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(ana)
Sloga a Jačati za Nadmoćnost.
[Strength and Unity for Supremacy.]
-- Serbian words, it could be a Nationalist slogan: adopted readily for Shadow Lord own. The good of the Nation. Their Nation.
It would be Anastasija Jovanovic who would deliver the word to those she knew, informing them of the date, the time. For the unknown - those who flirted with peripheries - perhaps they could hear it from another's mouth: expectation that word would be spread. And this time, unlike the tentative arrangements of the first: kin presence was requested: commanded. The semblance of a veneer, the semblance of the polite. None of that tribe would mistake it.
The time, the weekend. A Saturday evening: party-squelcher that Anastasija was. The place? Under Éva's arrangements. No doubt somewhere appropriate: it had been left to that kin's own judgment.
[Cue: Eva Jozsefa Illeshazy]
(eva)
Summit Conference Services
Northwood Center
Chicago, Illinois
Saturday nights, and the hallways are long, lit and split with many ringed, subtle threads of shadow. Weekends nights, the rooms are empty and available for a song, or at least, a song and a prayer and a promise of future business, of course, during peak hours when the rental fee on one large conference room (with well-timed break for juice, coffee, and fresh fruit for 50) would set her back more than her monthly mortgage payment on the crumbling hull of a brick building she sometimes thinks of as her home.
No, she wasn't asking them there.
By the time the first participant arrives, the caterers and the staging staff have all long-since disappeared per her rather specific request. There's not even a security guard, again per her very specific request. Instead, the dark-haired, dark-eyed kinfolk stands just within the double-sets of doubled glass doors and buzzes each person in as they arrive.
She wraps herself in silence, tonight, the way others would wrap themselves in noise. Not even the view of the small manicured forest at the center of the conference campus (greenshadowed, with all the ridiculous profusion of spring) from the sweeping two-story windows rouses more than a flicker of interest (she stared and stared before they arrived: the greenseep of light, glass-and-wood wall more a series of minimalist picture frames than windows). Icewater sweats in metal pitchers on the linen-covered sideboards, but otherwise there are no refreshments.
It was a meeting, after all, not a cocktail party.
(danya)
Presence requested. Commanded.
When he first obligated his attendance, details had yet to be determined. Now that the organization has begun under the direction of Eva's capable attentions he cannot dismiss the lambent amusement at having to reaffirm such plans. Perhaps there is a level of humored tolerance at the continued tests and requirements delegated by those Gaia has chosen among their Tribe.
Whatever collaboration the lawyer requested was met to the best of his ability. The primary area of his concern was double-checking the absense of all Conference Center personnel under the dictations of Eva's specific requests as she busied herself with remaining responsibilities. Standing six-foot-four and dressed on par with any expectations that may come with the ensuring meeting, the kinsman's no-quarter/business-at-hand mindset leaves little room for protests falling from the mouths of disorganized janitorial and maintenance crews. With polite, but firm guidance - Do not make me resort to force - the immediate hallways bordering the chosen room were secured with deadbolts suggesting a modicrum of privacy.
By the time the first of those invited walks past the buzzer-secure doors, Danya is reclining in one of the reasonably comfortable chairs arranged about the room. The other kin was left to her own devices as he chose a seat that allowed clear views of both the entrance doors and manicured forest in guise of relative repose. Attention drifts towards the white-noise music piped through the intercoms scattered across the ceiling. Absent and rather meaningless harmonies snaking about the large room, endeavoring to find another pair of ears to blithely entertain until the conference begins - just as they have done for every other organization that has rented the room and needed something to occupy the gathering masses until attention otherwise detained.
Within one hand lays a black remote control. He has already explored it's dictatorship over degrees of both musical volume and overhead light glare, as well as a multitude of audio/visual accessories placed throughout the large room. He is aware, as well, of the intricacies involved in microphoning a delegated speaker should the need arise. Given his knowledge of certain aversions to such technological devices, he doubts any of these things will be called to use - however he would rather be prepared than lose face before his cousins for ignorance.
The other hand lifts a cup to his lips; quenching his thrist before it has chance to begin, careful to avoid ice-sweat drips falling to moistly stain the dark lines of tailored pants.
Just as Eva: patiently, quietly waiting.
