at the edge of everything [Jackson-Severina]

[Jackson Ball] About 15 minutes ago, a beat up black cargo van had pulled into the church parking lot. It's hardened shell was dented, and pocked with chipped paint. Battle-scarred would have been an appropriate term. It's surface was akin to a Van Gogh painting, whose bold strokes have actual, physical texture.

And the drive that stepped out had looked worse. Covered in thug gear - demin, wool, knit cap - he was a young black man that looked to have survived an auto accident.. motorcycle more likely.. or a wood chipper. Something. He had dragged a useless leg behind him with the determination that would make a prisoner of war proud. His scowl had been made all the starker by the fresh, open wound of his ear and face. He'd flung open those doors with an audible wince of pain, and disappeared inside.

About 5 minutes ago,Jackson Ball walked unhindered, and unaided with a positively miraculous recovery after exiting the Keeper of the Land's office. The only thing that stayed was the scowl. It was a hardening of the brow above the eyes, a sealing of full lips into a tight line. Dark eyes burned molten, but for some reason that ever-present hatred seemed a touch dampened this evening. Still there, ready beneath the surface, but not leaking from every pore.

From there it was a short walk down into the catacombs of the bawn, guided by word of mouth to where Linnea, the Wyrmfoe could be found....


[Linnea Bartlett] Of the few hours Linnea has between sleeping and patrolling, she spends much of them on the raw edge of the cliff overlooking the almost marbled battlefield. Tonight is much the same. The Silver Fang has worn a small hollow in the earth and sits to the side, so as not to impede the passage of any with business in the strange boneyard below. Chin cradled in the valley between her clasped knees, hands locked beneath her thighs, she is deeply absorbed in her survey. Absorbed though she may be, Linnea is far from still. She is leaking energy – her feet tap arhythmically against the hard crumbling earth and she shifts back and forth in place now and again, her thick braid swimming against the ridges of her spine, pricked out against the cotton of her long-sleeved t-shirt.

The bawn is – not empty, but emptier than it has been a long time. When she hears the sound of movement down the long corridor, jerks her head around and squints until the shadow of movement resolves itself into a distinct figure. She stands up as Jackson reaches the end of the tunnel, the mouth to what had been hell, and offers the leading edge of a friendly grin as she dusts her hands off on the thighs of her jeans.

“Hi - ” when he stops, she thrusts out her hand. “You’re Jackson, right?”

[Jackson Ball] The chill lingers long below ground, but it's not the wintery, damp mix of the outdoors. By the time the Modi strides down into the vast chasm area, he's wiped that knit cap from his head with a furious gesture, scatching fingernails over the smooth polished ebony of his scalp - Phantam itching. His blood-stained woolen pull-over has seen better days, and its been removed. Balled up into the crook of one sinewy arm. Underneath's a thick long-sleeve suited for winter wear that fits over the sculpted lines of his powerful thews like a glove.

It's dim here, and when he comes close enough she can make out the little details of his face. His nose is wide-set, easy for his nostrils to scent the air. Eyes are slitted, and red-rimmed, most likely from that recreational drug whose odor seems to cling to his clothing, mingled with wyrm. Yes, wyrm. For where he lives and dwells it's in everything. The food he eats, stuff he drinks, herb he smokes, all of it tainted. And that's part of the reason he comes here, when the neighborhood doesn't precisely suit him.

He doesn't smile in response to the wyrmfoe. Best guess is he doesn't know how. There's a shift in expression, as if he's trying to soften it, and it's just not happening. Her hand is captured in his steely grip, given one awkward pump before releasing it. Used to giving the ghetto-shake, and not so used to white man's grip. There's a chin-jutting nod. All the kids are doing it. And he is young isn't he? Not as young as Linnea. 18, maybe, but you have to look close. Look past that hardened edge, and that perpetual tightening of his shoulders, the too-early lines on his forehead. Past that life and death experience that leaves him a veteran before he can legally drink, in this country.

