The business of certainties. [Jackson-Carmen-Ben]

[Linnea Bartlett] Saturday morning finds Linnea in library of the Guardians’ quarters, in the subbasement of St. Michael’s Church. She’s curled – no, she is folded into one of the worn leather chairs that studs the room, folded like an accordion: not quite slouching into the deep cushion, with her feet planted on the seat, craning forward at the neck to rest her chin on the knobby points of her knees. She has one book splayed open on the table in front of her, another two or three stacked to the side, topped by a shiny new cell phone begged from her mother, whose bells and whistles she cannot really appreciate.

It’s easier to read on days like these - when the moon is in its darkest quarter she can think, she can concentrate on the words on the page, and even when the meaning slips her grasp, she does not become so – so frustrated with the effort it takes to read.

Sometimes her gaze lilts upwards, tracks to the cell perched on the worn covers of her other selections – she left a voice mail message for Jackson that morning (“Uhm – I think I have something for you? So, uh – gimme a call or – click.” Then, “uh, okay – well I think I said everything last time? But I wanted to make sure because it just stopped? So – it’s Linnea?” And of course it was. Jackson cannot have many acquaintances like that.) – and she doesn’t know whether he’ll show up or call her back – her very first call (except for her mother) on her very first cell phone.

(Secretly, she mistrusts the device. Secretly, she’s also a little excited.)

[Jackson Ball] He'd hit Linnea back on cell phone, certain that he wasn't going to be on time. His Cell message was brief, "I'mma be fuckin' late," and was a growl of bass intermitten with weaver static.

Fucking van didn't today. Figures. He'd been having a good day up until then. He'd taken the bus, and that makes him late. He'd sat in the back - very last seat - surrounded by nothing but empty space even during the weekend brunch rush. Crowd had changed through each stop. Surrounded by thug bravado, and anonymous street denizens at first, filtering to working class who kept their faces firmly planted forward, till finally the occasional suit ventured on board. And not a single one of them got more than ten feet within range of the sullen black youth seated in the back. Instead they pressed together like sheep in a corral, menaced by a wolf. Packed like sardines, and wouldn't fill to capacity, no matter how many pushed in the front.

And through it all, Jackson sat there, headphones covering his ears, face a perpetual scowl, and eyes glaring at nothing, halflidded and lazy.

Sometime after the appointed hour, his large figure emerges from the cross-town bus. Snatches a dark knit cap over the gleam of his unadorned scalp. Pulled down tight to ears. Fuckin' cold. Denim jacket is buttoned over a wool hoody, and his hands shoot to his pockets. It's an agitated, furious motion, pent up from that infuriating wait at each. and every. slow. fuckin'. stop. of the bus.

Doors fly open in the church, and he stalks in without preamble. Doesn't even glance at who might be within. Garou. Kin. Humans believing the facade of the catholic exterior. Whatever. Passes them by, going downstairs, letting the soothing drop of the Gauntlet assay frayed nerves. He ain't one to miss much when it comes to the severing of himself and that spiritual side. Doesn't have much of one to begin with. But, even this small inkling of calm is nothing to sneeze at. Hell, and all this Rage on a new moon? Traffic's a motherfucker, that's what.

By the time he finds her - by word of mouth - its ebbed somewhat, heartrate's lowered, and the dull, steady throb was replaced by the low tide of static in his brain.

"Sup, Bartlett," bass was a liquid rumble, filling the acoustics of the room, and his calloused fingers wipe that knit cap off his head with a furious motion. Nails go scratching over itchy scalp.

[Linnea Bartlett] “Huh - ” the blonde girl drags her attention from the page at which she had been squinting in close concentration, slips her finger into the spine to mark her place, and looks up. Her features break into one of her friendly grins as her gaze falls on Jackson. “ – oh, hey! Hiya!” She shifts in her seat, her long legs unfolding, her feet finding purchase on the ground below. Her shoulders level, her spine straightens, and she allows the pages of the book she’d been reading to rifle closed.

“Thanks for – you know.” She offers another quick grin, this one edged with the sort of quicksilver insecurity that does not suit her, does not suit her blood or her moon, which is rooted in what remains of her half-human childhood, the standards of the world outside the boundaries of the caern and bawn. It goes as quickly as it comes. She indicates the seat next to her with a flicker of her hand – “have a seat. I think I have something for your pack - it depends on your Theurge, mostly.”

[Jackson Ball] While Linnea's coming out of the world created in her mind by stirring prose, and ready imagination, he's cutting himself out of human skins. Complained he was cold earlier, now hot. Jacket comes off with a rustle of cloth and a shrug of those great shoulders. Gets balled up, and shot into an empty chair. Hoody comes next, and gets the same treatment. Leaves him in a plain white t-shirt, stretched tight over those sculpted bulges of sinew, and contrasting greatly with his dark chocolate skin.

