a pack with avery and morgan.

Avery Whitechase

Morgan -- and Rafael -- are tracked down, and invited via handwritten card to meet with Avery Whitechase at her city residence, please and thank you.

And Morgan -- and Rafael -- are buzzed in at the door to the simple, not-terribly-tall but tall-enough brick building downtown where Avery keeps her city residence, and heads up the elevator to the very very top where a whole other sort of structure exists: a two-story penthouse from which one can see north across the river and south into downtown Denver as well. But she can't see that yet. She -- and Rafael -- are greeted in the hall when the elevator opens by a young maid with auburn hair in a tidy bun, wearing gray slacks and a soft pink sweater.

This maid leads Morgan -- and Rafael -- to the proper door into the residence, though in the hall there is an umbrella stand, a runner rug, a mirror atop a table, and so on. It is pretty.

Just about everything Avery calls her own is, in some way, pretty.

--

The maid takes them inside, and Avery comes sweeping to them, beaming. She gives them what she calls the 'nickel tour' of her multi-million dollar penthouse, but she really doesn't waste much time leading them around to the library, square, with its big white couches and black shelves of books. On the coffee table in the middle of the couches are treats: crudite, canapes, petit fours, a chilled bottle of champagne waiting to be opened. There are edible flowers sugared around the edges of the platters.

"Come, come," she says, waving them to sit. "Make yourselves at home."

Avery Whitechase

[for reference, this is the layout of the floor they're on: http://o.homedsgn.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/Dietz-Lantern-Building-Penthouse-31.jpg

and this is the library they are in: http://o.homedsgn.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/06/Dietz-Lantern-Building-Penthouse-03.jpg

Rafael van der Valk

Was the wolf who gave Avery the contact info for Morgan, but truth is he hasn't seen her for months. A little awkward, showing up at the same time, same place. Standing together downstairs waiting to be buzzed up, wondering if he should say something -- or what.

"Hey," is what he ends up saying by way of hello. And anyway, it's not that long a wait. They go up. Wolf unzips his jacket as the elevator rises. Same jacket as last time, probably: the concrete-grey leather motorcycle thing he almost always wears. Should really get new clothes. Has possibly gotten new clothes, though you'd never know it. Still in jeans under the jacket. Still in a t-shirt.

A maid welcomes them, which makes wolf not know what to do. Can barely interact with his own wait staff, let alone someone else's. The treats, though, he can deal with. He eats the meatiest canapes he sees. Also a petit four. Anyway, by then Avery's shown up.

He sprawls on the couch. A stern headmistress would rap his knuckles, tell him to sit up straight. Perhaps after a moment he grows aware of that. Sits up -- a little straighter. Elbows on knees now, grabbing a handful of pistachio nuts and cracking them.

Morgan

There's as little fanfare to Morgan Roche's return to Denver as there was her departure - that being, none whatsoever.

Not that the redheaded Ahroun was ever particularly a creature drawn to explosive scenes (other than those of her own making in her warform). She'd simply packed her things and kicked shut the door to the apartment she'd been crashing in and hitched a ride out of state. Morgan's legacy being a small collection of empty soda bottles and a piece of scrap paper she'd scribbled incomprehensible notes on.

Her return was at dusk, sliding into evening. It was a beast ghosting out of the woods in possession of a very vibrant red coat and clear, intelligent eyes. They'd told her there was nothing to return to, she can still picture it - the proud figures drawn around her Grandfather's worn kitchen table; all that Fianna blood gathered together.

The flicker-dance of Rage passing through their eyes at her stubborn insistence.

We had family there, it's worth a look, 'n I'm goin'.

Morgan, Stands at Dawn's voice prickling the hair at the nape of her neck, her hand on the door. We need you here, not in a ghost town. Your duty is to your family. Come back soon.

-

It didn't feel like a ghost town, though. Striding through the streets of Denver wasn't a quest to uncover signs of life - it thrived and pulsed and bled everywhere the Ahroun turned. But there were changes - deserted apartments, empty Caerns; forgotten rooms and the crumbling potential she'd witnessed firsthand, once. Still - it wasn't what they'd predicted - those Fianna whose blood ran in her veins - who she owed some sort of allegiance to, she knew.

-

There were all kinds of duty, though.

-

She still doesn't quite fit into her skin; this creature that shows up at Avery Whitechase's city home. She's taller than she was the last time anyone had seen her; still with that long red hair and those sharp, clear eyes of hers. Still prone to sneakers and jeans, youthful uncertainty still lingered in Morgan Roche but she walked with more authority than she once, had.

Her shoulders were straight; her gaze had grown bolder.

-

She still feels like a rolling wash of verdent hills and anger, all said and done. She still cranes her head around and gawks at every small detail of the Silver Fang's impressive home, too.

Holds her hands with one wrist laced inside her grasp as if reluctant to touch anything around her.

Avery Whitechase

When both Rafael and Morgan were first introduced to Avery, her last name was Chase. Her family's name is still Chase. But by the size of the rock on her left hand, which is -- to put it one way -- big enough to show that He Means It, some things have changed. That would explain the faint scent, here and there, of a male. Of, specifically, a strong Fianna male. Who comes from a family called White.

Get it?

--

Avery is wearing a cream-colored sweater dress with short sleeves and a very slight cowl neck. Her hair is loose, wavy, and her earrings sparkle like the ring on her finger. Her heels click softly on her floor, but she is rather light of foot so each tap is quiet. Gentle, almost. She leads them, and jackets are taken, coats are hung by the maid. The maid is not the only servant here right now, but she is the only one visible. The penthouse is somewhat vast and still and holds an air of serenity, despite the wolf living inside of it.

Rafael sits. And he eats. Which is precisely what Avery asked them to do; she does not ask him to sit up straight. She does pour herself a little glass of sparkling water from a nearby carafe. Offers it to them as well; the maid has made herself scarce.

Her guests are quiet. Shy, perhaps. Uncertain, more than likely.

"Morgan, I am afraid that Mr. van der Valk and I have you at a disadvantage, as the two of us have already had some discussion about the purpose of this meeting," she tells the girl, jumping right in as she pours, as she hands out glasses, what-have-you. She does not touch the champagne. Her eyes lift to meet the girl's. "Recent events have reminded me that to carry on without a pack is not only a practical detriment in dire situations, but can rapidly become a dereliction of duty, allowing harm to fall where it would not, if one were not stubbornly alone."

Avery sips her water. "I reached out to Rafael here because of this realization, and he suggested that I also gather you into this invitation. It has been some time, and we never knew each other well, but I do recall you, Morgan. And favorably. So I will not mince words or beat around bushes: I am here to gather a pack to my side, and I find both of you worthy. I welcome your thoughts." With this, she picks up a petit four and takes a small bite of the pink-iced confection, watching Morgan's face.

Rafael van der Valk

There's something cagey about the wolf, here in his elder's house. Never mind that they speak of pack. Never mind that this would be his alpha. It is not yet. It is simply the den of another, stronger wolf. So he sits like that, hunched and crouched, big shoulders rounded. He eats almost out of instinct: fill the belly, flee the premises.

Blinks when he is offered a drink. Finishes his mouthful of whatever, wipes his mouth quickly -- on a napkin. At least there's that -- before he picks up a glass for her to fill.

Listens. And, before Morgan can quite reply, interjects low: "Told her to come find you 'cause we talked about it. Once. A long time ago."

Morgan

She settles down after a minute or two of deliberation, the Fianna female. Stands and stops and sort of - considers, the room. The gawking stops after those first few seconds. It's not that she's never seen lovely homes - she'd come from one, long ago when her parents still breathed - but it's been months of harsher living.

That was a choice of Morgan's.

Much as it was to keep careful distance from her brother while she'd been in Portland. Much as it was to pick fights and scrap with younger Ahrouns who questioned her capacity. She's going to become a striking woman if she allows herself to live long enough to see the day - but she will never shake the twinges of the beast about her; the scraped knuckles she hides in the folds of her slacks.

The new scar that runs across one of her collarbones.

The way her mouth compresses into this thoughtful line as Avery speaks. As Rafael mentions a conversation of months ago - tilt of her head and she sits for a beat, turning over their words before she says anything. Has to clear her throat as if to recall how addresses worked, in these circumstances.

It was different, with family. "I left for a while. Been back w'my family." She begins, quiet. Then: "They talked about Denver at one o'our gatherings recently. Said - " Pinch of fiery brows, constricting down. This tick of her eyes over the pair of them; this twinge of regret. "Said there wasn't nothing f'me to come back to see.

Came anyway." Her chin lifts a little at that, she meets Avery's gaze. "I think t'city needs protectin'. I think that's what I was made to do. I'm not - " she contemplates; plunges on with a spread of those bruised, surprisingly delicate looking warrior's hands. "I got my fists and I got what Gaia gave me. I'd gladly fight w'you, Rhya."