"Yah," his answer is a deep, liquid rumble that suits the acoustics of this vast chamber. Harsh gravel in a rock-blender, "An' you Linnea. Wyrmfoe," There's a nod.

[Severina Morta] Through the twisting, winding cavernous tunnels of the Bawn, the Black Fury casually made her way along, homid senses honed and heightened from aid of a Gift, allowing her to broaden the sensitivity of her perception; the less a likely chance of losing the element of surprise, if she came across an unknown individual. There was no mistaken the image of Severina Morta, average height for most woman, bound in loose-fitted military fatigues that hung off narrow hips, a black hoodie worn beneath her leather jacket to supplement layers of clothing for added warmth, hiding the hard lines and contours of a muscular physique. Dark brown hair fell straight and long past the shoulders with bangs almost obscuring her eyes. A leather-gloved hand clutched the labrys, holding it into the crook of her shoulder.

She had a short span of time to waste before a change of shift in patrols and that free time was being used to search out the Silver Fang that claimed Wyrmfoe, it also allowed her familiarize the tunnel system, intrigued by its uses as the Sisters of her own tribe were known to have such utilities. Heading towards the Boneyard as sightings often placed Linnea there. She is minutes behind in the path that Jackson takes, his scent caught up with a flare of her nostrils, wrinkling as thin brows set forward into soft scowl. The heavy steps of her boots crunch and thud across the gravel, slowing her pace a bit as not to run headlong into the Modi; fingers flex on the axe-handle, humans ears pricked toward the sounds of conversation as she breached the tunnel’s entry.

[Linnea Bartlett] “That’s me - ” she tips her head to the side, studying him & her nostrils flare as she steals the faint traces of scent clinging to him – the cold, harsh second-skin of winter air, the smoke and exhaust of the city above. He releases her hand, and she crosses her arms low on her long, skinny torso, elbows jutting out like the wings of an awkward, adolescent bird. “I mean, I mean, that's usually me. It’s good to meet you. Uh - ” she gains another inch of height as she rises to the balls of her feet, half-dancing between the left and the right. “ – congrats and everything. On your rite?” It becomes a question because the tone of her voice rises the teenaged girl's questioning fifth.

Except for the marks of pure breeding, visible only to Garou, she is terribly ordinary. Awkward, her features round, without definition, her mouth to wide, her skin spotty with freckles. Pale lashes line her eyes, pale brows are flat above them, a shade darker than her ash-coloured hair. Her long-sleeved t-shirt (SWARTHMORE) is stretched out, worn white cotton, and her jeans are already too shirt for her growing legs. “Have you been here before - ?” she indicates the battlefield, now graveyard, with a nod, her gaze flickering to follow. “Creepy, isn’t it?”

In motion, alive - she catches a glimpse of movement behind Jackson and flashes another friendly grin at Severina as the Black Fury emerges from the tunnel, to the narrow balcony overlooking the battlefield. "Oh - hi. You - you're Se - Severine, right? Severina. Severina." Jeez, nice one.

[Jackson Ball] If he'd had a wolf's form, his ears would have flickered up, noting the sound of footsteps reverberating through the funneled acoustics of the corridor to billow outward into the vast expanse of the macabre menagerie of the last battle. At first his form tenses, black lightning running live-wire over the surface of his skin. Hands once loose ball into calloused, dangerous fists. Chin dips, nostrils flare like a bull, and his glance slides lazily over his shoulder.

Hands loosen, and there's a shift of his stance, turning so that he faces both of the women - damn that. Garou. Monsters - equally. Glance slides back to the wyrmfoe. She's an awkward teenager welling with blistering potential, and even his 'too-hard-for-you' attitude has to notice it. She compliments him, and he's unaccustomed to it. In his culture the only kind word said to another human being was rare and laced with layer upon layer of insult.

