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Wynston Watson

"Submit for the better of your fate"

0 · 561 views · located in The Isle

a character in “Bloodlines”, originally authored by Wunderland, as played by throne

Description

Wynston Jones Watson
The Balaren (Lycanthropes)


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At A Glance
Full Name: Wynston Jones Watson
Age: 18
Birthdate: May 7th
Gender: Male
Sexual Orientation: Gay
Bloodline: Balaren

Personality
Likes: Control | Respect | Combat | Spring Water | The Way It Smells After A Thunderstorm | Stars | Meat, Preferably Seared | Learning About His Heritage
Dislikes: Cowardice | Smog/Smoke | Cities | Guns | Frozen Food | People Who Don't "Get With The Program" | Whispering | Glamour
Fears: Wynston's greatest fear is that he'll be forced to submit to someone unworthy. He has no problem with Matthew calling shots, since he respects him and recognizes his strength, but the idea of taking orders from anyone else on The Isle turns his stomach. He's also very afraid of succumbing to his own wrath and hurting someone who doesn't truly deserve it.
Goals: He hopes to have a pack of his own one day, not necessarily of Balaren. He hopes to then use it to improve the conditions in Detroit.

Wynston is an alpha. He seeks to lead the pack, both by word and by example, and considers the people he interacts with in almost any social situation to be a "pack" for that purpose. He is very careful about choosing his words; it can be confused with stoicism, but it actually stems more from not wanting to ever look foolish. People tend to assume that the quiet ones have some sort of wisdom to provide, and in Wynston's case, he considers it true. As a Balaren, he's much more fond of communicating with body language than words. Let the Omarain have their florid verbal threats any day. He'd much sooner stare them down and watch their words become silence.

He is very slow to form attachments, if only because he knows how deep his attachments run. He is unfailingly loyal to such individuals, more than willing to risk his own life or reputation for the sake of their safety. The sort of people he tends to enjoy being around are usually malleable and supportive, though not completely lacking in spine. He detests weakness, and will often "test" others in subtle ways in order to ascertain that they don't harbor such infirmities of the soul. It might be a stare-down, it might be suggesting a terrible idea to see if someone just goes along with it. Whatever the case, those tests can be defining moments in a relationship, whatever the capacity, with Wynston.

He hates entitlement (which can be fairly ironic, given how entitled he acts sometimes). He grew up poor and hungry, and the ideas of wastefulness, sloth, and gluttony disgust him. Other charges might notice him watching them eat, checking to see how often they leave their plates with food on them. He's extremely judgmental, and seldom unleashes those judgments on people just for the sake of hurting them. He reserves them as social coin, spending them publicly to lower the position of someone opposed to him while making his own ideas seem more valid.

The final, most important thing to note about Wynston is the rage that exists just beneath his cool facade. It's barely hidden at all, and its something he struggles with. It's a very primal anger, one that Matthew tells him isn't uncommon among the Balaren, who have ancestral memories of what the world was like when it was a pure place, unsullied by human cities and industrialization. His temper is dangerous and he knows it, but he considers it the greatest weakness of all to submit to that kind of urge when it isn't necessary. He has no qualms about unleashing his ferocity in the appropriate setting, but would never forgive himself if a chance remark ended up causing him to hurt someone.

Appearance Notes: This is his Wolf form:
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Capabilities
Bloodline Gift: Shapeshifting. Like all Balaren, Wynston is capable of assuming two non-human forms; his wolf form, and the hybrid war-form. In combat, he's much more comfortable with the hybrid form; it allows him to utilize his dirty-fighting prowess with considerably more strength and the addition of dangerous claws. He's practiced extensively with speech in that form so that he can articulate orders and directions if need be (though communication is still very guttural and limited).
Bloodline Weakness: Silver; he's also prone to a primal rage that can be easy to take advantage of.
Other Skills: Wynston may lack the charisma of the Omarain, but he has quite a few leadership qualities. He has a mind for strategy, and for psychological warfare. He knows when to give praise and when to give insults. People may not want to follow him, but his suggestions are usually cogent and effective- sometimes brutally so. He's also very good at street fighting. Savage punches and kicks to vulnerable spots, throws, that sort of thing. He isn't bad with a small knife either, but prefers hand-to-hand, especially now.

Biography

Wynston was a family name. Several generations back, his great grandfather of the same name had been involved in the industrialization that turned Detroit into the brutal place that it is regarded as today. He invested poorly, though, and Wynstonā€™s grandfather led a life beset by tragedy; his wife died young, along with Wynstonā€™s aunt, his fatherā€™s older sister. Listless, he managed to drink and gamble away what remained of the Watsonsā€™ claim to the factory-castles of Detroit.

Wynstonā€™s father married young, forced to by the conventions of the time when he sired Wynstonā€™s older brother on a pretty enough young woman who was a waitress at the restaurant where he served as a meat cutter. They had four more children over the course of the next seven years, the last of which was Wynston. They existed in a state of abject poverty, the sort of household that neighbors call Social Services about. The Watson children were no strangers to what needed to happen when well-dressed young do-gooders turned up asking for their parents. Regardless of whether they were home or not, they werenā€™t, and they should never ever open the door more than enough to poke their head out, lest the social worker see the squalid conditions inside.

He spent his entire life dressed in hand-me-downs. Most of his siblings dropped out of high school to start work early, or just started working early as a matter of course. Some did it to help support the family, but others did it to have some disposable income of their own. Wynston himself had a paper route as soon as he could ride a bike.

He was always an angry child. Always getting into fights. In a better city, a suburb perhaps, public servants might have been able to help him, but his school was too large. Instead of help, he got detentions and suspensions until by the time he entered high school, he was missing so much school that it wasnā€™t even worth going.

His father was a nasty drunk by then, and beat Wynston badly when he heard from one of his siblings that heā€™d just stopped going to school. Wynston grabbed a kitchen knife, holding it between himself and his father, then backed out the door, never to return.

He stayed with friends for a few days at a time, other children of broken homes, but it wasnā€™t a permanent solution. He fell in with a gang of mixed Hispanic and Caucasian descent and earned a reputation as a mean little bastard. He was small, but he was ferocious, and more than a few had underestimated him only to wind up shamed and embarrassed when he prevailed using teeth, dirty shots, and assorted other nasty tricks to get the best of them.

There is an urban legend in Detroit about a big throw-down between two gangs in one of the roughest neighborhoods. People swear that, in the midst of a rumble, something monstrous had torn into the mass of young men with tooth and claw, leaving rivers of red on the dirty, cracked pavement. Wynston is the source of this urban legend.

The fight was going badly. Two of his best friends lay bleeding, and he snapped in the midst of it all. Heā€™d been cowering when the guns started going off, and had an excellent vantage point to watch his comrades fall. Heā€™d started screaming because of the pain, his cries so blood-curdling that the fighting stopped for a span. It began anew when he emerged from the shadows, equal parts man and wolf, and tore into anything that moved.

He awakened in the hospital. When it was all over, heā€™d reverted to his normal form, soaked in blood, bleeding from bullet and knife wounds. He saw policemen standing guard at the door, but then a man dressed as a detective started talking to them, and they let him through.

That man was an Omarain ā€œgraduateā€ of the Isle. Arietta had sent word to him about Wynstonā€™s Awakening, and heā€™d used his gifts to get the boy out of the hospital and deliver him to Matthew. Recognizing the boyā€™s rage and anger immediately, he decided to hold off on bringing him to the Isle until he was sure he wouldnā€™t be a liability.

He brought Wynston to a massive state park with camping grounds, and spent the better part of two weeks telling him what had happened, what he was. Things made sense, suddenly. More than a few times, Matthew had to assert his dominance, and Wynston lost every challenge he issued. To Matthewā€™s great surprise, rather than growing despondent, Wynston seemed to accept that Matthew was his superiorā€¦ but grudgingly. Matthew had been at it for longer than he had. Wynston said as much, and Matthew agreed.

He didnā€™t realize, when Matthew told him about the Isle, that ā€œpeople like himā€ meant the other Bloodlines as well. Heā€™d been expecting Balaren only, and was in for a rude awakening. Heā€™s only been at the Isle a little more than a month, most of which heā€™s spent in solitude, watching and getting his bearings, waiting to take up the position he feels he deserves. Matthew told him they were in a war, and none of the other charges seemed to know the first thing about warfare.

He did, and more than most, heā€™d suffered due to the depradations of humans, the rich hurting the poor, the force of Progress turning nature into something disgusting and crude.

So begins...