She offers him a seat and those eyes slide to regard it. There's a nod of assent, and one hand grips the drooping beltline of his dark denim pants as he slides into the chair. Where many would be at attention, his posture slouches, downright reclines on the chair, letting the pleasant feeling of the closer connection to Gaia put him in a better mood. Many would never see the Modi giddy, or pleasant, but in this sort of repose, he seemed almost.. almost content. And in these few moments the hard lines of his face soften just a touch - never becoming open, but just enough to see the youth beneath this one's layered exterior. He ain't much older than Linnea. 2 or 3 years.

Gaze is red-rimmed and halflidded as he regards her after her announcement, one muscled arm draped over the back of his chair, "Ain' no trouble," waves off her thanks with a gravelly mumble, "Yeah?" curious at the next, furrowed brow lifting a touch, "Whassat?"

[Linnea Bartlett] “You look better - ” Linnea offers, off-hand, her mouth crooked in a curious half-smile as she watches the Modi slouch into his seat – not quite knowing what she means or why she says it. Thoughts pop in her mind like soap bubbles, and words follow. “ – here, I mean. It’s so – so – it’s hard to breathe out there.” She leans forward, pushes her books to the side and pulls a small journal from the bottom of the stack, bound in hand-made leather and almost entirely empty.

“Remember that – uh, story that Slays-Before-the-WarCry told at the moot?” she awaits confirmation, a nod, a flicker of the Ahroun’s eyes, “Blood-Eclipse-rhya sent them to a factory and all that, and with some – some kinfolk? They found the Dancer there – I, uh – want – well, I don’t think that they’d be dumb enough to still be using the same place, but maybe they are. I – wanna find out? I though, you know – well – no one volunteered, and your Theurge is a Glass Walker. Maybe – there’s something he could do to – watch the place, or, I don’t know – download something, one of those things they do?”

Linnea’s expertise in matters spiritual and/or technological is non-existent, she circles the ideas like water circling the drain, finds herself hating the words coming out of her mouth (as she often does) – and forces herself to slow down, to focus. Her shoulders still, her chest expands as she breathes deeply from some inner place. When she glances back at Jackson, she is considerably more focused, precisely on point. “If Ghost-Rider can think of something, I want your pack to work with Ben and see what you can find out.”

[Jackson Ball] She compliments him. Sort of. And it gets an incredulous look; a screwing up of the face. He knows he ain't pretty. Then she goes on, explaining, and it makes more sense. He goes neutral again - though, neutral always seems a touch hostile on a full moon, doesn't it? He watches her through her false starts and backtracking before she gets down to the bleeding edge of her focus. Doesn't answer her statement, just lets her go on.

Makes him tense, straightening his posture even, apathetic muscles once slack going taut - coiled. When she talks business, backed by that breeding that sits behind her every word and deed, likely even forgotten by her, his body responds with business. Ready to fight.

There's a short nod, "I don' know what all he kin do eitha," he admits from brows that furrow at his own words. Can't be expected to know all of the subtleties his pack's assets as of yet, but he wished he could, "But ah'll put it to 'im. If we kin help, we will. Gimmie Ben's contact. I seen him befo', but it ain' never come up," He didn't seem to have a problem with working with the Rotagar, either. Truth be told, Jackson was impressed with the recounting of the New Moon's deeds at the cracking of the bone. He wasn't all talk, and that was worth something.

[Linnea Bartlett] “I don’t have it,” the young Fang replies with a grimace, her mouth flattening into a thin line as her gaze falls to her cellphone, upended and leaning against the spine of Sun Tzu’s Art of War, the manual of adolescent boys, Risk players, wargamers, and teenaged Silver Fang Ahrouns everywhere. There's a part of her that notes his reaction - the way he coils inward like a compressed spring, the way he responds to her words when she finds focus and confidence to say them without hesitation. She slices a sidelong glance up at the him, studying the sullen lines of his face, the weight of his rage. “but I’ll get it next time he’s in the Caern. And if it’s okay with you, I’ll pass your number on to him. I -- ” she hesitates again, her pale, flat brows lilting upwards, “I’d like to go too, if I can make it. I want to see it. You know? I just - ” her voice drops, her eyes narrow and her focus drifts to a point above Jackson’s head and to the right. “ – I wanna see it. If I don’t have guard duty, but you guys are the essential ones and sooner’s better than later.”

She pauses again, then rises - with the fluid confidence of one of Gaia's warriors - pushing her chair back from the table, absently righting the tumbled volumes on the table before her. "Thank you, Wrecking-Ball-yuf," the girl says, with a certain respectful formality.

[Jackson Ball] She gets a nod in response when she inquires as to whether she can give out his number. Its swift and dismissive. To her statement of wishing to be along, he snorts, "Come if'n ya want. You a good 'nough fighta. Won't slow us down a bit," That's higher praise than it seems, from a fenrir, and one steeped in inner city braggadocio.

When she pushes the chair back signifying the end of the meeting, books fall over, and his gaze snaps to that, whipcord fast. Like a wolf sensing movement and keying on it, recognizing it for a non-danger, and slowly slides back to earlier repose. Doesn't reach out to pick them up. Gravity wanted em there, they'd stay there as far as he was concerned. She should see his apartment.

