Edyta Machackova

Sat 04:25AM
Maybe it had been a stupid move, leaving Konrad (where ever he had gotten to) at Tommy Condon’s all by his little Ahroun lonesome, but the cheap stench of beer that had wafted up from the spillage that had ruined (the second) tailored leather jacket of this weak had started to make her irritable.

Not that she’d managed to get more than twenty minutes alone in her own home before he’d been at the door and letting himself in. It was getting towards the Full Moon, just one week away, and already the moon was making his temperament more mercurial than usual - - thus, she’d said nothing, keeping her tongue (biting words), and just left the leather jacket in a rumpled, beer-odor-producing pile on the wooden floor by the kitchen as she worked her way through the kitchen and out again.

A bottle of red wine under one arm.

A (single) glass in one hand.

A packet of cigarettes and her Zippo in the other hand.

And the running of hot water into a large tub later.

She walked through the living area, apparently in her own little sociopathic little world, picking up her mobile phone from near the door way and dropping Rynn’s card by the land line phone before padding - - barefoot - - to the bedroom, through one of only two doors in the apartment.

Out of the bedroom with her bathrobe loosely tied around her waist it was obviously what she intended to do for the rest of the evening, although oddly where the black satin spilled apart down the line of clevage, exposing the prominence of her collarbones drew the eye more for the lack of Stitches (or wound, save for a faint scarring) there, when they had been all to readily there even just earlier this evening.

Hmmm…


Armand

Sat 04:32AM
It’s been a long night. He’d strolled the promenades, had smiled at the beautiful people, had growled at the ugly. All the while the moon had risen, had risen gibbous and swelling like a 7 month pregnant woman, ready to spill and make beauty in child. Shit. He’d walked and growled and smiled and dug his nails into his palms, ready to explode, ready to let the rage take over, ready to let the sweet, sweet blood flow. But no. No. If he was to one day rule the world, then control was paramount. So he’d resorted to simply growling and smiling and making fists at the world and watching the fucker bitch moon rise.

Shit. He’d been many a year away from pack and lunacy. Many a month from the edge, watching it all slide by like rainbows in oil slicks, like genius in idiot-savants, like french fries in burger rois. And now here he was, having traced her down, Konrad’s kin bitch, the elusive and gun wielding queen of hearts, the woman who had shot and gunned down the monstrosity, who had proved herself despite her tongue. Man, he’d break her over his knee, and get hard while doing it, were it not for Konrad.

Konrad. Old times, good times, young times when the world was still corrupt and shit, but a young corrupt and shit, a time when all that was dealable. Now? Now it was past too much, too far to the left and north. Shit. Now it was just going downhill fast, and no matter how he chased the white rabbit, there was no way he could ever catch it up and gut the fucker.

So there he was. Ringing the bell, knocking on the door. Why? Damned if he knew. Check if she wasn’t dead, see Konrad, see if Gaia still made sense in a world gone Weaver mad.


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sat 04:41AM
Konrad's eyes have been on Edyta every time she passed through his field of vision. They've followed her, tracking her from one side of the room to the other, one hall to the other, with the casual, lazy instinct of a (momentarily) satiated predator, whose eyes always follow potential prey.

He's seen the lack of wounds. Seen them long ago.

And yes, he's seen the business card. And who gives a fuck, really, except that now he might owe someone a favor. And that might be a problem.

Sprawled on the couch now. Lengthwise, head on his forearm cocked back and feet on the opposite arm. Couch's, not his. No yoga master, Konrad. Flexible as iron: no more, no less.

There's a bottle by his free hand, which trails off the black leather onto the carpeting. Or hardwood, if that's what it was. It's the bourbon from the bar, the level slowly dropping as the night wears on. No glass. He takes his shots straight from the source.

Ring on the bell, knock on the door. Konrad lifts his head off his arm, looking past his feet in the direction of the entrance. Then he sinks his head back down and waits for her to get it.


