still wants to win. To conquer. To survive. She still knows she'll come out the victor. But that urge to get into the fight in the first place isn't as strong. Survival of the fittest... not necessarily the mightiest.

Weird, how fast she got used to that feeling.

Weird, how odd she feels now that it's gone.

"In my case, yeah," she says, and then tips back the scotch Thornton gave her, finishing off the bottle. She sets it down on the coffee table loosely, looking at its emptiness for a second and then slouching down a bit farther. "So you're Kin, or whatever?"

[Alexander Vaughn] "I'd go with you," Alexander says, and then smirks, "but I'm too fucking trashed already."

It's an innocent question, and innocuous, but something about it rankles Alexander. Could be it's just that she trounced his ass three times in a row, and Alexander's a sore loser. Could be more or less than that.

There's a short silence. Then he blows a breath out at the ceiling.

"Yeah." He tucks his hands behind his back, and now the illusion of floating in a pool is nearly complete. He narrows his eyes, closes his eyelids until the ceiling blurs. "I think someone oughta paint blue skies and clouds up on the ceiling," he says, out of the blue.

And then, "You're a Glass Walker, aren't you?"

[Sinclair] "Too fuckin' trushed is the only w-- trushed?" Sinclair pauses, blinks, and laughs at herself, throwing her head back and not bothering to pick it back up again. This puts her in a wonderful position to observe the same plain ceiling that Alex is looking at. Rage or no Rage, she would have to shift for it to really do any good against what liquor does so naturally, and so well, to the human body. The body she is, at the moment, wearing. And liquor is liquor, and her liver is not made of steel.

She blinks. Sighs. "That would make this whole place look like a nursery. Turn one of the pool tables into a diaper changing station and we're all set."

Lifting one hand, she rubs at her nose, yawning. "Well lookit you," she says, mock impressed, "all knowin' tribes an' shit." There's a beat. She reaches for his beer. "That's what they tell me."

[Alexander Vaughn] "I'm asking," Alex replies -- and golly gee whiz, for once, he's not the one smarting off, "because that makes you the first Glass Walker I've met in this city. And since my brother also happens to be Glass Walker, I suppose that makes me kin to Glass Walkers and therefore kin to..."

He lifts his head and looks at her, a little cock-eyed because goddammit, he did drink a lot.

"...well. You." And he smirks. "Don't worry. I'm housebroken and self-sufficient. And I won't whine for help."

[Sinclair] "Awww," she says in profound yet feigned disappointment, curling up on the bean bag chair. Her eyes are closed. "What if I like hearing Kin whine? You don't know. You don't know... stuff!"

She isn't completely drunk. She's not really tired. She just doesn't give a fuck, and so she slides down further on the chair, her shorts riding up. "Fuck," she mutters, opening her eyes, grabbing the hems, and yanking them down to alleviate the brief crotch-wedgie she was working on giving herself. Her eyes open, pin on him. She definitely has a buzz going, and since his beer did not magically leap into her hand when she first reached, she remains un-beerified.

But that doesn't change the fact that something about her tells him that at a moment's notice she might just leap up and snap his neck.

Sinclair reaches over to him, now, and gently pats his arm twice. It's a lazy gesture, more like a slide of her hand than a slap of it. "It's okay that I'm your first... Walker in the city. It doesn't make you less manly in my eyes." Beat. "Well not by much."

[Alexander Vaughn] "You," he pronounces as that last, hefty dose of scotch starts to hit, "are fucking insane."

He turns back to the ceiling. Closes his eyes. On the screen, the select-a-character menu waits for input; the in-game music blares out of the plasma's speakers. Eventually, lazily, Alexander stretches a toe out as far as he can and turns the Xbox off.

Blessed silence.

"You really kicked my ass," he notes.

[Sinclair] She nods slowly, her head drooping on her neck once, then lifting slowly only to drop a second time. This counts for an affirmative, but she goes ahead to add: "Yes." It's heavy, that one word, as though the weight of the world is resting on this fact: that she is fucking insane. "You are not the first to note this. Don't feel special. And yes... I did really kick your ass. It was... kinda epic.