He finally gives a curt, uncomfortable nod, "Thanks," he mumbled it, and spurred on by Garou sociality and the honest appreciation of her post, he attempts to respond in kind, "You.. Wyrmfoe 'n all," there's a grunt, eyes upon her judgemental and hardened, "Good," it's short. And that's about as huggy and affectionate as the Modi is likely to get. And as articulate, "I come here 'bout that ya said in tha bone-crackin'," The bit about packs and such, but he lets that lie for now as the conversation goes on.

She guides his glance to the battlefield, and his expression hardens again. Just turns to wrinkled stone right over again, "Yah. I been here some," shake of his head and there's a whuff of air, "fucked up,"

And when Severina finally comes within comfortable speaking distance and Linnea includes her, he turns his attention to her, "I member you," That's all there is.

[Severina Morta] The maturity of age had settled well with Severina, at a first glance, it was hard to think she was an older woman, especially of her rank, but the faint signs are there. The small wrinkles of crows’ feet around the eyes, hidden under the only layer of makeup she ever wears. Black eyeliner worn thick for a dramatic effect that causes the odd, blue-green (almost aquamarine) color to stand out with intensity.

The lack of emotions paints a blank canvas across a pale face, faint traces of an Italian/Anglo heritage made out in the shape of her nose, the small line of her mouth and smooth cheekbones. If someone managed to dress her up, she could even be considered pretty instead of deadly.

Her head dips in a curt nod to Linnea, acknowledging the stuttering and energetic girl, the draw of pure breeding and youthfulness, is the first to draw the Black Fury’s eyes. Detail-oriented by nature, it is an attentive sweep her eyes make, staring a bit too long or hard, trying to snare any signs of a flaw within the pristine Silver Fang. “I am Severina Morta.” She speaks her voice naturally low and husky, typically carried a faint backwoods drawl, except when she pronounced her name. “Hope I’m not disruptin’ came to speak with—“

Her words die away, interrupted by Jackson’s own; she cuts a sharp look to him, the expression of her eyes stern and judging on this one. “I’ve been around, Get. Could say the same for th’ likes of ya’self.” Fingers loosen on the labrys, lowering it from her shoulder to allow it to relax against her side. She gave Jackson the same study as she did Linnea, but with more scrutiny.

[Linnea Bartlett] “I meant what I said - ” Her gaze skewers back to the Modi; she briefly meets his eyes. There is no apology, no girlchild’s rising question, for the moment, no hesitation. “about challenging – so - ” and then the edge drifts off, and another she offers the sullen Modi another quickling half-grin that swings to include Severina as well. “ – but thanks. I mean, yeah – thanks.”

“I’m Linnea – I guess you know? Descendant of Atlas and Eventide and Deathwatch and so on.” Linnea uncrosses her arms and stands still long enough to hold her hand out to Severina as well. “It’s nice to meet you.”

And then again, she is all crossed arms, kinetic motion. Beneath the surface, the girl holds herself with deeply unconscious grace: her spine is straight enough to please any deportment coach and her bony shoulders are square, aligned with her narrow hips, level with the ground.

“I just – I mean, I want to know how they did it, you know?” Her cloudy gaze swings back to the battlefield sculpture garden, and she rises to her toes again, leaning forward, looking down. With her arms still crossed, her center of gravity low: she is wholly in touch with it, sure as a wave bringing all the force of the ocean furiously into shore. “Not them – I mean, them. You know, I mean – it’s not hard to fight. I don’t think? It’s all in the blood, it pours over you, it, like, it opens you up to it and you’re just going forward. I just mean, how you remember everything else in the middle of it, so you know what to do next. That’s like – wow. So, I dunno. Maybe they - ” her head tips forward, her body rises until she’s balanced precariously on the last two metatarsals of either foot. “can like, help. Me figure it out, I mean.”