Wynston Watson's Story

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Erin Silver Alier Character Portrait: Soren Corosa Character Portrait: Darcy Lilith Ratri Character Portrait: Elvis Johnson Character Portrait: Milo Reed Corner Character Portrait: Seph Winterfoot
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Chapter 1 - Convocation


When the call went out , the sun had just begun its final descent for the evening, dipping partway under the horizon and splashing bands of red, orange and then finally violet across the sky. It had been a warm day, though not uncomfortably so, the first untouched by a series of careless thunderstorms that had darkened The Isle for days. To their chagrin, the charges who had largely been trapped indoors for days had been instructed that morning to remain close to The Compound that had become their home. There had been no lessons today, nothing formal, at least.

Arietta had secluded herself away in the library, taking over an entire table with a score of books. Anyone passing through wouldnā€™t even draw her attention as she flipped through pages, referencing and cross-referencing several tomes at once. She was making notes in a mixture of Greek and Hebrew, the characters so small that they were barely legible, and still sheā€™d managed to fill three pages by midafternoon.

Simon was not his eminently approachable self. Heā€™d apparently traded out his usual easy jocularity for surliness to rival Matthewā€™s, and spent most of the day hiding out in the small office where he held his confidential sessions. The Balaren Guardian was as solemn as ever, and shortly after dinner (which none of the Guardians had been present for), he enlisted Fleet and any charges willing to assist him in transporting quite a bit of firewood from the stores to the center of the courtyard, where he proceeded to build what looked to be the beginnings of a massive bonfire, neatly stacking the wood like Lincoln Logs until the resulting cube-like structure was nearly as tall as he was. He was characteristically laconic, only speaking to explain the need for proper draft if the fire was to burn all night, and other such survivalist tidbits.

Only Michaela was unaccounted for. Normally, she popped up periodically throughout the day, but sheā€™d presumably consigned herself to the former officerā€™s quarters that the Guardians used for their more-and-more frequent, at least of late, meetings.

It had been a strange year by The Isleā€™s standards, though precious few of the current charges would understand that completely. In the past month alone, more than a half-dozen young men and women who had Awakened to their Bloodline had appeared. Most of them would have at least an idea of the fact that a half-dozen was a large number of charges for The Compound. All told, they numbered more than a score now, a fact which the Evincal would likely feel resonant with portent.

The instant that work on the tower of wood was complete, Fleet whipped his head about to regard Matthew with wide eyes. ā€Is it time?!ā€ he asked, his excitement even more vibrant than his usual insane baseline. Matthew merely nodded, and anyone in the immediate vicinity would be buffeted by a blast of breeze as the Wind-Born Navarene seemingly vanished. Most would be by now aware of his ability to become wind, rather than merely affect or create it, and in the form of a zephyr, Fleet raced throughout the grounds to give the call.

ā€Meeting in the courtyard!ā€ He manifested physically for only just long enough to deliver his message before zipping off to find another young man or woman to inform. He scoured The Compound and the area surrounding it, stirring up leaves and dust in his wake as he flitted about, appearing before groups who had come together to talk, in dorm rooms, in the common area, even in the library and everywhere in between. ā€Meeting in the courtyard! Meeting in the courtyard! Meeting in the courtyard!ā€ He didnā€™t stop until every last soul on the island was aware of the convocation that would soon take place.

By the time the charges had begun filtering into the courtyard, the Guardians had all assembled save for Michaela. Arietta, looking as weary as ever, was seated in the lotus position with her eyes closed, not far from the pyre that Matthew had constructed. Fleet reappeared, frowning when he realized that heā€™d somehow lost his favored white fedora in his rapid fit of transformation and exclamation. Matthew was leaning to the left of The Compoundā€™s main entrance, his arms crossed over his chest and his features blank. Simon had emerged from his office, and was currently pacing back and forth in front of the officerā€™s quarters, his agitation more than evident in the form of some low-toned self-muttering.

It was only after each and every one of the young men and women had gathered about the courtyard that Michaela emerged from the officersā€™ quarters. A simple white cotton dress draped her form, and her bright smile was a beacon of reassurance. She maintained it even when Simon bee-lined for her, and stopped to engage in a terse conversation with him. Their words would go unheard, but there was no mistaking that the exchange was anything but pleasant, if only for the fact that the air around them began to show ripples, reflecting the Omarain Guardianā€™s agitation in visual form. It was concluded quickly enough. Simonā€™s expression was even bleaker as he stalked off to lean beside Matthew, who was carefully avoiding making eye contact with the Mori.

Michaela drew a single breath, and in that span regained her composure utterly. The distortions surrounding her ironed themselves out, replaced by a warm aura of soft white light. As she walked directly toward the pyre, illusory flowers, poppies in white and crĆØme and egg-shell sprung up in her wake, creating a path behind her. The trail of flowers followed her, then pooled out around her when she came to a stop, as if she had simply come to stand in the center of a thick patch of them.

ā€Everyone, gather ā€˜round please.ā€ She was too dignified to shout, but her voice carried remarkably, reaching every ear and tugging at every mind. It was little more than a simple request, but it was difficult to deny. Arietta tried to catch her eye, and when she did, Michaela shook her head succinctly. The Evincal Guardian just nodded a tired nod and closed her eyes, remaining completely still upon the ground.

ā€This wonā€™t take very long at all,ā€ she explained, panning her gaze to draw in each of them, address each of them. ā€I know youā€™re all probably wondering why youā€™re here, in this courtyard, but more than that, why youā€™re here. On The Isle. With everyone finally settled in, itā€™s high time that you learn the purpose of this place, one of the worldā€™s last bastions of magic, and your purpose in this place.ā€ She was a perfect admixture of solemnity and wisdom as she began her speech, but she dazzled them with a vibrant grin. ā€I also have a surprise for all of you, but that will have to wait till after the end of the story.ā€



* * *


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The faerie prince was uncharacteristically alone when the messenger arrived.

Aaron did not normally seek out solitude. Generally, he fled it. He was seldom in his room, save to sleep, change his clothes, and shower, but when he was simply there, he tended to leave his door open, a standing invitation to all the courtiers who had reason to petition him (there had never been an actual petition, of course, but he eagerly awaited the day that the first of many came). Tonight, though, the door stood closed and even locked. His endeavor was a private one, and distractions were the mortal foes of such work- foes that the faerie prince had no defense against save for seclusion.

Heā€™d been at it since just after dinner, though not to great success. The idea, like most of his, had sprung fully formed but elusive from his mind, and he was having difficulty getting his mental hands upon it now that it was free. He already had pen and paper, used for sending missives to his family, which was all he truly needed for the task at hand: to begin to commit to ink on paper the story of the faerie prince. His story.

It was proving a challenge that might ironically be termed princely. Words came easily to him, when speaking, but catching them with the nib of a pen and then sticking them fast to paper was proving an entirely different matter. Thus far, heā€™d managed after three attempts to arrive at a working title (the appropriate but not particularly inspired Tales of The Faerie Prince), and nothing else worth keeping. Heā€™d tried speaking aloud, saying words and then writing them down afterwards in effort hopes of fooling the fickle Muses into helping him. They were apparently cannier than heā€™d suspected. Heā€™d tried making lists with bullet points to organize his thoughts, but his thoughts were not made for such a static, rigid template. From the small graveyard of balled up sheets that were now scattered about the floor around and beneath his desk, an observer might have thought him in the midst of penning a novel full, but fortunately, there were no observers to bear witness to the fitful process.

At least, there werenā€™t until Fleet arrived. His gusty entrance sent the crumpled pages skittering, and Aaron had to lunge, using his forearm to trap the almost-empty expanse of white paper that heā€™d been staring at intently for the past ten minutes while thinking instead of what Graham might be up to, or if Renn was busy with Erin, or if Milo would like the title heā€™d come up with, orā€¦ well, of anything but the task at hand, really, in order to keep it from flying away from him. Startled and embarrassed (though heā€™d never admit the latter), he wheeled around in his seat (literally, it had wheels) to face the intruder.

ā€Meeting in the courtyard!ā€ He heard the call before he saw the speaker.

His wroth fled when he noted it was Fleet. The Navarene Guardian never failed to bring a bright grin to Aaronā€™s full lips. Lifting a hand to brush down a bit of fitfulness that his spun-gold hair seemed to have engaged in thanks to the miniature localized windstorm that was Fleet, he relaxed in his seat and regarded the man. ā€How now, spirit? Whither wander you?ā€ His voice rang out like music, the first part of an exchange that he never failed to encourage. The words had come to mind immediately when heā€™d first met Fleet, and like most of the words that came into his mind, they had exited soon thereafter through his mouth. Fleet had been confused, but after a few encounters, had begun to respond, creating something of an inside joke between the two that the elemental didnā€™t quite comprehend but enjoyed nevertheless.