Edyta Machackova

Sat 04:51AM
If there had been one benefit to Lukas was that he knew and expected that she wouldn’t be domestic. She was (had been) his wife, not his maid. She did not iron underwear and fold socks. Domesticity hadn’t been on of the traits that had been bred (and beaten) into her. They had tried, once, to come to some sort of agreement on the matter: an expensive shirt later and the subject was dropped. If it was merely ignored, then there was no argument. If there was no argument then there was none of her staring. If there was no staring then the possibility of 'consummating' their relationship had been still on the cards for the evening. It had followed with most of their laundry was taken care of by the dry cleaners. His shout: of course. She didn’t crack open her wallet unless absolutely necessary.

Perhaps that had been why he’d been so easy to kill?

If he couldn’t make her do the laundry, what hope had he had against an over possessive Ahroun who had come to restate his (bloody) claim?

When the door was knocked on and there was no sound of answering it, there was the sound of water sloshing around the bathtub from the bathroom where the door was cracked open and she finally emerged, satin robe being closed and belted around her waist as she moved, the material clinging to portions of her skin where it had been wetted by her slick, aromatic skin.

Pale blond hair that now hung long enough to sweep almost to her middle back wasn’t down for a change, swept up and pinned into a loose crown on her head with slithering tendrils spilling down around her face and neck unheeded. The light color always made the olive complexion of her features seem all the more startling, like a tan that went all the way down, but of a hue that could be nothing but natural, that shade that would always be unobtainable by cream, lotion or sun bed no matter how much a person tried. With her hair swept up and pinned away it made her eyes the more prominent feature in her face, the cold uncompromising blue of iris and oil slick black pupils framed in a wash of pale lashes.

She answered the door, opening it far enough to reveal a sliver of the satin and several pale tendrils of hair falling over the eyes that peered out (cold as winter). If Armand stepped slightly to one side he might catch a glimpse of olive skin through the crack of the doorway, barred only in patches by the black satin of the robe. She stared out at him for a long moment before the door opened fully to permit him to enter, should he so choose. She inclined her head, deferential (it was another Ahroun so close to the Full Moon), keeping her eyes at most on his lower lashes and no where near a dead on gaze.

“Armand,” she stated, a welcoming and an acknowledgement at the same time.


Armand

Sat 04:58AM
The door cracks open and that scent of flesh and musk and soap wafts on through. Be damned if he’ll stand on ceremony, if he’ll be just another doormatt, waiting for an invitation to come on in, to be civilizes, to wait on her majesty’s pleaure. No. A broad, powerful hand is placed square on the door, and with a powerful push he’s in, moving, advancing, King to d4, retreat if you will, burn if you won’t.

As interested as he is in her musk, in the source of heat between her legs, he’s far more conscious of the other in the room. Kins come and go, but full bloods are there until there arteries run dry and the Wyrm crows in triumph. Slipping one hand around Edyta’s waist, he pulls her in close as he thrusts his way in, pressing his nose and lips against her cheeks, whispering greetings before thrusting her aside. She’s meat, precreation, idle time spent fornicating and sweating and dreaming.

Konrad is war and battle and blood and truth and defeat and your back against the wall and praying to Gaia when you need friends and help most. Competition? Edyta willl lose everytime. Striding into the room, Armand stops, looking down at the drinking Ahroun, and clealry, clearly, the moon is running wild, is burning up their souls, like parafin gone too far, burning so high and blue and hot that when Selune is done, nothing will be done.

“Two things, asshole. One, you join my pack. Two, you give me that fucking bottle before I gut you. Make your choice quick, cause the urge to kill is on me.”


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sat 05:06AM
Who is it, dear. That's what another man might ask of his life [her life, at least.] partner. Konrad doesn't need to. First, she says his name. Second, even had she not, he might've guessed from the rage unwinding into the air.

And three.
The man comes into his light. And speaks to him.

He doesn't bother getting up. Czech descent, Czech blood, but American birth and American upbringing. Partially. Anyway, he's finally off his feet. It's been a long day, or at least it feels that way, and if nothing else, leather's embrace is soft and a sight warmer than Edyta's.

Queen of hearts?
Queen of spades.
Death and riot. Blood and rot.
Amen, motherfucker.

No, he doesn't get up. He stays sprawled on the couch, a little smile spreading on his lips. A time passes. Then he rises to his elbows, still on his back.

And to a sit.
And then, finally, to a stand.

"Three things. One, it would be my honor to follow you. Two, it would be my honor to celebrate this fortunate event with a shared drink.

