In the vale of the dead. [Ben-Cassian]

[Vanguard of the Dawn] Ben finds Linnea in the heart of the battlefield. She is not sitting at the knee (or draped around the shoulders) of Blood Eclipse. She is crouched in the center of a circle of wyrmthings, which have almost wholly consumed the body of a Gaian fallen beneath them. The Crinos' cheek and jaw are visible, encapsulated in marble - a delicate spindle of bone-white spittle, slaver or blood captured and frozen where it sprayed from his maw as he fell. His flank has been opened by a pair of long, serrated blades of bone protruding from a the bottom "arms" of a manyarmed formor, while another - with a massive mouth and a doublehinged jaw - pulls the Garou's massive right leg forever from its socket. A rat-faced leech completes the indignity of the death, its fanks sunk deeply into the Crinos' chest, curved claws erupted from its finger sockets, plunged through the ribcage, puncturing its lungs.

The girl's shoulders are slung forward, tense. Her spine cuts a delicate pattern against the waffle-weave thermal and t-shirt above it - the marching tripartite column, the faint protrusions where the spinous and transverse processes press against the skin, the gill-like effect as long slabs of lean muscle expand and contract like a regulated bellows with each of the young Ahroun's rhythmic breaths.

She does not look up as he approaches. She does not seem to acknowledge his presence until he is too close to be ignored and then she simply speaks, quietly. "That's Death Before Dishonor," she remarks her head dipping lower, her thick braid slithering along the column of her spine. She means the Gaian so consumed, presumeably and adds by way of explanation, "Mary's mate." - though the simple words must mean little or nothing to Ben. A Silver Fang: even in his death throes, his breeding is evident, almost unrivaled. It seems that she will stop there, but a sliversecond later her chest expands and does not contract - her breath held, poised - and then another taken, without an intervening exhalation. Her head lowers further, and she releases the breath, muttering, at last. "He was a fucking asshole."

[Benjamin Keyes] "We assholes take pride in our natures."

Were she expecting, were she considering, were she even awaiting his arrival it might not have come as obvious. The footfalls are quiet this time around, the curling digits on either hoof finding purchase on the smallest pebble or splash of blood, frozen mid-scatter. Perching here or there with ease, while dancing from object to object. His feet are bare of sock or shoe, carrying all the weight on the balls of his feet.

"It toughens us and those around us." He's got another wife-beater on, snug against his torso, hardly muscular or impressive, the lean frame fills it out only enough to convince someone, were it stained properly, that he was indeed worthy of the name's intent, so abstract and grim are the lines running through his features. The eyes are less dull now (No more lies) and contain a rich alertness, cautiously darting from edge to panoramic edge on the battlefield beneath them, until he's come to rest on the back of a hackled Black spiral, huddled low as if prepared to join the feast of what's left of Death~Before~Dishonour.

"...Then again we also don't give three shits much about each other. Only person an asshole doesn't get along with more then anyone else, is another asshole in all honesty."

Those eyes find the spots of white, awash in so much black, head tilting unevenly, jaw askew and crooked per usual.

"...He got what he wanted. A Good Death if a little messy...Caern is safe because of Corpses like him. Be thankful..."

[Vanguard of the Dawn] "I am," the girl replies, quietly. Her chin rises from her study of the splayed and savage corpse, the marble forever surrounded by onyx and her pale eyes fix on Ben. Her face is still and contained, and her voice is almost matter-of-fact. "Thankful. Mary isn't. Mary cries all the time, but she always cries. He was a Whitaker. Maybe my seventh or eighth cousin, the last True-Born of his line." Her shoulders sling upward, she inahles, rising enough to sit well back on her haunches, her feet leveled and balanced. " - but Mary's pregnant, so maybe she'll get lucky." Her mouth slides into a faint twist.

[Benjamin Keyes] "Mary's kin. She'll deal or find a new mate or have one prescribed for her soon enough. Leave it alone. Bigger fish to fry and all that..."

A snort sharp and harsh, neck craning to the side with a visible show of tension in the sudden crackle of vertebrae hitting the air. His elbows settle to either knee, hunched there on that BSD's back, the consumate 'Coward' awaiting the throat to cut if you give him a sliver of a chance.

"...So you want to tell me what the hell you thought you were doing taking responsibility like that?" It was likewise, matter-of-fact. The tone is no longer subdued and the voice is no longer suggestive arrogance. It sounds more blithely irate, as if the pressures of the surrounding battle were suddenly pushing down on his shoulders, constantly shrugged off only to return again, insistent.

