Grecco [Carmen]

[Linnea Bartlett] Once, the records room in the catacombs of the underbawn was home to an Elder Garou, several true born apprentices, and several kinfolk assistants working diligently to maintain and update the vast number of scrolls and books and journals and files regarding happenings in the Sept, great and small. With the closure of the Caern to kinfolk and the slaughter of the Caern’s defenders, it is home to… one Garou, who might have dreamed that she would succeed her mentor among the dry and dusty tomes, but doubtlessly never imagined (before the first inklings of prophecy, before the first bitter taint of betrayal) that she would take her position so violently, and so soon.

The Guardians’ and stringers’ shifts are constantly staggered: there’s nothing like a factory shift change, nothing so constant, nothing so regular, nothing so predictable that the Sept’s lurking enemies might latch onto were they able to observe the comings and goings topside, or downbelow. It is midevening when Linnea finishes her last shift – nine and a half hours or so, but a boring nine and a half hours in the far black tunnels, hispo formed for speed and heightened feral senses, deep in the crawling dark. When she returns to the Guardian quarters – her eyes bright, her mind still singing, her sense of day and night, light and darkness thoroughly shot – and starts up into the sanctuary proper, the Garou manning on the door stops her and mutters something: Record Keeper’s here, was lookin’ for ya.

The teenager turns around and heads back to the guardian quarters, pausing long enough in the kitchens to drain two glasses of ice water, back to back. She considers taking another bottle full of water with her, but maybe water isn’t welcome in the records room - ? Maybe that is one of the rules – or was that her mother’s rule, nothing to eat or drink in the library? She can’t remember, but it’s clearly someone’s rule, and so – out of an abundance of caution linked to simple… politeness – Linnea leaves the bottle behind and disappears back into the underbawn. Some minutes later, there’s a knock on the Record Keeper’s door – or perhaps simply the door frame, if the room is not closed, followed by a familiar, cheerful voice, still bright from the exhilaration of her feral form. “Uhm – hiya? Carmen? I – uh, hope I’m not interrupting?”

[Leon 'Stormfront' Smith] * Leon arise's from his appointed guardian room being a working guardian of the sept. With a - grunt - the young shadowlord climbed out of bed and got dressed pulling on his clothing. He was in homid form around 6 foot 4 in height nearly 245 pounds. A beaded necklace was clung to his neck with serveral claw's and fangs attached to it. Short black hair with brown eyes, various scar tissue forms into claw marks and gash's on part's of his body. He steps from the guardian quarters and starts his round into the catacombs walking down a long dark tunnel. *

[Andrew Black] Andrew finally woke up, rolling out of bed to find a plate with a sandwich, a pair of jeans, a white t-shirt,boxers, socks, and sandles. He groaned, rubbing his eyes before getting dressed and taking his sandwich with him out of the room they had put him in. His eyes barely adjusting before he walked right into Leon, taking a step back and then peering to see who it was, "Oof.. Woah, sorry man."

[Leon 'Stormfront' Smith] * And thud he had bumped into someone. His eyes scan downward and look over andrew for a second. * No promblem. I am Leon Smith Called Stormfront. Born a man under the warrior's full moon. Cliath of the Shadowlords and guardian of this sept. * Announcing himself to the person he didn't know. *

[Andrew Black] Andrew just sort of nodded, "Umm... okay? I'm Andrew, just.. Andrew. Nice to meet you, Leon Smith Called Stormfront, born a man under the warrior's full moon, Cliath of the Shadowlords and guardian of this sept."

[Leon 'Stormfront' Smith] * He thinks a second looking at him and scratches his cheak a second. * You do not know where you come from Andrew ?.

[Carmen Losada] There is any number of things the cliath Galliard was not really prepared for.
You could say the simple collective of her life is a good example.
Much to her shame now, she had highly focused, singular goals before. Her coming to the Sept of Echoes was a long journey that nearly killed her... her staying with for a specific purpose, a specific reason. Her winning her way into the Records and agreeing to be trained was a mean to an end.
...and look where sheer happenstance has taken it.
Her eyes have been opened now and her shoulder heavy ladden but by and large she bears up to the challange.. the weight. What else is there to do?