(ana)
The Shadow Lord half-moon would arrive not long after, almost on the heels of the chemist kin. Dressed understated (like anything ever in her clothing would ever be over) in sombre colours, dark tones that in the night, in the park her pack claimed as its territory, would make her mould into a shadow and seem to disappear. In the sterile and manufactured realm of this conference centre, through hallways which beam steady their fluorescent brightness and in the room which the Lords were to meet, she stands out. Like black writing on a clean whiteboard.
Confidence flows through the easy stride of those legs, the loose-limbed movement displaying more of relaxation than the pale carving of her face could ever hope to achieve. Enter the room, she glances to the two kin who have already arrived, neither flicker of familiarity nor smile unsettling the cast of her features. "Dobro veče, Éva, Danya." Feel that sudden betraying change of atmosphere in the room which announces her - hard slap into tension and a battery-assault against nerves - it may have indicated something other than the mild tone of those harsh Serbian-moulded syllables. But amongst them, their kind, its expected, if seldom welcome.
Smoke-flecked eyes glance around the room, her head twisting slowly, body following on the spot, as she takes the surrounds in. The scar is uglier in this light, pinched and puckered and angry-dark from temple to under right eye and across the cheek. Closer inspection, the unevenness of the once-wound, the jagged ridge of its unclean healing: it could be like someone grabbed a twisted piece of metal and ran it through her flesh like a plough. Horrific. And almost equal match to the smooth-melting and stretched texture of the burn scars hidden beneath black turtleneck collar.
Inspection finished, one glance goes to Éva as well as the slight jerk of a nod. Approval, before she is making her way over to the pitchers of water, pouring, letting that clear fluid flow: back turned to the entrance.
(sliver)
at some point Sliver turns up. not by way of the door, oh no -- his particular deformity does not do well on the street in broad lamplight. by way of umbra, materializing slowly in the center of the room. crouched, as it were, in crinos form, his birth form, the form that he was native to and the form that is truest to him. true garou. true monster. let us hope the blinds are drawn.
jet black.
yellow eyed.
horned.
dual spirals of ridged keratin push out from his brow, curling back behind the ears, forward and out along the line of the jaw, and finally hooking back in at the points. the right one wickedly sharp, almost certainly polished and filed. the left one jagged at the end, as though broken in a past disagreement.
yellow eyes sweep the room. the two kin are immediately categorized for what they are. blood of the apes. that ranked them far, far, far below even he, sinborn bastard-child of the tribe. then, there is anastasija flesh-of-fire. truebred and by all appearances, not metis. that ranked her far, far, far above him. and within his own tribe at least, he was oh-so-careful of relative power and prominence.
to her he presses his handpaws to the floor, elbows bending out and back until his furred chest and chin almost touch the carpet. ears folded back. eyes fixed somewhere in the vicinity of her feet.
(taiven)
Here she comes now Sister in Shadow.
Bait to the eye. Taiven enters the large room, like a worm on a hook. She dangles on the threshold, inspiring salivation from afar. Her eyes, cast in darkness by the light at her back, sweep the room as she enters. Her body, moving this way... and that, enticingly as her steps sink her further into the depths of the room.
Who will bite?
She wears her beauty like a mask. Putting it on, and taking it off at will. She wears her beauty like a holster. In it she stores her weapons of choice. Be they seduction. Or spite. She wears her beauty like a cloak. To guard against the chill that the world has to offer. To be shed as proof of her own conviction. Yes. I can stand the cold.
Can you?
Lips of a deadly shade pucker as she pauses, a smooth olive hand on the curve of one deadly hip. Almond shaped obsidian eyes tempt a meeting with others. Look at me. They dare, they taunt. As she looks from face to face.
Here she comes now Sister of Shiva.
Dark destroyer, holy deceiver.
And she stands in silence. A cloyingly familiar aroma. A decadent sculpture. A mystery to be solved.
(arkadiy)
Then, the other half-moon. The more human one. It's almost too bad that all the staff have been ushured away.. because for all the world, he looks to be a simple businessman on his way to a conferance. The same perfectly tailored suit, briefcase and detached look as ever. The only addition this time is a carefully wrapped package, carried over his shoulder.
And he enters the room. Eyes move over those already present, taking in what he can, analysing. He is Shadow Lord. They are Shadow Lord (or, at the least, kin). Little reason for subtlety at the moment. And remaining standing. Waiting.