[Vanguard of the Dawn] "She doesn't even like me anymore, anyway," Linnea replies with a faint, quick shrug, before Ben moves on to other business. "And she's pretty, but about as clever as a - as half-dead glomping fish. But she gets pregnant by sneezing or something, so - yeah. She'll have another mate."

Her lungs expand again; she listens to Ben without looking at him, then rises to her full height - her pale eyes flashing over his features, a snapshot of intensity, briefly white-hot. "Which - " she stops, biting off the word sharply, spitting it out. Her fists are knuckled white at her side. " - which version do you want?"

[Benjamin Keyes] "Which ever one makes the most sense. Whichever one explains to me why you felt the need to implicate yourself a future leader and Queen of the Nation..."

He paused, stepping lightly across the back of the Black Spiral he was hunched upon, tiny droplets of blood slowly leaking down the length of those tines as the bottom of his feet get scratched and pinpricked against it. He takes measures to find a smoother surface, that of the fallen Warhammer not three feet away, poised six feet to Linnea's intimate left, crouching upon the head while settling hands to knees and looking up into her features. Careful and weighing (Easy there Ahroun, We're just talking)

"...Whichever version ensures I'm not challenging you for Alphaship."

[Vanguard of the Dawn] "I'm not going to be Queen, Ben." Her pale gaze flickers over him again. In homid, the irises are muddy, occluded, like a cloud-cast day. In her warforms, they are clear as glacial ice. She stops, shakes her head, with a furious snort, and sinking back to her hanches, clarifies. "Probably. Probably I'm going to die like him."

She shifts in a slow pivot as he moves, her narrow frame self-contained by perfectly balanced over her doubled feet: a symphonic sort of grace. "Carmen goaded me. I was - I was - " she swallows hard against the ball of rage in her throat, her brow narrowing with the strain, and her gaze dances briefly off his shoulder, to a point indeterminate in the distance. "That's the immediate answer: weakness. And - and here's the next one, Ben." Her voice has that sharp quality, a just restrained staccato, percussive in its intensity. The fat moon is high in the air somewhere above them. "Did you think that she would forget I was there? Is it better if all of you are called out, but me? What sort of weakness is that? Did you think that I - that I should - that I can't - " she makes a noise in the back of her throat, abrupt, gutteral, and rises sharply again. "Ferdinand says that no one wants a leader who cannot admit that he or she is wrong. They want someone who corrects - " something, she doesn't have the words or poise that the Philodox has, and there's a sudden almost-snarl that twists her mouth.

Her arms snap crossed over her chest, pale eyes narrowing, aflame. Her stance shifts wider. "If you're going to challenge me, Fenrir, challenge me."

[Benjamin Keyes] "Fuck that..."

He snorts again, this one derisive, almost downplayed. Linnea was easier to talk to then most. Her breeding was strong but the stutter and stammer in her voice paid off when talking to her. With her. It displayed a sense of vulnerability, despite the strength in limb and movement. It also displayed potential.

"...I'm dying long before you do Dawn~yuf. I told you before, the Nation needs Saviours, not heroes like Dishonour~rhya down there..." A nod cast in the frozen main course on the floor "And by Fenris' blood and snapping jaws, if you're going to leap into Malfeas it's only when I've gone in first and told you the way is safe for the next mile or two. I'm your No-moon and I've got duties that include protecting you and the rest of this pack from the stuff you don't see and obviously don't get..."

The Rage is not as present as it could be, flaring from them both like twin Suns, one burning towards Super Nova, the other dancing on the edges of gravitational fury. He seems poised and calm, if a little less distracted and fidgetting then normal. A finger lifts to point at her...

"...That includes ensuring you don't suffer as much Renown loss as would be normal in any given situation. If you want to own up to something you do it at the Moot when the Elders ask it of you. You can't lie 'cause the Grand Elder's one of your own and a Fuckin' Philodox to boot so there is no dishonour in waiting, but to tell and give to Carmen like that is high lunacy. It was my challenge and my right and as a No-moon I can get away with a lot more then you can and suffer a lot less then you will..."

A Pause, teeth snapping at some inner urge to flick, freak or frazzle.