[...now if only the 'episodes' would cease...]

The Record Keeper [she stepped up and claimed the role, but in truth she has trouble thinking of herself in such terms. in her mind she can't help but feel an interloper; a mere apprentice trying desperately to fill her masters enormous shoes. stumbling about in the dark left from the passing of Speaks in Ancient Tongue's light] did indeed inquire about equally new Wyrmfoe's whereabouts. And then, after asking the message to be passed along, she'd gone back to her work within the surprisingly deep, winding, complex tunnels that comprise many centuries worth of records. Records in just about any durable medium you coul imagine: The oldest and most prominent explaing how large the twisting lairs are -- carvings upon stone, mostly Glyphs wrought in the War-form as was its original intention. Also there are paintings, sculptures, bones, metal, tanned hides, books, scrolls, files... a set up as diverse as the times and individuals who left their mark.

She has finally gotten to the poitn where she allows herself to sit at her mentors old desk, something no student would ever have dared before. Even so, she has left out a fair amount of the Elder Uktena's things.. testimony of the example she feels she must live up to. Mementoes of the woman she sorely misses. Her Moot tales and rites had spoken of celebrating glorious sacrifice and sining the spirits of their fellows to their proper place, to be reborn again in the essense of the next generations. She believed what she said... that doesn't mean she doesn't miss them. That doesn't mean she doesn't lament the loos of such helpful expertise. That doesn't mean she'll forget the example of the heights to which she must strive ascencion.

Forever unruly mass of sun-streaked curls is currently twisted up and back, held with onxy hair-sticks, though curls are forever slipping loose of their own volition. Even in her dress-down clothing of thin cords, turtleneck and cable-knit jumper, the woman looks nothing like a librarian, which is what some liken her position to. Captivating. The somber lines of her current expresion as she carefully revies a list spread out before her, made softer, more alluring by the sleek slopes and plaines of her features. No hiding the svelte, lush lines of her petite frame either. But apperances can be decieving and she is certainly completely absorbed in what she studies...

...Linnea may begin to worry again that the Galliard is lost in that eerie, dangerous place the 'Fang last saw the Uktena rage and agonize in. But no... the Galliard is fully aware and lucid right now. She lifts a finger, indicating for the 'Fang to hold on a moment, making a slight notation upon a pag of paper... then taking the opportunity to stretch out her form [an indication that she's been pouring over the information before her long and hard enough to make her muscles cramp and stiffen] with a slight groan of half-pleasure, half-pain [a dmnably sensually evocative woman in most everything she does] she looks over to the 'Fang and motions her in fromt he open doorway.
"Nothing that can't wait a bit." A slight smile.. the constant conflagration withint he woman a warm hearth fire tonight. Her gaze tells that she has not forgotten the difficulties of the last time the two women encountered one another.. but her demeanor clearly says she wishes to move past it all. "Please, come in... coffee?"
Well it's an answer to Linnea's wonderings about whether or not one was allowed to drink in the records - there's small hot-plate set up in a corner, utterly incongruous among the arcaic and occult tomes and carvings and visual displays. Upon the hotplate an old fashioned metal coffe piture. At least she doesn't go so far to include an utterly weaverish coffee machine.

[Andrew Black] He shrugged, "Umm.. I.. I'm new here. I was.. attacked last night.. and.." Andrew shuddered a bit to think about it, "I changed.. then.. these people found me and tried to make me eat this guy's heart.. Then two guys showed up and killed the one that tried to kill me. Look.. I really don't know what's going on. But they dropped me off here, and.. well.. this is where I've been since yesterday."