Avery Whitechase

If Avery notices Rafael's tension, she does not comment on it or attempt to correct it. She seems to understand it, on an instinctive level. More than that: she has her own tension to contend with. They are near strangers. They have no idea how few wolves have ever set foot in this penthouse. Her den.

She listens to Morgan as she eats her petit four, and simply nods, understanding. Family. The stories that trickled out: the fall of the city-centered Sept downtown, the near-decimation of the elders centered at the Caern to the south of the city. Many deaths. Her eyes narrow slightly as Morgan says her family told her that there was nothing to come back to.

Avery would hardly call it nothing. But clearly: Morgan also disagreed with her relatives.

So their eyes meet. And there's a flicker of dominance in Avery's blue ones, also instinct. It's not a warning; it's nowhere near a threat. It's a recognition. In a way, it's a sign of respect: if she did not see Morgan's strength, then Morgan meeting her eyes would mean nothing at all.

Morgan finishes, and then -- like the sun coming out from behind the clouds that cover the sky currently -- Avery brightens. "Oh, that's excellent," she says, happily, obvious in her pleasure. She has never formed a pack where it took more than a conversation, more than a brief discussion of how things would work before looking for a totem to follow. To be fair: this is also only the second pack she's ever formed. So she doesn't press for more: more intimacy, more explanation, more argument, more questions. She just looks pleased, and looks over to Rafael.

"I assume your mind has not changed?"

Rafael van der Valk

Wolf looks surprised at that. Perhaps a little offended. He's not thinskinned, but he is -- instinctively defensive. Unaccustomed to the company of people, or perhaps at least people who didn't dislike him in some way.

"'Course not," he says. And to Morgan, "Glad you're in."

Avery Whitechase

It slides off her back: Rafael's touchiness, Rafael's instinctive defensiveness. He always seems to be frowning anyhow. He's still here, after all. He is still answering in the negative: his mind has not changed. He is glad. Avery takes him at his word, and then reaches for the champagne, rising to her feet.

"Excellent," she says, sounding gleeful.

Without further ado, she pulls off foil, levers off the cork, and though it does POP, no foam flies anywhere. Not in Avery's house. Hardly. She already had flutes ready, and fills three of them, wearing a smile so bright it's almost goofy. And she is straightening up, holding two flutes towards each of them, her own resting in front of her on the table.

"We'll work out the particulars shortly," she says, taking the first stride of leadership as though she was born to it, as though it comes naturally.

Which she was.

Which it does.

"For now, only celebration."

Morgan

Morgan is sampling one of the canapes when Avery jumps to her feet - she hastens to follow suit, the younger Ahroun with momentarily startled, wide eyes and a mouth half full of food. It's so nearly an automatic gesture that she seems, after a beat, quite entirely humiliated for having done it and her cheeks warm as she works to chew her canape and toss Rafael a bright - if still hot faced - grin.

"We can go hunt later and celebrate f'real." A hand reaching for the champagne flute, the Fianna seems stuck for a beat before she adds, with a semi-apologetic murmur: "Not t'this isn't a good celebration. Just that it's not one that involves pullin' something's head off that's threatening the population."

Here's hoping none of Avery's staff have delicate stomachs.

-

Then, later: celebrations. Morgan's almost shy focus on the stone on the Silver Fang's ring. The stirring of something that she contains so often its revelation feels fragile and raw-edged. Effusive questions peppered about a wedding and marriage and her (theoretical) Kinsman.

It made them family, of a certain kind to Firebrand.

Rafael van der Valk

Bizarrely, Morgan's talk of a proper celebration, one involving pulling something's head off, makes the wolf grin. He dusts his hands of cocoa powder -- he was eating a chocolate truffle -- and picks up his glass, rising to join the others. His packmates-to-be.

Clinks his glass on theirs. A decidedly loud CLANK, actually, saved from fracture and spilled booze only by the quality of Avery's glassware.

"Guess I should give you guys my addresses," he says. "And my number, if you don't have it."

Avery Whitechase

If either of them think Avery is the type to balk at celebrating by a tawdry, messy hunt, they are both quickly disabused of this notion by the way she squeals to hear Morgan's suggestion. She looks like she could grab the girl's face in both hands and kiss her forehead in delight.

(One day they will meet her mate-husband and he may, prompted or not, describe his very first sight of the wolf who would become his wife. Here's a hint: it involved a bloody, enormous elk-carcass. Among other things, some of them terribly endearing.)

But instead of kissing poor Morgan, Avery hands her a flute of golden, terribly fine champagne. She hands the other to Rafael, then picks up her own, holding it aloft. "You are quite right, Morgan," she says, firmly, decisively. "We'll simply have to -- briefly -- pretend that the Dom is the bubbly blood of our enemies."

She says it so cheerfully.

And she toasts: "To the spirit who shall bless us, though yet unnamed," and then Rafael is CLANKing and she is laughing, tapping hers more gently against Morgan's as well, taking a sip to honor the invocation, and to seal it.

"Yes, yes of course," she says, after the bubbly has descended her throat, cool and clear and ticklish. "We'll sort all that out after we get drunk."

She said celebration.

She is married to a Fianna.

One hopes they both cleared their evenings. They're getting trashed with a Philodox tonight.

Avery Whitechase

[I think we should have some FPMs about totem spirits, totem point allocation, etc... I have not given much thought yet to what sort of totem spirits I might suggest so I'm fairly open!]

Morgan

[Yesss. We should. I need to read up about totems.]

Avery Whitechase

[*fives all around* that was a solid two-hour scene, y'all. less than. we crushed it. thank you so much!]

Morgan

[Likewise! New pack for the win. Whoo hoo!]

Rafael van der Valk

[w00t! *belated as fuck* i'm pretty open too. i will consider!]

are you kidding me?!

triumph

The concrete stairs and walls led down to a concrete hall that cut short and sharp from view thanks to the slope of the ceiling. Rafael could shine his bulb, but it wouldn't give him much extra foresight. He grumbled and started down the stairs anyways, and behind him the little girl laughed with glee. The sound was open and boisterous, if Rafael was hoping to sneak up that corridor his chances would be dashed with this girl in tow.

"Look, you're gettin' it!"

And they were off.

The walk took them up perhaps a block and a half of this slowly downward-sloping tunnel beneath buildings, where the walls were concrete and the floors were too and the lighting was industrial but bright-- bare and caged in with wire. At least it was not cold down here, nor was it wet. But at some point Rafael's memory seems to kind of blur. It's not a heavy or slowing or sleepy sensation, but rather a sudden coming to attention where perhaps he was too deep in thought and perhaps he'd missed something. He'd walked further or longer than he'd realized (with a tingle-and-drip sensation of passing through the Gauntlet in some weakened path that had been held open or built in), and the scenery had changed.

Where it was once concrete, gray-and-tan stone pebbled and mashed and mortared together was to be found instead. The ceiling was high but the walls had narrowed, and there was a faded old olive runner of carpet on the floor beneath their feet that appeared to have been trodden upon by any number and variety of muddy boots, feet, paws and hooves.

Behind, the girl still walked but appeared different. The same face and body, the same girl overall, but a dress of tanned hide fashioned carefully (not crudely at all, but seamed with needle and leather). The dust on her seemed thicker, her hair somehow wilder, her eyes brighter and standing out whiter on her dirt-brown face. She walked calmly with hands tucked away under pelts that were wrapped about her waist-- of course she wasn't phased by any of this.

"Just ahead," she said, and gestured ahead where the hallway stopped abruptly with a heavy wooden door and iron handle.

Rafael

"Shit."

Wolf stops. Stands where he is, gives his head a firm shake as if it'll jar him out of this. Wake him up. Girl-who's-not-a-girl probably doesn't know -- or maybe she does -- but this isn't his first unexpected jaunt into a different world. Last one didn't end so well. This one... well.

He's not even sure it will end. He's not sure this isn't just the shape his madness -- for they are all mad, the sons and daughters of Falcon --will take. Fugues into another world. Quests he thinks are real, but in fact are nothing but extended flights of fancy.

--

He's shown to a heavy wooden door. He glowers at it mistrustfully, then at the girl.

"Where am I? Where is this?"

triumph

The Wild Girl stopped walking when Wolf did, so that at no point did she pass his bulky frame in the narrow hallway (which seemed to fit her slender child-body far better than it fit him-- as though the passage was made especially for her and he was just piggybacking in).

Her arms crossed over her chest and she wrinkled up her nose and mouth at him.

"I'm gonna take you this far on a mystery and adventure and you're gonna stop with the door right in front of you--" this said with a jab of one hand toward the door, slicing air in the shape of a spade. "--and ask me to tell you what you're gonna find on the other side?

"What the hell are you, an old man? Wanna go home and watch NCIS instead?"

Rafael

In spite of himself, wolf grunts something like a laugh. Just a single staccato burst of it.

"Just been taken for one of these poof-you're-somewhere-else rides before. Hell. All I know, it was you that did it that time too."

