Challenges [Carmen-Pack]

[Benjamin Keyes] Knees creep outwards to splay and balance him, settling both to the mat below, a mat reserved for the dance of combat in most regards, fist-to-fisticuff-crack-crackings. He is draped in the soft white Wife-beater, clean and even, the cargo pants and hard-toe boots scuffed with lines and patches of dust picked up from lower catacombs and his treks through them during guardian duties. His hair is stripped back along his scalp, pulled tight and taut enough to drain the alasticity from his features...

...Leaving the lines of tension and stress that have amounted in all of the Sept, evident, even in that sarcastic smile, head tilted to regard his 'opponent'.

"I'm supposed to tell a Story. Not stories, because I'm no Galliard and I rarely do that, except for little children sleeping soundly in their beds." If anyone was doubting the implicating in those words, they would have to step out of the room. This was a big kid conversation.

"A story about Folly, Disrespect and Cowardice. Something to prove a point, right? A Lesson in each and every? Well alright..."

He clears his throat, eyes narrowing up at the ceiling, the casual candence of the Storytelling art lost on the Rotagar, who's subdued voice plays more to the tone of a crude Joke or a subtle insult. Quick and to the point without the details to really drive it home.

"...I knew a Galliard once, strong girl if a little impulsive. Spit at your feet as easily as she'd scream at the heavens. She'd been reading. A Lot. Stuck in a room of dusty old books, looking over texts and important notes from past times and days when it wasn't her problem. Wasn't her bid." Pause and Mocking frown "Boo Hoo."

"One night, with a Full Moon in the sky, she came wandering down the stairs and into a Garden of statues. Indestructible, once living, friends and family and heroic statues depicting the greatest battle we've all ever known and saw a group of garou either fighting or sitting back and watching." A pause again. Forlorn and mocking in each word. No two sided story. Just a single sided perspective.

"She started screaming with that voice of hers that could be heard in Human Heaven, bellowing about Tradition and Honour and Promises of Punishment. Ugly little punishment. Heedless of the Moon above her head and the sheer amounts of Anger running through our numbers at this time of the Month. You'd think being a woman she'd have more sense but..." The Tongue goes click.

"...She's screaming. Eyeballing. Making demands and pointing fingers at an Ahroun and two Garou fresh out of a Fight that just got started. In a place she holds secret and safe in her dear heart, by her own words, don't you think that's a bit of Folly?"

Pause. Tapping his chin. Nodding along slowly after a moment's (mock) consideration.

"...Hmmm, maybe." Eyes to her, tongue clicking again. "Maybe she figured the Kids she was talking to didn't know what they were doing, maybe she didn't care. Maybe she just...didn't...bother...asking. Throwing herself around like she's got the weight and rank to give orders..."

Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. And a chuckle.

"Folly I say. To risk a Frenzy for the sake of a little decorum, but that's all heresay...Heresay and conjecture...Just my tale, right? Riggghhhttt..."

Pause, tapping his left cheek, mouth hanging open as if on the cusp of saying something else.

"Your turn Toots..."

[Linnea Bartlett] Linnea deposited the cub in his room in the Guardian quarters, then traced her path back through the catacombs to the familiar grounds of the challenge circle. She returns half-way through Ben's story, his voice echoing strangely off the domed roof, her light tread muffled by the sand underfoot. Once inside the room, the teenager sinks into a forward-crouch, balanced with one knee tipped toward the ground. Her nostrils flare with each percussive breath; her round cheeks seem more hollow than usual - as if she were sucking on a lemon, or chewing the skin in her mouth, grinding her inner cheeks with her molars. Intent on the challenge, none of them are like to register her beyond the certainty of her presence in the hall.

[Severina Morta] The Philodox has been silent since she entered the challenging room, her face blank without expression. Her chest rose and fell with even breathing, arms draped across her bent knees, eyes attentive to the storytellers.