(danya)
"Ana." As she crosses into and over his feild of vision, deep green eyes slant away from the doors and pursue the Philodox's advance across the room. Fully facing the blistering assault of her presence. There is little doubt in his mind she would currently ignore the formalities of a greeting that would bring him to his feet - or knees. No need to waste the efforts when a tipped chin and raised cup easily suffice in substitution befitting the time and attention allotted by what may be nothing more than a fleeting glance of dark eyes.
Further acknowledgement may be noted in the subtle drop in ambient music's volume brought by play of fingers atop remote.
A crowd's anticipatory hush.
It means little if she recognizes the effort at all, though an additional weight entering the climate-controlled atmosphere entertains the half-formed thought he should have, conversely, reversed the direction of audial change. Swelling crescendo the ominous foreshadow of a horned beast entering most dramatically - and appropriately - through the mysteries of the Spirit Realm instead of a conventional door. Intriguing. However, further observation of the extent to which Sliver will crawl before Ana is abandoned in sake of a more pressing issue.
Unfortuately for the risks presented in the intelligence of such a first impression: the curtains are spread wide. Inviting. Eagerly displaying the landscaped results of finely budgeted resources extending beyond paned glass. Luckily, all Center personnel have been ushered out of the immediate areas. Luckily, the positioning and elevation of the room do not provide corresponding invitation to easily gaze within. Luckily, another button initiates near-silent whir of pulleys gliding automatically on hidden tracks.
The room marginally darkens when left with only the discolored glare of flourescent lights. The room seems so much darker with the continued addition of those born into Gaia's army. One by one they fill the room. Hunters. Warriors. Monsters. Biological Weapons. Predators
Danya, safely positioned in a seat unquestionably out of the way, continues to silently observe and study the gathering Tribe until otherwise absolutely necessary.
Presence commanded. Participation is still negotiable.
(eva)
Éva does not leave her chosen place by the security guard's desk. It seems safer there, on the periphery, out of the clear line of consideration or sight. Watchful, impassive, crisp in her dark-gray suit, she is an essentially forgettable vision. Some functionary's half-smile of acknowledgment ghosts at the corners of the kinfolk's mouth as Anastasija enters and offers her greeting. "Evening," Éva says in response, and that is all.
Moments later, some slowcrawlitch of awareness pricks its way through whatever thought-shell the woman has constructed as a sort of holding tank for herself under such circumstances. Fine hairs on the back of her neck swim, and Éva pivots in place, looking for the source. He - it - is easy enough to identify, though much less easily categorized.
Although she does not wish to stare, stare she does, and not with Danya's calculated, judgmental distance. The monster makes its obeisance, and the woman's gaze flickers from the battle-formed Garou to Anastasija, and then away. She forces herself to look away, swallowing (swallowing, swallowing) the raw sourness that fills her mouth. This is a different world, entirely. The rules are not her own.
The door distracts her; Taiven, outside. The quiet buzz of the security system, the silent woosh of the pneumatic doors opening as the stunning creature stalks through. The Carmina Burana sings in the back of her mind, and that faint thought-snippet is enough to ease some of the unwelcome constriction tightening her chest. Another smile, a functionary's acknowledgment, the sort that the higher-ups never, ever see, so generously bland is the expression.
And Arkadiv, then, on Taiven's heels. Another glance, another flicker of awareness, another mild, serious smile as artificial as Sweet 'n Low, though far less saccharine. As the doors woosh closed behind the latest arrival, the kinfolk glances down. Gold links slide across her tanned wrist, just visible as she pushes back the cuff of her crisp white blouse. And still: silent. This is not her world. It is not for her to speak.
(ana)
Let it be said: she may not know the implications, the reasons why, the particular meanings in many actions that may be done around her. Not only does the culture in which she once existed yawn so deeply from the one she currently finds herself mired, but sometimes the subtleties are missed - simply beyond her comprehension. And sometimes, she may just have a clue. The music lowered, her back is turned, but do not think to believed she missed it. Her awareness is sharp, her senses keen to the slight changes which would occur in the room. It is a change: dismissed, as nothing.
Enter: rage.