ā€Sorry Aaron, very busy. Something about a girdle! Gotta go!ā€ With that he was gone, and this time, a somewhat dejected Aaron was unable to stop the first page of his great work from sailing from his desk to under his bed. A meeting, in the courtyard? Only in the messengerā€™s absence did he process the message. Such an event wasnā€™t unprecedented, but neither then was it ordinary. Aaronā€™s affinity for all things out of ordinary abolished his frustrations with the Muses from his mind. He hopped to his feet, arching his back in feline fashion to stretch. He glimpsed himself in the glass (heā€™d read a story that had referred to mirrors as glasses, which had initially confused him, but now heā€™d adopted the terminology into his increasingly archaic vocabulary) to ascertain that he was ready for a public appearance.

He was already wearing his favorite shirt, one that heā€™d found in the cache of spare clothing (a simple white linen peasantā€™s shirt with billowing sleeves and a plunging neckline that showed off a great deal of his pale chest), along with a pair of breeches (really, they were simple dark khakis, but he rolled the legs up to his mid-calves and insisted they were breeches). He waxed and waned on wearing shoes and decided that heā€™d prefer his feet bare. The sound of them slapping the concrete floor of the hallway that led out of the dorm area in a rapid rhythm would announce the faerie princeā€™s timely departure. It wasnā€™t quite a run, or a skip, or a dance, but something that sat fixed squarely between the three, as playful, impatient, and amusing to watch as Aaron himself.

He was among the last to arrive, which only meant that he didnā€™t have time to sort out who he meant to stand with around the bonfire. His violet eyes flitted about, evaluating the prospects, and he started towards Renn, eager to see if the Earth-Born might know what was going on.

ā€Everyone, gather ā€˜round, please.ā€

Michaelaā€™s voice drew his attention to her immediately, in a way that her mastery of illusion never could. The boy was as susceptible to Glamour as anyone, maybe even moreso, and a smile scrawled itself across his features as he simply stopped moving, standing in place to listen. His eyes lit up and did a rather remarkable saucer impression at the revelation that followed her introduction: a story AND a surprise. There were few things that Aaron enjoyed more than either, and he was hard-pressed to decide which he preferred (never mind that he had no idea what the surprise was). Fortunately, he neednā€™t decide at all; he was getting both!

With story-time looming, he assumed his favorite position for tale-telling; he lowered himself with aplomb into an ā€œIndianā€ style of sitting, his legs folded up above and beneath one another, and then balanced his elbows on his knees and his chin in his palms, leaning forward in a show of eagerness for what was to come.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Erin Silver Alier Character Portrait: Soren Corosa Character Portrait: Darcy Lilith Ratri Character Portrait: Elvis Johnson Character Portrait: Milo Reed Corner Character Portrait: Seph Winterfoot
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Michaelaā€™s grin abated, and she let her eyes slipped closed. As serenity settled into place on her features, dusk truly descended. It was no illusion, no trick of glamour, but it hardly seemed a coincidence that the shadowy terminator was just now creeping over the westernmost of the tumbled-down fortā€™s walls. Twilight was upon them, and gravely, as the Omarain prepared herself, Matthew pushed himself away from his perch and stalked toward the wood heā€™d earlier stacked, choosing a path that steered him clear of clumped charges. He used a plain Zippo lighter to ignite a torch, and then thrust it into the tinder and kindling that had been arranged at the base of the soon-to-be-bonfire. Flames caught quickly, streaming smoke into the sky, and hungry fire began to taste the sturdier plinths of wood with flickering tongues. Matthew retreated, his duty discharged, but continued along in a circular path around the courtyard, using his captive flame to light braziers and standing torches that were used to light the fort by night.

As the last of daylight died, Michaela, eyes hidden away as if in repose, began to breathe deeply, rhythmically. Her chest swelled, making her breasts all the more obvious beneath the thin white cotton that veiled them. The fire crackled as it climbed the scaffold made for just that purpose, and then the luminous corona of white light that ensconced her began to spread out in every direction. At first it crept inches, and then feet, until every soul attendant was seemingly bathed in that light as well. Before their eyes, the light would seem to congeal, separating into motes that left impenetrable blackness between them, so dark all that would be visible aside from the pricks of white were their fellow charges and Guardians- each other, and the fire, which continued to burn. So potent was her gift that it might be a moment before some realized they were under the sway of an Omarain illusion, each and every one.

The walls of the erstwhile fortress were drowned in black. The library faded away as well, then the officerā€™s quarters, then The Compound itself, leaving nothing but endless darkness punctuated with little bits of light. It might be dizzying, or even frightful, to have the entire world as they knew it slip away from them, replaced with what might be the night sky, or the endless depths of space, or something else. Whatever it was or soon would be, the Omarain among them would know better than most how exacting the illusion must have been on Michaela. The other charges too; none of them, not even Renn, would ever have seen her display her power on such a scale before. Even the other Guardians seemed awed to behold it, all save for Simon, who simply folded his arms across his chest and made his face a still mask.

Adrift in blackness, they would hear her voice, but not from her lips. It seemed to come from all around them like the music of the stars that her motes of light were no doubt meant to represent.

ā€You have learned of your bloodlines, sweet ones, but most of you have been taught little of the ancestors from whom that blood flows. Most of what you have heard you learned away from this sacred place; lies, perversions, bastardizations meant to pollute what was once real magic, to reduce it to simple, commercial entertainment, to sanitize and slay it. Tonight you will learn more.ā€

The ā€œstarsā€ began to re-order themselves once more. They were legion now, great swarms of light particles in a silent dance with one another. They separated into five distinct-yet-shapeless clouds, leaving vast tracks of void beneath them, and then took their places behind the rough circles that the charges and Guardians described around the growing bonfire.

The largest free-wheeling constellation came to a stop between Michaela and Arietta, nearly between them but set lightyears back. Another settled into place 72 degrees to the firstā€™s left, and another 72 degrees to the left of that, and so on until the five points of a star, or perhaps a pentagram, had been defined in the space around them. Some might have to crane their necks or turn about to see them all, and if they did, theyā€™d note that the specks of light had begun a new dance, one that only lasted until they had taken on a new shape. The largest spread out, thrice as tall as Michaela (for in the illusion, sizes could really only be compared in a relative sense), and then grew even more massive as it unfurled its starry wings. The next separated into the three distinct forms, tall and slender. The next dance around the pentagram yielded two large shapes, one that seemed to walk on four legs and one that walked on two. After that, another large shape, but it was escorted by many smaller ones, and finally, to the right of the first, four distinct shapes of vaguely human size.

Michaelaā€™s voice hummed like a leyline again, and as it did, the masses of stars, the tiny galaxies, would continue their dances, taking more distinct and recognizable shapes.

ā€The mighty dragons were fire and magic made flesh. They were old when the world was young. Their claws dug rivers, their breath stirred storms, and their battles raised the mountains and scorched the land into deserts. Their ways are mostly lost to us, but we know that they began primordial and will not end until the last Evincal is ended. The last true dragon was named Snowscale; she fled to the deepest reaches of the icy parts of the Earth after men had slain her brothers and sons. When the envoys came she agreed that it was the only way and shed a single frozen tear, the only component needed for the ritual that would make the blood of one strong mortal line draconic evermore.ā€

The largest shape was fully formed by the time she took a pause. The star-dragon was not a static thing. Its tail stirred through the deep blackness, its wings buffeted cosmic currents, and its head lowered, as if in a courtly bow, toward the circle.

ā€The envoys were the true fae, creatures either born of dreams or responsible for them. The truth will never be known, for they are all gone now, all sealed away in their own kingdoms to save themselves from the iron and church bells and saucers of cream that men learned were their banes. They were the architects of the Bloodlines, and stole away young men and women from a noble family for the turn of a single moon. They returned with lighter step and faerie blood and Omarain children in their wombs. The fae did not return, though. They locked the gate and melted down the key, consigning themselves forever more to dreams, until men are gone and their dreams with them.ā€

The three slender shapes resolved themselves into three fae, tall and willowy, with features that resembled those of humans, but too perfect to be anything but alien. They wore swords and finery of stars, and they too bowed, deep and courtly, toward the charges.

ā€The children of the moon had lost more and most to humankind. Their domains were the wyld places, untouched until civilization began its inevitable spread. They fought back with tooth and claw, but the advantage of men has always been numbers. The war of attrition dwindled them to almost nothing, but it made them remember that they were half-man themselves. Repentant rather than wroth, they chose a dozen humans and a dozen wolves, calling them The First Pack, and thus the Balaren were born.ā€

One part of the next set of stars became a dire-wolf so large that a grown man standing would barely reach its shoulders while all four of its paws touched earth. The other became a thing of nightmare, muscle and fur and claws and teeth. Both of the stellar apparitions lifted their head in an eerie, silent howl. The one on two legs declined its head toward the charges, and the one on four bent the knees of its forelegs, a lupine bow. The tale continued.