"But," she goes on, her mouth stretching in a yawn that bites off the beginning of her next words: "you probably won't beat me at anything ever, so fucking get used to it."

[Alexander Vaughn] Alex snorts. "Oh, I'll find something."

On that note, he sits up. A little waveringly. Beanbags aren't the easiest things to get out of on a good day; stone drunk, it's a challenge and a half. He manages though. Of course he does. He squints at the Xbox for a while, then decides it's way too much trouble to unplug and lug back to his room tonight.

"You crashing at the Brotherhood?" he asks her, his new ... what, gaming buddy? Tribal rep? Something?

[Sinclair] As he gets up, Sinclair continues to just sprawl in the bean bag. Half-sprawl. Half-sprawl, half-curl, she lazes without thought of the arrangement of limbs, the attitude of her body, the pull of her clothes. She moves one socked foot to scratch at the opposite calf, nudging her sock down slightly. She snorts right back when he says he'll find something he can beat her at. "What, sucking at Soul Calibur? You already beat me at sucking at Soul Calibur, Alex, like... so much so that I could suck at Soul Calibur for the rest of my life and not suck as bad as --"

Her eyes go out of focus briefly. She chuckles. "Yeah. Me 'n' Joey and the Ducati and Ralph, we all live here in peace and harmony and bullshit, bullshit, bullshit." Her hand flops three times at that.

[Alexander Vaughn] Oh, that's it: Alex's tolerance snaps. "Hey, girl, I let you win. My mama taught me manners. You want a rematch, I'm up for it anytime." And he picks up the two empty beanbag chairs, one in each hand, and drags them back to their small cluster.

[Sinclair] Her eyes open, but they don't snap, don't pop. Her eyelids slide upward a bit, taking her from half-asleep to half-lidded, watching him with a lazy sort of viciousness. Sinclair doesn't say a word for a moment. "Apparently your mama did a shitty job," she says levelly. "Name the fuckin' contest, skidmark."

[Alexander Vaughn] Alex eyes the Glass Walker for a minute. Then he holds up a finger.

"Just a second."

He goes tromping downstairs. Unsteady on his feet or not, he still makes as much noise as he ever does. He's gone for a while. When he comes back he has two fresh bottles of scotch in one hand, two shotglasses in the other.

And he hands her one.

"All right, Sinclair." One of the beanbag chairs gets kicked right back over to where it was, and he drops down on it, cracking the first bottle -- it's Johnnie Walker Black -- open. "Seeing as how my mama taught me not to hit girls, we'll do this the old fashioned way." He tipples a shot into each of their glasses, keeps the bottle in hand, clinks his against hers. "Cheers."

Down the hatch. Immediately, he pours another shot.

"Also," he adds, "if I go into shock from alcohol poisoning, I'd appreciate if you'd call a fucking ambulance." And, rather unpredictably, he laughs. And tosses down another shot.

[Sinclair] He leaves, and she shrugs, leaning her head back and dozing slightly while he tromps downstairs. When Alex comes back up she lifts her head but nothing else, eyes the scotch, and chuckles. Her hands are folded over her belly. He pours. It's good scotch. She seems amused by him, and actually snorts when he says his mother taught him not to hit girls. And then he starts drinking, and she sits there and stares at him.

"...Seriously?" she says, hauling herself up into a sitting position. She turns around, facing him now, and reaches for the glass. She gave him the choice of contest, after all. "You don't want to just smack each other around?"

[Alexander Vaughn] "I can't even see straight right now," Alexander says, with a reckless sort of laugh. "If you want to try to break my face, you'll have to wait til tomorrow."

And he holds the bottle out to her, butt-first. "You want another shot or not?"

[Alexander Vaughn]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 4, 7, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Sinclair] "You're going to end up pouring scotch all over your pretty Xbox, and then where will you be?" she says, and downs the first shot. She reaches for the bottle and pours her own this time, tossing it back so she's caught up.

Well. 'Caught up' as far as the contest goes. Alex is kind of screwed from the outset here, and she points this out as she's feeling the scotch burn its way down her throat. She's not a terribly accomplished drinker, but she's at least familiar enough with this particular demon not to cough and sputter.