She turns from the water pitcher, her hand uncoiling moist from its handle and the condensation that frosts the glass. It almost a surprise that there are no scars which run along them, when everything else exposed to the eyes would seem to be. Her hands are calloused but are not a worker’s hands, a couple of years ago or not even that long, they would have been as soft across the palm as they are along the back, where ridges of bone flex and rise with each of their movements. Her fingers are not long, but nor are they short. Nor are they stubby, but almost elegant, their knuckles small. Breakable hands, snappable wrists. Beneath the clothes, there is not so much bulk about the Lord, no matter the sturdiness she may convey. Lithe tone lines over an almost curve-less body, observations obscured by the hang of layered clothes on her form.
A gong of announcement, the hail of that familiar intensity: the sudden sizzling feel of a lightning strike, rending the air, causing a vacuum and sending hairs in forced salute across flesh. A signal of the two new arrivals. Then the addition of the third even as her gaze is crossing paths with the materialising form of Sliver, before moving on to Taiven. “Dobro veče, Sister-of-Shiva-yuf. Heart-Washed-Grey-yuf. Sliver.” A nod of welcome to each, and not a smile is chiselled into her still face. In one hand is a glass of water, the rattle of ice sounding against the easily shattered, hard-crafted substance. The other hand gives brief, curt gesture to the two kin. “Danya Tretiak. Éva Illésházy.” Their names roll of her tongue with ease, the unusual sounds easily adapted to her own brand of Eastern European. A glance to them, the rise of cool water to her lips, then the moment before her sip by way of explanation. “Kin.”
When the bland refreshment drops, the hydration added to her body, she glances at the clock on the wall of the room. Dark brow rises slightly at the passage of that time, right-side, twisting at the scar that slices her cheek and temple. “There is still another to arrive, that I know of. Thunder’s Mirror. The message was given to him. We will wait a bit longer, ne?” Whatever other kin should be part: namely, Sereleia who she knew, would hardly be waited on.
(taiven)
Taiven's dark gaze drifts from face to face as Anastasija gives each a passive introduction. Her smoothly pointed chin dipping in a faint nod as her eyes graze each in turn. She seems about to speak, when Anastasija goes on motioning with an air of disinterest toward the pair of kin. Olive toned features turn in their direction for a brief moment as she looks each over. Cool, and calculating, her eyes are encircled in a perpetual pool of black. Dark flesh, enhanced by khol liner encircle each obsidian eye. Pools of despair. The stuff of nightmares.
Anastasija announces the imminent arrival of perhaps one more, and again Taiven's head dips faintly in a slow nod. Ebon hair frames her olive features, adding to the darkening play of shadows across chisled features. And she waits, her gaze [barely bridled rage] sliding easily over those gathered.
(ana)
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound of the clock in the quiet room was beginning to irritate her, if only for the lack of arrival of the last expected tribal mate. None of it shows on her face: she, impassive, standing with that glass of heating water in her hand - no elegance to that angle, no relaxation in that grip - just the drip of condensation, tiny mergers into the floor.
"We shall start."
The only signal to the end of a period of wait, it is foreign penetration into this silent circle, its abrasive and low tones almost loud against the backdrop hush of the air-conditioning. Anastasija moves, the seething shift of scars that peep just beneath her jawline, and above the turtleneck, flex as her head turns to place the half empty glass aside. Coiled, curling hair - that conflicting edge between darkest brown and richest black - is held back from her face, frizz and fraying strands (ruined edges) flutter with her movement, flutter still when she pauses two steps towards the center of the room. Delicate mockery in a creature far from.
“I am Anastasija Jovanovic. Called Flesh of Fire and cliath half moon of our tribe. You all know me and will know the reason I call you here.” Introduction the only cadence of formality. She is not one to flower words, to sweeten her tongue to repent for the sound of her voice. Each word is precise, and blunt.
“The Caern is organising around us, and we must assert our place. Who amongst us will be Elder?”
Flat, the hint of challenge is bare sliver amongst the harsh resonance of every syllable. For those who pick it up, its direction is clear as that pewter-scratched gaze settles on each of the garou. Yet she utters not a word further, lip sealing firm on lip.
(taiven)
Her eyes, which had moved from face to face in the silence, now focus simply on Anastasija as she calls the meeting to order. Her head canting delicately to one side as she listens to the other womans words. The formality of the introduction is taken with the same cool detatchment as the challenge to follow.
Who among us will lead?