"Three." The smile vanishes.

He fought for that little piece of clawed fluff. He bled for that possession. He killed for it, and the blood is still fresh in his memory.

"Touch my belongings again without my permission, my friend, and shit will hit the fan."

Call it a character quirk. The smile reappears. He bends to pick up the bottle, handing it over, and by then it's a grin.


Edyta Machackova

Sat 05:12AM
Well, at least the arrival of the other Ahroun made decisions that much easier, given his temperament mixed with Konrad’s own – so far, this evening rather mercurial – personality. Let the boys drink it up, do whatever it is that Ahrouns do for their ‘male bonding’ ceremonies – both things she wasn’t particularly interested in, all things considered. If he was ready to kill at the moment, she would rather not be in the same room (let Konrad deal with it), or at least not unarmed. Unfortunately, one of the things that may have given a Garou reason to pause and reconsider charging was also something that Konrad had banned her from every allowing into his presence and sight ever again.

Choices, choices.

(it isn’t actually that hard, really…)

Ahrouns come and go, but the bathroom – hot water, slick with aromatic oils and the smattering of bubbles, was there for you, non-judgmental and never an asshole: just cold and cool during the morning and steamed with mist after long showers. Competition? The bathroom would win every time.

On bare feet she padded back towards the cracked open doorway, pushing it inwards and causing the small candles lit within to flicker with the draft as she stepped in. She closed the door (and for a while actually pondered throwing the three latches and bolts on the other side).


Armand

Sat 05:16AM
Armand extends his hand for the bottle, and once it is given to him, he raises it on high and drinks it deep, takes that liquid into his gut, powerful swallows, throating it and after a massive gulp or six, he swivels his hips, shoulders rolling, and smashes the whole of the bottle against the wall, the movement so fast and liquid that it’s a second delay before anybody realizes that a cloud of bourbon has exploded all over the wall and is now bleeding down towards the carpet, a constellation of glass scintillating and cascading down down down.

Armand rounds on the other and grins, a feral, kill me now before I hand you your balls kind of grin, and spreading his hands wide, his arms to their full span, he looks at Konrad and raises his chin. “You threaten me, Konrad? You talk of honor and you talk of shit? What is this? Where have gone your manners? Where have gone your respect? Eh? Tell me that my friend, before things get ugly and the shit hits the fan, woman bitch or no.”


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sat 05:26AM
Snarl.

It might have been voiced. It might have simply been in the sudden surge of Konrad's rage as his head snaps to the right and follows the trajectory of the bottle, the slow leak of alcohol down the walls. Any which way it's bitten back now, tamped firmly down, the iron bands loosening across his shoulders. He takes a step forward, and another.

"Armand." His hands clap down on the other's shoulders, brotherly, and then cup his unshaven cheeks. Pulls him nearer, nearly eye to eye: pulls a breath in through his nose and releases it. "Armand. I've watched you in action before I even ran my Passage. I've respect for you. But learn to distinguish the difference between threat and fact. You want me in your pack? You want me at your side? Deal with it."

Releasing him, Konrad spreads his hands. "Otherwise we'll settle this now."


Edyta Machackova

Sat 05:33AM
The bathroom door opened and then closed again, followed by her footsteps across the short hallway to the bedroom, the door opening and closing again for a moment before she came back out. Hair still crowned on the top of her hair, tendrils snaking down around her face and trailing lazily down the back of her neck, she looked no damper than when she had answered the door, but the wetted stain still stuck in slick parts across her olive skin.

She lent against the mouth of the small short hallway with one shoulder braced against it, one hand at her side empty and the other with a heavy pistol resting against her bare thigh. She watched the two posing Ahrouns and could feel the Rage thick and heavy in the air, like a pillow pressed down over a sleepers face in an attempt to suffocate them.

She watched.

She waited.


Armand

Sat 05:39AM
Armand lets the other pull him in close, feels the hands on his shoulders, locks gazes, lets the muscles grow hard, lets the arms clench, the hands dig in deep, the fingers almost pierce the skin, and on the hardbitten face the grin grows all the more dangerous, all the more lethal. Moving one hand so that it cups the back of Konrad’s skull, Armand pulls it in close, pulls it in so that their eyes are but an inch apart, those crackling orbs of rage, shit and hell fire never had it so intense.