"Ain' no thang," he slurs in that deep tone, before leaning forward, palms to tree-trunk legs and standing himself up, "Good seein' ya, Wyrmfoe," He doesn't add '-yuf' as a suffix, and he never has been known to add '-ryha' to those of his elders. Mostly just says 'sir' like a homid. At least he never screws up the grammar like a lot of cliaths who say 'rhya' alone, as if it's not a suffix.

Snatches up hoody. Then jacket. When the wool goes over the t-shirt, his brow furrows, as if considering something, dark eyes slide beneath their lids to regard Linnea, "You wanna beer? Thinkin' bout headin' over ta that Kin-bar downa street," he rumbles the offer to her, while shrugging his shoulders into his frayed denim jacket.

[Benjamin Keyes] James Brown.

"...I got that feelin'..."

It drifts from under the doors leading into The Den, coasting softly on currents of mid-afternoon comfortable and capable. The music is barely audible, it's only the faint thrum of base that drifts through the floorboards that gives any indication of play or presence inside. William's doing his bit to wipe down the counter, serve the customers and pay attention to long time flirt and semi-girlfriend doloris with her cougar tits and bright red hair, an eye on the door for the usual overwatch on newbloods.

For his part, Ben has been quiet. Thoughts and focus oriented on the future and the escapades that make it interesting. Shit had happened and potential problems were in the making and it was only a matter of time before it came walking through the door to find him. So...

...He's content to sit in his chair behind the long table, feet propped on the next seat over, draped in the Black Ops special, fingers flickering around the glass of Gin and Tonic, Neat, playing the Waiting Game while James does his high-speed boogie for entertainment on the Jukebox.

"...Baby baby bayyby, baby baby bayyyby..."

[Mykah Izetbegovic] Mykah quips a smile. Descrete thing that is it, looking down at his book a moment before he looks back up at Cass. "I thought I was supposed to be the wise one sitting here."

[Cassandra Stone] "Hardly." She replied, looking over at the doors and the man that came through them.

[Mykah Izetbegovic] "Hm," he muses quietly to himself, his gaze wandering. "Could we go somewhere quiet ?"

[Cassandra Stone] "You know that we can." She replied, looking back at him.

[Mykah Izetbegovic] "Come on..." he says quietly, picks up his book and leaves.

[Cassandra Stone] She gathered her books, sliding them into her briefcase and followed after Mykah. Curious, ever curious about what he was talking about.

[Linnea Bartlett] The winter sun’s out now, Helios sailing across the sky – the quality of light is thinner in the winter than it is in the summer, as if it has been strained through a screen of muslin. Wrapped in her tailored coat and mismatched scarf, Linnea walks from the Caern to the kin bar, her face held up to the sky and the sun, careful to keep to the strip of sidewalk not drowning in the city’s shadows, paying little enough attention to her surroundings. – She gait is quick and loping – sometimes she comes close to taking off, the way a slack sail catches the wind before she returns to earth, grounded, and just, by the immutable laws of gravity.

She doesn’t like the change that happens the moment she leaves the Caern, the way the world closes in around her, the leaden air, the tight bands that worm their way around her heart – but, underground, underground underground underground, the young Silver Fang misses the sun.

The front door swings open, and Linnea skips into the dark interior, blinking as the afterecho of the sun’s rays stains her vision, with phantom motes of light that drift across the interior. Jackson invited her for a beer – and although Linnea does not drink, she wants to – what – she couldn’t begin to say. So she crosses the floor – flashing a half-blind, friendly smile at the strange couple at the table – presents herself at the bar and orders a beer. Asked for clarification, she blinks owlishly and responds, “ uh – whatever’s good?”

Presented with something, amber, swimming a frosty glass with a head of foam, she takes it and – with a glance at the couple and then her companion, heads toward the backroom.

[Jackson Ball] The walk down the street wasn't long, and the weather had brightened. Now that extra woolen he'd worn underneath his denim jacket felt hot, scratchy. He'd left his head unadorned, gleaming like polished ebony when the sun blazed from behind slow-moving clouds. Air couldn't decide whether it wanted to be hot or cold, and he got more agitated with each step away from the bawn. Calcifying reality lays on his chest and his brain like sinus-pressure. Ain't as bad for him, though. Never had much of a connection to begin with.

When the doors swung open, his half-lidded eyes blinked, trying to make out shapes in the gloom. Sees spots. Denim gets shrugged off by those shoulder. Hoody gets pulled over, and both are balled up in a murderer's grip.

At the bar, hand digs into the pocket of his denim, hand slaps wadded up bills and jingled change on the counter. Starts sorting it out, pushing a dime here, pennies there, face screwed up in calculation. Just grunts at the price. One beer here will get him a 6-pack at the corner store. Or two 40's.

Doesn't slosh it when he picks it up. Too fuckin' expensive. Glance slides to Linnea, and he moves to the back room..

And here's the trouble that walked through the door, Ben.