Dark feral eyes ease themselves shut, only to flicker open once more. Her body in motion, expressive and loud in its silence. All that the Shadow Lords are... cunning, loyalty, patience, determination. Expressed in the single step forward she takes.
"I am Taiven Barrow, called Sister of Shiva. Cliath, Crescent Moon, scholar and student of the Bringers of Light."
A pause. Brief, as her sinful lips part to allow a breath. A moment for the introduction to sink in. Bringers.of.Light.
"My reasons for being here are plentiful. To continue my education. To enlighten those of our tribe who wish to be enlightened."
Another brief pause, as her eyes flicker from one garou to the next.
"To ensure that our tribe and its kin follow in the footsteps of our nation by banding together, lending one another the loyalty and respect which we all deserve."
Her dark, nightmare gaze flashes toward the pair of kin. Full dark lips puckering in a state of repose, before once more they part.
"I would be Elder of the Shadow Lords, to ensure such things."
(danya)
A thick tongue sculpts the syllables of his name. Perhaps Ana's nativity brings gutteral accents to phrase clearly born on the frigid steppes of some Motherland, making the sounds merge with the lingering air of ancestral expectation... for surely if he had spoken himself, with the non-accent born of California, the name would not have sounded as appropriate. Taiven's acknowledgement mirrored, as the others in turn should they decide to put forth even that effort.
Well aware of his Tribe's general conensus on those born without Gaia's blessing of change - Danya does not expect much.
We shall start.
Whatever remained of the musical ambience cuts off with the force of a guillotine. Curtains closed, white-noise ceased, and without the requirement of further audio-visual assistance, the remote lands silently onto the table spread before him. The tall kinsman settles to listen. To watch. To learn.
Expression begets no change as the facts unfold and dark green eyes slowly circuit the gathered. Questions explored within a scientist's mind make no appearence beyond his lips.
Flesh of Fire.
The Philodox calls them to order yet he's witnessed her squirm beneath the anticipated mantle of leadership.
Sister of Shiva.
Bringer of Light.
The Theurge indulges seduction's sin of flesh, dangling her temptation before rabid wolves.... and while such things may prove effective when gazing into the abyss, selflessly collecting its secrets.... how much darkness instilled itself in return, lacing so tightly around the show of cunning confidence it strangles patient determination. Chimera's cerebral enlightenment. Unicorn's mediating fellowship. Uktena's mysterious games. All contained in the eager step towards power which may prove futile before a Council far less forgiving in its expectations. They are the grandchildren of Thunder. Loyalty and respect mean nothing without the enforcing blade of unquestionable leadership carving a path to follow.
Thunder's Mirror.
He wonders what excuse will justify the dismissal of punctuality's etiquette, for surely there must be some validity in the lack of appearence.
Sliver.
How easily the keratin crowned monster could inflict terror within the weak of heart with his excellence in entrances, yet how unfortunately, the bastard-child so obviously lacked social prominence necessary to make the utmost of it.
Heart Washed Grey
A reflection of study, poised to observe and scan the situation before entering it, draped in nothing more striking than the business attire of any other conference attendent that could be found in the current location of choice. Cautious. Reserved. Bearing gifts.
Thoughts remain carefully cloistered as dark eyes finally settle on Eva. Opposite bookend across the room. Sole equal within the invisable storm of contained Rage. On interpretive stretch, some relief may exist within lagoon pools to rest upon a form which does not instinctively raise the gut-response of prey. It disappears under the pressure of closer inspection. For a moment, he allows his gaze to hover about her downcast features until she feels the weight enough to respond. One black brow hinges towards hairline.
Still breathing...
Ice splinter lays melting within mouth's moist heat. Hypothetical extrapolations and stellar philosophies jailed behind the carefully constructed thesad of well-behaved interest. He possesses not the privilege to speak his notions on such matters, but there is nothing to stop learning how their deliberation of leadership compares to the conclusions of his own thoughts. What faults become ignored in the shadow of ideal strengths.
What strategies prove useless against the greater scheme.
Who among the Chosen will rise above them all.
(eva)
The surreality of the scene tugs at her consciousness, curls and hides in the darker corners of her mind. Éva is conscious - extraordinarily self-conscious - of every little urge she has to move tonight, and monitors these essentially autonomic responses with a ruthless efficiency that tends to compact her awareness and fold it in upon itself like some theoretical physicist's conception of string theory, folded worlds.