ā€The lords of the pit regarded humanity as little more than sustenance, things to be played with. They were the terror born of the darkness, the evil things that stalked the night, but they too were offered the chance to bind their fate more meaningfully to the races of men. Most balked or laughed, but one wise pit-lord agreed, abandoning the council of his enemy-brethren and infusing the most cunning and dangerous mortals he could find with his hellfire blood. The Mori would need his strength and their own as the centuries stretched into millennia, for there are cracks in the prison that was forged for demonkind.ā€

The demon lord that resulted of the dancing stars was nearly as tall as the dragon, powerfully muscled, with cloven hooves and a supple tail. In one hand he held a whip, and in the other a sword that glowed with starfire. He did not bow, but instead regarded the charges coldly with eyes made black by lack of stars.

ā€The spirits of nature only revealed themselves truly for the first time in the course of a single evening. They had always been there, perhaps for even longer than dragonkind, though it is not for me to say which came first, fire or dragon. They had sought harmony with men and beast alike, but men were too clever by far. Rather than being content with the gifts of the elementals, they found ways to trap them and bend them to their will without ever knowing the pain they caused. Still the elemental ones sought harmony, and bonded with a people who had never once enslaved them willingly that the Navarene might one day bring about the balance that was lost.ā€

The final four became fire, water, wind, and earth. Their shapes were vaguely human at best. Fire was the brightest, a burning crucible of stars. Waterā€™s shape ebbed and flowed. The stars that formed Wind raced ā€˜round one another in vortices. Earth was more solid, compact and strong. As one, the joined what might pass for hands and bowed deeply.

In silence save for the crackling of the bonfire, the darkness receded, returning control of their senses to those assembled. The constellations remained, though, like an afterimage, and in the last light of dusk could be seen briefly in all their glory before they too faded. Snowscaleā€™s armoring was gleaming alabaster, her eyes brimming with sorrow and intellect. The finery of the fae stole every color of the rainbow, and their skin was pale and far too smooth. The standing wolf had fur that was black as coal and eyes like slivers of the moon; its companion on all fours had fur of mottled gray and brown, and it was laying with its belly against the grass. The demon stood tall still, its skin burnished and rough looking, its features sinister but proud, its whip and sword forged of hellfire. The nature spirits were all the colors that they should have been, flickering or flowing or blowing or standing stalwart.

And then, they were all simply gone. The courtyard was restored to reality, and anyone who chanced to look upon Michaela would see her looking very tired, and very, very old. She drew a single breath, and in that span was young and beautiful again. She managed a smile, the weariness of which would match Arietta on her worst day. The Omarain spoke again, only just audible above the feast of flames gnawing at the wood.

ā€Humans are forgetting their magic.ā€ She opened her vibrant eyes again, and let her gaze pan once more along the circle of charges and Guardians alike, Omarain and Evincal and Mori and Balaren and Navarene. ā€It is the natural state of all things, even men. Remember childhood, when all the world seemed new and bright and exciting? When imagination weaved spells all its own upon you? Man has been squandering his magic, though. It is not enough for him to lift a stick from the ground and make it, just by thought, into a cane, or shelter, or a pretend-sword. Now he must cut the tree open and count the rings, must abolish every secret of nature in the name of Progress.ā€

Her survey of them all was done. She brought her hands together, clasping them in front of her with a gentle clap. ā€There is hope for magic though. It is here, not around you, but in you. It is you. History cannot reveal a time when so many have Awakened to their blood at once, been found and brought together. Such things happened once; they were called Convocations, and the Bloodlines would meet and squabble and boast and the world continued to suffer for their arrogance. They had forgotten, but we must not forget.ā€

She spread her hands, as if to gather all of them in her arms. ā€We must come together, not ignoring each otherā€™s differences but embracing them. The days ahead will be different than the days behind. We have lapsed, in order to bring you all here safe and whole, but on the morrow, we begin in earnest to help you become what you must. I know to some of you, this sounds fanciful, but think of what you have learned to do already, what you have seen your fellows do. On the morrow, we begin in earnestā€¦ā€

With a flick of her wrist, she sent something that glittered as it flew through the air catching firelight toward Renn: a set of keys. Where sheā€™d hidden them on her pocketless person was anyoneā€™s guess, as was how sheā€™d managed to produce them, but they were there. ā€Tonight, though, we revel.ā€ Her warm smile became a grin. ā€Or, I should say, you revel. It would hardly be a party with a bunch of stodgy grown-ups about, would it? Enjoy yourselves. Learn of one another. Relax for one final evening and make merry togetherā€¦ā€ One of her eyebrows lifted to form a perfect arch, as she continued. ā€But try not to overdo it. I meant what I said about the morrow. You wonā€™t want to still be feeling tonight when you awaken.ā€

Her fellow Guardians were not unaffected by the display; like many charges, most of them were still recovering from both the power of the vision and the strangeness of being made to see what had been so long ago. Simon had already slipped off, possibly in the midst of the presentation. Arietta was smiling softly, her expression cast thoughtful, as she rose to her feet and dusted herself off, preparing to return to the library. Matthew was frowning, but shook his head and stretched out, nodding curtly to anyone who met his eye before he took his wolf shape without a single cry of pain and raced off beyond the walls.

Poor Fleet looked positively a mess, his lower lip jutting out as he directed his attention, eyes wide, toward Michaela. She laughed, and the sound was the tinkling of bells more than it was laughter. ā€Sweet Fleet, you are less a stodgy grown-up than many of our charges. Of course you may stay.ā€ The Navarene Guardian let loose a cheer, jumping several feet into the air and then floating back down, as if gravity showed him favor just as the Omarain had. ā€I need to find my hat!ā€ he exclaimed before taking off at a run and then dissipating into wind once more.

ā€Good night,ā€ Michaela called, her smile sweet as she turned to make her way back toward the officersā€™ quarters. No poppies followed her now; indeed, it seemed that she might have strained herself with the display. With her gone, none but the charges were left around the fire, which was now a roaring blaze.

The night was theirs.



* * *



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Faerie princes were used to being attended, and so it bothered Aaron not at all when so many valued friends joined him prior to the presentation. Seph was gifted with a warm smile, and absently, his hand. He reached out, taking hers in his in simple, friendly fashion. When Rennā€™s shadow fell over him, he craned his neck to look up at his most beloved advisor, craning his neck back so far that his smile for the Navarene would essentially be upside-down.

Daniel and Hazel came to sit beside them as well, and Aaron lifted his free hand in a wave to the two, slight and courtly. He said no words, for it seemed a time for silence, though delight danced on his features, almost moving him to an excited greeting when Milo came to crouch at his other side. He grinned at the boyā€™s bafflement, before his attention was again stolen, this time by the advent of the Western Wind, bringing spring with her as always.

He heard a question, and only then noted that Darcy was among them as well. His brow creased and his eyes hardened just a little when he gleaned distress from her demeanor, but there was no time to find the cause with Michaela drawing them all in. Then Graham was there, so close at hand, and the hand that wasnā€™t linked with the wolf-born maid came forward to comb fingers through the demon princeā€™s hair, affectionately and absently, as one might stroke a cat. The realization of who was near cast light on who was not, and he glanced about quickly, finding the others in their small clumps or solitude. He had no hands to wave with, so instead, he fought back the falling dusk with a dazzling grin.

When Michaela began in earnest, he was still and silent (save for his hand teasing through Grahamā€™s soft locks and the slight rise and fall of his chest), captivated. Snakes might be immune to their own venom, but the fae-blooded were far from immune to Glamour. Aaron in particular was more inclined to fall under its sway than most, his resistances stripped bare in the course of embracing what he could of the fae so eagerly. As her words and phantasms enfolded them, even his hand grew restive, to slowly slide from the Mori and into his lap; his hold on Seph remained, but slackened. It was eerie, that darkness. Unreal. Even though there was still earth as firm and sturdy as Renn beneath him, he could almost feel himself floating through it, the persistent whisper of vertigo in his ear.

The swarms of stars brought movement, his head whipping this way and that to mark them and track their progress while their leader described to them their forebears, codified the images that had been dancing through his head. The fae he knew of well, but he knew little of the dragons, the demons, the spirit-folk, the wolves. They all had their secrets, that was the way of it, but Michaela had elected to lay some of them bare in a fantastic showing.

He wanted to weep when it was done, when the shadows of the fae had faded, when stark reality reigned once more. Not so stark, though. Nothing seemed entirely real when limned only by firelight, and he drew comfort from that even as he struggled not to shed a tear. The impact of the presentation on Aaron was obvious; his despair might well have been written on his face in glowing ink. Theyā€™re all gone, but we remain, he told himself. A faerie prince must only cry for love.