Her eyes go to his, but she holds out her glass for another. "This isn't a fair contest. Even if you win."

[Sinclair]
Dice Rolled:[ 3 d10 ] 2, 8, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Sinclair] [Pfft, what is this 'soak' you speak of?]
Dice Rolled:[ 1 d10 ] 1 (Botch x 1 at target 6)

[Alexander Vaughn] There's a flicker of something else on Alexander's face, in his eyes. It's not the reckless, edgy laughter; it's not the fragile, enormous ego or the arrogance or the cockiness or anything like that. It's something darker, there and then gone, like a shadow.

"Yeah well," he says, and he pours this time, "when the fuck is it ever fair when you play with werewolves?" And he stretches to set the bottle on the coffee table where they won't knock it to the floor. "It's the fucking effort that counts. Or something."

And down the hatch goes another shot.

[Sinclair] For a second there she's paused at that, while he's drinking. She doesn't notice the flicker in his eyes. She's good at video games, she's physically strong, she's going to end up drinking him under the table because she's starting off with less in her system and more ability to burn it off, but she can't understand people. She sees a flicker and thinks it's annoyance, or the burn of the Johnnie Walker down his throat. She doesn't think anything of it, because she doesn't know what it is.

She can't argue with him on that point. It's not ever going to be fair, when you go up against someone who has never and will never be hung over in her life. It's not fair, when he could beat the ever loving shit out of her if -- and only if -- she didn't shift, didn't use Rage, didn't use Gifts. It's not fair, because even if he left her a broken, bloody heap on the concrete, a few minutes in another form would heal her up, right as rain.

She tosses back the next shot just after he does, and reaches for the bottle. Something about his conclusion -- that it's the fucking effort that counts, or something -- quiets her for a moment. She belches quietly and refills both their glasses. It's true, she could tell him: I feel like that all the time, but then she'd end up talking about the War and the Wyrm and the whole Tribe and she assumes, most likely correctly, that he doesn't want to hear it.

So they drink. The closest they come to a toast is Sinclair muttering: "Hear, hear."

Down the hatch.

=========

It isn't very long later when Alex is so drunk that he can't find the bottle with his hand. He can't grasp it when Sinclair pushes it into his hands. She wraps his fingers around it, holds his other hand around the tumbler, and pours with him. Her hands are warm. No surprise there. Her cheeks are flushed. She helps him pour one last finger of scotch while he's shaking his head and mumbling challenges to her at the same time. She even fucking helps him drink it.

Alex is shitfaced. A couple of people have come and gone through the common room and just continued about their ways, not interested in getting between the two Glass Walkers and their drinking contest. No one sees Sinclair all but pouring the last few mouthfuls of scotch down the bastard's throat, however, quickly moving the bottles and tumblers away as he finally slumps, eyes rolling back a bit and head lolling on his neck. He mumbles something; it makes no sense, and she doesn't ask him what he's saying.

Negative seven equals six, something like that.

"No it doesn't," she slurs in her own right, offended by this foolishness. "It totally doesn't!"

Mr. Man does not answer. Sinclair climbs over on all fours, lifting up one hand to gently smack his cheek. "Hey. Skidmark. Hey. Whatsyer room? Heeey," she says, as he starts to sort-of open his eyes. She smiles at him, her face a few inches from his. They're not about to kiss. He'd probably throw up in her mouth. She just seems pleased, and genuinely pleased, that he's not in a coma. He probably won't remember her smiling. Or smacking his face like that. "You're not dead!"

What's his room. Four.

That's where she helps him walk, his arm slung over her shoulders, her arm around his waist. She's just a few inches shorter than he is, much lighter but strong as any athlete. It's awkward, getting him into Room 4, especially since his roommate is probably in bed when she dumps Alex into his. She does not remove his clothing, even his socks. But when he wakes up he's covered with his blanket. The trash can is by the head of his bed. And his Xbox and the controllers and games are sitting inside the bedroom door. An empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Black is sitting amidst the controllers with a note on it. All it says is:

3/5?