She would never wool-gather like this in a professional setting. She would not monitor herself so ceaselessly, all-too-keenly aware of the urge to pick at the fine weave of her linen suit jacket, the need to shift her weight, to curl her arms across her torso, the twitch of her facial muscles against the gravitional pull of a fine, small, rueful smile that wants to rise to the surface of her shuttered expression like cream. She would not even notice such gestures. They would be subsumed in her natural confidence in such settings, just another part of the whole.
Tonight, however, thanks to her almost painful self-consciousness, none of these urges surfaces visibly, except perhaps a twitch at the corner of her mouth, the leading edge of a flat, wry smile that signals no joy.
Even though Éva has abandoned her watch upon the door, she has not abandoned the door entirely. The Garou declare that the meeting has begun ( - who will take minutes? little more than a whisper of thought at the front of her mind) and the kinfolk pivots in place enough to essentially face them, just perched on the inside edge of the security guard's desk.
From Anastasija to Taiven, the subtle sweep of eyes cast low enough so that she does not catch - so that she is not caught by - anyone's gaze. Somewhere in there, the lashed glance encompasses the others present, an advocate's urge to gauge the opposition. It could be submissive, such a downcast glance, or it could be simply wise. (No one here but us echoes.)
Then, the weight, the slow seeping awareness of Danya's attention pricks at her skin like heat on a summer day. She looks up, returns the glance across the room, and does not shy from meeting the other kinfolk's gaze. Éva's eyes do not narrow, per se, but there is a subtle tic of the fine skin framing her eyes, which must be her answer question implicit in his quirked brow.
Still breathing, still masked.
You're as dangerous as the rest of them, aren't you?
(ana)
Lending one another the loyalty and respect which we all deserve.
The theurge steps forward asserting her claim, and it seems not a stir ripples amongst the gathered. As if it were expected, as if she had right to it: the kins merely watching on and none of the garou uttering their challenge. Dark, storm-fielded eyes watch impassive, until that silence draws out – and before Taiven can make that claim truly fact, the philodox breaks the silence, again, with the rusty strains of her Serbian-tainted voice. It scratches more than it has, the timbre grating like the blade on a whetstone, and sharper for that sound.
”You forget who you are, Sister-of-Shiva-yuf. We do not deserve respect or loyalty unless we take it. Unless we assert it.” There is not contempt in those tones, slashing like a whip to bring (judged) unworthy opinion to heel. It is statement of fact, wrapped around steel. “If you should be Elder then prove it to us.” Pause.
“Prove it to me.”
Pause.
"Or I will take it from you."
(thunder's mirror)
His reply is announced by the sound of the door swinging open. He enters the room a jumbled mess of dirt, and grime collected over the last few days. No doubt the smell if mildew clings to his heavy, and damp coat, and his hair hangs loosly over his face obscuring him from the vision of others.
He does not waste time with niceties instead tosses his coat up on the closest available rack, and heads immediately for the meeting.
He stands only slightly over six feet in height. He is an impressive sight to behold. The strength in his breeding only serves to draw more attention to the rather unclean sight before them.
He smells of the forest, the trees, and mud, and damp hair. The dull scents reach others nostrils long before he meets their eyes.
His attire is simple, a pair of blue Jeans, rugged, and worn, soaked through with the dirt of several days. Wet no doubt from rolling in the mud like a common animal. His shirt is a dark brown, which serves to hide whatever mess might be clinging to it.
His build is powerful, lithe, and sleek, with no lack of strength whatsoever. He bears the marks of a warrior up and down his arms scarred by battles long since past, and ready constantly for battles yet to come.
And as he slips the locks from his eyes, and looks over each, and every person present. Those eyes tell a tale of maddness, anger, and a cold hearted desire for blood. He is neither man, nor is he beast, trapped somewhere in between he is both what all garou desire to be, and yet fear they will one day become.
Passing from face to face, that empty look falls upon Katya who is the only one he has met before. He nods to her, a somewhat respectful nod. However in no way showing anything akin to Submission to the woman. Merely admiting that at this point he is the stranger in her world, and without her support. The others in this room could just as quickly tear him to shreds as lok to him.