[Carmen Losada] They make quite a contrast. Him, with his wife-beater, cargo pants, and boots all scuffed and marked and lined. The chiseled, distinctive lines of his face and the lean length of his crouched form. She, dressed in well-worn leather pants that lace up the sides well up to mid-thigh; her tight drawn pea-coat, turtleneck, and scarf to ward off the chill that lingers here below where the sun never shines, yet not deep enough to draw any heat from the innermost bowels of the earth. She, petite formed, svelte lined, curves, slopes and planes in all the right places. Latte skin in contrast to his lighter tones. Her facial features a captivating blend of all her Spanish, Moorish, German and Native American roots.
Facial features that remain set in a look of intense observation as he speaks.
Soaking in each insult of word, expression, tone, motion and deed.
The only indication that they strike home a tightening of her jaw, a quirking of sensual lips, a narrowing of amber eyes, the flame that burns darkly within them, the barest sharp expansion and then contraction of her nostrils.

When he finishes she continue to watch him.
For a good moment it is all she does.
Then she nods. Slowly. A steady, molten measure.
[it is when she know she so strives to hold her considerable temper in check that she is at her most dangerous point of losing it.]
She shifts her own crouch, steading and spreadin her balance as she starts digging in numerous small pockets in pants and coat, withdrawning certain items she always has on her person.. small, inconsiquential things that seems to me no more than a jack-daws crazy collection. Marbles. Coins. Numerous small pouches. A small swiss army knife. A roll of twine. A cork with a broad needle stuck deep within it. It is the pouches that she lifts to her nose, sniffing slightly... until at last she nods at one and puts all the other clutter back. Opening the pouch, she tilts its mouth to spread its contents out over the ground betweel them...
...coloured, glittering dust of a deep, rich crimson hue. Too coarse to be a powder, to fine to be recognizable rock. With a small, deft hand she smooths it over the dirt floor of the Circle, long packed down with centuries of activity.

"Folly, Disrespect, and Cowardice. Lack of Wisdom and Honour, undeserving of Glory." As she speaks, she curves her fingers as though they where talons and with her nails streaks away the red substance to reveal the hard-packed dirt beneath, 'carving' out the glyphs for Wisdom, Honour, and Glory with the emphatics - slashing and angry - that denote their loss. "I tell you the tale involving Crystal Tounge. I will tell you this tale involving Cyrstal Tongue, though the tale not truly be about Crystal Tongue at all. She was Ragabash of the Uktena, during the time of what the Western World of Humans call the Colonization of the New World. A world New, yes, to those who came but a very anceint, pure home of those who already dwelled there." Quietly she speaks, deliberately low, each accented word carefully enuncaited for emphasis, the words coming out almost as a soothing melody as she inflects measure and rhythm. "Crystal Tongue was many things. She was a Spirit of Disguises, and one more shrewed of wit would be hard to discover. It is said that she outwitted the Crows and Foxes, that she mastered greater abilities to blend into any surrounding she should so desire than even the most clever of camelon or jagaur lurking in the tall trees. She dwelled on land and in air and on sea. Crystal Tongue moved on the water as did those who came to 'Colonize' and she took back those things they had the temerity to take from her own people... she was Rouge, she was Theif, she was Warrior, she was Vindicator, she was Sly and she was Righteous."
All the while as she speaks she either looks to her 'opponent' or - yes - even to the others present. They do not go unnoticed. When she is not thus looking, she is 'painting' different scenes on the ground, using the contrast of crimson and ground. Glyphs. Pictograms. An ever shifting, living visual of her words. [and an old means of focusing, of keeping calm, or marking her own passage as she goes, like jogging her memory]
"One day, after the rising of a mighty and terrifying storm that battered and bruised the islands of the Carribean - what the theurges whispred and murmered as being the Wylds desperate attempt to stop the incoming onslaught of the foriegneers - Crystal Tongue at last returned to her home Sept, the Sept of Turtles Vision, and went to visit the Grave of Hallowed Heroes, there to present her latest recaptured treasures as an honour-gift to her ancestors. To those who came before her. There she encountered three Cubs, close to their Rite of Passage, one we shall call Cleft-Foot, one we shall call Birds Friend and one we shall call Mud Born. Celft Foot, Birds Friend, and Mud Born were heady and impatient with their new learnings. Given the times of turmoil the Sept now found itself in, these eager but impetuous cubs were left to their own device when in othertimes the proper Grandmother would have kept a far tigheter leash on them. There they were,"
Upon the slate of her creation is a sketch of raised palates to signify the burial ground, and now she surrounds it with the emphatic glyphs to signify the names of the cubs. "Carousing and testing one another, testing their brawn, testing their wits, testing, well, all the things cubs are so eager to try and hone and prove themselves capable of. Heedlessly, the romped around the scared ground, unaware of all they could have wrecked and ruined in shher ignorant thoughtlessness. Crystal Tongue narrowed her eyes, her lips parting in the cresent-moon sliver that struck a wary shill int he hearts of many men. A grin that gave no sense of good humour or good will. She wiped away this look and the thoughts of her plans from her face, and went to the cubs. Knocking their heads together like foolish children, berating them for their impertinence and foolery, she kicked them each in kind, smartly on their rear-ends and shamed them thuroughly, taunting and snapping and sneering with each step drawing them further from the Burial Grounds to cease their dishonour of the spot. Well, thought Cleft-Foot, Birds Friend and Mud Born... who was this bitch to so scorn them for merely trying to better themselves as future Warriors of the Mother? Who was this No Moon to return from her wanderings and now try to rule over them, to run her scent against them until they marked it well and subitted at mere hint of it?"