"...A good Alpha knows that Her Pack is One and the Same. She doesn't take the blows for her packmates so she can appear honourable and Ferdinand is right. No one wants a leader who can't admit their own faults, but I don't want a Leader who won't let me do my Job when it's called for. I can afford a Renown loss, it's part of the Job. You, as Alpha, as Pure Blood, as future fuckin' Queen, cannot afford problems like that. Period."

The jaws clap shut, arms rising to fold over his chest. No pure breeding. No heroes. No saviours here. Common Sense and Logic, that was his fare. Rotagar snarl during heights of Absurdity.

"Carmen's not above you. She's your equal if not less. Just like me. Just like Severina. Quit Pussy footing around everyone and balls up, or I will take this Alphaship from you and point this Pack towards the nearest Wyrmpit to see how it fares..."

Threat. Warning. Promise. Do Better.

[Slow Avalanche] The crater-bowl is large. A panoply of figures stand arrayed in postures of immortalized conflict, a raging still life of interweaving and intersecting figures. Vivisections abound, a horror show for the morbidly inclined. It's a nightmare maze of death and struggle, of pain that will never fade or go away. Faces torn up in rictuses of agony are frozen. Sprays of viscera hang from talons and maws, while innards are exposed for the anatomists to study at their liesure. It's a mad playground, a surreal phantasmagoria, a testament to the night the Garou rose and decided that their caern would not fall.

At some point during Fang and Fenrir's conversation, a third figure has entered this arena, coming in from the far side, moving slowly, hands linked behind his wide back like those of a child in a museum, scared to touch anything lest it fall over and break. He's a large man, an ambulatory fridge, a rectangle of shoulders and torso, draped in a tan leather coat, head lowered as he pauses before an alabaster Garou, back arched in a frenzy of pain as it seeks to tear out the innumberable obsidian maggots the size of erasors that are burrowing into its hide, disc pincers slicing through its pelt with ease.

Face sober, respectful, the Fenrir examines the cast of the alabaster Garou's face, and a shiver goes down his spine. This was a real comrade but weeks ago. And now? He moves on, a silent ghost tracking through this immortal battlefield.

[Vanguard of the Dawn] Arms crossed, stance wide, eyes sparking, jaw set: Linnea stands there, almost unmoving through the whole of Ben's speech. Her shoulders shimmer with potential movement, her jaw clenches and unclenches in slow, strange time to the cadence of the Rotagar's rant. She leans forward, expanding through the torso - another scant quarter-inch of height, all that possibility - and listens.

My fucking god, she listens.

When he’s finished – when he’s done at last – she draws herself up again through the shoulders, as if an invisible string wear attached through the crown of her head and linked to her spine, as if every vertebrae in her spinal column might open another fraction of an inch higher. Her pale eyes have narrowed, fixed on his face rather than some point at the edge of the battlefield. She’s silent for some time, before she answers all that with a simple, "I know, Ben." Her crossed uncurl, sink to her sides, the longer, delicately jointed fingers forming momentary fists that spasm outward. "And next time, if you say you're going to challenge me - " a moment's strange, whipcord strength. " - you - " inhale, a flat, strange look up and away. Her voice drops. "You better fucking challenge me." And her gaze rises, beyond his shoulder. "Your tribesmate," she says, in the same private register, her voice clipped and controlled, taut, her chin rising toward Cassian. " - Ferdinand - Ferdinand and I met him last night. At the Brotherhood."

[Benjamin Keyes] "...I'll challenge you when I think it'll do some good. Right now this pack need's unity, not a Power Shift, bullshit or not."

The eyes play on Linnea for a second, taking in each twisted tendon, each corded muscle, each vibrant sinew ready to flex into the Warform and duke it out. It was the kind of sensation that made you wonder how or why the Ragabash numbers did what they did...but they did it. From one another to Ragey Ahrouns under a Pregnant Moon. All the time. Everytime.

When at last he's satisfied she's gathered herself up, the Rotagar turns to regard the newcomer, the mention of 'Tribesmate' already bringing a flicker of something to Ben's features (Distaste? Displeasure? Discomfort? Dis-fuckin'-something!) that registers for a moment between seconds and then his arms are falling away from his chest. Resignation.

"Yeah, looks that way." He barks sharply, something incoherent but phrased in come hither tones, before casting a glance in Linnea's direction, toes wiggling over the edge of that broad Warhammer's head.

"...Carmen was wrong to reprimand us. Opinion not fact. Tradition or no." And then he's turning, waiting the arrival of the Godi.