Fortunately, there was more. In his consternation he had forgotten the surprise! His mind was practically tripping over Michaelaā€™s songbird words until it came at last: a revel. The eldest Omarain was retreating, leaving them to their own devices. He had known parties in his time, everything ranging from the boring but beautiful galas of his parentsā€™ world to the crowded teenage affairs that happened behind closed doors in boarding schools, but never had he enjoyed a party on The Isle, beforeā€¦

ā€¦ and the faerie prince hardly needed a pretext to dance. He already had Seph by the hand, and his grip strengthened even as he lashed out with his other for one of Miloā€™s. ā€Mā€™lord,ā€ he spoke, looking left, and then ā€Mā€™lady,ā€, looking right. It was courtesy, plain and simple, but in a show of absurd dexterity he untangled his legs and rose in one fluid bit of worship to the god of movement, drawing them up to stand with him. As he did, the music began. Organ music, oddly enough, to compete with the crackling flames and the murmurs that would no doubt follow Michaelaā€™s departure. It was the only remotely impressive trick of illusion that Aaron had mastered as of yet, to bring music with him wherever he went. Female voices in harmony broke in over the electronic organ, making known the unspoken command of the faerie prince: let the beat control you, let the beat control youā€¦

His Gift was only so strong, though. Artemis, alone across the courtyard after Simonā€™s departure, would be the only one outside the range of the song, but he might still know what the youth was up to (Aaron often provided soundtracks for their fencing practice to join the clash of foil on foil). Everyone else would hear the song, growing more and more cheerful, infectious as a pox one caught from overeating sweets.

Tethered to Seph and Milo, he kept things simple at the onset, shoulders swaying, head bobbing to the rhythm, arms swinging so that his friendsā€™ would swing as well. He was well aware that neither were dancers, not like him (but then, who was?), but he was content to simply drag them however clumsily they might along with him into the embrace of music and motion. He turned to glance at Graham, his eyebrows providing gesture that his busy hands could not. Up, up, slugabed! they exclaimed, bouncing up toward his hairline. Just you and me, letā€™s break it down!

Even as simple as he was keeping it for now, there was undeniable Glamour in the performance. His grin, broad and goofy, beckoned any who beheld it to give in to the joyous imperative that the song professed. He just looked to be having so much fun that only an enemy of fun wouldnā€™t wish to join in. He let loose delighted, musical laughter as he began to sing along, leaning in close to Milo, to Seph, to anyone who came near enough, as if his words were meant only to serenade them.

With song and dance, the revelry was begun. Leave it to a faerie prince to conjure a celebration from the very air.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Elvis Johnson Character Portrait: Seph Winterfoot Character Portrait: Aaron Highmore Character Portrait: Vendicare Character Portrait: Hazel Ebony Highlynn Character Portrait: Harvey Mak Chinnen
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ā€Thatā€™s great! That you donā€™t mind, I mean. And my power isnā€™t like an air thingy, it is an air thingy! He dropped himself down into a crouch beside her, not actually sitting. He didnā€™t like sitting, especially not against a wall. He liked to have open space all around him, so he was just to her side, maybe six inches from the wall, but angled to face her. He bounced a bit on his heels and rested his arms across his thighs. ā€I can do all kinds of stuff with air.ā€ Her question had utterly derailed the story heā€™d been about to tell about the last party on the Isle. His mind only had room for so many topics at once- well, one topic at once, really. He was smiling though, quite enthused. ā€Iā€™m not sure what would be like an air thingy. Maybe a water thingy? Thatā€™s kind of like an air thingy, because liquid is more like gas than solid. I guess fire is kind of like air too, except it EATS air, and I donā€™t like that.ā€ His eyes narrowed, and he gave the bonfire a dirty look, as if it might have offended him somehow. If any actual person had ever managed to offend Fleet, it had gone unmentioned and undocumented.

He saw her wave, and followed her eyes to Tally. He waved at her as well, lifting his right arm from his thigh and flapping it dramatically at the Evincal girl. Quite suddenly, his cheery grin wilted, turning into a heart-breaking frown. ā€The Navarene Guardian was a Water-Touched. Her ability was like an air thingy, because it was a water thingy. I miss her all the time, when I remember to.ā€ Despite it having been explained to him several dozen times that he was, in fact, the current Navarene Guardian, the Wind-Touched still didnā€™t quite seem to grasp it. His gaze dropped to the dirt in front of him, but then he lifted his head and tilted it, regarding Hazel. ā€Wasnā€™t it sad when all those things Michaela made went away? I donā€™t like being sad.ā€

Just like that, he wasnā€™t. As if someone had flicked a switch connected to his mouth, he was smiling again. ā€Iā€™m glad weā€™re having a party. We had a party here once before, you know. It was nothing like this though. It was when Matt and Arietta got engaged. There was a lot of yelling, I hope there isnā€™t a lot of yelling tonight.ā€ He shook his head. ā€Yelling is just being sad except louder, sā€™far as I can tell.ā€ He reached down with his left hand and extended his finger, drawing a frowny-face in the dirt.


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Heā€™d forgotten about the chocolate bar entirely while the Omarain Guardian made her presentation. By the time it was over, what remained of it was half-melted all over his hand, done in by his own body heat and that of the bonfire roaring nearby. A scowl had developed on his lips, washing away any traces of awe that would otherwise have been left over from the illusions sheā€™d conjured. Heā€™d become preoccupied with the standing wolf-creature, the one that towered over everything else but the sorrowful dragon. If he could become something like thatā€¦

But he couldnā€™t. His lycanthrope blood was thin. His war-shape was a paltry imitation of the monster that the faerie woman had showed them. That was the stuff of nightmares. No wonder humans were so afraid of werewolves, even after how ridiculously theyā€™d been portrayed for years in the media.


All of that, and then the announcement, like it was some kind of gift or something, that they were going to have a party. Can we just skip to the training? he wanted to ask. He was sick of laziness. Running around the forest was fun and all, but he wanted to see what he could really do with his gifts. Heā€™d sized up all of the other charges and found them wanting, save for very few.

He lifted his hand to his mouth and began to lap it clean of chocolate. An involuntary twinge went through him when Aaronā€™s music began. He quickly looked anywhere but at the Omarain. Heā€™d learned before that it was easier to not feel anything he didnā€™t want to if he wasnā€™t actually looking at him, especially when he was dancing. The catchy little tune cut right into his brain, and he nearly growled as he quickly chomped down the rest of his chocolate bar and shot to his feet. The movement of shadows and his peripheral vision told him that a group was forming up to dance, but apparently he wasnā€™t the only one who didnā€™t intend to get his groove on.

Where had Matthew gone? Heā€™d missed him taking off, whenever that had been. Matthew was about the only person around who he actually had any respect for. He looked around for his next favorites. Elvis was being taken by Renn somewhere, the only Balaren competition he had was going with themā€¦ His looking around meant glancing Aaronā€™s way, and for the brief instant that his eyes skimmed over that blond, dancing form, he felt his pulse trying to conform to the beat of the song, felt his fingers begin to tap away on his thigh to the rhythm. No, he told himself, his voice in his mind a guttural growl. His body and mind were his own. He wasnā€™t going to submit to the charms of Glamour unless he wanted to, and he decidedly did not want to.

By the time he was through wrestling for control and imagining Aaron with a pair of wolfish jaws clamped around his neck (not killing him or anything, just forcing him to be still and silent for once in his life), Elvis was back. Wynston turned and headed toward where they were setting up the alcohol. His features were practically blank as he approached in his dirt-and-grass stained clothing. He nodded to Elvis, and then nodded even more slightly to Renn, and then finally initiated a stare-down with Vendicare. He wasnā€™t going to break it, so it would be up to the Italian Balaren to do soā€¦ or to move the challenge up to the next level, the level where someone ended up on their back or their belly. Wynston was fine with either result.

Seph didn't even warrant a glance. She might as well not have been nearby, for all the attention he seemed to pay her. He was vaguely aware that she was talking, that she moved off to speak to the asshole Omarain, but he didn't need to acknowledge her existence to know that.

Setting

Characters Present

Character Portrait: Elvis Johnson Character Portrait: Seph Winterfoot Character Portrait: Vendicare Character Portrait: Graham Lennox Character Portrait: Harvey Mak Chinnen Character Portrait: Wynston Watson
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No sooner had Vendicare allowed his body to relax when he was hit with an onslaught of different occurances causing him to tense once again. Was this isle always going to be like this? Calm one minute, on edge the next? The last thing Vendi wanted was to deal with the back-and-forth pull of emotions that had been raging inside of him since day one here. He was already beginning to miss the days of his wolf-dom, running and barking and playing. His only cares then had been whether or not he'd catch the next meal or another entity in his pack was. It was as though he was a different person whenever he was in his lupine form and he craved it as much a flower craved the sunlight. Being stuck in his human form was bothersome and tiring, however natural it was meant to be. Perhaps it was because he let go and allowed himself to be true to his inner nature whenever he was prowling on all fours?