He holds out his wrist, and points to where a watch would sit were he wearing one. Speaking in that lightly accented voice she has heared before."My alarm didn't go off..."He says, excusing himself with a confident grin. Only then does he enter the room, look about at everyone once more. Then Calmly lean back against a wall, watching the others, and allowing them to continue.
(sliver)
the metis is quiet.
his golden eyes sheen and glint.
his fur black like night.
(ana)
Squirming beneath that anticipated mantle of leadership seems not such an option now, as the half moon stands resolute in the centre of the meeting room. Fluorescent lights layered across the ceiling dispel every shadow through its blanket of manufactured and pure white glow, and not an etching in that face is hidden from their sight, nor is the faintest ripple of that scar. To Taiven her eyes first descend - never left - a nod given in acceptance, in respect, to what has transpired between them, before that gaze flows brief over the kin. From them cool orbs pause on each of the assembled garou, meeting their eyes with the chipped flint of hers.
On Thunder's Mirror [prospective pack mate] the faintest flick of the outward edge of her brow in acknowledgment of his poor excuse for late entry - the only comment she will make on the fact. It should be enough.
"Are there any other who would test my worthiness to lead our tribe?"
Should none reply, she is Elder.
(thunder's mirror)
He hears mention of Elder of the tribe, and his brow quirks. He shakes his head, and frees his face from all obstructions. He looks around the room as he draws off his jacket.
Each face, one at a time, before looking back to Katya. He will not oppose her, he has already said nearly enough to reveal that to her. However he does watch suspiciously. Sizing her up, that look seems to be asking her a question all its own. "There should be no question, there should be no challenge... You wish it, it will be so, and if we decide otherwise it will be changed. Do not call us together to ask if we will follow you... Demand it."
"Only the strong, only those fit to rule will lead, and let all others who would cross them be crushed like insects under their boot."
"Let others whisper, and complain all they wish after this meeting has passed, let them watch you from the shadows, searching for your every weak spot, judging your every move, your every action. If you are to lead, you will lead, and you will take with it all the burdons that such leadership carries."His voice is almost a growl as he speaks, facing the woman directly, his eyes staring into hers, Directly into hers. A staredown, a challenge of its own. A test, as none see fit to test their prospective leader he will take this upon himself.
He walks towards her, staring, unblinking, unflinching, she can feel his beast testing her, tempting her, calling upon the animal that scratches just underneath flesh. Wild, and hungry is longs to be set free. His rage bubbles up, his anger, his passion all of it burning directly into her, burrowing into her eyes to seek out whatever lay within the depths of the abyss."You stand here ready to claim the reigns of leadership, and yet you do not even take them? You ask, as if pleading for your tribe to give you permission... Are you frightened of the ramifications of what would happen were you to take it? Do you fear you might be stabbed in the back? Thrown out, cast aside? What do you fear so much that you would ask such a thing? Do you lack the strength to take it by force? Do you lack the conviction to face us and force our submission? If I drew my blade here, and now... What would you do? Would you fight? Would you ask me to put it down? Or would you leap from your chair and run out the door like a coward?"
Oh how powerful it is, his words degrading, aggressive, as he lures the beast, begging ti to join him, begging it to come out, to dance, to play. He godes the woman with all the fury he can bring to bear down upon her. His voice rumbles through the dark halls like thunder, shattering the apparent silence. Filling the shadows with the echoes of rage, of battles fought, and lost. Of the pain, the scream of a lonely woman, a mother, trapped in her bedroom. The young boy listens, he hears her screams, he hears her pleading for mercy, he can hear the slaps, he can hear his mothers clothing rent from her body, he can hear the laughter, and the cries of his mother as she is savagemy beaten, degraded, and used by her attackers. Treated as no better than a peice of garbage. THis beautiful woman, this woman who nurtered, and protected him, this woman who gave him life. And he pounds at the door, yelling, trying to get in, ready to give his life to defend his mother. He can hear the men inside laughing, taunting the boy locked out, left in the darkness helpless to do anything but listen as his own mother is defiled just out of reach of him. That bitter anger fuewls him, drives him, he scratches, he claws at the door, desperate, frustrated, putting everything he has into breaking through that door. But alas there is no hope, only bitterness, only pure, primal rage as he beats himself helplessly against the door. A sad tale? Perhaps... But now you have the slightest clue of what rage is, because that is what is happening to the garou, as they speak in this hall, their own mother screams for them to save her, she cries, she weeps, as she is savagely beaten, and raped. Ever out of reach of her children, who weep, and scream, and beat with every inch of their lives, in complete desperation trying to break through that door.