[Jackson Ball] Severina's stern gaze finds his own dark eyes answering with a flat stare. Never wavers, nor flickers, save for the hot glint that slides over the surface like glass, when that Labrys moves in his vision, before sliding away when the weapon hangs loose and unused. During that flicker, his own weapon moved: Hand balled up.. then loosened. She glances sharp, and finds a dark, sullen bludgen in return. There's breeding there. In his gaze, in his bearing, in the very bones, marrow and blood of his body. It backs up him up. Ain't no breeding of a king. More that of what he really is: A blood-drenched monster.

There's a nod, tightening of his jaw, "Jackson," that deep bass reverberates his name to her, and there's a nod of greeting, in return, "An' thass right, I have," He'd be damn sorry Get if he didn't have his name known, eh? He noted her demeanor, her earlier words to the Wyrmfoe before he cut her off. Figured they were here for the same thing. Figured he was here first.

Linnea repeated her words about Challenge, and that took his attention from Severina, "Dontcha worry none. I challenge ya, if ya fuck up," there's a lazy shrug of those shoulders, as he delivers it flat, and without venom. In some cultures, that might be taken as a threat. In theirs? Just a statement of the obvious. Though, Linnea might take heart in that Jackson had challenged her so far. Meant he likely thought she'd be better at the job.

More true than she knew. He suspected he'd be a shitty leader.

She talks about the menagerie and all he can do is helplessly shrug, mouth opening to suck air through his teeth with a shake of his head, "Fucked if I know," he mumbled frustrated. Gaze slides to Severina, and back, brow furrows, and he figures why not speak plainly,

"Makin' a pack. Said you'd wanna know," One track mind about the bone-cracking, "Me, Garbage Man, and Ghost Rider. So far's now, anyways," Two Ahrouns and a Theurge, "Totem on tuesday,"

[Jackson Ball] ((hadn't challenged her so far... that should read ))

[Severina Morta] “There’s some things best left unanswered.” She replies to Linnea, though not looking at her, or that black garden. The memories were still too fresh in her mind, haunting, twisted visages of carnage, which Severina couldn’t quite bring herself to look upon just yet.

Her eyes remain steadfast on Jackson, providing her with a distraction. He can see the line of tension that runs through the Black Fury, fingers tightened just a little on the axe-handle, leather of her gloves crackling under the pressure. The bat wing shape of the double-headed blades catches no light, except for the razor sharp and polished edges, shined to mirror reflection. Many foe down below had tasted its sting.

Her nostrils flare out, snorting softly in response to Jackson, the extent of her interest in his pack shows in the slight upturn of her eyes, looking towards Linnea, then back to him. “Nice to see th’ Urrah bandin’ together under such leadership.” She says, wryly, the faint touch of amusement striking up in her bright eyes, but never quite reaching her mouth to form a smile.

She waits until he is done speaking, “Came for th’ same reasons, only ya have mah support for th’ position ya wish to take.”

[Linnea Bartlett] “I - ” she spent hours before the moot turning a few simple words over and over in her mind, until they were fixed, simple, solid. She listened to the echoes in the back of her mind, took direction from the memories that were not hers, but filtered nevertheless through the dark, secret folds of her brain. She hadn’t rehearsed what she would say in response, and finds herself weirdly poised, without a word in her throat, the way an animal running across some desolate piece of blacktop freezes in the sudden, arresting wash of someone’s headlights.

Her attention snags on Severina; for the moment, the girl is silent. Her eyes flash briefly, her chest swells and her crossed arms open, then Linnea swings back to stand firmly on the ground. “Yeah, I said that. I’m glad – I’m glad to know. That you’re doing that. And that you told me. And you know, keep in touch.” Cut that phrase from your vocabulary, Linnea. You sound like your prick of a brother. They are left to sort out the meaning of her shifting phrases on their own, until she cuts a sidelong glance at the Modi; his glowering profile, the powerful physique visible beneath his clothes. The weight of Jackson’s presence might make most people shut the bloody hell up; the flashfire Silver Fang just keeps going. “Hey! You guys fought together – I remember that! That’s cool. Hey, can I ask you a question?”