[Carmen Losada] tap.tap.tap.tap
A pad of yellow legal paper.
A capped pen that beats a soft, steady tattoo upon the old, worn, but clean wooden table. She sits near the large stone-worked fireplace, forever ablaze in these winter months. The Brotherhood has little by the way of electric lighting in the bar/restaurant room proper, keeping up its authetic feel with the genial warmth of homely, functional candles and oil lamps. The lack of glaring flouresents sets one side of her face in shadow, with a seeming aura-glow cast from the side that faces the fire. Shadow and Light. Shifting, dancing, forever swirling in a mutable tango of fickle passions.

tap. tap. tap.

She watches the exit of the Shadowlords and the entrance of the ahrouns with the benign, curious interest of a stranger; a tumbler of Don Q within reach of the restless fingers.

[Benjamin Keyes] The opening door is met with a raised drink but no glance in their direction. The collective power and force of nature that comes with two Ahrouns and their Rage all the indication Ben needs, slashing outwards like some squid attack, clapping walls and support beams with thunderous blows of palpable promise and dread.

He seems content to sip the drink, content to watch the jukebox swirl right into another tiny 45, the thrum of a trickling melody pulled as if from a great distance, until it's a shrieking warble that starts off Jimmy's "Foxy Lady", with a sharp sort of rhythmic thunder.

Black garments, movement efficient, fingerless gloves and patience all prepared on an ordinary face with mostly ordinary mannerisms. Waiting without a word...

[Linnea Bartlett] "Hey! Double-oh-seven! That's so weird, we were just talking - talking about you! Isn't that weird? - " Linnea continues, shooting a quick sideling glance at Jackson's impenetrable features for confirmation. " - well, huh. Maybe it isn't, but how cool is that?" She has her beer cradled between both hands, her fingers wrapped neatly around the glass. Like Jackson, she's careful not to slosh the head over the sides of the mug, but not because she's counting pennies and six packs and forty ounces in the back of her head. She's just careful: it's someone else's house, and someone else's floor. Stopping at the end of a long table, the young Ahroun leans her narrow hip against a high-backed chair, takes a sip of her beer, stifles a grimace, and sets it down on the scarred wooden table top. "Mind if I sit?"

The question is almost moot, since she's stripping off her coat and scarf, her gloves, all the winter trappings and bundling them together, to be tossed into a corner. Her gaze strafes across Carmen, too - she flashes another grin and a wave, not quite wanting to disturb the Galliard deep in thought - and although it looks like she's moving in, she remains standing, poised, awaiting Ben's invitation before actually taking a seat at his table.

[Jackson Ball] Outer garments are in a make-shift bundle beneath one arm of bulging sinew. Underneath, all he has is a plain white t-shirt. It stretches over those sculpted lines of iron thews like spray paint, glares in contrast to his dark chocolate skin. His other hand carefully holds the glass mug of beer like it was delicate, like he might break it. Eyes are pits of coal beneath serpentine slits when he spies Ben at the bar, "Hell. Thass 'im, there," his deep bass is low toned, rolling like thunder over horizon, in this small, intimate interior room. Just like that inner fury that didn't like being crammed inside a small space, neither does that voice.

She'd noted him too, of course, and gets a nod at her outspoken assertion at the oddity of the timing. His affirming grimace was a thinning of his lips, a tightening.

Gaze slides to Carmen. There's an unspoken question in that look. She gets a nod, that chin-jutting gesture the kids loved. Something about the galliard had him on edge, though.. just like last time.

They arrive at the bar, and gaze slides back, lazy and languid, "Sup, Keyes," delivered flat, and it's not a question. A greeting.

[Carmen Losada] tap.tap---
Mid-motion she stops the action, head canting slightly to the side [cougar] as her shoulders shift and roil beneath the storm-surge blue of her lambswool sweater that cuts off just shy of the low-slung waist of her dickies the colour of wet sand, thus revealing a hint of midrift, the copper glint of a belly chain. She sits 'indian' fashion on the chair, reaching for her pad, her pen, drawing it back to rest upon her lap.

...the -- bubbly -- Silver Fang [wyrmfoe] recieving an inquisditive, searching look. There is regonition there, but of a detached sort, as when you know you know someone... you just for ther life of you can't place where you meet them. As quickly as it apperaed, however, it dissapears and the Galliard smiles, a mellow, warm, honey-laced thing that could send a pleasent tingle down the spines of many a person - no matter their sex. Disarming. Quiet.

Jackson recieves the same, though when she reads the slight edge... it wavers slightly, slowly, softly fades as clear as a sigh, tinged with a slight sadness, a wry acceptance. She nods. Briefly. Then looks back down to her empty pad and her capped pen.

[Benjamin Keyes] "Take a seat, Little Fang. Ain't no reason for you not too." A flicker of a hand is aimed in the multiple chairs that sit scattered around the long table, the glass in his hand tipped back and devoured wholesale, followed by an 'Oh Ye Gods' sort of grimace that washes away and leaves behind faint lines along his mouth and under his eyes.

"...Aren't you a little young to be drinking?" His gaze takes up Linnea first, brow perked in a 'Aren't we bein' naughty' fashion before Jackson gets a nod and a 'You should be more responsible with our future leaders' kind of frown. Whether it's a joke or not is about as obvious as Ben's age, though the half-smirk is something of an indication.