[Slow Avalanche] The Godi moves erratically, drawn from one sight to another, moving like a honey bee amongst flowers, pausing to savor with disgust and a strange thrill the various scenes of combat and death. It's morbid, mesmerizing, terrible and bemusing. His face is a careful blank, his lower lip sticking out as he gazes from one contorted form to the next. Finally, turning away from a falling bane, all articulated boney segments and shattered cranium, he espies the two figures, and stops.

The Fenrir blinks several times, almost comically, taken aback by the flesh and blood mixed in with the alabaster and obsidian. Almost he nods politely and continues walking on, that immediate urge that often seizes one to look away when accidental eye contact is made on a bus or on the street - but he purses his lips instead, and approaches.

There's a faint tang of whiskey to him. Odds are he's just left the Brotherhood and come straight over, for despite being poorly dressed for the weather topside, he's not wet or overly cold. A scuffed up tan leather jacket, made no doubt out of three or four very altrusitic cows, covers his large frame, reaching down to mid thigh, a wide leather belt threaded through some waist loops and hanging loose down his left leg. The cut seems dated, the coat looking like something from the 70's. Clearly not new, and probably not even acquired in a shop.

His face is broad, plain, perhaps made appealing by the guileless expression with which he looks from one Garou to the other, open and slightly cautious, perhaps, if only in response to Ben's clear irritation. He comes to a stop before them, hands still linked behind his prodigious back, and rocks from heels to toes and then back.

"Hello," he says, and smiles at them both. It's a simple smile, slightly hopeful and easy. He seems more at ease since Linnea saw him last; some subtle confidence has soaked into him, so that he's able to smile at her instead of avert his eyes and stutter like last time. "Miss Bartlett." A nod, and then he turns his head to the Rotagar. "I'm Cassian Nikolau, called Slow Avalanche, Godi Cliath of the Get." This starts off being addressed to Ben, but ends directed at Linnea. The pull of her Pure Breeding cannot be denied.

[Vanguard of the Dawn] "I know that, too, Ben." The girl manages, after his aside. "But the Sept is her Sept, too." Her breath flares out in a chuffed snort that still seethes with compacted power. "She can't be ignored."

Then her pale gaze rises, her eyes flicker as they track his approach, and she smiles - briefly - suddenly - when he remembers her name. It does little to disturb the heated air about her, the faint color in her cheeks, the wild sparking energy pregnant with promise in the air around her. "Slow Avalanche-yuf," the teenager greets him formally. "I'm glad we meet under freer circumstances. I am Vanguard of the Dawn, Cliath Ahroun of the Silver Fangs, House Wyrmfoe, and Wyrmfoe of the Caern of Echoes." Sixteen years old, Cliath and practically unformed, except for the unmistakable aura of her breeding. "I - " she shoots a brief, lilting glance at Benjamin. If Ferdinand were here, she would feel more compelled to barrel down the complicated announcement of her lineage. "should - should probably recite my lineage. But - but then Ben might never get the chance to talk." Her gaze slides to Ben, clearly it is his turn - but then her eyes flicker briefly back to the Godi, a moment's kindled interest. "You're staying? Or - or passing through - "

[Benjamin Keyes] "Wonderful." The Sarcasm is not thunderous, Mjolnir doesn't strike from the heavens to cast unto Man and Woman present a bellyfull of 'Fuck You' laced in and among a word offered in mock celebration no. He was never really that sarcastic (Youuuuu Jerk). It's more a subtle flicker of tone and inflection, almost reflexive annoyance that tosses most he's met and some he's acquainted beyond that first greeting, into a brief stance of defensive (What'd I do?), often times leading to a wary sort of guard around the Rotagar (Ya fuckin' had to go and say hello, that's what).

Whether it's an act or simply a means of Dominance without action, one could guess for a small eternity.

"Benjamin Keyes, Called Slays~Before~the~Warcry. Son of Fenris and Agent of the No Moon." Formal with a sort of rhythmic exhaustion one expects from a tired tongue too used to spouting that name these days. (Three times in 2 weeks! C'mon!). To most it would be another Warrior to Gaia's cause.

To Ben...it's another Brother out to kick his ass.

"Cute." He offers Linnea, half-smirking at her Joke, before returning his gaze to his Tribesmate, awaiting his responses to the Pure Bred. Stoic wasn't the word. More like Frank. Frank with a side of assessment. The Rotagar glanced and gleaned and gained what insight and info. could be from the thick-set Whiskey-stained grinner before them.