She pauses there, once again smoothing over the red hue, 'erasing' the last glyphs and pictograms to grace it.
....And then, once again, she 'carves' Honour. Wisdom. Glory.
"So they hatched a plan, did the three. They would teach this Crystal Tounge a lesson. Luna rose up that night, clear now after the storm, and the theurges murmered and whispered, hoping it to be a good omen that again She show Her face to them. Long into the night, the Sept celebrated the passing of the wrath-fury of the sea's churning, fickle rage. With doos and dance and song and tales and offerings to the spirits in the manner of our kind, held dearly then and now. When at last the Sept began to sleep once more and Crystal Tongue took to her home there to recieve the favours of her mate whom she had not seen for many a moon-cyle. And there, after the passing of the couples duty, love, and passion - yes, much passion.. by all accounts, Crystal Tongue was a lusty creature," The Galliard chuckles slightly there, half to herself, then proceeds. "Then and only then did the waiting cubs seek to enact their revenge.
Cleft Foot snuck into the hut, a blade glittering wicked and sharp in the last rays of Luna's glow as She began to set, moving to make way for the coming of her bolsterous, showy, eager brother Sol. Cleft Foot snuck forth, intent on slaying the Ragabash and her mate as they slept."
She strikes out Honour.
"On the other side of the camp, Birds Friend mimicked the sound of a Raven's warning, using the shelter of a nearby cavework to make himself sound like many Ravens rising in chorus and speaking of an uncoming attack to to rouse those nearby and creat confusion, drawing attention from what happened in Crystal Tongue's hut."
She strikes out Wisdom.
"And Mud Born. Mud born stood on with the blood of an animal upon him, ready to aid Cleft Foot in taking down the Ragabash should the aid be needed and then, with the blood and the bone of the alin animal Mud Born would tell of the fight to aid Crystal Tongue fromt he enemy who attacked her and her mate, how they tried to save her."
She strikes out Glory.

Again, the Galliard falls silent for a moment, her gaze sliding over the three gathered as she rocks back upon her haunches, the better to take them all in, before at last her gaze once again falls on Benjamin across from her. "They did not succeed, of course, though they caused great turmoil. And why? Because they could not take the scolding of someone in the Right. Because they could not admit to their disrespect and folly. Because refusing to admit, rendered them incapable from learning. And like a wound it festered. Like a wound it turned allies into enemies. Perhaps Crystal Tongue should not have berated them so, yes. Perhaps she herself later lamented her lack of restraint that embedded the seed of insult and hatred in their hearts."