"I've been here for the last hour or so, bored out of my fuckin' mind. The newbloods have been pouring in left right and centre and they seem to love this place. Shadowlords are infesting the walls and making everything and one feel all greasy dirty" he shudders and wipes himself down at that mention "and little Ms. Muffet has been Diddling her puppet for the last little bit."

A 'She was like that when I got here' nod is tossed in Carmen's direction, the Rotagar's brow arched to ab absurd angle, as Carmen is taken in for perhaps the third or fourth time since they've been in here, right quiet and conspiratory.

"...So why am I on the lips and tongues of future leaders and their Thugs?"

[Jackson Ball] Ben gives a half-sarcastic dig at their age, and Jackson snorts. Those wide-set nostrils flare and he snorts like a fucking bull. Glass goes to those hardened lips as the Rotagar prattles on, the Modi expecting it from his auspice. The thin, amber stuff is drained, makes it so it's not as likely to spill at an inch or so below the rim.

Pretty much ignores all the gossip, save the last. Eyes slide to Carmen again, scrutinizing, judging. Dark and burning, they seemed to search her as she left her nose in her book. Even at the last, that gaze stays on the Galliard, as his lip curls, "Bess leave her 'lone," finally that glance slides Ben's way, slow as molasses. Lets him know he means it. Bess leave her 'lone.

[Linnea Bartlett] "Yeah - well - " the girl's gaze slides down to her mug as she steps around and lowers herself into the ladder backed chair. The head is starting to settle, bubbles popping and seething along the glass - Linnea frowns at the beer, her mouth settling into a faint, sullen edge. " - I, uh - in - in Europe you know, it'd be okay!" She cuts another glance up at Jackson then leans forward to Ben. "I - " her voice lowers, conspiratorially, effing smug, enlivened as always, high voltage sparking along high wires. " - I bet Jackson's too young, too. An' - " he indicates Carmen, she swivels in her seat, glances at the Uktena, " - an' her too. So - so - "

Her shoulders swell, she's poised, leaning forward, her voice lowered, focused, brought back to earth by Jackson's comment about Carmen. "Oh - we were - I want you to take Jackson's pack back to that factory. Maybe his Theurge can do something. See what's going on there, see if there's anything we can learn..."

[Carmen Losada] "I am twenty-two-years-old."
A passing commentary, delivered with the barest wry curve of nude lips. Clear, low-spoken and concise with the velvet overtones of her native Spanish accent. Marked by the raising of her glass of rum, a salute - or a teasing touch of mockery - and downing the last dredges of the amber fluid...

...her gaze slides along, focusing on Jacksons departing form, nude lips dipping into a somber frown.
tap.tap.tap
The capped pen a dull thud now as it lightly strikes the yellow, lined paper.
Back again, the peripheral shift of her gaze as Linnea speaks of the Factory. Factory.
Factory.
The frown deepens all the more.
The factory should mean something. She knows it should.
But it doesn't....
...the gaze slips back down to her pad, searching there as though it might answer a riddle.

Blink
The barest of nods, some troubleing matter settled and she looks back to them both...
"You may consider taking another Theurge. One with a known knowledge of the Destroyer. Perhaps...."
Stop.
Again she frowns... perhaps... perhaps....whom?
With a low sound deep in her throat, provocatively sensual as it is evocatively unsetteling. Frustration and hunger and...
"Bai Chou."

[Benjamin Keyes] Carmen's eccentricities earn her a glance or two, his chuckle at her age revealed subdued and soft, as the droplets of his gin and tonic are touched to tongue. It's only when Linnea makes mention of a mission, that he comes back into focus. He just sort of stares at her for a few solid seconds, where nothing really happens or moves or shifts or anything inside that moment. Someone pressed pause and he's waiting for play to go again, poised with his lower jaw crooked and off to one side, lips pursed out as if seeking a straw to some imaginary drink.

Then...

"Pardon...? You want to what? And me to What? With Jackson and his Pack What?"

It's not like he's expecting the questions to be answered, a quick shot glance given in Carmen's direction before returning swift and certain to Linnea.

"The taint and stench running around that place, combined with the amount of trouble that was there, trouble being shotguns with silver and banes the size of buicks nevermind the deeper interior and it's problem folk. They know we were there before, they've probably got my face on file and I've no doubt they'll have beefed up security if...If they are still there at all to begin with..."

Pause. Remenisce. Wait for it...

"...So give me some very good reasons as to why I should be suciding myself out to this 'cause, Little Fang? Especially for a couple of 'Maybes' and 'Somethings' that are no where near the territorial bubble of 'Certainty'..."

The brow remains arced and his demeanour somewhat flippant, sarcastic even.

[Linnea Bartlett] The Silver Fang looks up sharply, she meets Carmen’s gaze, holds it briefly and lets it go. “You know him.” It isn’t a question, it’s a simple statement, the sudden formality lightened by the curl of the corner of her mouth. “Tell him to find me at St. Michael’s, on guard duty or otherwise. I’ll speak to him.”