The first of the distractions came in the form of the wolf-born Balaren and an Omarain getting into a tiff. Some heated words reached their ways to Vendi's sensitive ears and caused him to clench his fists. Harvey had said things to the tiny woman that Vendi hadn't even heard men say to women they'd bought on the streets of Italy. Tense, he waited as the fight crescendoed. If he needed to, he'd step in, regardless of whether or not Seph liked him. He'd always been aware of what 'polite conversation' meant, and Harvey was crossing a line, speaking of things that were meant to be sacred, no matter the sex. It made Vendi's blood boil to hear the Fae belittle the tiny woman. No one, and he meant no one had the right to treat another person that way. His protective nature was bubbling up, and memories of Davide unexpectedly pierced through his heart. The added pain of his past intensified his anger over the situation but also reminded him that it wasn't his place to protect anyone anymore. In all reality, it never had been, obviously, seeing as he'd done such a horrid job of it. He unclenched his fists and watched apathetically now, having successfully pushed aside his need to intervene. As Seph wasted a perfectly full glass of beer on humiliating Harvey, Vendicare's right eyebrow twitched upward slightly. His thought's were confirmed: no need for him here. He took another swig of his Guinness, finishing it, as he watched Seph transform and charge towards the wood his bones ached once again to change and wander the isle. As it was he was held in place by a new attack of his senses: A smell

The scent of blood, hot and fresh, hit his nose, jarring him. His teeth clenched as he involuntarily took a step toward the scent. It was his natural reaction to the inevitable kill he'd grown accustomed to associating with the smell. Vendicare saw that his body's reaction was completely unwarranted, though, as the metallic taste was only triggered by a mere droplet of blood on the oh-so-narcisstic Graham's finger from an almost failed attempt to open a wine bottle. An ironic smirk hit Vendi's face with a swiftness that was only matched by it's retreat. Closing his eyes he breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth, then grabbed another beer and returned to Elvis. He desperately wanted to go inside and be away from all the noise and smells and what was most likely going to turn into drunken debauchery. Some part of him told him to stay, create bonds. He was aware that he had to be on the isle for quite some time, and these were the people he'd be living with, learning with. He'd have to get to know them eventually, right? It wasn't as though he wanted to be a loner, he just knew that life was easier when you weren't emotionally attached to anyone. Had he not thought of Davide as a younger brother it never would have debilitated him when Davide had been stolen from the streets. Feelings brought pain, plain and simple. As it was, this was where he needed to be, and these were the people he needed to learn to get along with, even trust. He'd make an effort.

Having made his decision, he was about make another attempt at the hard liquor Elvis was holding when the scent of chocolate hit him and made him bunch his nose up in disgust. The sugary scent reminded him of the first time he'd tried the dark hershey's bar and gagged. Looking to it's source, he noticed Wynston walking up. The hair on the back of Vendi's neck stood up and he scowled, unsure why his body was trying to warn him of something. He momentarily considered the weather, (perhaps a storm was coming?), but dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it had come. His body had known before he would what was coming: a different kind of storm. His fellow Balaren had nodded greetings to the men around him, but locked eyes with Vendi. To anyone else, it would have simply been eyes meeting, a polite way of saying hello possibly, but Vendi knew better. He matched the stare, letting his muscles bunch if the need for a fight arose. He'd been in his fair share of these alpha-battles, some he'd won, some he'd chose to step away from, some he'd lost. Mostly the one's he'd left as an 'alpha' of sorts had been as a human, when egos were involved instead of the pure survival of the fittest. Had he been in his wolf form, the question of whether or not to attack or be attacked wouldn't have been in existence. He would have simply bowed his head and stepped aside, fully aware that he wasn't meant to alpha a pack, he would never be able to further the pack's lineage, his attractions being what they were. Besides, who would want all the responsibility? He just wanted to have fun. He held the gaze, knowing better than to break it.

As a human... his thoughts seemed to process differently. He realized that, not only was this a show of strength but also an ego-game, a "my dick is bigger than yours" contest. It was not as though Vendi felt he was better than Wynston, but he was also not one to back down. And in the back of his mind he was aware of the people around, the people he needed to get to know. The last thing he wanted was to be considered weak in front of these people. It was better to be a formidable force than someone they bypassed in loyalties because of insecurities over that person's usefulness. His eye contact still maintained, he worked through his thoughts quickly. Tilting his head down slightly, he stared into Wynston's blue orbs from under his eyebrows, a scowl on his face. He'd let the smaller man decide: Would he attack or call a truce? The muscles in Vendicare's full lips tightened as they parted just enough for his long canines to show. "Pensa prima di agire, amico" The word's came out in a deep grumble that rattled in his chest. It was not menacing, but cautioning. Vendi wasn't one to make enemies, in fact he detested having people he had to worry about in a 'danger' way, and so would rather dispel things before they started. He wished he'd listened to his instincts and gone inside when he had the chance. As it was, he let his muscles grow taut once again as he prepared for the worst while hoping for the best.

Setting

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Character Portrait: Elvis Johnson Character Portrait: Vendicare Character Portrait: Wynston Watson
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It was impossible for Wynston to shut the rest of the world out like he would have liked to. Even with his focus on Vendicare, layers of sensory data just kept piling on. The uneven light and uncomfortable heat of the bonfire. The scents of sweat, of half a dozen types of alcohol, some more aromatic than others, the burning wood, voices nearby, voices in the distance, Aaronā€™s damnable faerie music. It made him think of home, that brief period that heā€™d spent in Detroit before Matthew had rescued him. He wondered if Vendicare had ever been in such a city after Awakening. If heā€™d ever had to deal with a stinking cesspit like that, the belching smoke, the light pollution. Exhaust, human and animal excrement, rotting garbage. Even the cleanest city street was unspeakably foul to someone with werewolf blood.

The other Balaren said something in a language Wynston didnā€™t know. Italian, he realized, remembering that heā€™d heard that somewhere. Maybe from Aaron? Heā€™d appointed himself their social director, the ambassador of the Isle, so it would make sense that heā€™d been the one to talk up Vendicare.

Was it a threat? An insult? Vendicare was obviously tensing himself for a fight, but if he actually wanted a fight, heā€™d have taken the offensive. He was bigger. He had the longer reach. Giving Wynston the opportunity to get close would have been an incredible blunder. Amico probably meant the same thing as amigo. Wynston had enough Spanish under his belt to understand that. If Vendicare was addressing him as a friendā€¦ well, it could have been sarcasm. For a split second, Wynston thought it was, and his blood began to boil. His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared; his lower jaw jutted out just slightly. It was only a split second, though. With that anger came the realization that he was angry. Some sort of internal sensor went off in Wynstonā€™s brain, alerting him to that fact, and he immediately began to second guess himself.

Vendicare knew what the stare-down meant. How could any Balaren not? Heā€™d chosen not to break it. Heā€™d acknowledged the challenge and not pressed it, but he had said something involving the word friend. If it was some kind of snide remark, then Vendicare was only showing weakness by hiding it behind a tongue that Wynston couldnā€™t understand. If it wasnā€™tā€¦ then perhaps Vendicare really did think of him as a friend. No, not a friend, but an ally, in a more specific sense than the rest of the pack of misfits that the Guardians had brought together. Why not? They were both Balaren. They were both solitary, compared to their peers. Oddly enough, Elvis served as something of a link between them. Apparently outsiders of any stripe could stand him. If it hadnā€™t meant ending the stare-down, he would have tried to catch the Omarainā€™s eye, tried to see what he made of the situation.

With only Vendiā€™s eyes to look into, he couldnā€™t help but notice the details of the of the older lycanthropeā€™s features. The stubble lining his cheeks, his strong jaw line, his sloping brow. He certainly looked more rugged than Wynston knew himself to. He had to shave infrequently, and heā€™d always had a certain boyishness that no degree of facial hair or snarling could mask. That didnā€™t mean that he was more fit to lead, though.

Neither does winning a staring contest. The thought came to him unbidden, and he realized instantly that it was true. The wolf in him railed against the notion, but the human recognized that there was much, much more to leadership than winning every challenge. He drew in a deep breath through his mouth. The taste of smoke made his stomach turn. It reminded him too much of the city. Here, in this untouched place, they were more than wolves, more than boys. He may not have liked how it tasted, but it was fact all the same.

Another thought followed, organically: Vendicare doesnā€™t need to submit in order to follow. If he didā€¦ this wasnā€™t the time or the place to find out. He didnā€™t particularly care about disrupting the good time that the others were having. They wouldnā€™t understand. Seph would. Omar would. Matthew would. A few of them might. Maybe Elvis, heā€™d spent enough time around both Balaren. Renn, only because heā€™d been around for such a long time. The others, though? They might get in the way, and if they did, theyā€™d get hurt. Both of their standings would be diminished. Thereā€™d probably be repercussions, too. Most of the Guardians wouldnā€™t care, but Michaela obviously expected them all to break out banjos and sing Cumbaya. She was the worst of the faerie-folk. Aaron might have been a spectacle, but he didnā€™t seem to be doing it on purpose. She was outright manipulative. Heā€™d experienced it first-hand not long after arriving on The Isle.