He brushes past her. Grips the doorhandle, pulls.

triumph

The door was heavy, but no task for the Ahroun, and it swung open on gliding hinges. Immediately bright light flooded the corridor, natural and warm. Before him, Rafael found a landscape nothing like the city he'd gone from. The door opened out into a meadow of rich green wild grass and bloom, with bright blue sky and the occasional white cloud stamped here and there. The air was thick with the hum of insects and smell of bloom-- it was late spring, perhaps early summer here.

Beyond the meadow, perhaps several hundred yards from where he stepped out from, rose a line of tall trees that were dense and deep. They rose all around and stretched far on the rolling landscape-- there was no telling how large the forest was from this point of view, for hills blocked the far horizon, but he could feel somewhere deep in his animal soul that he was very far gone from man.

Outside the wooden door sat in a small wall of stone that was set into the dirt of a knoll. Once Rafael had stepped out, The Wild Girl followed along after him. Once her bare dirty toes touched the grass she sprang forward with a sudden quickness-- throwing herself to the ground and rolling about in the grass like a dog that found something interesting to smell. Or a bird dusting itself clean in a dry bath.

He was born of man, but he was a wolf too. The wolf knew this was a practice to scrub the smell of the city off her skin and clothes.

After a dozen seconds or so the girl sprang back up onto two feet and scratched at her scalp with both hands. She seemed less sullen with a lungful of this fresh air and grinned at Wolf with her bony elbows out in the air.

"Pretty, 'eh? Kuilis says you Wolves used to all live out here with us. But now a lot of you are in those stinkholes instead. How come you stay there?"

Rafael

Door swings open more easily than he would've thought. Expected it to be stuck. Expected to have to pound on it, loosen the hinges. Yet all he feels is weight, momentum: that oaken slab swinging inward to reveal --

"...what?"

Sound he makes is wonder and disbelief. Suddenly, in the dead of winter, he stands amidst almost-summer. Warmth he's almost forgotten touches his skin, seeps into his bones. Open-mouthed, the wolf stares while the girl darts past. Rolls in the grass.

By the time she springs back to her feet, he's taken a few steps into the meadow. Almost predictably, he turns around to look at the door. Expects to see -- well, he doesn't know what he expects. A door in a hut. A door in a mountainside. A door freestanding. No door at all.

Turns back, quickly, when she speaks. There's a clue there, but he doesn't know enough about spirit matters to decipher it. Still has little idea where he is.

"Was born there," he says for lack of a better reason to give. "Besides, I got a house up in the mountains."

triumph

t"Oh," said the girl blandly. She didn't seem to quite know what to do with that answer. Contemplating things like heritage and habit and the evolution and adaptation of Werewolves between when her Kuilis may be remembering them and what they are now-- well, all of that was much too deep for a twelve year old to spend too much time on. Especially when there are other things to be doing.

She blinked a couple of times, then put her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the sun and peered around through the treeline. Stretched up on her toes as though leaning farther and standing taller would help her see farther as well.

"Well, we should be seeing the signal soon-- ah, there it is!"

There indeed, about a mile deep into the forest to Rafael's left, was a flicker of motion to catch the attention up in the air. It seemed to be raining black in a small patch of trees there, but the rain was falling in reverse-- up instead of down. Certainly, the rain would yield to gravity and fall back to the earth, but it fell toward the sky first instead of from it. If he squinted hard and thought about it, he may be able to figure out what he was seeing.

"Heh, that's his favorite." The girl chuckled and gestured, much as she'd done before back on the streets, and started walking toward the brief spell of black rain, which by now had ceased its rise-then-fall. "Likes yellin' 'Draw, Fire!' and then makin' the new kids scamper to clean 'em all up. Never waste an arrow and you'll never need an arrow, he says."

More following, it seemed. At least this time he could see where they were going, though.

Rafael

It's not until she says arrow that he understands what he's seeing. Frowns, when he does. Doesn't follow immediately.

"Big on all things war, this Kuilis of yours, huh?"

triumph

Wolf didn't follow, so Girl stopped. She turned and looked back at him, a little surprised by what he'd said. This time she sounded genuine and curious when she spoke as opposed to sulky and sarcastic.

"Well, yeah. Aren't you?"

Rafael

"Not to the point where I shoot arrows at the sky for fun."

He starts walking. City-shod feet treading soft grass, fragrant wildflowers. A few steps into it he drops forward, lands on four paws. Withers up to girl's waist, he brushes past her, whuffing for her to take the lead.

triumph

"Oh don't worry, the arrows aren't for you." The Girl shook her head and put her hands on her skinny hips and twisted at the waist to look back in the direction that they would be walking. "They're for Worms," she explained, "but the Worms don't come 'round too close to Kuilis's camps. They haven't for a long time."

When she turned back to him again it was at the moment that his paws were finding dirt and grass between them first. He came up to her and she lifted her arms and hands reflexively, but all he did was brush past instead of attack.

With a grin, she brought her hands down onto his back and sides and rub-rub-patted his pelt like a giant shaggy dog.

"Wanna race?"

-------------

Of course, he would be able to win the race if he tried, but it may occur to him that charging into a camp full of arrows and war ahead of his liason may not be the best tactical decision. Still, the Wild Girl was fast and did not tire or lag behind far. She ran on her bare feet over springy earth and used hands and feet both to grab branches or push bushes or scramble over rocks to keep moving. She seemed to appreciate the wind in her wild hair as much as a Wolf would enjoy it combing their mane.

When they were close to the mile mark Girl slowed down, coming back up to two feet from an all-fours scramble she'd been making up the hillside through a shallow and barely trickling creekbed. It was cooler in the shadows of the trees, moreso here deeper in the forest. She went from running to a strolling walk instead, one arm out and hand raised to show to the Wolf that they were stopping, that they should slow.

When she perceived that he caught the gesture she brought her hand back to her mouth and leaned her head back a little. She looked like she was getting ready for a call sign-- that would make sense, out here in a setting like this. Rather than mimicking the call of a bird or chirp of a fat insect, though, the noise that Girl made was more of a grunty gutteral scream. Had Wolf ever heard what a squealing pig sounded like before?

It would echo back once after a few moments, then Girl would say "Come on, we're clear", and begin walking again.

Rafael

Doesn't know what fit of fancy came over him to make him shift, but once there wolf seems to figure he might as well commit. Gives a short, affirmative bark: yes, he does want to race. And he's not just humoring her. He does want to run. Wants to feel the wind in his fur, dirt beneath his paws. Wants to breathe clean, fresh air, cleaner and fresher than any on earth.

So they run. And soon enough wolf finds himself running in big exaggerated bounds, zigzagging, looping back, almost frolicking. Girl's quicker than he expected, has more staying power. He lets her win. And when she slows, he does too, going to a loping trot, then a walk.

Tongue's lolling. There are grass seeds in his white fur. He shakes them out, licks his tongue over his chops, blinks those yellow eyes. His ears pin back when she grunts. He looks at her askance. She leads on, and he tails her, mouth closed again, back to his wary self as they leave the sunlit meadow.

triumph

While they walked, Wolf would be aware of things in the trees above them. He could look up and peer but he wouldn't see much beneath the trees. A foot here, a wing of dusty brown or glossy black feathers, a furry bottlebrush tail all tucking away out of sight whenever glimpsed at. He'd hear a chatter, a giggle from a young boy, and an older woman's scolding shush.

All watching. The audience in the trees.

Soon a small clearing came into sight ahead. It was no meadow like they'd started in, for it wasn't large enough for the sky to peek through the dense foliage overhead. It was the size of a small horse paddock at best, and the dirt was stamped down here as though many assemblies had occurred here over who knows how many years.

The Girl stopped and stood near the edge of the clearing-- out past the trees so that her toes were pressed on the bare dirt instead of the spongey moss and grass. She stared quietly out into the trees for a few seconds, then lifted a hand and jutted out her chin to scratch at her jaw and neck while she spoke.

"Alright, so here we are. Kuilis, he likes a challenge. Likes the boilin' blood and the good sport. You Wolves have circles like this in your camps, right?"

It did look an awful lot like a challenge circle, now that she mentioned it.

"He wants to know-- do you accept a sport challenge?"

Rafael

As they near the clearing, the wolf begins to shift again. Step by step, shape by shape, at last emerging into the small glade in man-shape again. He looks about, up and all around, trying to catch sight of the mischief-makers in the trees.

Pulls his eyes back to the girl. The frown is back, as though the joyous romp through the meadow never happened. "Guess I do," he says.

triumph

It was a wolf body that appraoched the circle, but a man body that walked into it. He was cautious and suspicious, but here in a world not entirely his own he didn't have much choice. The mischevious things in the trees didn't show themselves, but the didn't attack either. At no point did he find himself with a sharp black arrow piercing his back. The hospitality that he could perceive out here under the trees was being upheld.

Would he accept the challenge? He supposed so.