[Jackson Ball] Urrah, she says and the negative connotations roll around in his brain to the inevitable conclusion. A Glass Walker and a Bone Gnawer. Often derided by the more traditional tribes for their city-born ways.

Severina feels it. It tingles along her skin, raising her hairs, as the Modi stiffens, going all black-light electric. Gaze slides beneath serpentine slits, and there's a whuff of air before he speaks very slow, dripping with menace, "Watch ya mouth," then after a pause, he goes faster, "Fact is, ya owed a nod fa lookin' out fo' Johnny. Don' fuck that up by spittin' on my packmates. Ya ain' got tha right," There's a final, curt, shake of his head at that, eyes never leaving her own. Something might tell the Fury that the fact that a fight isn't happening at this very instant, is weighed heavily upon her protection of the Glass Walker in a sticky situation during the caern battle.

He leaves that gaze on her, leaving it up to her whether she wants to take this further down that road.

His reaction cuts into the Silver Fang's words, but she goes right on, unabated. He notes her in his periphery, "Go ahead," he answers to her query of asking a question.

[Severina Morta] “Temper, Get, no need to raise hackles over a little comment. Ya’ll need to get used th’ judgment others will place on a union,” her voice is crisp and cool, eyes never wavering from his form. Her amusement only grows with a shining twinkle in those odd-colored eyes, “Take it as ya see it. I’m of mah opinions, Mister.. Balls, is it?” for the slightest moment there was an upturn of a faint, if Cheshire smile on her lips, before it fades to nothing.

Severina shifts her weight and begins to step past the Fenrir to draw up closer to Linnea. She turns to keep her back to the battlefield down below, turning her gaze towards the Wyrmfoe. The labrys set to the ground and leaded up against the metatarsals next to Severina’s leg and within reach. The bars touch against her lower back, arms folders across her chest as she stands there.

“We fought on th’same grounds, but different locales, I believe,” she says, quirking an eyebrow at Linnea, “What is it, young one.”

[Linnea Bartlett] “Not now. Not in the Caern. Not over a fucking - ” the young Silver Fang is arrested, at last, by the overwash of ozone, the cloud of static electricity buzzing over the surface of her pale skin, strong enough to make the fine hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stand on end. She crosses her arms – higher now, firmly over her chest. Her voice is lower, her attention narrowed on Jackson as Severina passes off her comment and his glowering threat with a Cheshire grin, and her pale eyes are shaded by the sweep of pale lashes. “Not over a word. We can’t afford it.

“Wrecking Ball-yuf,” the tumult of words has stopped; her tone is more measured, more assuredly formal, softened by the cut and curl of her lower lip, the adult cousin of her friendly grin. “ – I want to learn a trick your tribe is known for. I want to - ” but even the confidence of blood cannot wholly overcome the awkwardness of the phrasing. She stops and considers her words, shifting to accommodate Severina, following the older Garou’s glance over her shoulder at the battleground below them.

What was it her brother said? There’s a reason Fenrir fight like fiends even as their lifeblood’s puddling on the ground beneath them. It’s a trick they have, the spirits give them. They can’t feel the wounds, can’t feel any of ‘em, they’re like dervishes, or those humans in India who walk on fire or sleep on beds of nails. “It’s the one that keeps you going, when you’re hurt. Keeps you full strength. I want to learn that.”

[Jackson Ball] And he would. Right here in the fucking caern, as Linnea's eloquent phrasing put it, already being rubbed off upon by the ghetto Modi. It's written in his bearing, his expression. He just would. Fight that is. Go apeshit at an inappropriate time. And Severina in all her elder wisdom, seems to want to goad that. Maybe, she was born about a week or two late. Shoulda popped out right at the sliver of the new. And if he hadn't exhausted half of his primal fury last night in the umbra? Hadn't drained him of essence of hatred. Well. That might have happened.