Slowly she slips a hand over the slashed out glyphs of Renown and 'erases' it all once more. "Even so, who can doubt the cowardice, dishonour, and folly of Mud Born, Birds Friend, and Cleft Foot. Thanks be to Gaia that they were naught but Cubs and that ranking Garou would never fall to such lowness. Thanks be to Gaia that ranked Garou can learn from their mistakes rather than making every attempt to cling to their fragile egos. Thanks be to Gaia that the likes of Mud Born, Birds Friend, and Cleft Foot no long torment us."

[Linnea Bartlett] The teenager is still, and that is a rare thing – particularly on a night so close to the full moon. Pure lands, the ancestor close to the surface of her mind scoffs, derisive, dismissive of the very concept. Such fictions. He says nothing more, but his arrogance is a whipcord of surety, his presence marked outwardly only by the subtle forward balance of her crouch. Normally, she sits back on her haunches. Tonight, she leans forward, the fingers of her right hand open just above the sand hummocked where her right knee presses into the ground, poised like a runner, or a bird of prey.

[Severina Morta] The Black Fury bows her head, fine strands of dark hair fall forward to mask the calm structure of her face. She puzzles and questions over the tale that Carmen and Ben speak, disassociating herself enough from her future-pack mate to judge fairly.

Her nose twitches, head moving in a silent nod of affirmation, as she lifts herself up off the ground. One hand reaching for the labrys to casually pick it up, she waits to see if there is anything else the combatants have to say before she speaks

[Benjamin Keyes] Contrasts indeed. The flicker of anonymous features is pallid and unknown (forgettably detatched) against the radiance of the exotic, displayed so in the curve and fine twist (No lines on you, Precious. Nothing straight, everything turning in one confusingly arousing way or another) of Carmen's features to slender neck and lushly fit frame. Why so detailed, one might consider...

...For the eyes. Those dark, dull, black eyes that dance and swim throughout her speech, whistling around and across each and every one of those curves she displays as the body leans forward and the jacket spills open an inch to the left, or a centimetre to the right (Details Details Details, mmmmm...) the appreciative glance or dart of eyes touching base with each glimpse or catch of that caramel tanned flesh below, whilst she speaks...

...And Grinning. Always grinning. Each mention of Cleft Foot, brings about a flicker of that (FUCKYOUASSHOLE) smile pulling indelicately at the Beast. Her story is wonderful, that much is clear in the Rapt attention he grants those words, though his mannerisms and gaze might suggest otherwise to those witnessing and watching (Irreverance be thy Name), but he is listening. That's the challenge. Not the Story being told, but the Lesson being learned and he's learning his...

...Grinning.

When she finishes, he claps. Steady and without that slow, patronizing pace many might set down as the cement to an already reviled attitude. It is a clap as genuine as Ben can make it, which is not as genuine as it could be (Can't be helped) but genuine enough to be convincing (Asshole). The grin has yet to leave his face, half and inch higher on the left side then the right.

"...Commendable, memorable even. Your place as a Galliard is hardly without question or compromise." The clapping ceases, hands slapping to his knees and pulling him forward and to his booted feet, that his gaze falls down upon Carmen, meeting those dark-lit eyes with their (in)human vulnerabilities.

"...But flawed. You talked about all three. Cowardice, Dishnour and Folly so I do suppose I'll finish off on the two I've not touched on now." Click.

"...We spoke of this Galliard's Folly, how her quick words and temper might have brought about a very unwelcome situation in the place she sought to protect. Now let's talk about her words specific. Dishonour is a tricky word and one I know well. It's part of my Duties and my Upbringing..."

Pause. Settling on the backs of his heels, jaw jutting forward at that awkward and crooked angle, whenever he is not speaking.

"...This Galliard's pomp and piss, caught the attention of a nearby No-moon who promptly reacted, some might claim hastily. He pointed out some things in her words and poked at her sensibilities, her traditional values, her worship and fervour for the site they were desecrating, something most people might find unfair, even blasphemous..."

Click.