[Leon 'Stormfront' Smith] Ah I understand Andrew. You have just experinced your first change. Eat some one's heart ? Interesting... * Thinking back to his rite of passage was nowhere near close to that. * I shall try to help you the best I can. When ever a garou goes threw there first change usually there is kin-fetch spirits that allow us to know when a kin shows sign of becoming a garou. No doubt that is why the men approached to bring you to safety and fix any mess you might have caused. Usually human's forget when they see our warform but who knows. Why they wanted you to eat some one's heart I am not sure.

[Andrew Black] "Garou! They used that word.. The guy that wanted me to eat the heart.. turned into this big.. umm.. wolf man. And one of the.. Garou.. that saved me was a big wolf until, well, he turned into a human.." Obviously he had very little clue what he was talking about, and was still rather shocked by last night's events.

[Leon 'Stormfront' Smith] The Garou have serveral forms that you will learn to use in time. Our crinos form usually we are about 10 foot tall resembling werewolfs in movies. Hispo is the dire wolf form from ancient times. Glabro is a walking beast of a man or called near man. Your lupus form is that of a wolf. And your human form they call homid. You are one of us now. A Garou..shapeshifter.. werewolf. - Laughs a second. - If you are suprised now wait till you cross into the Umbra for your first time.

[Linnea Bartlett] While waiting, Linnea propped herself against the doorframe, leaning against her right shoulder. Silence doesn’t become her, but when the moon is as thin as it is this night, she finds it easier to stay calm, to be still, to find some central place where her body can just be without the constant urge for movement. She reads at times like these: in the smaller library upstairs, in the Guardians’ quarters. Human words, not Garou words, but half the time all the more strange and thrilling. Her arms creep and cross her lean torso, just above her narrow hips, torn fingernails tucked beneath her elbows. She’s wearing an outfit Carmen has doubtlessly seen her in many times: a college t-shirt, too-shirt jeans, a thermal undershirt and scuffed brown hiking boots, stained with – the things with which warriors’ boots become stained.

“Uhm - ” coffee? Linnea doesn’t drink it, but an offer is an offer, and politeness is one of those things drilled into her from an early age. “ - sure.” She remains at the door for several long seconds. With the invitation to enter, she takes a moment to really look around her, her body straightens, she bounces on the balls of her feet, then remembers herself and walks deeper into the front room of the labyrinthine archives. “Uh, Carmen?” Her pale brows rise with Carmen’s name, and she unhooks her arms, but can find nothing to do with them – and so she snags her braid over her shoulder and begins fiddling with the tail, where the plait ends, bound in an old piece of leather. “I – uh - ”

Linnea scuffs her toe, then arches her back, straightens her shoulders, and takes a deep breath before plunging on. Once committed, she does so without any hesitation. “I wanted to apologize for the way I talked about you when you – when you were there. I – I didn’t know if you were - ” here she stops, shakes her head hard enough to pull the thick braid free from her fiddling hands. “It was rude. I shouldn’t’ve done it. I apologize.”


[Andrew Black] He just sort of nodded and listened, though he wasn't sure he entirely understood. Apparently there were lots of forms, "...I'm a Werewolf, huh? Somehow it isn't so suprising. Probably explains a lot, too.. So, when do Dracula and the Mummy stop by?"

[Leon 'Stormfront' Smith] Dracula you'll probably seen him and not even known it. Vampires are real to. Most of us call them leeches. * Make's a pair of fangs with his fingers. * Blood sucking bastards and so fourth. Mummy I dun know I never heard anything like that... there probably real though to. All wrapped in toilet paper and what not however they do that whole mumification shit.

[Andrew Black] Andrew just gave him a look and headed down the tunnel to go upstairs, half grumbling to himself, "Jeez.. one day I'm workin' on cars and then I'm.. a damn werewolf? I can't believe this."