That begged an interesting question: if she was the leader here, and that was what she brought to the table, would he need those qualities as well? Wordplay and niceties would never come easy to him. He was too blunt for that sort of thing. But playing niceā€¦ if he had to, he could. Heā€™d proven that already. Heā€™d probably have to do it a lot more as the weeks wore on.

Slowly, without breaking eye-contact, he extended his right hand. There was nothing threatening about the action. It actually seemed to be engineered to appear anything but. The intention behind the gesture was obvious- a handshake. For however long it took, heā€™d stand frozen in place, arm hanging in the air, waiting for Vendicare to accept his offered hand. If he didnā€™t, then it would be on his head if things got rough. Wynstonā€™s gaze never shied away all the while, though. It wouldnā€™t until theyā€™d shaken hands, and even then, Vendicare would still have his attention.

He spoke. "We were never really introduced." It was true enough. He couldn't recall exchanging more than a nod with the other Balaren, prior to this moment. If he had, none of this would really have been necessary. "Wynston. And you're..." He paused. He really wasn't 100% sure how to pronounce the other's name, and as much as he didn't want to go with the nickname then, he wanted even less to look a fool mispronouncing the full version. "Vendi." It wasn't a question. Wynston didn't ask unnecessary questions. He never spoke with uncertainty. Even as he gave his terse introduction, he never once dropped his eyes from Vendi's. He just kept right on staring with those intense glacial blues of his.

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Vendi could feel the prickling of his skin as tension between the younger Balaren man and himself rose. He watched as Wynston didn't particularly take kindly to his warning and felt slightly chagrined, only just realizing he must have spoken in Italian again. Somewhere in the recesses of his mind a rudimentary ability in English floated, but not when his concentration was elsewhere, like the bright blue eyes of his peer. He focused even more on those eyes as he watched as thoughts registered quickly behind Wynston's eyes, then took off into his mind. He was seemingly cool-headed and calculating the situation, which Vendicare appreciated deeply. Not only because on some sensory level his skin had stopped prickling, but also because it meant there was an intelligent brain at work. Vendi hadn't begun to fight, though he'd had ample chance to, and had done what he could to show that he'd rather not fight. If Wynston were an idiot or brute of any kind, regardless of his stature, he'd have taken the bait and attacked. Vendicare's opinion of the man had grown quite a bit already thanks to Wynston's lack of idiocy.

Vendi's breathing steadied as it drew into his lungs slowly while he waited for Wynston to make the decision of the evening. He could feel his palms beginning to sweat and extremely subtly clenched his fists, banking on the fact that Wynston's gaze was held by his own dark green one and thus his hands would be out of the periphery. Luckily, Wynston didn't take it as a signal to advance and continued his thoughts. Vendi's pulse slammed through him as the adrenaline began to kick in full-force with the anticipation of what would come next. It felt as though there was an electricity in the air, a spark that ping-ponged between both sets of focused eyes. He ticked his head to the side almost imperceptibly as if to say, "Yes, continue thinking this through. We can come to an agreement, I'm sure." Another risk, but one worth taking. He'd seen the way Wynston acted around others, it had reminded him of many an alpha he'd come across. It didn't bother him, but he knew what it meant: Wynston wanted to lead, to be in charge, perhaps even looked up to on some level. A fight wouldn't help this situation. Vendicare waited as the metallic taste of the adrenaline finally reaching it's peak washed through his mouth. He hoped Wynston would make a choice quickly, while he was strong and fit, it would be more helpful if he had the adrenaline to fight with, if the need arose.

Luckily, Wynston's gaze lightened in a way that no one other than another Balaren would truly understand. He'd made his decision and was about to make it. Lightning struck in Vendi's stomach as he let his body tighten for a quick response, no matter what the decision. He breathed in through his mouth, not wanting to fully smell the chocolate on Wynston's breath, the grass beneath him, the hard alcohol Elvis continued to nurse. He kept his stare on Wynston's as peripherally noticed the muscles in the younger man's neck tighten with a slow, deliberate movement. Slow was good. Slow meant he wasn't attacking. Attacks happened quickly, to engage the element of surprise. Vendicare allowed his minuscule snarl to drop and licked his full lips. A handshake. The man was smarter than Vendi had originally ascertained, he also hadn't given fully to the wolf in himself. A truce was still a viable option for Wynston, it wasn't about alpha or beta, or survival of the fittest. Vendi let his lips curl into a small but present smirk of a smile as he decided that, if anything, he respected the other Balaren. Regardless, the last thing he wanted was for this alpha-minded male to think he'd won in any way. Vendi wasn't necessarily a leader, but he wasn't one to follow or be controlled. He would maintain his dignity and his independence.

"We were never really introduced. Wynston. And you're..." Even his pause was methodical. Vendicare's right eyebrow popped ever so slightly as the other lycanthrope chose his nickname "Vendi."

His body still tense, his focus unwavering, he calmly and smoothly extended his own hand to grasp Wynston's. He gripped it firmly, then shook it once, making sure to be the first to lift up. A very slight, but obvious show of his alpha-esque tendencies, he knew that the up-shake was a way businessmen sized up the push-overs from the strong. Whoever shook up first was strong, sure, and self-willed. He finally allowed himself to blink. The simultaneous dominance and subordinance his way of returning the offered truce. Vendicare knew that a fight might simply be postponed, but for now, the men stood on equal ground.

He kept his attention on Wynston as his senses calmed themselves. The different smells of the people aroun hitting his nose, the sounds of laughter and chatting, the feel of the air. The electricity had passed, and the stare-down had ceased, but he and Wynston would still be keeping an eye on each other, it was how things were done. He responded with a new, warmer but still quite small smile, "SƬ. Vero." His baritone voice rumbled smoothly as he stood straighter, relaxing his shoulders. Then he grimaced, Italiano!. "Ah... scusa I mean to say..." He paused as he searched for the correct word in English, telling himself he'd get back to studying later in the evening. Perhaps as soon as he could slip away and settle into a nice bath. "Accurate." The rich Italian accent coloring his words with an exoticism, he shrugged in an apology of sorts. He'd only been speaking English the past few weeks. "Birra?" He gave a languid one-handed gesture to the beers sitting off a little ways.

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Wynston was not an idiot. He could be overbearing, blunt, and assumptive, but he didnā€™t lack for intelligence. His education was spotty, but that had stopped mattering to him. It might bring the hot sting of shame to his cheeks to encounter a word he didnā€™t know, or some tidbit of knowledge that almost everyone else seemed to regard as commonplace, but he accepted that. He never needed to ask twice, in occasions like that, but he always asked. The idea of feeling the that shame a second time, that he couldnā€™t justify at all. He hadnā€™t needed to know things like history, literature, or lofty mathematics in order to survive on the streets of Detroit. That had been his place of learning, and the lessons heā€™d endured there would serve him better on The Isle than any book or dead presidentā€™s name or logarithm.

Wynstonā€™s intelligence had been shaped by his surroundings. Heā€™d been a city scavenger at first, too young and inexperienced to do much more than get himself in trouble and rely on friends to see him through. Heā€™d evolved though, faster than Darwin would ever have thought possible, into a city predator. Heā€™d learned both the value and limitations of intimidations. Heā€™d learned how to throw a punch, how to kick, when to run. Heā€™d learned how to find shelter in almost any urban area, and how to get precious calories worth of nourishment when cash-flow from petty crimes fell through. It was best classified as a combination of cunning and impressive analytical capabilities, which had only grown more potent with the Awakening of his Balaren heritage and senses.

So it was, as Vendicare took Wynstonā€™s hand, that the younger wolf realized several more things. The first was that none of this exchange, not a mote of it, was lost on Vendi. He understood all the significances of each gesture, facial movement, and word. It was almost like they were, in a way, communicating without words. With their eyes locked, he felt a stupid, childish thought bubble up: that somehow, they actually were engaging in some sort of low level telepathy. Like most children hoping to escape terrible home lives, Wynston had, in his youth, devoted a somewhat embarrassing amount of time staring very hard at things or even people in the hopes of spontaneously developing advanced mental powers. Logic asserted itself quickly, clamping down on the throat of that foolishness and wrestling it to the ground. It was because they were both Balaren, both versed in wolf-speech, which needed to be seen as much as heard to be understood completely. Human interaction was paltry and thin compared to what a human mind with wolfish body and instinct could accomplish.