"Who would ever expect something like that from a No-moon?" Mock-Gasp. Chuckle, interrupting the fluidity of his tale with the scuff of a boot on the challenge mat floor. It's only when he's satisfied a few moments later, the dust cleaned from the boot tip that he returns his attention to Carmen (Only Carmen) smile re-lit.

"In response, this Galliard brought forth implication, accusation, even suggestion that the No-moon was not worthy of his tribe? Was not worthy of his place among the battlefield? That he showed disrespect for those that had fallen and disgrace of it's meaning?" Pause, snorting sharply and holding up a hand, as if in disbelief himself, the sudden flicker in his eyes speaking of a deeper...urge...that quickly passes in the crackle of knuckles on that upraised and suddenly turned fist.

"...Dishonour. A Tricky business. Easy enough to respect what is expected, but respecting the question asked? Even from one of said duty? Obviously a problem..." Narrowed eyes, the Beast making it's first appearance on those nearly whispered last three words, a faint ripple running down his upraised arm and vanishing into the bicep.

"...And Last but certainly not Least, Cowardice." The smile is back again, the eyes buried in that anonymous face once more, fist falling to his side, while the other hand digs into his pocket.

"...She throws such words around at him, slapping at his face, daring and tempting and prodding in return or maybe just looking to hurt and harm. Maybe just looking to stir more anger where plenty was already. Maybe she was trying to prove something to herself, outside of her safe little walls filled with books and Texts. Maybe she was just a touch too impulsive. I'm no Galliard to tell the difference..."

The smile begins to fade, eyes narrowing on Carmen, Linnea's presence and Severina's movements seemingly forgotten, indeed, this isn't even a challenge anymore but a direct conversation, aimed at Carmen, standing as he is throughout. He's yet to glance at anyone but her and the casual nature he seems to display seems to make light and heavy of the circumstance all at once.

(All for you. Listen to the Lesson, not the Story)

"...And then when the No-moon brings it to her level and decides, instead of brawling right there and then, gaining her attention by the flick of a blade I've no doubt, he's used in all expert capacity to harm others, that had not touched the flesh or throat, to challenge so and bring it levels up and away from her Precious monument to Tradition...To fight and prove what Cowards do and how Cowards play...She opts instead to tell Bed time stories...Her right as a Galliard...but no less an indication of her Cowardice..."

Pause. The smile is gone now. Faded completely, to leave behind that anonymous face with it's all too ordinary features. Stripped to skin and wife-beater white bone, watching her with a careful gulp at the back of his throat, dislodging the dryness there from this extended period of talking.

"...Unfortunate, but the dice falls. Here's hoping Tradition works it out for them..."

Click. Another snort and he turns to regard Severina, jaw askew in that crooked way.

[Carmen Losada] Grinning, grinning, grinning.
The Galliard is not returning his grin. Nor a smile, nor a wink, nor a measure of any sort of pleasure. She studies him closely as one would a strange new specimen of creature, interesting in a way but more so...
...not to be trusted.
One onyx eyebrow arches slowly, her head canting to one side.

At last.
She merely nods.
"Modern-Day-Atropos-yuf, I will let my tale stand as it encompassed all three issues of Cowardice, Dishonour, and Folly."
With that the Galliard falls silence.
[half of learning how to play is learning what not to play]
Her expression one of cool, taut restraint but there is no denying the renewal of rage and digusted dissapointment that simmersseethessmoulders in the depths.
[it's learning the spaces you leave have their own things to say]
And she too turns her attention to the Philodox.