[Carmen Losada] Her lips qurik a bit at the 'sure' delivered when, clearly, the young woman [beast. holding a position no one would come close to imagining her in if they saw her as she is now] wants nothing to do with it. But the brief bemusement is not at all unkind... and the Galliard goes along with politeness for now, rising from her seat and moving to pour out some of the night-black stuff into a chipped glazed ceramic mug. Adding sugar and cream from a thermos [she doesn't even ask how the girl would like it... if she doesn't drink coffe in the first place there's no way she's going to stomache the strong, Colombian brew - no shoddy, week American brands here - served black and unsweetened], and then moving over to the woman and holding out the mug after refreshing her own cup. Coffee given, she hooks a leg up onto the edge of the desk, head canting to the side, observant and curious as the Ahroun stutters her way into saying something she seems to think important...

...again her lips quirk. More so, kind-hearted humour and gratitude war with a brief flare of remembered shame and ire that is merely an undeniable part of living between her human temperment and that of the Beast within. But the flare up of remembered rage [passion. pride.] is brief, extinguishing as quickly as it came. Once more she is a welcoming, beckoning blaze, matching the low, soft seriousnesses of her own words after a moment. "Sometimes we have to say things even if they are rude. You were concerned about the well-being of the sept and kinfolk and humans and.. well, all the sorts of things you are supposed to take into account. There is no shame in that. That said," Her words are silken, pleasent to listen to with the laced honey of her native Spanish accent.. but her gaze intensely underscores the earnest quality of her words. "I do not hold it against you." Rising from her half-lean, half-perch on the desk she moves o touch a small hand lightly upon the incongruous Wyrmfoe's shoulder. Soft. Light. But steady and warm. "Thank you for your concern - for myself and, more so, for everything else."

Moving around the woman she once again goes to sit at the large, old, well-tended to but also obviously over-used desk, speaking as she goes. "At any rate, the storm has passed." And usually she goes for good, long stretches of time between 'episodes'.. here's hoping this trend holds true.

"So," Stated once she has seated herself again, sipping from her coffee. "I believe we had the matter of Grecco to discuss?" Moving right along...

[Leon 'Stormfront' Smith] Well it could be worse....You get all kinds of cool door prizes. Fight an endless number of the father's minions. Travel to far away places where they want to kill you. And the beautiful poltics of the garou nation...

[Andrew Black] "Wow. Sounds like fun," Andrew then headed up the stairs, reaching out and moving the false wall from it's place. He stepped through, taking a look around the basement before moving up some more stairs onto the first floor. He took a bite from his sandwich and moved into main area, taking a seat in one of the pews while he went about eating the sandwich.

[Leon 'Stormfront' Smith] * Humf. Leon would walk down the hallway continue on his guardian duties of patrolling stuff. *

[Linnea Bartlett] Linnea’s gaze drops to follow Carmen’s gesture, pale lashes shadowing her pale eyes. Her mouth is still, and she holds her breath for a half-second. Beneath the Uktena’s hand, the girl’s skinny shoulder is tense – skin wrapped around bird-wing bones and more lean muscle than one would guess, were they not what they are.

“I - ” the storm has passed. The girl’s gaze flashes up to Carmen, then falls to the floor – and her toes on the floor. She wriggles her left big toe and squints at the boot leather, looking for the imprint of rising toe. She needs new boots, soon. Her shoulders curl in a shrug, and remain at the apex of the gesture - “My dad had episodes.” Atlas – Carmen might recall him from the records, although he disappeared from them half-a-lifetime ago, when counted by Linnea’s years. “Like, he had a place where he went. When they happened.” - before falling silent at last, finished with the subject.

She takes another deep breath, in through her nose, out through her mouth and looks up again, brows twitching. “Yeah – Grecco. I – this Garou who wrote to Speaks-in-Ancient-Tongues-rhya – I guess I just need specifics. What information is concrete and what we can track down from here?”