She turns back to Ben, her pale eyebrows rising, her forehead knitting in though. She leans forward over the mouth of her mug and stares into the liquid – obviously thinking, hard enough that they might hear the wheels turning and turning over and over in her head. “I don’t think they’ll still be there. Unless it is a place of power for them - ” here her tongue peaks out from between her teeth, wetting her chapped lips. Even the idea of a place of power for the enemy so near the Caern makes her young heart beat faster, beat painfully against the cage of her ribs. “ – and if they are still there, we won’t go in. I’m not interested in suicide missions, no matter how noble the ends that might follow.”

She glances at the door through which the Modi exited, a faint grimace twitching at the corners of her wide mouth, although she doesn’t give the expression full tilt. She reins it in, carefully. Her hands slip from the tabletop beneath, and she wipes her palms on her thighs. “We do things right, and no one knows we’re there. We won’t get close to it until we know what we’re dealing with. If they’re gone, we might go in, overwhelming force, clean up what they’ve left behind. If they’re still there,” now she curls her skinny shoulders in a small shrug, “ – well, they can watch us, we can watch them. Wait and see.”

Her fingers dig into her thighs, she swells from within again, feels her lungs expanding like bellows, the sure beat of her heart in her ears as she lifts her gaze to the Rotagar, frank and open. “Tell me what’s wrong with that plan,” she finishes at last, with enough quiet seriousness that Ben might believe that she takes the request seriously, that she wants to hear his answer.

[Carmen Losada] You know him...

Whom?
Shit.
Again, that searching look, introverted and intense. Usually she bestows such gazes upon others, as though she could peel through layers of skin, flesh and gore to the heart of the matter, dark and festering though the heart may be. Now it's her own mind she searches, wandering through corridors, blind and stumbling. Misplaced. Where...
...there.
Yes.

Blink Again, as quickly as the lost look of seraching arose, it is beaten down once more. Her pupils contract, focus, and she nods. "I will."

Fluidly her gaze drops downcast. She arches her spine then, hooking an arm over the back oher chair, raising her hips, unfolding her legs. Sretching out like a cat before setteling down once more one knee raised, arm drapping loosely over it. Her ear inclided their way as their discussion proceeds.. but how much of it she stores or truly follows is anyones guess.

[Carmen Losada] ooc: Aaaaand.. I need to go for a bit. Have carmen grow suddenly wary [with a bit of a rage-spike] and get up and make a hasty exit with half-mumbled farewells. (hugs) Go well!
PMed to: Benjamin Keyes, Linnea Bartlett

[Benjamin Keyes] The Pure Breeding is distinct, it announces the birth of heroes and champions and all sorts of leadership qualities that make up for the fact she's 16 at best. Most of the time you can attribute all the run and move and focus of such an individual to their blood and most of the time that blood (and maybe a little ancestral help and guidance) can push you through the looking glass, what with the safety of a nice precious Caern and a collection of Elders to point the way.

...All well and good for the average run around, especially if you have the numbers to send out and order around on that Hero blood's worth. An army at your command and not a command to your name. Questions, questions, questions...

Ben looks at her, mouth halting it's response in time to catch Carmen's sudden stand, blink and lovely eyed stare at something impossibly incomprehensible. Her good bye is brief and her whisper soft, as she turns and steps out towards the doorway, chair skidding back along the floorboards, leaving him to stare...briefly. Just briefly...before returning back to Linnea.

"Waiting lets them breed deeper, breed more, breed prepared and careful. Longer we wait, the longer it will take to dig deep and hard. Right now? Your plan has too many ifs. Too many possibilities and not many certainties if any at all. That gets people hurt and killed, all those ifs and possibilies."

He tongue-clicks, narrowing his eyes and thrumming fingertips on the tabletop, almost impatient in his mannerisms, as if he were waiting. Seeking. Looking for Linnea to provide her own answers (I'm not your babysitter little one. I'll ask you the questions but you need your own answers)

"...So what kind of certainties can you provide me, Little Fang?"

[Linnea Bartlett] Carmen’s abrupt departure catches Linnea’s attention too. She follows the track of Ben’s gaze and narrows her pale eyes at the Talesinger and Record Keeper – there’s something familiar the woman’s eyes, the distance in her voice, the vague imprecision of her farewell the way the staggeringly beautiful monster beneath the woman’s skin seems to have been misplaced, pried into a different space than she usually inhabits. For the first time during the course of the afternoon, Linnea gets it – her mouth thins, her nostrils flare. Nothing you can do. Trust a Silver Fang to recognize madness, or its equivalent, at last.

“She’ll be okay - ” her questions are often marked by a the lilt of a rising fifth, artifact of her age, but this one is made a question only by the twist of the young girl’s pale brows. “ – for now, right.” Then the door swings shut behind Swallows-the-Sun, and the moment to intervene is lost. The girl turns back to Ben, her bright energy subdued.

Linnea nudges her beer aside – forward - otherwise, she hasn’t touched it since she put it down on the table, to make room for her elbows. She leans forward, curls her hands into fists, and rests her chin on the platform they create, rocking and popping her jaw as she thinks.