The girl grinned wider and clapped a hand on Rafael's forearm (it would be a shoulder if she were a full sized person, from what the gesture seemed to be trying to get across).

"You're gonna have fun," she told him, and backed away out of the circle.

If he watched her go, he'd find that she went a couple trees back before finding a low hanging branch to climb up and perch upon, legs swinging and eyes wide and watchful. His attention would soon have a sudden crashing to grab hold of it.

Across the small stamped-down clearing came a crunching and crashing and rumbling from the trees, the sound of something large approaching fast. A creature appeared all at once-- a wall of brown shaggy fur and a flash of yellowed tusks before a creature roughly the size of a grizzly bear came bowling into the circle. It could be mistaken initially for a bear, but upon focus Rafael would find a flat snout, a stringy tail, heavy black hooves, and an almost absurd number of tusks sprouting from mouth and jaw and the ridge of the spine between the shoulders.

The Beast-- Kuilis-- Boar-- snorted and stamped before tossing his head and bellowing.

A Challenge it was.

Rafael

Wolf has no idea that this is Kuilis.

Wolf has no idea what the fuck is going on, really. Has just enough time to shout up at the girl: "Are you kidding me?!"

Then he bursts into his warform -- charges the boar as the boar charges him.

triumph

beast
Init +7

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (3) ( fail )

Rafael

+9!

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (6) ( success x 1 )

Rafael

[actually +10, sorry. he'd be in hispo cuz he didn't have time to Razor Claw up!]

triumph

beast: 10
Rafael: 16

beast
[Grapple!]

Rafael

1. Tackle!

R1. Jaw lock!

Rafael

[tackle -- attack roll!]

Dice: 10 d10 TN6 (3, 3, 4, 4, 4, 6, 6, 6, 7, 9) ( success x 5 )

Rafael

[dex+ath roll to keep footing. -2 diff for Perfect Balance. dex spec = precise, prob not applicable.]

Dice: 9 d10 TN4 (1, 2, 2, 3, 3, 4, 4, 5, 6) ( success x 4 )

Rafael

[sorry, that's 2 succ on the initial attack -- it's a diff 7 attack]

triumph

beast
[remain footing!]

Dice: 7 d10 TN8 (3, 5, 5, 6, 8, 9, 9) ( success x 3 )

Rafael

[str+1 dam on the tackle! bashing.]

Dice: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 3, 5, 6, 7, 7, 8) ( success x 4 )

triumph

beast
Soak!

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 1, 1, 3, 5, 6, 10) ( success x 2 )

triumph

beast
Grapple!

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 5, 5, 6, 8, 9) ( success x 3 )

Rafael

[R1: try to reverse! str+brawl! i don't think Crushing or Vicious apply here.]

Dice: 11 d10 TN6 (2, 3, 3, 3, 3, 5, 5, 7, 8, 8, 10) ( success x 4 )

triumph

[Failure to reverse! However, that IS enough successes to break free so I'll allow that much!

Keeping same Inits for next round

beast
Action: Grapple again! There might become a pattern here

Rafael

[SECOND VERSE! SAME AS THE FIRST!

1. tackle!

R1. jaw lock! :D]

Rafael

atk!

Dice: 10 d10 TN7 (1, 3, 3, 3, 3, 4, 5, 6, 6, 6) ( botch x 1 )

Rafael

[FUCK YOU KAHSEENO!]

Rafael

[THERE I SAID IT]

Rafael

[*RIPS PAPER CROWN OFF HEAD, STOMPS ON*]

Rafael

[OW]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 5, 6, 8, 8, 9) ( success x 4 )

triumph

beast
Hahahaha Wolf fell down. Grapple! -2 diff for prone-ass Wolf

Dice: 7 d10 TN4 (2, 5, 5, 6, 7, 9, 10) ( success x 6 )

Rafael

[HEADBUTT. Because Ahroun. +1diff for stuck.]

Dice: 10 d10 TN7 (2, 2, 3, 5, 5, 5, 5, 7, 8, 8, 10, 10) ( success x 5 ) Re-rolls: 2

Rafael

[double-edged damage! str+4]

Dice: 11 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 3, 5, 5, 5, 6, 7, 8, 10, 10) ( success x 5 )

Rafael

Dice: 1 d10 TN6 (5) ( fail )

triumph

beast
ow. Soak!

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 3, 3, 6, 7, 10) ( success x 3 )

Rafael

soak!

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 9) ( success x 2 )

triumph

[Rafael, your opponent has an "almost absurd amount of tusks" -- soak 5 agg]

triumph

The many-tusked boar-beast came charging and skidding into the circle, tossing its head and snorting. Rafael shouted at the girl in the tree behind him (who giggled, amused by his exasperation), then burst from his Man skin into his Wolf-Beast skin instead. As a Hispo, he was roughly the same size as the Boar-Beast, but far more regal looking for certain. The Boar had tiny black eyes and huffed steam from his nostrils even though it was a perfectly warm day.

The fight was a tussle-- two massive monsters slamming into one another, trying to get each other onto the ground so they could pin them. Rafael wisely did not go in with claws or teeth, for it appeared that the Boar-Beast in turn was making no effort to gore him with any of those sharp ivory tusks sprouting from its mouth and brow and shoulders.

At first it seemed clear that Rafael was bound to win. He was faster, better on his feet and perhaps even more accustomed to throwing his weight around than his opponent. He'd gotten the Boar into the dirt but he was soon upright and charging once more.

Rafael charged as well, trying once more to knock the beast down so he could get a good wrap of jaws about his throat, but had twisted about too quickly and caught one paw against the other. He literally tripped over his own feet and crashed into the ground right at the Boar-Beast's feet. All but presenting himself to the spirit on a platter. The Boar gleefully dropped his head and worked to lock the Wolf's head against the earth in between the two longest tusks.

That was when the Wolf did the unthinkable, and headbutted the Many Tusked Beast.

No matter how he may have tried, there was no avoiding injury from the tusks in front of his face. The angle was all wrong for appropriate leverage, and while the Boar felt unshaken and unbruised from the effort Rafael found himself with several deep gashes on his face, including a puncture completely through his right cheek. The Boar was still, staring down at him, and even seemed to be holding its breath with some shocked response to what just happened. Rafael was pretty sure he could see shock in those black eyes.

Then the Boar huffed his hot breath at Rafael. Waited for the Wolf to pull his own head back and slide his own cheek-meat from the tusk upon which it was skewered. Only once that had happened, a rough rumble of a voice grumbled its way from the boar's only vaguely moving lips.

"Did you expect that to work better?"

The words on their own were taunting, but that grumble was flavored jovial.

Rafael

"No," snarls the wolf -- a blast of hot breath, fine mist of blood spraying.

"Expected you to know I won't give up."

triumph

The Boar-Beast's answer came in a form that was probably unexpected for the Ahroun.

Laughter. Deep, rumbling laughter like stones rolling down a mountainside filled the challenge circle. The Boar-Beast unburied the ends of its longest tusks from the dirt on either side of Rafael's head, then lifted its giant head and stepped back, giving Rafael the space he'd need to get back up to his feet.

Still laughing, shaking his head from side to side, the Boar stepped backward until its rear was near to the edge of the challenge circle again. Elsewhere, in the trees, leaves rattled with laughter and delight as well-- a bird-like chorus to back up its boss.

"I'm glad I sent for you, Wolf of Falcon. I'm not disappointed."

Rafael

Hackles are still up as the great boar backs off. Wolf gets to his feet swiftly and warily, twisting up to four paws. Licks at that grotesque wound on his cheek.

"You?"

Takes a moment. Processes it.

"You're Kuilis?" Another beat. "What do you want from me?"

triumph

this is me closing tags

Rafael

[fak.]

Rafael

[oh wait that was your fault! LOL]

triumph

[*sheepish*]

triumph

"Oh for crying out loud, Falcon Wolf!"

Penny, as she'd called herself, shouted out to the big white wolf with the red-stained cheek and face. She was still up in the trees, still sitting on a low branch, but had transferred herself to a tree right on the edge of the clearing instead since he'd last noticed her. She was holding onto the branch with one hand while the other gesticulated frustration at him. It made her look very much like a sports fan in the stands when her team's player missed a clear shot.

The Boar-Beast snorted and flicked a wire-haired ear with a notch missing from it. His head swung so he could look back at the girl, who fell into a frustrated quiet in turn. He then looked back to Rafael and stared bluntly.

"A fight. A contest of strength. To see what you're made of."

The way he dipped his head and fluttered thick black eyelashes somehow translated into the same sentiment that a shrug would have-- dismissive, rephrasing, concluding.

"I do this with the Wolves from time to time. They often come to me to guide them in their purposes, and I often accept, but I like to test their People as a whole. To make sure you're all still up to snuff and not wilting away out there with your Weaver-Gifts of Complacency."

Rafael

Still wary. Curiosity starting to kindle, though. He extends his neck, sniffs delicately at the air.