Vanguard-of-the-Dawn gains his attenion, at least partially, with the force of breeding in her words, and he fights against it, not wanting to tear his menacing gaze from the Fury. A muscle twitches in his jaw, and he gives the Philodox a final look - reminding himself of her auspice, at the same time. Ain't right for an Ahroun to snap out against those not born under the full. Not without good reason, least ways. Doesn't answer her with words. Lets her have her joke. Just gives her that flat, certain stare. Certain that next time it won't be funny.

Then he slides his gaze to Linnea, brow furrowing, "Pain Resistin'?" he asks for clarification, and when she gives it he gets incredulous, "Ya ain' got Pain Resistin'!?" That was twice in two ahrouns. First his packmate, and now the Warder. Just shakes his head, wondering how Ahrouns get out of their Rite of Passage without it, in other tribes. Reminds him of the different mindset that reared him.

"Well ya need it," he answered immediately, "Ya come wit us on Thursday. Me, Nico, an' Johnny gon' to the umbra. Johnny gon' talk ta Bear. Fucked up the first time. Be ready fo' a fight," He nodded serious. A Shadow Lord might have bartered here. A Silver Fang might have gone into an elaborate ritualized form of expressing a contract. The Modi just expects the favor to be returned some day in her own way.

[Jackson Ball] ((now the Wyrmfoe. Sheesh. Not Warder ))

[Severina Morta] Perhaps she was born a week or two late and should have birthed on the sliver of a dark moon, or perhaps not. She could also have been born a week or two too early and revel under Luna’s full face. Though, much to Jackson’s chagrin, she is of Luna’s half-smile. For a Black Fury and their renown displeasure of his tribe and their males, it was better that she hadn’t been either moon. Where the goading was read in the depth of her words, they did not see the reasons for them.

Underneath her scrutinizing gaze, in the upturn crease of her brief Cheshire grin, had been a test and a passing of judgment towards this Ahroun’s capability of patience. To see how well he easily the fire could be stoked in this young buck, Jackson hadn’t passed with flying colors, but it was enough to satisfy the Philodox. She gives a curt nod of her head, dipping her chin down to touch against her chest and causing her hair to fall in a veil over her face. “If such anger can flare in an instance over one word, Linnea-yuf, I hates to see th’outcome when Jackson’s bein’ provoked for real.”

Her face returns to its usual blank canvas, “Consider th’ goad a little test at control. We all do it when judging on first impressions.” Her attention’s seem to wane, falling quiet again as she listens to their arrangements.

[Linnea Bartlett] Her eyes widen at the Modi’s sudden loquaciousness and the furious certainty underlying his words. It sparks a moment’s resonant reappraisal from the talkative young woman, a small furrow of silence. Then, her voice quiet and serious: “Thank you. Just let me know where. And - ” she adds, in what starts as a near-afterthought. “ – I’ll want some way to get in touch with you otherwise, too. In case we need you. Phone number. Ringing bell. Bat signal. You have a third of the Sept’s surviving warriors in your pack.” She forgets, until she remembered. “A quarter of our spirit-talkers.”

A test. Her pale gaze twitches from Jackson to Severina, blonde lashes slicing the look neatly in two. She hadn’t considered the possibility of such a thing, and the thought of it makes her self-conscious, aware (ever so briefly) of the strange and wild gulf that separates each bag of bones, sinew, instinct, and thought from the next. “If you don’t have a phone or – you know, whatever. We’ll figure something out.”

[Jackson Ball] The Fury's words draw his attention again. She speaks about him in his very presence as if he were not there, and it grates, makes his teeth clench. "A test," he responds flatly. Neither question nor musing, nor assertion. Nostrils flare and he just snorts. She ain't his tribe. She ain't his pack. She ain't his elder, and she ain't got no position in the Sept. All she has is the waning gratitude for watching out for a packmate, "Fine," he concludes that with a sucking of his teeth, and a sharp tic of his jaw.