[Carmen Losada] Amber coloured eyes [they seem almost illuminated, as though back-lit by some subtle but ever present source of distant light - perhaps just a trick of the ambiance] remain fixed and constant upon the Ahroun, soaking in the nuance of body-language as well as the words that come tentatively from the beast-in-girls-skin. A mild nod is all that really encompasses the Galliards response, simple and succinct... but given the depths of the gaze, not a gesture of dismisal.
"Usually I have such a place myself. Sometimes I fail to reach it, however." Quiet, unapologetic explination. She fucked up, but she isn't about to twist and squirm over it [she did that in private, thank you]... "I do not believe myself and Atlas-rhya," Yes, she remebers the girls father - not from personal aqauiantence, of course, but by coming across his name somewhere or another in the records, chock full of mention of the Silver Fangs ever since their rise in power. The good and the bad. "suffered the same affliction." Reaching up deft, slight fingers she brushes back stray curls in the unwinable battle to keep them in some semblance of order. Her lips curve then, wry.. self-depricating, followed by a sign as she shakes her head slightly, not deigning to go into the differences at the moment. "Someday I will explain what it is you saw, Linnea. After dealing with it an explination is owed. But, for now, there are more pressing matters at hand..." After which she smoothly sets herself to opening one of the desk drawers, removing a thick, heavy, browned-with-age portfolio chaulk full of papers, near to the point of over-flowing. Setting it atop the desk, she shuffles and moves deftly through the mish-mosh of papers, clearly knowing where abouts she will find what she is looking for...
...which is a mere couple of sheets amidst the pleathora of paper of varying sorts and ages and states of preservation. The sheets she extracts seem to be some of the fresher sorts. "Here... these are the pertinent bits of information I found among Speaks-in-Ancient-Tongues-rhya's things." The Ahroun is free to look at them, though.... "I am afraid they are true to her deedname - this one here, a letter from one Ash-Foot, an Uktena residing in New York, is written in a particuraly obscure dialect of the Onieda tongue, reserved usually for spirtual and religious uses. The letter indicates that the Record Keeper was sending out feelers for information about the Shadow Lord prior to the attack," Her lips twist a bit, a mix of interest, cusiosity, distaste, suspicion and a wee bit of vindication. Among other things the letter had validated the young Galliards own enigmatic tales of careful questioning and caution about the man. "Something she no dount wished to keep very quiet, given Grecco's position in the Sept. What Ash-foot was able to discover is that Grecco had some sort of contact with a group of the Fallen Tribe within New York. Alas, he is rather vauge about anything outside of that..." Her eyebrows furrow slightly as her eyes settle on the letter a bit as though she might demand it to open up and reveal more than it had. "... but the fact that a connection existed is interesting in and of itself."

For a moment her words trail away, thoughts delving into the matter, licking her lips slightly as she ponders. She may not look like what one considers a researcher, bibliophile, lore-hound and librarian should sterotypically look like.. but she sure as hell acts like one, eagerly willing to delve into work most others would find tedious and frustrating if not downright boring. She stirs then and picks up her words once more as though she'd never zoned-in [not out] in the first place. "As I said in the Moot: Shadow Lords are known to at times infilttrate the enemies number so as to provide information. It may well be that such is what Grecco was doing... but even if his intentions were along the lines of an informant.. well, I do not need to expound on how often a Gaian who gets too close to the Fallen and the Destroyers-brood become tainted with the shadows inwhich they find themselves immersed."
She should know.. there are no little amount of nasty rumours of her own tribe succumbing to such taint.
Sliding a finger over the paper, she then sits back, sips her coffee again and looks back to Linnea, marking her once more with that observant, focused gaze - at once a caress and penetration. "All in all, enough of a clue to merit looking into. However, I haven't the same resources my mentor did," Again a flicker of frustration from the part of her that is Rage, tempered by the patience that makes up her human personality. "...I think it best to go after the source itself. I plan on seeking him out in New York, soon... within the next day or so."

[Linnea Bartlett] The Ahroun picks up and leafs through the pages offered, grimacing as she studies the unfamiliar text. Still, she glances through each and every page Carmen offers, on the off-chance that there is something she might understand – or perhaps to simply feel the papers rustle through her fingers and give her time to think. “Ash-Tongue is Uktena?” Other matters have passed, she lets them lie dormant. Speaking half to herself and half to Carmen, pausing now and then to press her mouth together in thought. “It’s best that you speak to him. I – I think the moon bridges are all still closed, but if you need transportation, I’ll - ” here the girl stops again, her mouth compressing, she hands the papers back to Carmen and stuffs her fists into her pockets. I’ll ask my mom is not precisely dignified. Her pale cheeks flush, faintly in the darkness, at the thought and her gaze flies back up to Carmen, then shies away, a glancing blow of a look. “ – I’ll arrange for something more comfortable than your motorcycle? In the winter?”