It is that, taken, harnessed amplified a thousand times, it is that thought, that single moment, and memory reflected back on her in his eyes as he approaches Anastasija. That glimpse of pure hatred taunts her, tempts her, and tests her. Is she worthy to lead? Perhaps they will see, in how she handles this test.
((~Smiles~Not trying to make anything too hard on ya Ana, but you are Shadow Lord. You should thank me, I am only trying to make her the best Elder she can be~Winks~))
(Danya)
Danger lays in the eyes of the beholder.
There is a tic aware of itself near Eva's temple. It draws repercussion's smile slowly ebbing from the shadows of his features, nothing more than faint impression hidden from the predators which surround them.
Are you so eager to give me that power....
The door swings open allowing thunder's roll into their midst. It is enough to draw his attention from the other kinfolk in recognition of another Garou's presence. Superficial glance. Objective cursory analysis. Amused expression at such excuses blamed on the faults of non-existant Weavertools. Just as easily his own attention returns to the discussion at hand.
Until thunder rolls again. Challenging. Testing. Pushing to see what will bow - break - before storm-driven clamor.
They are, after all, his Grandchildren.
Green eyes sway towards the eye of the storm. Watching the two Garou caught in silence's suspended duel. So safely removed from potential destruction brought by tempest's swath by the highly stategic position of side-bar seat.
Approval's smirk sheilded by casual draw from near-empty cup.
Lumbar quiver sheilded by casual drape of black fabric.
Sloga a Jačati za Nadmoćnost.
Strenth and Unity for Supremacy.
Only the strongest shall survive.
(ana)
Thunder’s Mirror’s gaze bores into her and they could be diamond-tipped for the piercing it does, for the glutinous bulge that it drills into and the flesh in those sockets that it wrenches and scrapes: tears. His stare buries itself in her skull, and she matches it with the beginning of calm and the promise of rage swelling like a maelstrom in the depths of her flint-locked gaze, and in the aura which seethes against his own. Spark those words, that goading, that challenge, and she cannot help but react to it – rise to it. Nothing changes in her stance, nothing shifts in that plane of face – cast of iron and stone. Nothing seems to visually change, but he can feel it surely do so. Staggering, pulsing, dredging blows, buffering against garou-fed emotion; pressing against the weight he attempts to bear down. Intimidation, it sluices like a water around her form, her rage the glass that will not shatter.
Her core.
Has burned through greater than this.
His mother dies, and he screams through the walls. His mother is raped and his claws furrow through, ripping and shredding and blooded by splinters. [You are not so different, you and I… except -- ] Except she has lived through more, survived through more – tempered like steel before the hungry and relentless flame of that forge. And where scars gouge her flesh, cleave through her mind and she would have hate and bitterness worn like a cloak against her naked and ruined skin, there is symphony there.
Symphony, and weave in a life captured death on the destroyed streets of Sarajevo, in a life harvested for the purpose of a Serbian nation, in a life fed by the words of a war criminal father – and here she is only a child. Here she is only human. Speak to her of rage? Compress it into an abhorrent bundle, spiked and stabbing the inside of her gut, carving the ribbons from her heart and replacing it with ice. Child. Human. Violence in change, when violence is natural.
Can you imagine the trigger of Luna’s rage?
When this is all she has known?
Before glabro.
Before lupus.
Before hispo.
Before crinos.
Control as a measure learned a lifetime ago.
Standing before her and towering over, her gaze in a bound and silent feud with his. Confidence asserts itself with forceful grip even as those turbulent pools continues to flare and spark, like a feeding vortex. Flesh of Fire’s voice, when it comes, is menacing quiet: a low ebbing growl on Serbian tongue.
“You question my worth, zet, and prove your own in this tribe. But never question my courage lest you wish that tongue to be ripped from your throat.”
The stare does not break, her stance does not shift, but the aggression and the threat in that body, in that voice, is palpable. Zet she calls him. Brother, and by that name respect, even as the energy crackles around her form, lashing at him like a fury-drawn whip. Within it comes a concession and an estimation of value - but never ever mistake her words for anything... but a vow.
Nothing in her yields.
[in progress]