[Benjamin Keyes] ((Before anyone else posts!! Miche and I need to roll for our respective tales and such and their impressiveness...))
PMed to: Carmen Losada, fly, fly number 2, Linnea Bartlett, Severina Morta

[Carmen Losada] So, what, Cha + Exp?
PMed to: fly, fly number 2, Linnea Bartlett, Severina Morta

[Severina Morta] (Be my guess, lemme know the outcome of the rolls)
PMed to: Benjamin Keyes, Carmen Losada, fly, fly number 2, Linnea Bartlett

[Carmen Losada] Charisma (3) + Expression (3) @ Diff 3
Dice Rolled: [ 6 d10 ] 1, 2, 6, 6, 6, 7 (Success x 4 at target 3) [WP]

[Benjamin Keyes] [Benjamin Keyes]
Sun 10:53 pm
Roll valid PMed to: Carmen Losada
Dice Rolled: [ 5 d10 ] 3, 5, 9, 10, 10 (Success x 5 at target 4) [WP]

[Benjamin Keyes] ((These rolls aren't to reflect who won the challenge but how well the stories were told in relation to said Challenge. Severina has the ultimate say on who the winner is...))
PMed to: Breeze, Carmen Losada, fly, fly number 2, Linnea Bartlett, Severina Morta

[Severina Morta] Grinning, grinning and more grinning.

The Philodox is not grinning, despite the sickle-shaped Cheshire smirk dancing at the edges of the Fenrir’s lips. A smugness there? She half-thought to herself. One could never tell with Ragabash especially Ben Keyes. Severina tilts her head to look down at Carmen, giving the Uktena a firm nod.

She casts her vibrant blue-green gaze upon Ben, skewering her features briefly, her chest lifts and falls evenly, exhaling a small rush of air, almost like a sigh. “Carmen, yar talents for tale-spinnin’ is exquisite an’ befittin’ one of yar station. Th’ story is well told.” She speaks to Carmen first, and then swings her gaze to Ben.

“For a Rotagar, ya’ve surprised me with an ability to tell tales, whether heresy or no. Well done. Let it be known first mah judgment comes as attributed to mah auspice as Philodox an’ in no way swayed by what personal relations I hold to any here.” Her voice retains its calmness, looking up the both of them now, “Before I give mah answer. I have a question for th’ both of ya. What have ya learned from th' other by bein' here, now."

[Benjamin Keyes] "Learning is an ongoing process, right?" His eyes fall on his 'opponent', hand dancing to his hip, the other remaining firmly in his pocket. The presence of a knife, long and evenly shaped on both ends, more for throwing then anything else, suddenly appears and begins twirling in all mad-cap glee between his fingers. It's a taunt, a jeer, a snarl without moving his lips out of the ghost of a smile he's got on.

"...So I'll keep learning. For now though? I know better then to draw a blade on a Pissed off Uktena Talesinger. Next time, like I said, I'll just clock her..."

Click. Irreverant to the last.

[Carmen Losada] Said Pissed Off Uktena Talesinger sweeps her gaze over the Ragabash as he responds, her lips pressing into a thin line, the barest of motions as she half nods as though to herself.
Like something is finalized.
And that something makes her seem weary for a moment, before she straightens her shoulders and allows her lips to curve into a smouldering line of a smirk.

"What have I learned, Philodox? I have learned that I must try not let my convictions dictate how I go about expressing and defending them. I have learned that somewhere along the line someone failed to enstill a sense of respect for the sacred in the Garou of this Sept. I have learned that that failing is also my own to be corrected. I have had reinforced that egotism to the point of being unable to recognize your faults is a horrible crutch."

[Severina Morta] “Hmm.” Severina murmurs, turning way from the pair as she takes a few steps away from them. The labrys balanced casually on her left shoulder as she walked, no sign of strain noticed in the relaxed hold on its shaft. Her eyes trickle over the figure of Linnea, pausing to regard her with a silent quandary.

She spins on her boot heel, turning around to focus her attention on the pair. “Carmen’s tale shows me an error in judgment an’ lack of respect for our sacred places. Common sense was not used when more vigorous teachings should’ve been taken elsewhere to a more appropriate place. One doesn’t teach baseball in a glass Green house whilst a botany class is in attendance.
Still no damage came of th’ Hallowed Graves. Things have their proper places for a reason, which includes teaching Cubs.”

She falls silent, letting a minute or two pass before speaking again, “Ben had skillfully redirected Carmen’s ire away from th’ others, takin’ on th’ full brunt of her anger an’ what punishment that might’ve come from renown loss. He’s made Carmen realize not to let her convictions overrule her sense of logic an’ reason.”