The lilting question hangs in the air, and is then undercut by the serious, direct tone in which she says the Uktena’s name. “Carmen.” Linnea pushes out a breath through her nose, nostrils flaring. “I want the Shadow Lords to be involved. Their elder, their tribe, their taint.” She stops, jerks a single-shouldered shrug. “They’ll be looking and lurking anyway. Better that they take direction from and report back to us. Will you travel with them?” Her pale eyes twitch half-closed, focused narrowly on Carmen; her body is poised now, vibrant with intensity.

[Carmen Losada] Given that her own intense - almost obsessive - resumed scrutiny of the papers has diminished, she turns her attention to the Ahroun. Watching as she scans over the papers - appreciatve that she at least cares to try even if the obscure languages do not register [it is only through a hefty usage of her own ancestors that Carmen herself was able to decipher the languages]. Nodding softly when she seeks to reaffirm that-
"Ash-foot" she corrects
-is indeed Uktena.

She picks up on the girls embarrsement, and manages to avert her gaze slightly, proving the Ahroun a modicum of privacy with which to cover whatever mis-step she feels she just took. A touch of... well, tenderness in her gaze, though quickly covered. At times Carmen feels well and beyond the human years she holds -- but that's no excusing to smile indulgantly at the Ahroun. No matter how young she seems - coltish and prone to stumbling - she is still now the Wyrmfoe... you don't dote on the Wyrmfoe.
So she answers in manner matter-of-fact, smoothly sliding past the girl-beasts brief blush and stammer. "I think I will manage on the motorcycle.. it allows a bit more manuverabilty in the City than does a car at times. And while less than comfortable," She shivers a bit in anticipation of how cold she will be, indeed. She hates the cold. "It is still manageable."

Now, however, the Wyrmfoe slips into another aspect of the plans.. met with that tilted head and renwed penetrating gaze from the Galliard.. nodding slightly. But the nod, it seems, is only one of comprehension.. because then she shakes her head, frowning a bit. Pondering. Choosing her words. Patient. [amazing how fickle the Galliards temperment can be.. one night as though she'll Frenzy at any moment; then tonight calm and sure. Stable. The passion still a radiated heat, but under control.]
"I would rather not, Linnea. I understand your reasons - and indeed agree it is best they not be going off on their own half-cocked - but I do not think it would be wise for them to accompany me. First of all - and perhaps most important - I will be dealing with an unknown member of my own Tribe. " Her somber expression softens slightly [from fierce beauty to a more approachable allure], lips curving a bit. "As you have no doubt heard, my Tribe is not known for devulging our -- information," Secrets. "easily. I cannot even gaurentee he will be forth coming with me, but it is more likely to be the case than if I approach him with Shadow Lords at my heels... and likely chomping at the bit. Shadow Lords are not well known for taking a back seat. Likewise, I do not relish the idea of being in a relatively strange city," Relatively.. she has some experience in New York then, "with companions I have never really worked with before. There is a chance they will not like what is discovered and may well behave in a manner I cannot control... and our current situation is rife full with enough problems to be starting up some new ones. As it is it is my intention to travel with Havoc-yuf, so that he can perhaps feel out the spirits in the area and see if that might garner more clues. And I doubt he wants potential interuptions either." Licking her lips, she sits up and against slips through the papers she withdrew. "However, if you are looking for something to help keep them occupied, there is the matter of the other bit of research the Record Keeper was doing.. tracing the Grecco family from it's roots in the Balkans and onward to America, and seeking out any connection to Vampire activity in the region or here. It may be something that they - with their own ties no doubt to the area - might be able to seek out answers to."