"Are you Boar? The Boar?"

triumph

Boars couldn't really smile-- their mouths weren't equipped for it. This was a spirit, and for that reason he was able to form language that the Wolf would understand. Still, there was a sense of warm knowing in how the Beast closed its eyes and dipped its head a little to answer.

It wasn't necessary, but Penny couldn't help herself on the sidelines:

"Duh."

Of course it's Boar.

"He has many names. There are many languages with his name in it-- Kuilis is one of the oldest, you know. From where some of the first Wolves began to ask for his help, and--"

"Child, still yourself."

Penny stilled, and Boar spoke to his summoned guest again.

"I like your mettle. I've lived many years and had many fights and cannot say that I've had many warriors impale their faces upon my tusks just trying to crack my skull." He adds in a lower rumble with good humor-- "My arse has seen more claws, though..." The rumble bled into a rough chuckle, and he tossed his head. "You have done well. If you are ready, you can leave when you like."

Rafael

"Oh."

Wolf's not sure how to take that. Or what to do with himself. Thinks a while. Shifts, eventually. Returns, form by form, to the shape he was born in.

Stands there now, a young man with a stormy brow, a big ugly hole on his face. Other gashes ripping through an eyebrow, nearly taking out an eye. Consider Boar a moment.

"Honored," he mutters. Doesn't mean it to be backhanded; just doesn't know how to say that straight. "Thanks." A small pause. "Just one question. What's the kid's deal? Some spirit in your camp?"

triumph

Words like 'honor' weren't often associated with things like passive-aggressiveness in Boar's world. Backhandedness that may have been picked up on by another was completely lost upon him. He seemed content to watch the Wolf, while he bled back from Wolf-Beast into Man-Skin.

"Not quite sure what to make of a fight that doesn't end with a kill, 'eh?"

There was some hesitation in the man after giving his thanks and seeming to be preparing himself to leave (however that may happen-- perhaps back the way he came somehow?), a question lingering on his tongue. When the question was loosed like an arrow to taste air, the Boar looked back to Penny and snorted, which apparently signaled her to start climbing back down the tree again. As she did, he explained simply:

"I am a spirit of War. War has many children, for it leaves many Orphans. This child was lost in one of the Great Wars of the Men, and happened upon me in the echo of the battlefield."

The rest was history, apparently. Penny was down from the tree and stood at the circle's edge, clearly waiting for Rafael to say when he was ready so she could piggyback him through the Umbra and back out to the Physical Realm again. If he was looking at her as though to confirm the Boar's story, she'd shrug and stick out her lower lip and nod a little like yeah I suppose that's pretty much it.

Rafael

Wolf shakes his head. Slow at first, then with greater certainty.

"No. It's not that. Just not sure what to make of meeting an Incarna avatar."

Well look at him with the big words. Even hearing them coming out of his own mouth makes him uncertain. Topic changes, though. Eyes go to Penny, considering.

"Sad," he comments. And it is. Not much more to say about it. He looks at Boar: "You gonna have me back here someday?"

triumph

"It depends," came Boar's answer. He watched Rafael without blinking now, considering whether he'd be seeing this same white-furred tusk-headbutting Wolf in the future. "Would you find yourself following me someday?"

Then, another snort from the snout mingled with a chuckle. "Or maybe even if you did not. I'd like to see what more you could come up with after another decade or two of War under your belt." Sharp black hooves pawed the ground, then the great lurking Boar-Beast looked up to the sky as it began to lumber its way back across the challenge circle and out through the way it had come charging in previously.

"I have other guests to greet. Live and die well, Young Falcon Wolf."

With that the great many-tusked beast crunched and rumbled its way back through the trees and underbrush through the dense primordial forest once more.

Penny, on the other hand, looked at Rafael and made a sympathetic hissing sound by sucking air through her teeth. "That looks rough. You're lucky you didn't poke your eye out, got close there, huh? Hey, you ready to get out of here? C'mon." She waved her hand for him to follow and started walking through the trees-- not the way they'd come from, curiously enough, or even following after her boss, but another direction entirely.

Rafael

Wolf doesn't answer; an answer doesn't seem necessary. Wants to give his farewell somehow, though. Raises his fist, in the end. Presses it briefly to his heart.

Kuilis lumbers away. Sense of excitement, anticipation begins to dissipate. All those watching eyes: they start turning away, looking for the next fight, the next match, the next challenge.

"Had worse," wolf says, which could be bravado but isn't. Falls in behind her again. Starting to feel familiar, that.

"Glad he took you in," he adds as they leave the clearing. "He wasn't ... what I expected. From what I'd heard about Boar."

triumph

"Me too," Penny agreed with Rafael's sentiment. It was good thing that the spirit of War took her in, and she was glad for it. The last time they'd raced in toward the challenge circle, but now Penny walked on those bare feet across the forest floor. She was looking around, searching for something and walking as the same slow pace that a searcher would. This time she didn't know the way directly, but she did know what she was seeking at least.

"All of those Big Spirits appear however they want. Folk like to paint Kuilis as some big screamin' sack of nonsense-- all spittle and Rage and nothin' else. He ain't so simple. Told me that folks like to paint you Full Moons just the same way; y'all's supposed to be a mask of Rage and not much else going on beneath. We all know better than that."

They'd walk for some quarter of a mile or so before coming upon a large fallen tree, whose trunk was broad enough that a modest single-story hut could be carved from it. The roots that had ripped from the earth were dangling dry a foot above Rafael's head. When they found it, Penny made a small 'aha!' sound and picked up the pace, trotting up to the old hollowed piece of wood.

"Here," she said, and came around to the end of the fallen tree opposite the roots. The trunk had snapped in half at some point, so the other end offered a space within which he could walk at a stoop (or he'd fit through easily and comfortably in Lupus). "It's on through a rabbit hole for you, and back out on the other side of that there lookin' glass, Alice."

Rafael

Wolf's heavy eyebrows lift for a moment; that clouded brow clears. Likes it that she gets it without him having to explain. Appreciates that she gets it, even if he didn't put it into words. Not some big screaming sack of nonsense. Not just spittle and Rage and nothing else.

"Yeah. Guess you're right."

Goes quiet, then, most of the way back. She leads. He follows. Looks around. Looks up. Looks at the unspoiled forest, smells the sap and the foliage, the wildness and cleanness of the place. Not many places like this left on earth. Maybe none at all, quite like this. He enjoys it while he can.

Soon enough they've stopped by the tree. She wants him to walk in. He quirks an eyebrow at her.

"Couldn't even show me the door this time." It's a mock-grouse. He puts his hand on the rim of the hollowed tree-trunk, ducks to peer in. Pauses, one foot already inside, to look at the girl-spirit.

"Thanks for the detour, Penny," he says. "Maybe I'll see you again, huh?"

triumph

"Wolf, you don't wanna go backwards through that hall. Then everything is backwards when you come out the other end and you gotta get all unscrambled again. You ever got caught in the way between Realms? It's like that. Kind of." She grinned. He was mock grousing, but she couldn't pass up an opportunity to share spiritual insight with the Wolves that were Half Physical Half Spiritual. Wouldn't that be fun, imagining what it was like to be scrambled backwards and caught between Realms at the same time?

He was partway inside the log but paused to bid the wild-haired girl farewell. Maybe he'd see her again?

Her eyebrows went up and she shrugged. "Oh maybe. Probably. If time doesn't blow too hard and make us all fly away."

She raised a hand, all pink-palmed with dirt under the fingernails and scuffed scraped scars on her knuckles. "Happy Hunting, Wolf! Don't hit yer head on the way out."

It was a good warning, Rafael would find. This path was much shorter than the hallway they'd walked through to reach the forest to begin with. He only just got the whole of his body inside the trunk when it felt like the floor suddenly shifted down under his feet and tossed him forward, like a shovel full of coal down a chute. One moment he was falling downward, then the next thing he knew the slide curved under him like a scoop. His ass and feet found surface again just long enough for him to perhaps consider grabbing for purchase before he was dumped onto damp frost-coated grass and out into the open of the night.

Back in Denver. Back in the Physical Realm. When he oriented himself, he'd figure out that he was in Washington Park, having apparently just fallen from nothing and landed behind a park bench. The sun was just barely beginning to lighten the horizon to the east. He should probably go home and clean his face before people start asking what he fell on.

you can't smoke. someone's going to report you to CPS.

triumph

This week has been a blip in the weather patterns for Winter-- the temperatures had been in the mid-fifties for the first half of the week and today they even stretched up into the sixties. The flocks of geese flying north overhead and spied nibbling grass seeds from soccer fields signified the early onset of spring weather, as did the returning hum of insect wings in the night.