“I don’t have certainties,” she admits at last. For the first time in the evening (beneath the kinetic energy, the strange halting circles, the weird confluence of confidence, blood, and youthful self-consciousness, she still holds herself straight – her spine, her shoulders, her narrow hips – and proud), Linnea slumps forward with the admission. “I’ve asked Jackson. He has to ask his Theurge, if he has any tricks. If he can - ” she frowns, frustrated by her own ignorance. “ – he’s a Glass Walker. The Theurge, not Jackson. I’ll wait until I hear back from him and then I’ll let you know.”

[Benjamin Keyes] "Then this mission isn't going forward until then I would think. You need information, Wyrmfoe. Information from sources you know and sources you don't and right now most of your sources are pretty unknown hand-me-downs you've yet to really connect with beyond your pretty speeches and bloodline at the Moots."

It isn't snorted or deriding or even intended to be harsh. It's merely all of that honesty that's found so rarely in the words of the No Moon persuasion. He wasn't interested in drilling her until she got it, she would get it, by losing a few of her Sept mates under her care or very very quickly when situations came right down to it.

"Best bet is to pick out the people you think would do the job right and do the job well and then, send 'em on their way. Commit as much or as little as you can to the cause and weigh how important it is in comparison to other things."

Click, goes the tongue, his eyes roaming towards the Jukebox with it's plethora of songs, gone quiet in the intermediaries between conversation.

"...Either that, or do like all great heroes do. Pick two of us you know you'll need and let's go find out for ourselves."

[Linnea Bartlett] She snaps her jaw closed and leans forward again; he eyes fall from Ben to the play of the flickering oil lamps, soft light, changeable shadows, in the flattening surface of her untouched beer. "I talked to Armina and Severina about making a pack." The change of subject isn't entirely abrupt. Pick two of us you know you'll need . Her eyes unfocus, the light swims against them, colors, impressionist flourishes. She cranes her chin forward, flattens and unfolds her hands, and reaches for her beer again. This time, it doesn't taste so bad - underneath the bitterness there's something alive, like bread, but the second sip is worse. "She suggested you. Armina. Except I think she's gone. I didn't see her on duty this morning, she was scheduled." There's a tendon in her jaw that pulses and tightens as she mentions the Forseti, although she doesn't know yet what to think. Maybe it's nothing, but the animal bottled up inside her swells and fills her senses, for a hot white - brief - moment. Her lungs swell, she exhales, breathes out.

"I'll find out what they can do," she repeats again, her voice deeper, her teeth clicking at the end of the statement. "and let you know." Her eyes sweep up then, the pale lashes shading the glance. "I need some way to get in contact with you, though. Phone number or something. There's another thing, too."

Her eyes flatten. "The story the Glass Walker told at the moot. Havoc - ?" She waits for confirmation of the name, that he heard it, that he remembers. "I bet there's nothing left in that tunnel," her mouth twists upward at the corner. "but you can say that better than me, can't you?"

[Benjamin Keyes] "Armina's gone on her own path, kiddo. Let it alone and move onto your duties. You lose warriors to possibility, to carnage and to decisions of their own. That's the way of it." Something sickly crept over his features, twisting them into a faint essence of disgust (Can't believe that just came out of your fuckin' mouth, Mr. Rogers) that hides itself once more when she glances up at him to explain the remainder.

"...Severina seems capable enough especially with that Ax in her hand. She'll do right by you, I have no doubt." When Linnea brings up the Tunnels and the description Havoc has made mention of, Ben can only shake his head, a finger running around the rim of his empty glass, no doubt an unconscious gesture that another would be necessary soon.

"...As far as I know, the tunnels were sealed off, inspected and seen to by the elders and the guardians have been keeping constant vigil. I have yet to touch base with much inside the Caern at the moment as my main purview is the outer rims and edges of our safe little bubble here. Better on the front lines, waiting in the dark, knife in hand and someone looking for a bad day, then sitting on my ass wondering what fortifications are and how best to build 'em. Just not me."

Another pause runs between them, his feet coming down off the table, slipping to the ground and clumping rather loudly, as it to beg the attention of those finding other things to concentrate on.

"What's your first priority, Little Fang? Right now, what are you most looking to do?"

[Linnea Bartlett] “I don’t know.” the girl says, sitting back abruptly, slamming the flat of her fists on the wooden table top – with more force than she intended, more force than she understands, all the quicksilver frustration that builds up inside her like the internal chambers of a steam engine. God – she pushes herself back from the table, the wooden legs of her antique ladder back digging into the hardwood floor of the historic bar. Garou have been frequenting the place for near a hundred and fifty years. It isn’t the first time an Ahroun has scarred the floor. – that was smart. Just – just –

She stands up, steps back and around the chair, curls her fingers around the topmost slat until splinters are digging into the flesh of her palm and her knuckles have gone white with the strain. It helps – it helps her to find that place in the center of herself – where she can focus her mind and find an approximation of calm. “I – I don’t have enough certainties - ” or, not precisely calm, but a laser-like focus that allows her to think, to speak. “ – to know what my priorities are. I don’t know anything. I want Grecco, and I want to know what the enemy is up to, where the enemy went. I want to chose the field of battle the next time we fight them: those are my priorities. That - ” her nostrils flare with emotion, she lets go of the chair opens her hands, a flat gesture of frustration, and steps away from it, abruptly burying her fists in the pockets of her jeans. “That’s my priority.”