Severina gives a firm nod now, “I rule in favor both an’ draw a tie. There is neither a winner nor a loser. We’ve all learned somethin’ from this, includin’ mah’self.”

[fly number 2] [ In my humble opinion, Garou society doesn't work like that. If there's a challenge, someone won it. Someone was wrong, and someone was right. Just my opinion, though, and throwing it out there. ]
PMed to: Benjamin Keyes, Carmen Losada, fly, Linnea Bartlett, Severina Morta

[Linnea Bartlett] “Uktena.” The challenge finished, the participants have risen, the decision has been made. Linnea rises, too – the skinny, awkward girl in her too-short blue jeans, which are well-worn and filthy, crusted with bands of dust, and her thermal undershirt, yellowing at the cuffs and sleeves. She is not compelling to human eyes – a still-growing teenager with pale skin, a thousand freckles marching across her unfinished face, pale blue eyes barely defined by pale blonde lashes and brows, topped by a crown of ash-blonde hair pulled firmly back into an unflattering but functional French braid. She remains where she is, near the entrance to the challenge circle, her feet sinking into the sand.

“I took the cub to the battlefield, so that he would see what we fight and instructed him to find his wolf on the field of the fallen, among the bones of his ancestors and mine, that he might remember them, that they might be recalled to him. When his Beast was about to take him and dishonor imminent, I subdued him and held him without harm. If there is dishonor in this, it is dishonor I have visited on my own ancestors and for the sake of the future of their line. If there is dishonor in this,” the girl-child who would be Alpha flickers a glance at each of her packmates, firm, “it is mine and mine alone.”

Her chin rises with her words, an unsubtle pride lancing through her. She stands with her shoulders straight, her head thrown back, her physical assuredness clear. What right does such a thing have to speak of honor… – his novoice in the back of her mind, sibilant, assured. Her nostrils flare with a chuffed snort of breath and tendons stretched taut in her neck pull tighter, a moment’s rictus. Homid she may be at the moment, but the wolf is close to the surface. It swims in her eyes, pale and narrowed, and finds expression in the slow lowering of her regard – from her height, to meet the smaller woman’s gaze for a fraction of a second. She shakes her head, shakes his words from her mind – physically shakes - the way a wolf shakes dampness from its coat and plunges onward. Make no mistake: she is furious. With herself, with Carmen. With everyone, or no one – that fury a faint silver fire smoldering in her pale eyes – a full moon’s wrath on the eve of that moon. “Remember this. The choice was mine. If you tell a tale, tell it true.”

Those words spoken, the teenager - vibrating - turns on her heel and stalks from the challenge circle.

[Severina Morta] (I went by what I felt best fitted to how Severina would see it. Traditionally, yes in challenges there is a winner and a loser. But there is the rare time that a draw can be called. They can always seek another Philodox's judgment if they didn't like the answer Severina gives.)
PMed to: Benjamin Keyes, Breeze, Carmen Losada, fly, fly number 2, Linnea Bartlett

[Benjamin Keyes] The growl is unrestrained this time. No carefully planned moments or segways or drops and hints of subterfuge and potential. No message or meaning or mention of what could possibly be in the Rotagar's words or description. Instead there is a decidedly unsubtle flicker throughout his skin-showing (Pale motherfucker aren't you?) form that tests the air and threatens something violent. His teeth are bared, fangs seeming to creep into view for just an instant before...

...Linnea speaks and he surpresses it with supreme effort. Knuckles crack and the all too recognizable shiver of something below the surface, is put back in it's cage. For now. The Rotagar's jaw sets firm and he takes several steps back in the circle, eyes falling to the centre, snapping back and forth as if following some piece of string or dancing mouse.

...And then his head comes back to Linnea's words and mentions and...

...Twitch.

Fists. Curling. Knuckles. Crack. Eyes slip shut against some inner strain. Things were declining and he fell to his haunches, hugging his legs to his chest in a very infantile posture, head bowed to his knees and hair (for once) falling out of place. The Rotagar is quiet, bundled up tight and screaming incoherently into his cargo pants, the sounds muffled to just below conversation level.