Rafael found himself patroling his territory this evening, with the sunset almost entirely finished, offering only the faintest pink-red haze peeking from behind the mountains to the West, the rest of the sky dusky purple and bruised black-blue with rainclouds that drifted threateningly by without dumping anything yet. The warmth of the day was still hanging around in the humid air, and kids who were outside taking advantage of the weather were playing noisily, but decreasing in number as many mothers called to them to come in for dinner. His ears would catch one particularly irate woman a half a block up an adjacent street bellowing to her child that she'd 'come drag [him] back by [his] goddamn ears if [she] has to call out one more time!'

His feet were probably getting used to marching this particular path. In the city and the wild alike, wolves became very familiar with their territory and its outskirts.

Above, though Rafael couldn't see it, he could feel the moon. Tonight was the last night that it would scream the war-song to his Rage as it was doing now. If ever there was a night that he needed something to challenge him so he could spend that fire and wet his claws, it would certainly be tonight.

Maybe if he was lucky, something would cross his path.

[Let's start with a Perception + Alertness roll!]

triumph

[shhhh]

Dice: 4 d10 TN6 (3, 4, 5, 9) ( success x 1 )

Rafael

[P+A! I READ THAT SLOWLY OKAY.]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 5, 6, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )

triumph

Somewhere behind him, somebody is a'sneaking.

They're not doing a very good job of it, though.

Rafael hears: sneakers scuffing on the sidewalk as scampers, stops, scampers, stops, and so on. Rafael sees: out his peripherals, a petite figure in dark loose clothes, following behind only to dart into alleys or behind shop displays trying to go unnoticed.

They're terrible at sneaking.

Rafael

Strange that he doesn't really think of this as his territory when it so clearly is. When he's so clearly territorial, at that: creature who likes knowing where he stands. Likes understanding the ground beneath his feet. Doesn't particularly care for the people, but they're part and parcel, and so he protects them too -- secondarily, and by corollary.

All of which is to say: he's on the prowl. Street-level today, hands in the pockets of his motorcycle jacket. Up until recently that was probably the best item of clothing he owned -- thick, real leather, with removable ceramic plates to cushion in case of a wipeout. He still wears it more than anything else, collar turned up against the cold. Stride's long and feet are sure. He's not particularly careful about the noise he makes.

Is aware of the noises made by others, though. Particularly people following him. A block, two, and then he's sure of it. He's got a tail. Turns his head like he's looking across the street and there it is in the corner of his vision, darting behind a dumpster like maybe he wouldn't see it.

The wolf stops. He turns around. When his shadow peeks out from behind that shoddy screen, he's right there staring back.

triumph

Rafael stopped and turned about completely to steady a stare and wait for his follower to come out and see that they'd been caught. It only takes a few moments before he gets the satisfaction of seeing the expression of somebody being busted.

The head that pops out from behind the dumpster is that of a young girl, possibly a pre-teen but possibly not quite yet there either. She had a wild looking mane of dusty blonde hair that stood high away from her head before falling back down around her shoulders and onto her back. She had tanned skin, like she spent a lot of time playing outside. Fuzzy blonde eyebrows flew up in surprise when she found that she'd been spotted, and hazel eyes that were already wide with youth widened further.

For a moment she stood there-- leaned out from behind the dumpster and looking at the Werewolf. Deer in headlights. Hand caught in cookie jar.

Then, with an intake of breath and an expression of steeling resolve, the girl stepped out from behind the dumpster, revealing that she was dressed in baggy back pants and a baggy black long-sleeved shirt as well. Like she was trying to blend in with the shadows with her attire (even though it obviously didn't help her any). With her arms stuck by her sides and pumping along with her quick steps, the girl marched quickly forward toward Rafael, but stopped a good ten feet away.

She kept her fists clenched at her sides and looked like she was being forced to take medicine and looked to the side instead of right at him, and spoke quickly in an almost sullen tone.

"I'm s'pposed to find you and bring you with me. You's the Falcon Wolf, right?"

Rafael

Wolf's eyebrows wrinkle together instantly. "Who the hell are you? And who the hell sends a ten year old girl out on East Colfax alone?"

triumph

"Twelve."

The girl answered with petulant tone and wrinkle of her nose, the way that any child will when they're mistakenly accused of being younger than they were. At that age, every month counted toward life experience worth acknowledging.

She sniffed a little and lifted a hand to scrub under her nose with the cuff of her sleeve.

"You's invited to a real special party. A treat. A wrassle. Boss said that Falcon Wolf has the strength and the hard skull, or so we heard. The Moon--" she pointed up at the sky and continued -- "She singin' your blood song, ain't she?" Those ghost-pale eyebrows fluttered up on her dirty little forehead again. She looked dusty, but not homeless. Her clothes were clean enough, and not too tattered.

"Come on. What you got to lose, 'eh?"

Rafael

"Too young," he fires back immediately.

She wipes her nose. Wolf grimaces. Kids could be so gross. He digs in his pockets, comes up with a rumpled dinner napkin, which he hands to her. Meanwhile she's talking about a special party, a wrassle; knows way too much about him.

"Not interested," he says. "Who's your boss? Where are your parents?"

Rafael

Dice: 3 d10 TN6 (5, 7, 7) ( success x 2 )

triumph

The napkin that he offered was regarded as though it had Fuck You written on it in black marker. The girl's brow knitted together and, for the first time, she looked him right in the eyes. Her irises were hazel, no doubt, and the pupils were black as they should be, the whites white as well. But in the center of the pupil, and laced through the brown-green-gray of the iris, was a pinprick of crimson that seemed to have bled out from the center.

The sight, the moment of eye contact, caused a jolt somewhere deep in Rafael's chest and belly both-- like a cold hand reached into his very essance and chose to play a few quick notes on his spinal cord like a harp. There was an energy, an essence, that he was familiar with despite his birthright as an Ahroun instead of a Theurge.

This girl was not normal. She felt like she'd passed through the Umbra and carried some of the Spirit Essence along with her.

"Not interested," she said, throwing his words back at him but now about the napkin. If she wanted to have a snot-crusted sleeve that was her right as a free girl. Except that the free girl had a boss, apparently, whom Rafael was asking after along with her parents.

"Parents? Oh don't you worry about those. They ain't yours to be concerned about. Ain't hardly mine to be concerned with either. The Boss, though? That's Kuilis. And turnin' down Kuilis's invite? That's a mistake, Wolfman."

Rafael

There's a trickle of ice down his back.

There's a tickle of something else in the pit of his stomach. A sort of excitement; a stirring of recognition. Not of her. Not even of the otherness of her. It's something deeper and more primitive than that: recognition of the hunt. Recognition that there's a bloody raw game afoot.

He crouches. Slow and easy. Now he's eye level with this girl-who's-not-a-girl, looking carefully at her.

"Who are you really? What's this about?"

triumph

The Silver Fang crouched down so that he was now eye level with the girl. She claimed to be twelve years old, but she was petite with thin limbs and knobbly joints. Some twelve year olds were five and a half feet tall already, but this one was perhaps four and two-thirds at best. He was moving slowly and easily, perhaps so as not to trigger his own Rage, but perhaps so as not to provoke this spirit-soaked girl who had come seeking him.

When asked who she was, she looked impatient and aggravated and rolled her eyes and shook her head. Spirited though she may be, she very much acted like a middle school student.

"Even though it's super unimportant right now, I suppose you can have my name. It's Penny. The name you need to worry about is Kuilis."

She jerked her head back over her shoulder, in the direction they'd come from. "I already told you what this is about-- what makes you think I was lying to you, huh? Boss told me that you Wolves is at War, but you ain't at War with everyone and everything. This ain't no trap. It's an invitation. To a wrasslin' party. Now, it's rude to turn it down. Sometimes Boss gets all riled up, but hey?" She grinned, and it was a cheshire thing. "Maybe that'll make it more fun.

"Now," she spoke with a note of finality and leaned backward, like she was stretching her body to begin walking away soon. "You comin', or what?"

Rafael

He leans back, sits on his heels. Frowns.

"Feels like a trap to me," he says, and despite it, stands. "I'll come along. For now."

triumph

The girl-- this 'Penny' as she called herself-- shook her head and rolled her eyes again. She beckoned to him to follow her with a wag of a couple of fingers toward her palm, then turned around and started to walk up the sidewalk.

As she went, she reached into the deep pockets of her large pants and produced a pack of Newports. Started tapping them into her palm to pack them and spoke as she went.

"Soldiers are so paranoid of traps. I get this all the time. They tells the Boss 'maybe you should change how you send invitations?' Boss don't like change. Boss laughs, says 'maybe you should sack the fuck up'.

"What's ya name, Falcon Wolf?"

Rafael

"Jesus, are you kidding me?" wolf mutters. "You can't smoke. Not if you're gonna pretend to be a little girl. Someone's going to report you to CPS."

Follows, though. Catches up, walks alongside her.

"Rafael. What's this Boss Kuilis like?"

triumph

Penny laughed openly and went on chimp-knuckle-smacking the cigarettes into her palm for a few more strokes before holding the pack up and shaking a few cigarettes loose. One came free and was put between her lips. The pack was offered back to him as well-- whether he accepted or declined was inconsequential. The girl would light up and the pack would ultimately find its way back into a pocket in her pants.