[Linnea Bartlett] Linnea crosses her arms over her skinny chest, shoving her fists into the stretched-out cuffs of her old dedicated thermal. Her elbows jut out precariously, and her fingers stretch and pull at the waffle weave of her warm undershirt. She’s silent – not pausing silent or stuttering silent – just silent, her brow drawn closely together, thinking hard enough that Carmen might swear she could see smoke or steam coming out of the young woman’s ears. A tendon in her jaw flexes, her round cheeks go hollow as she sucks on her tongue, trying to see all the pieces on the chess board in front of her.

“Le concederé esto, Carmen.” I’ll grant you this. Decision made, she looks up and meets the Uktena’s gaze; her own look is flat and level. “You will go alone, with your pack, to visit your tribemate. But you are not to pursue the fallen tribe in New York beyond what gleanings might be had from the spirits. Watch yourselves, put yourselves in no danger, and bring back your information to me.” Silent again, shoulders vibrating, her tall frame leaking energy like a broken battery. “In the end, the Shadow Lords will be the hand of justice or redemption for their elder.” The girl offers a tight smile that does not fit well on her plain face, her mobile mouth. “How else will we know if those who remain are true? How else do we bind them to the Sept and its leadership?” That has the force of an order, and the echo of someone older and more far more experienced than Linnea.

[Carmen Losada] The Uktena watches silently as the young Ahroun combs over what all has been spoken. Hashed out. Disagreed upon. And the ultimate question is whether or not Carmen is simply discussing all this with Linena for appearance sake, while fully planning on doing whatever she pleases.. or if she'll actually acquiesce to whatever it is the Wyrmfoe ultimately decides. Leadership is a dynamic thing in the Garou nation: often tested, often tried so it is earned without a shadow of a doubt. It is in their nature.. and, unles it interferes with matters during time of War, it is their duty.

When at last she speaks - in Spanish no less, a bit of it at least - the Galliard arches her eyebrows [the Spanish is a surprise] but it fades away as she pays a deeper attention tot he words themselves - and, perhaps more so the way the younbg womans demeanor and delivery shanges. That aura of her ancetors, her breeding. There is a spark of.. appreciationa nd approval in the Galliards eyes. Good to have it reaffirmed that when it comes right down to it, the Ahroun can step up very well to her role.. certainly mroe so than anyone would think at the impression given by her awkward, young, coltish side. And who can fully deny that aura? For all that the Uktena have a history of not being... appreciative.. of the European based tribes at large, let alone the 'kings' of them; one cannot completely ward off the primal, instinctive stirrings in the face of such fine essense.
All that could be wonderful.
Nodding soberly, she takes up the papers and slips them back in the large, worn, stuffed portfolio. "Intiendo. Andaremos con quidado, te lo jurro." I understand. We'll ask with caution, I assure you. "And I agree.. it will indeed serve to give us a better idea of what their part may or may not have been in all the matters. When I return I will seek you out and let you know of what happened. In the meantime," She stands and stretches. "I have some other matters to attend to before going ahead and getting this trip underway.. I think we can both agree it'll be best to do it as soon as possible. Was there anything else, Wyrmfoe?"

[Linnea Bartlett] “Nothing else, Swallows-the-Sun-yuf,” the girl says seriously, unbending her arms, her demeanor otherwise unchanged. “I do want to give you my number, if you need to get in touch with me quickly. If you have a cell phone, I’d like to have your number as well.” She stops, her eyes flashing downward. “I would also like to talk to the Alpha of your pack - ” here she pauses, brow knitting. “I need to know the Sept’s assets, in case of need. That can wait, though. We’ll talk on your return.”

Linnea stays long enough to exchange numbers (if Carmen has a cell number to offer) or to at least rattle off her own, then unbends enough to toss out one of her familiar, friendly grins and disappears back into the tunnels of the underbawn, her cream and sugar laced coffee entirely untouched.

[Note: Carmen does have a cell, so numbers are exchanged.]