Glance slides to Linnea, and there's a nod, a deepened grimace as he takes in the gravity of her words, once again solidifying her earlier point that the bigger picture couldn't be glossed over by trivialties, "Got a cell," And then says the numbers very deliberate, as if he's conscious of how he normally slurs his words and want to intone them correctly. There's a pause, and he seems to be searching for what to say next. Lip curls, his tongue placed on the back of his white teeth as if he's poised to start speaking words that don't want to come right away.

"Ya call me," he finally decided, rubbing his palm over his scalp, eyes sliding lazily downward, "Ya call if'n we needed." Part of him felt weird for putting himself at the beck and call of a 16 year old white girl. Other part, knew it was time to get past his human prejudice.

Glance slides between the pair, gives a slow shrug, "I ain't got nuthin' else," he slurs out a mumble, and just like that, turns to leave. Jackson's not good with goodbyes. His pace isn't quick and they could easily respond.

[Severina Morta] Severina says nothing, merely watching the play of conversation between the other two. Her body bends forward, stretching out a hand to grip the axe-handle and heft it up with ease. The labrys spins a few times as she turns it in her left hand with a slight bounce, tightens her fingers over it and finds a better grip. The labrys lifts to her shoulder, nestling into the crook and with a sigh the Fury pushes herself away from the metatarsal. She glances up to Jackson through the curtain of hair and says nothing to either of them.

[Linnea Bartlett] The Silver Fang listens carefully to the numbers, repeating them beneath her breath as the Modi spits them out. She repeats them internally, finding a rhythm in the numbers that will help her remember them long enough to write them down. Maybe she'll write them in the blank journal her older brother gave her, when they were all on tenterhooks, waiting for her to change.

"Thank you, Jackson," she repeats, to the broad expanse of the Modi's retreating back. "I hope you and your pack find the totem you seek."

When the Fenrir has disappeared into the gloom of the tunnel, the Silver Fang turns to the Fury. " - you have duty now, right?" Guardian duty, running the winding tunnels of the underbawn, long black and empty hours. "I do too. We can work together?" Despite the confidence with which she makes the offer, she still turns her voice up at the end, in her customary teenaged trick. With a glance back at the graveyard, cast over her shoulder, then pulled back like an anchor to shore, she begins back toward the center of the Caern.

[Severina Morta] Severina lets out a soft snort, tilting her head up to look at the teenager. She nods her head to her, “I do have a guard duty,” eyes watch the teenager, shaking her head as she takes a few steps ahead to exit the tunnel, listening for Linnea to catch up. “I’m not sure how good of conversation I’ll be. Not talkative.” A soft chuckle rumbles in the back of her throat, accentuated by that husky voice. Time would pass much quicker with someone else walking the winding tunnels with her.

[Linnea Bartlett] "That's alright," the Silver Fang responds, swinging her long legs to catch up with the Philodox, feeling the first spike in her pulse as surges to gain Severina's side. "sometimes I talk enough for three people." At the tunnel's mouth, safe from all prying eyes within the bawn's inner corridors, the Silver Fang falls to her favorite hunting and guard form - hispo, the wide open senses of a feral creature, the speed of four legs, and the power of war.

[Severina Morta] For the second time, Severina smiles this night, an unnatural feat for sure. It’s warm and genuine, touching upon Linnea in a motherly way. She clears her throat, starting to chuckle, “I would believe it, young one. So much life and passion in ya.”

She bends slightly, reaching out with her right hand to rub the Silver Fang’s ears, gently and playfully, she grips the nape of her neck and gives her fur a little shake. “There’s much pride an’ honor in ya, Linnea. So much potential for greatness I can see. Ya’ll go far, child.” Speaking as she walks, her own heightened homid senses suiting her just fine.