"One, I'm not pretending to be a little girl-- I am not a little girl. I'm twelve, I told you. Just because I'm different doesn't make me not what I am. Two, you kiddin'? This is Colfax. East Colfax. Nobody gives a shit-- they all jus' glad I don't have a needle hangin' out my arm."

Smoke would swirl miasma-like around her hand and face as she smoked and walked. She glanced up at him and grinned. "Oh, you gonna like Boss. Boss brings the ruckus, the kind you War Moons like. Rewards the winners too. This is gonna be fun, you gotta relax more. Nothin' more fun than bleedin' with friends."

Her grin was sharp-- not literally, her teeth were still blunt and square, but her eyes were still bright and red-laced and spirited. She'd lead him on.

Onward they would walk. She was willing to talk as they walked, but her chatter wasn't necessarily the most interesting thing in the world if left undirected, and she didn't like playing twenty-one questions and would stop if pressed too hard. She'd chatter about great burger joints and how she got this scar on her knee and this time when an earring got yanked out in a fight because she's a tussler too you know and...

They along Colfax for about three blocks until they came to a stretch of storefronts close together. There was a narrow alley between two of them that she'd lead them down-- light didn't touch back here. The building on the left had three doors down its brick length, and she picked the very last one. Tapped on the lock with her finger three times before opening the door. Inside-- concrete steps leading down to a hallway with a bare bulb light hanging on its cord.

She waved her hand to lead him in while holding the door open with her back.

"We gonna take the tunnel."

Rafael

A beat's hesitation; then he takes a cigarette. Catches the lighter when she tosses it over. There's practice in the way he cups flame to tobacco. He hands the lighter back, shoves his hands in his pockets, squares his shoulders to the wind.

Snorts a laugh at the needle-in-arm line. She's probably right. Damn if he's going to say so though.

"Seems like a bad idea," he mutters -- but follows anyway. Curious maybe. Or just stubborn.

Onward they walk. She prattles on. It's very dull to the wolf, who answers in monosyllabic grunts. Listens as she talks about fighting, earrings yanked out; what the fuck. He's given up trying to figure out what the hell she is. For now, anyway.

When she stops, he sniffs the air audibly. Peers distrustfully down the steps. Grabs the hanging bulb and points it down, looks to see how deep the steps are.

"Yeah, this doesn't look suspicious at all," he grumbles. Starts down.

after-dinner drinks, pack.

Avery Whitechase

The restaurant, not far from the 16th Street Mall, is called Rioja. It is one of the finest in town. It is where Avery is having dinner, alone. She is not sad. Does she wish her husband was with her? Of course. Has she texted him about the fare and openly suggested he take her here sometime? Naturally. For the most part, has she kept her phone out of sight, dining alone and with grace on a little picnic of artisan meats, pine nut crusted goat cheese, fennel salad, and orange confit? Yes. Has the staff assigned to her table wondered to each other quietly in the back of house if she is a food critic as yet unknown to them and been extra-attentive? Yes.

She is currently sipping wine while dining on New Zealand red deer with butternut squash and a fig-sage puree. She has already alerted the staff that she would like brandy snap cannoli and the pistachio and pears and variations of chocolate for dessert when she's finished with her red deer. She has requested that the coffee selections and dessert wine list be left at the table for her guest, who will be joining her for dessert and after-dinner drinks shortly.

When Rafael arrives at Rioja, he will find Avery sitting at a table for two alone, her hair done up with effortless elegance and softening wisps along her jawline and brow. He will find her in a heather-gray dress that follows the lines of her body with grey-on-grey piping at the seams and a notch in the straight neckline. She wears no jewelry but her engagement ring and wedding band and the pearls in her ears.

Rafael van der Valk

Even now the wolf is uncomfortable in a place like this. Arrives at the appointed time -- more or less -- and stands tensely before the greeter in his motorcycle jacket, his jeans. Traded up on the shirt: no t-shirt tonight but a button-down instead, short-sleeved, and yes: grey. Exposed when he unzips his jacket.

He mutters something about meeting someone, pulling his gloves off. The wait staff here is very good; girl up front doesn't show her doubt when she politely asks for the name of his party. There's still something there, though, some reserve that is dispelled at once when he tells her the name. He is led back to Avery's table, which has been cleared of her dinner.

He glances around. Peels off his jacket, drops it over the back of the chair, drops himself into the chair. Shifts it forward in a couple jumpy jerks, then sits back. Picks up the menu. It's just dessert and drinks. He puts it back down; he's decided on cheesecake and whatever Avery drinks. Simple enough.

"Nice place," he comments.

Avery Whitechase

He should be wearing a suit. She told him where they were meeting. He should be dressed better. He knows that as soon as he goes inside, but it isn't because Avery looks at him with distaste. No, far from it: she brightens when he is shown to her table, where her wine and plate have been cleared.

Rafael sits. Awkwardly. Avery is still smiling at him, and as he looks at the menu: "I ordered a few things. Do you have a preference on drinks? Coffee, port?"

Rafael van der Valk

"Um." That's the sound he fills the silence with while he thinks. "Coffee."

He's underdressed. Knew it when he opened the door. Part of him feels shame. Tough to be underdressed in the presence of your elder. Another part of him doesn't give a fuck. He wore jeans to his own party, didn't he? Though granted: that was his own party. This isn't.

Still. Too late now. He settles into his chair and shifts the menu a little farther away; refrains, at least, from tilting back on two legs like a complete ruffian.

"You been okay?" Funny thing: he seems to genuinely want to know. "Haven't talked in a while."

Avery Whitechase

Avery smiles. She sets down the menu and the waiter comes over and they order: coffee for both of them. Rafael wants cheesecake. He has no idea that three other desserts will also be on the way, but he'll find out. She waits for them to leave, menus in hand, and then smiles again at Rafael as he settles. Before she can say anything, though, he asks her if she's been all right.

She blinks. She is caught a little off guard; no. She is touched. Her smile returns more slowly, warmer.

"I have been," she says, with a soft nod. A soft huff of laughter. "The holidays are always a challenge, aren't they?"

Rafael van der Valk

It's such a well-mannered, new england royalty thing to say. That gentle, joking ruefulness; that invitation to gently and jokingly commiserate. Wolf doesn't know how to handle it. Just shrugs.

"Don't usually celebrate them. This year was pretty good though." Pauses. "Had a party. Should've invited you. Next time."

Avery Whitechase

"Oh?" she asks, eyebrows lifting. She doesn't suggest that it's a shame. Maybe he doesn't celebrate human holidays because he disagrees with them. She doesn't want to be rude. He mentions a party and she smiles. "That's so kind of you. Unfortunately this year I wouldn't have been able to attend; I was with family on the East Coast. Perhaps next year."

They agree on this. And she tips her head; more pleasantries. "How have you been? No more forays into the distant past?"

Rafael van der Valk

"Heh. No. Been grounded in the present. Not complaining. Plenty to do here." He looks around the table; wishes there was something to snack on. Breadsticks. Chips. Caramel corn.

Avery Whitechase

Coffee is delivered to them. As well as the beginning desserts, the ones Avery ordered before. No cheesecake yet, but plate after plate of elegant nosh, food too pretty to eat but smelling of fruit and sugar and liqueurs. Avery waits for the staff to depart again.

"Less, now," she says, picking up where they left off, "with Cold Crescent shuttered and the Pit taken care of." A beat of a pause. "And more to do, as well, for the same reasons."

Her head tips to the side; she reaches for her cup of coffee and lifts it, ever so delicately, upwards. She does not drink yet. "You know, I have not had a pack for over a year now."

And there it is. That sentence: the most awkward she has been in years.

Rafael van der Valk

Well; wolf doesn't seem to think the dessert's too pretty to eat. As soon as the waiter leaves, he starts reaching for the food -- pausing only to see if Avery had ordered to share. Doesn't want to assume, after all. It's possible he's already made one erroneous assumption: that they were here for dinner. Maybe that's why he appears starved.

When she says it, though: that sentence, the word pack -- he pauses. His eyes immediately fix on hers. He doesn't play stupid.

"You asking me?"

Avery Whitechase

Avery waves a hand at his glance; of course she ordered to share. She can eat an appetizer and pasta course and entree and wine and cocktails and still eat two or three desserts on her own, sure. That doesn't mean she wants to. Or needs to, tonight.

Well isn't he bold. She pauses, and takes a breath, and appears to think, and: "I am considering it," she finally says, careful. "Javed and I were a pack of two. He was my first packmate, and well-suited to me because we were both, in our own ways, quite solitary. He understood that about me and did not press it. I understood it about him and let him be.

"However," she goes on, "as time went on, I don't think we were effective as a pack. He would not lead, so I could not follow. He would not follow, so I could not lead. We disbanded peacefully." She watches Rafael eat dessert; she has not had any yet. She sips her coffee.