“You talking to me about fact and threat? Konrad, I offer you pack. I offer you my life blood. I offer you everything, heart and soul, blood and mind. I will hold nothing back. You talk to me about fact and threat?”

Armand’s grip grows steadily stronger, the rage so intense it’s starting to peel back skin, starting to make eyeballs bleed, starting to make the whole world one big heat haze. “Konrad, I offer you everything I have to give. I offer you pack. You know what that means?” He pulls his head back, and then slams it forwards, so that their heads butt, his eyes never breaking contact. “You hear me? Now answer, or I spit on you. You pack or not pack? You give me everything as I give you? Can I count on you, bar nothing? Or will you hold back on me, hold back and never come full?”


Konrad Vrdoljiak

Sat 06:06AM
Cracking the armor -
- too much.

Break point. Hair trigger tripped. Rage spilling like blood, hot and metallic, like licking a fucking million-watt capacitor.

Lashing out. A forearm coming up against Armand's solid chest, shoving the other back so hard another Garou would have stumbled, and a simple man might have sprawled on his back halfway across the room. Armand's got a handful of Konrad's hair now, and Konrad's missing a patch of scalp. He doesn't feel it. Couldn't possibly, not now. Not with fur exploding black over him. Crinos shift. He doesn't even realize it. Anger is fused to the change in him; one boils over into the other, inevitably and unstoppably.

He stands with his feet braced wide, hands clenched into fists, shaking, quaking, earthquake, soulquake, lips peeled back like he honestly thought this might end right here. Right now. No amount of planning can hold back the tide. No amount of plotting can stop the beast.

And he is. At core. A ravening beast.

"I..."

Can't speak. Human tongue not working. Growls instead, without meaning, raw anger, frustration, lunging after Armand, striking out with a claw in one single smooth ink-black arc of motion to

sink his claws into the floor. Inches deep.

Sides heaving like a racehorse. Quivering from the force of a hurricane bottled up inside him. The first time is the hardest to speak. Choking on his pride. Strangling on his rage. Words no human could understand: "I'm pack."

Again.

"I'm pack."

Again. "I'm pack." Again. "I'm pack." Mantra. Shivers subsiding - fur fading - claws retracting into nails. This last, barely a whisper, "I'm pack."

Pause. Awareness slowly returning. A shake of his head like a dog rising from water. He gets to his feet. Edyta: forgotten. She is kin. She could never understand. She could never matter.

Konrad gets to his feet.
Firmly now, "I'm pack. If you'll have me."


Armand

Sat 06:11AM
Armand doesn’t move during all this, doesn’t raise his arms, ready to take whatever Konrad gives him full in the face, ready to let the other take his nose, jaw, eyes, brow, brain and anything else he wants off and across the wall. He stands there, his own rage meeting and surging and cresting and then, when the floor is riven, when the other rages and still, and still comes up top, when those words come out and he hears them, hears what he wants, he roars himself, and surges forwards.

To clasp the other in a bear hug, his own form growing, furring over, strength and power meeting strength and power, hand coming back up behind Konrad’s head, pulling him to the shoulder, and over it all, over the pain and rage and strength and dominace, Korand can hear Armand,

“Pack. I knew it. I knew. You. Pack. Me. Together. We kill them. Pack, kid, forever.”


Edyta Machackova

Sat 06:15AM
This was Boy Stuff.
This was Ahroun Stuff.
This was Garou Stuff.

And Kinfolk don’t figure into Garou things; normally left in the dark corner to their own devices and ignored unless someone needed a coffee, a warm hole, a baby maker, or someone to flatter them.

Sometimes they were remembered.
Sometimes they were protected.
Sometimes they were fought over.

But only sometimes.

This had nothing to do with her.

She wouldn’t be able to understand the Ahroun – the Garou – state of being. (Just as they would never understand the pale white place where her mind rested beyond morality). It was just the way that the jacks had fallen in this particular cycle of Life.

She pulled back from the mouth of the hallway, her figure outlined in the gloomy shadows overcast. The sound of one of the doors in the hallway opening and closing again.

This time it stays closed.