[Slow Avalanche] The massive man (in truth, he's no giant; he's simply shaped like a wall, wider than most, which, when combined with his careful, almost ponderous manner, makes his seem larger perhaps than he is) remains still with his hands linked behind his back, listening politely as one and then the other speaks.

It would take an idiot to not pick up on the tension. To not notice the flush on Linnea's skin, or the guarded tones of the Rotagar. It wouldn't take much to also realize that this was the second time he was meeting Linnea, and the second time that she seemed in conflict with a friend or comrade.

If this registers, it doesn't show on the Godi's plain face. When Linnea introduces himself, his eyes widen and his brows rise.

"You're the Wyrmfoe?" Said without trace of amusement, derision, censure. Instead, it's mere suprise, incredulity. He leans forward and peers at her, as if near sighted, and then laughs, a sharp bark of surprise. "I'll be damned!" He looks at Ben, and then back at the girl. "That's crazy!" Clearly he's not guarding his tongue. He turns then, his gaze drawn by something that pulls at him, and looks over the battlefield. His smile subsides, and when he looks back at the girl its with sober pensiveness. "But... well. Well then! I'm not going to judge. I imagine you took part in this, no?" A wave of his hand. "And I imagine you did yourself well if you took the position. So."

It's an awkward end, and but it finishes it with a respectful nod to the girl. He turns his gaze to his Tribesmate, and looks at him with an equally frank gaze.

"Agent of the No Moon?" He tries that out. "Like..?" He searches for an analogy, or a simile, but fails. "Hey. Great to meet you, brother." The title is easily spoken, and he nods again, kept at a distance perhaps by the other's simmering rancor. "An honor to meet you both."

Returns his gaze to the Silver Fang. His looks are deliberate, like the turning of klieg lights. "Yeah, I'm thinking about staying around. I meant to get here much earlier, but lost my way in the Umbra. Complications, I guess." He nods slowly. "I've already formed a good bond with Will - Broken Arrow?" A quick questioning glance to Ben, "We get along just fine. Might be forming a pack."

[Vanguard of the Dawn] "Yeah - " The young Silver Fang does not seem to take offense to his unguarded statement. Two weeks ago, she would probably have offered a strangled sort of smile and a hint of simmering apology. There was no one else - something to that effect. Tonight, however, she lifts her chin to encompass the whole of the frozen battlefield. "I was here. Ben was, too - " her words are simple, underscored by sure pride reinforced by the supple shimmer in the air about her. She turns to the side, encompassing Ben in the statement, catches sight of the fallen Silver Fang, half-devoured by Wyrm things, marble barely visible through the frame of onyx. "That was Death-Before-Dishonor. And Blood-Eclipse-rhya is beyond that rise. He's pretty unmistakeable."

[Vanguard of the Dawn] "I'm glad you're staying. We need the strength. If you form a pack - make - make sure your Alpha sees me. Everyone has guard duty, too. I'll show you the rounds sometime - or Ben can. Anyone, really." She glances briefly to the side, "Ben - I have to go. I have duty, I'll see you - "

[Benjamin Keyes] His brow snakes upwards, clicking into some pre-determined spot as if it were used to such areas of height and had developed it's own sort of groove in the length of his skull. The Rotagar's grin is sudden and swift, eyes flickering towards Linnea for a moment, to gauge her reactions and mannerisms to the stranger.

"Good to meet you too, Brother. Glad to know you'll be sticking around for a while, we need more of our Number to bolster the Ranks."

A nod is tossed in Linnea's direction, eyes shuttering as if on reflexive difference to the young Ahroun's words. It need not be stated, but she does so each time and each time he's accepting before she's finished the sentence. The smile is faint but genuine once those dull black eyes open again, Mr. Anonymous (Features plain, forgettable and indescribable. More often a pair of cargo pants or a strange shirt with it's offensive slogan, then a real description) offering a click of his tongue at his would-be Alpha...

"...Gird yourself for after the Moot, 'Nea. We've got some hunting to do." And then his eyes are 'round on Slow~yuf (You people make it too easy), his fingers running across a naked bicep, fidgetting almost in that white tank top and black cargo pants, the lack of shoes all together disturbing in this sanctified place.

Intros were done. Pleasantries exchanged. A new Face to the fold. Some new blood to be spilled. Yay Team...

(Fuck Me)