"I am, for the most part, content to remain alone. I have my mate. I have my family. I require little else for companionship or comfort, and in fact crave significant time alone." Avery glances down, setting her mug on the table. "Moreso than many would deem usual," she adds, more quietly, though without shame. Her chin lifts again, and she meets his eyes if he will grant them. "Recent events, however, have given me stark reminder of the need for a pack one can call on. Rely on. Fight alongside. And I must admit to being humbled; it is not something one desires and indulges in when convenient. A pack is something we need for survival. The craving for it lives in us only to ensure that we seek it out."

Rafael van der Valk

While she speaks he watches her. Stares, really, unwaveringly and perhaps a little unsettlingly. People just don't look at each other like that. Civilized, human people.

When she finishes, his eyes drop away. He picks up his coffee and drinks. He eats some dessert. It's fantastic, exquisite, sweet without being cloying; rich without being heavy. After a little while he sets his spoon down.

"You know Morgan? Firebrand? We talked once, long time ago, about being a pack. Maybe finding you and asking you to be Alpha." He offers this information just as it is: information, no less or more. "Not sure why we never got around to it. Maybe because I'm not that great in a pack. Never been in one more than a couple days, temporary things to get rid of a problem.

"Don't much like people. But maybe we have that in common." A beat. "No, we don't. You like people. You just need time alone. It's different for me. But if you can deal with that..."

Trails off there. Turns out it's a sort of question.

Avery Whitechase

She nods. "I remember her," she says, of the Fianna. She blinks, though, when he says that the two Cliaths had discussed making Avery their alpha. It isn't that she's opposed to the suggestion, it's just that... well. Avery seems taken aback that anyone other than herself would take the initiative, or have such a discussion. She just blinks at him again. It settles in her; they never did follow through. He says it's because he's not that great with packs. Just warpacks. Quick things.

Avery nods again, this time in understanding. He says he doesn't like people. And she is so close to correcting him, with a tender and aching smile: she loves people. She just needs time alone. She tenses slightly inside; she wonders how he knows that about her. What is being said. It unnerves her.

So at his sort of question, she hasn't said anything. She is frowning slightly. She reaches for her fork, and takes a bite of chocolate mousse to give herself time to think.

Rafael van der Valk

He misinterprets the frown; of course he does. Figures it's because she balks at the idea that he doesn't like people. That he chooses solitude, instead of needing it. Must seem like a sort of terrible waste to someone like her, who loves people but much occasionally forswear them. Like a desert-dweller watching a lake-dweller refuse to drink.

So there's silence. She eats her dessert, and so does he.

Avery Whitechase

They do eat in silence for some time, uninterrupted. Surely now they look strange to other patrons; looking so intently at each other, but not romantically. Now eating four different desserts in total silence. Sipping coffee. Avery mulls over cannoli.

Rafael van der Valk

Eventually he can't take it anymore, breaks the silence: "So that a no?"

Avery Whitechase

Avery takes a breath when he shatters the silence. She looks up at him, wordless, but then she sets down her fork.

"I apologize," she says, and she means it. "I don't intend to be so rude. I'm simply... taken off my guard. You talk as though you know me intimately, and in this you have me at a disadvantage."

Rafael van der Valk

Now it's his turn to be taken aback. "I don't," he says. "Barely know you at all. But anyone with eyes can see you like people. And since you say you crave solitude anyway, that must mean you need it."

Ends on a shrug: his own rough version of quod erat demonstratum.

Avery Whitechase

"It is still," she says, with measured softness, "intimate."

By this she means private. She looks at him and she says this and she means personal. Not secret. But something to be shared; not exposed.

Rafael van der Valk

He doesn't know what to say to that. Looks away.

"Didn't mean to pry."

Avery Whitechase

That's all she needed. She breathes in, and gives a small nod, but as he did not quite apologize, she does not quite accept it. All she can do is show her discomfort; he has to move around it or ignore it. He choses to move around it, and this is acceptable. Preferable.

"I do like people," she says, a little tetchy, because this was hers to say. "But I do not need time alone. I am simply... driven to it. No matter how much I might, in my heart, crave companionship, I sometimes... cannot bear it."

Avery clears her throat. She exhales. This is hard for her to talk about even with her mate; talking about it with a veritable stranger makes her uneasy in her own skin. "Surely you can understand that," she adds, a little more clipped. A little less petulant. Perhaps, however: slightly imploring.

Rafael van der Valk

" 'Course I can," he says, which perhaps for a moment sounds offhand, cursory. He toys with his spoon. Fine silverware in this restaurant. Fine plates, fine mugs, fine everything.

"I do understand," he adds. Softer. "Think I do, anyway."

Avery Whitechase

"You're a Silver Fang," she says quietly. And this is dark; darker than she often speaks to other Garou. She is their golden, shining light. It is easy to forget, with Avery, what her tribe has become. Until she says the rest, dark and knowing and yet sympathetic:

"If you do not understand now, you will."

Avery takes a breath after that and looks away. She eats part of a cannoli and sips her coffee. "Why do you think I called you?"

Which is, however late, an answer to his earlier non-question.

Rafael van der Valk

You will.

A shadow crosses the wolf's face. He sets the spoon down again. Shoulders rise and fall: a heave of a sigh.

"Yeah."

There is another silence. She eats; this time he has no appetite. When she speaks again, his eyes lift to her; glimmers of green.

"I'm not ... good with words," he says. "Don't know if that's a yes or a no or a question or what."

Avery Whitechase

Avery pauses, looking up and over at him.

"Because... I think that you can deal with how I am. And I think I may be able to deal with how you are."

Rafael van der Valk

"Maybe," he says. And a little later: "Hope so."

Another small silence. Then, "Want me to see if Firebrand's still up for it too?"

Avery Whitechase

"If I am to gather you, I should gather you," she says, tipping her head. But she nods: "I would like to speak to her together."

Rafael van der Valk

"Yeah, all right. I'll see if her number still works."

His cheesecake's arrived by now. He cuts it neatly in half, pushing one half toward Avery. Starts in on the other.

"Look, don't need you to pad my ego. Tell me great things about myself. But ... being able to 'deal with it'. That the only reason you picked me?"

Avery Whitechase

Avery smiles, huffing a laugh. He shares cheesecake. She pairs it with coffee. The two of them are quickly cleaning their plates. All four of their plates.

He questions her motives. She raises her eyebrows.

And then she leans back. Straightens. Observes him for a moment, and then says: "It was a primary factor, but not the only one. You hold a territory that attracts evil spirits and defend it, alone. I know you are strong. Recently I could have used a strong Ahroun to aid me, fight with me." She watches him, gauging how he responds to these truths. "I have seen you and heard stories of you submitting to those of higher station without childish complaint or passive aggression, so I know you can follow a proven leader. You are one of my own tribe, which places you slightly higher in my favor than an equally qualified stranger."

A beat. She blinks slowly, thoughtfully. "I saw you, in Cold Crescent, when you were... gone. When you came back. I saw how you were with the girl who waited for you."

She does not explain that one. She does not linger on it.

Rafael van der Valk

It's that last one that makes a shadow of a smile cross his face. He hides it behind the coffee mug. Takes a slow, measured sip.

"Devon," he says. "That's her name. Devon Paredes."

Skinny thing.

Keeps that to himself, of course. Takes another swallow, bigger this time, then puts the mug down.

"We wanted to follow you -- I wanted to follow you -- because you seemed so good. Righteous and strong and good. And because you're a Fang. Don't know much about Fangs. Haven't really lived among them or been a part of the whole deal. Thought you wouldn't be a bad example."

Avery Whitechase

Avery cannot help it; she wrinkles her nose to keep from erupting into a beaming, glowing smile. Righteous and strong and good. She wrinkles her nose and it's adorable. "Oh, stop it," she insists, with that tone that suggests that he doesn't even remotely need to stop it.

Rafael van der Valk

Don't think he can't tell. He can tell. He doesn't need to stop it. So he smirks, leans back -- "Fine." -- and stops it.

Praises this instead: "Cheesecake's pretty good."

Avery Whitechase

So now she grins at him. Her eyes sparkle. They're a pale blue, more aquamarine than sapphire. Summer skies. She doesn't tease him. She does look at their empty plates. Looks at him.

"Well, someone was hungry," she says. "Would you like to work backwards, have some actual dinner?"

Rafael van der Valk

"Yeah," he says. The smirk widens. "Thought you said 'after dinner, drinks'. Let's get some meat on the table."

Avery Whitechase

"The red deer is quite good," she informs him, "but I was curious about the wagyu. And the lamb."

Avery signals the waiter. She asks for dinner menus. The waiter, who watched her just pound a four-course meal where one of the courses came on 4 plates, has to take a moment to recover, then produces menus again.

And she smiles at her guest. She does so enjoy spending money on people she likes.