[Benjamin Keyes] When the sharp shock of Ahroun ire, cracks against the wooden table, Ben blinks quickly, the only sign of a flinch that runs through him as his nerves re-settle themselves without imperceptible and slow effort. He was Fenrir and used to such outbursts from fellows and friends, but that didn't make him entirely immune especially with one that spat Legends and bled Heroes.

He let her Rage, a moment's breath to spit and cast the truth on the table. Children were meant to play House, Kiss Boys, Look at College and find the right sort of place in society that would make them Career folk contributing to the greater understanding that was Civilization.

...Understanding the sacrifice each Garou made when the First Change hit was different for each of them, but no less potent or sobering. So he waits, let's her get the frustrations out, let's the world bleed from her splinter driven fingers in tiny realistic confessions. Waits, as she adds to the many scars and scuffs delivered to The Den's interior over the years. Waits, listening.

"...Well you've got a priority. That's something at least. This Factory is a good first step too. Sending people on force into a place like that is dangerous and ugly at best and it tips our hand, letting anyone inside and outside this Sept know what you're willing to commit to, brash and impulse. You can't wait but you can't rush head long into things either. Sort of a double edged sword and you're walking that fine line, trying not to slip in any one direction. Ugly business..."

A pack of cigarettes is produced, tossed onto the table, minus one which is set to his lips, a hand digging around in one of his pockets for an appropriate light.

"...But your choices are limited which is a good thing. We can either sit here and wait for people to come crawling to you with the information you need to make things Certain or you can head out yourself and find out those certainties by the time the next Moot comes 'round. One thing for certain right now though?"

The cigarette is lit with a few flicks of a purple BIC, which is tossed on the table next to the Cigarettes, a haze of pale smoke beginning to wind it's way up and across his features.

"...'I Don't Know' is going to screw us all right hard, right quick, right easy" A pause "Wyrmfoe."

[Linnea Bartlett] She pushes up the sleeves of the thermal beneath her SWARTHMORE t-shirt - the one she always wears on duty, dedicated to her body, some tracery of its spiritual substance sufficient awake that it will change and grow and disappear and return with her, when she must change and grow and disappear and return. Her spine arches, the fluids within the vertebral joint spaces popping and cracking they decompress. With a splintered breath - it feels good to her, to stand and move, to open up her body, although it would be better to fight something, that much she can do - she reaches back, places both palms on the small of her back and lengthens the stretch.

"You shouldn't smoke." Rather flatly spoken, although the corner of her mouth twists with a corona of her usual good humor. "If I were the Wyrm - " If I were the Wyrm - " - you know, toxin delivery device?" The pale irises of her eyes twitch as she traces the shadow of rising smoke against the Rotagar's face. "I'm going to see what Jackson's Theurge can do - " she continues, "and talk to this Uktena too. Then I'll get back to you about the factory. Look - " something sort of sixth sense, the built in rhythms of Caern life wakes in her, she narrows her eyes, glances over her shoulder at the dark-paneled wall - back in the direction of the Caern. "I gotta go, I have guard duty. How do I get in touch with you when I need you?"

[Benjamin Keyes] A piece of paper is pushed across the table towards her, produced from some pocket or other on his person, the gesture not quite visible until it's already been done.

"Call that number. Find the guardian Roster. I'm number 7. Just find the area I'm on duty in at the time being. Can't find me or contact me? Either check the Memorial Garden or just don't bother. I'll check in with you every so often."

Another puff of smoke, drifting out of his nostril and pluming into the air around his head, eyes narrowed to thin slits. In conjunction with the lazy smile that permeates his features it is somewhat, odd.

"...And if you were the wyrm darling, my job would be too terribly easy. Get goin' now. Warder ain't too kind on tardiness."

[Linnea Bartlett] She leans over, eyebrows lifting as the paper seems to - appear in his hands, from somewhere in the shadows and the smoke. Unearthing her right fist from where she buried it in her front pocket, she reaches out, leans forward, snatches the piece of paper between her fore and middle fingers, squints at the numbers before stuffing it, crumpled, into her pocket. "Thanks."

Now she unearths her other hand, bends down and gathers up the knotted mass of dark cloth - her coat, well-made, wrapped with the bright color of an aqua scarf that does not quite match the subdued, tasteful tones of the coat. "I have a cell - next time I see you on duty, I'll give you the number - I - I left it back at the church, I don't remember the number, yet." She lifts her coat with a flourish, long arms extended over her head, the coat flying out around her until she's shaken it back into its regular shape and shrugged her way into the sleeves. "Thanks Ben - " a quick, odd little smile, before she turns and disappears from the Den, out into the winter's evening. She'll run almost all the way back, her scarf flying out behind her like a winter flag, because the Rotagar's right: the Warder isn't kind on tardiness. He can't afford to be.