[fly number 2] [ Gotta run, guys. See you later. ]
PMed to: Benjamin Keyes, Breeze, Carmen Losada, fly, Linnea Bartlett, Severina Morta

[Carmen Losada] The 'verdict' thus delivered, the petite woman scrubs a hand over her face, rolls her shoulders in a vain attempt to loosen the tension there. [breathe in. breathe out. it's over now. well, most of it at least.] That moment taken to regain her tenuous grasp of holding her passions and rage in check, she then rises.

"Very well. I thank you for judgeing the challenge, Modern-Day-Atropos-yuf. I had my doubts as to whether you would truly proove able to remain true to your Auspice when dealing with one of your own forming pack. You have set my mind at ease on that matter and I will speak of your abilities at the upcoming moot."

Licking her lips where dryness has settled from the general occasion, she frowns. Listening as Linnea speaks, an eyebrow arched. She doesn't bother to stop the Ahroun as she stalks away, but merely nods, taking into account her words. How the Galliard will handle it will, one presumes, be seen when the Moot comes and her tales are told.

As she leaves, she looks back to Severina, though it must ne said that she keeps Benjamin fully within periferal view. "Severina, witness this, both as a Philodox and as a Slays-Before-the-Wyrmcry's packmate." She looks then to Benjamin, her features composed but the unadulterated distrust, sorrow, and ire mingling and blazing in her gaze. "Twice now you have drawn a knife on me and either waited in hiding for me to approach to put it to my throat or snuck up behind me. Twice now I felt your approach, if only barely. Do this to me or any of my own again, Ragabash, and you had better fucking well kill me because I will do everything in my power to see you fall. Continue to treat me as an enemy, Benjamin, and soon enough I will begin to view you as such. As it stands I only hope that your honourable packmates are able to run off on you. In the future, if you have anything to deal with me about outside of my capacity as Record Keeper?....save yourself the effort and don't. Not until you've managed to give me a reason why I should trust you in the slightest."

With a nod to Severina, she goes.
And she goes walking in reverse. Out of fear? Oh, they might twist it as such. But anyone paying attention would see it purely as an extension of her words: She does not trust this Garou at her back.

[Carmen Losada] ooc: Er... "...able to rub off on you"... yeah.

[Severina Morta] The Black Fury nods to Carmen, watching with a narrow of her eyes at Ben’s reactions. The speech given by Linnea as she stalked off planted into the Philodox mind to delve upon sometime later. She squares off her shoulders, waiting until Carmen has left the circle completely before she says anything.

Her words were for Benjamin alone. “Happy now? Is this yar intentions, Ben?”

[Carmen Losada] ooc: aaaand.. phone call! I must away. (hugs all around) Thanks for the scene people. Be well.

[Benjamin Keyes] He doesn't lift his head and doesn't look to respond to the Galliard. Indeed, Slays~Before~the~Warcry, seems entirely in his own head for the last thirty seconds, the screams having trailed off completely as the situation begins to peter off and finally die away to just the Philodox and himself left.

When Severina's question comes up it pulls Ben to his feet. snaps his Rigid and makes him Grow. Grow. Grow (Go Go Power Rangers!), the sudden fleshed out ripple of rustic gray fur and snapping teeth, lashing out at the air in Severina's general direction, his wife-beater torn to bits while the Cargo pants and shoes vanish entirely. The Rage is deep and expressing itself in long whorls and twists throughout the air, while claws grip inwards to dig dents into his padded palms, small droplets of blood falling to the ground. The ears lay back along the scalp of the Crinos, even as a roar tears through the hallways, ricocheting off stone until it digs it's way into the catacomb depths, contending and ultimately failing against Bear's restless slumbering rumbles.

No words, just that Roar followed closely and abruptly by a sharp Snort of snot and drool on the outskirts of the Circle, the Rotagar set to pacing in the War-form, the spastic twitch of muscle all too noticeable in every way.