The second was that he had underestimated Vendi. He didnā€™t know much about the man, but heā€™d heard that heā€™d spent quite a long time only in wolf-skin. Heā€™d been expecting, when his hand wound up in Vendiā€™s (that hot sting came, when he realized this) stronger one, that the other Balaren would assert himself in whatever way he could. If he was going to submit, he would have already, when they were merely staring. Heā€™d been ready to enter into a contest of strength that he would certainly have lost, the usual sort of squeezing match that jarred the bones of the hand together. What he wasnā€™t expecting all was the blink. It was, in essence, an echo of his own actions. Offer his hand, but maintain eye contact. Take the initiative, but disrupt eye contact. The elegance of it would certainly have been lost on almost anyone else, but Wynston found himself in a very strange combination of shock and admiration. It showed on his features for a split second in the form of eyes that had widened and lips that had parted just slightly, but Wynston wiped that away, taking part in the very human ritual of the handshake. He didnā€™t try to hurt Vendi, but his grip was as firm as he could make it without moving things back into the realm of challenge. It was exactly as firm as Vendiā€™s, or close enough that the difference would be infinitesimal.

The handshake wound up being held for a full second to long, and that was Wynstonā€™s fault. When he realized that he hadnā€™t simply released, he retracted his hand very quickly, just shy of wrenching it away, and then hid the offending appendage behind his back, as if doing so might somehow undo the extra instant of contact. That was odd was all he could afford to think before Vendi said something, again in Italian. His ever-present anger bubbled a bit, but the older boy was quick to correct and seemed genuinely upset with himself for the slip. That was the third thing that Wynston realized: that even though they were from very different places, they shared a certain innate lack of experience with most of the other charges. Vendi had his language difficulties, the thousand day swath of his life that had been spent completely detached from human society. Wynston had his drop-out status to contend with, and had been similarly detached from the conventional family-friends-school model. They both struggled with their respective issues, as proven when it took an almost embarrassing amount of time for Vendi to summon the English cognate for the word heā€™d used.

Wynston shrugged in reply. As long as the language barrier wasnā€™t being used to discretely insult him, it was just a reality that had to be faced. He was back to simmering. His eyes moved quickly to the beers that Vendi had indicated so lazily, then back to the indicator. "Beer,ā€ he supplied, without any intentional condescension. He shook his head. "But, no. Iā€™d rather be in control of my senses all the same.ā€ His gaze tracked to the mixers that had been provided. Sugary drinks. He would have preferred something that would provide more of a contrast to the candy heā€™d just eaten, but he didnā€™t want to break away yet, either. Something about Vendicare was intriguing him more than he really understood, and it would have been a little absurd to walk up, introduce himself, refuse a drink, then wander off.

There was some cranberry juice. That would have a hint of tart. He glanced back to Vendi as he poured himself a cup of the stuff, sniffed it with mild approval, and then held the drink forward; offering it to the other Balaren, if he wanted it. If he took it, Wynston would pour another, then keep it for himself. He didnā€™t need to bother asking Elvis in his silent way; he was sure the Omarain would be hitting the booze before long. He just seemed like the sort. This was a point of the dominance game that might have wound up confusing to those unskilled in it. Pouring a drink for someone seemed submissive, but by choosing the beverage and not asking Vendiā€™s preference, he was the one in control of the drink arena. However the situation sorted itself out, heā€™d soon be taking a sip of the juice. It splashed his tongue in a torrent of flavor, and his lips wound up slightly puckered as a result. Once heā€™d swallowed and the taste had time to linger on his palette, it was actually quite good, for all the sugar that had been dumped into it for no reason by the manufacturers.

"We should go running, sometime,ā€ he suggested nonchalantly. Running, of course, had nothing to do with gym shorts an iPods. He meant in wolf-form, in the wild, and Vendi would know as much from the slight significance he gave the word.

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Vendicare subtly shrugged at Wynston's correction of his use of the Italian form of "beer" and light decline of the offered beverage. Vendi knew the English term, the two words were two close to one another not to, but preferred his native tongue for it. In most of his interactions since coming to the Isle he'd found it easier simply to use his terms if they made enough sense to get his point across. He knew that for some people, Xylea perhaps, or Something, he'd have to be extra conscious of trying to find the English terms. On the contrary, he could tell that with Wynston and Elvis he'd be able to get his point across well enough using the language he was most comfortable with in some cases, the men he stood near were intelligent enough.

Vendi waited patiently watching the festivities as Wynston perused the non-alcoholic selections near their trio and found himself growing curious. Who was this Wynston Watson and what was his story? Why did he seem to have a need to establish his dominance at every moment, opportune or otherwise? Vendi hadn't really gotten to know anyone on the Isle other than Matt and Elvis, would it hurt to have found another ally, especially a fellow wolf-man? It wasn't predatory or instinct based, but the curiosity had struck him and couldn't be shaken so he turned and looked at the younger Balaren, truly looked for the first time. The man... no, teenager really was slight, but not lacking for muscle. He had a boyishness to him that was slightly jarring when mixed with his higher level of maturity. He smelled slightly of chocolate, but mostly of something... else. Vendi took a swig of his beer and contemplated for a moment. Rain... spring. The smell was fresh, like the charge left in the air by a thunderstorm. Vendi almost smiled, then quickly frowned. That was odd, why was he so intrigued by this young alpha's scent?

He realized that he'd been staring when Wynston straightened and offered him a beverage. Blinking once, he found himself noticing that he was at least 5 inches taller than Wynston. Before he had time to consider why he'd noted that, the sugary scent of a concentrated cranberry hit his nose and stung slightly, causing him to blow air, hot and quick, out of it. It was exactly what he needed to snap him out of his reverie of sorts. His face placid, he glanced at the offered beverage, then caught the subtlest of smiles quirking on Wynston's face and had to suppress a sigh. The impassibly subtle show of dominance was not lost on Vendi's keen intellect, and he felt himself deflate somehow. He'd been considering offering an alliance of sorts, a friendship to this boy and here he was, attempting to prove his dominance once again, but in a more... human way. Vendi shook his head gently, "Non. I prefer beer." His tone was soft, though inside he was a little disheartened. If the rapport between he and Wysnton was going to be constantly one of sovereignty mini-battles because a definitive answer hadn't been reached, he'd rather just fight it out right now and get it over with. He was weary from a long day, and hot from the bonfire, which he'd been keeping a wary eye on.

"We should go running, sometime,ā€ Wynston suggested as he took a sip of his cranberry juice. As the idea was stated Vendi was overcome with a need to run. To be away from the fire, the smells, the noises of the students around them who had been enjoying the libations. His muscles itched to be put to full use again, to feel the strain of work, his heart yearned to pound and his lungs to burn. Running. Galloping in a way. He considered Wynston for a moment, as he realized what a run together might entail. Did the boy simply want to go somewhere away from the others to have out their subordination struggle or was it his way of offering a hand in alliance? Vendicare decided it was most likely the former. Based off what he'd seen in the last few moments, nothing else could be true. If you wanted to be the alpha, you would fight for it every chance you got until you became the alpha. Vendi knew this, had seen it and been in that position before. It was like a need as basic as breathing or eating that ran deep through your very core. It annoyed him on some small level, that he had been proven right again: one should never trust easily. Momentarily, he looked at Elvis, wondering if the same stood true here. Shrugging he decided to take a seat on the ground, whether it was a show of subordination or not. If Wynston wanted to take control, he'd have to fight for it. Vendi wasn't one to follow too easily... more of one to be on his own.

Taking a moment, he collected his thoughts and formed his sentence. Relaxed and honest, he spoke with his accent tinting the words exotically, "SƬ. A run would be piacevole, pleasurable. It has been a time since mio last." Then he inclined his head to the ground near him, offering a seat to both Elvis and Wynston. Setting his hand in the grass next to him to lean back, he surveyed the surrounding area. He relished the gritty scent of the earth, now that he was closer to it, and the crisp feel of the grass on his hand. Tracing small circles in it with his index finger, he watched his peers without really focusing on anyone as he thought. It irked him that the fray between he and Wynston seemed imminent, and even more so that that bothered him. Why should it matter if he was going to engage in something like that with the boy? It's not like they had any investments in one another, and they apparently weren't going to be friends any time soon. He was also agitated that he couldn't simply go inside as he'd longed to earlier, he wanted to be near Wynston, wanted to learn about him. Non va bene. Non essere stupido, he chided himself as he took a swig of his second Guinness.

Resolving himself to the fact that whatever force was keeping him here was resilient, he faintly cocked an eyebrow and quirked the corner of his full lips into a tiny smirk, "What is you do? Ah... Where do you sire from? L'Italia ĆØ my home." It was more words than he'd said on a first encounter in a long time. He set his half-drank beer aside. There was definitely something to be said for keeping one's wits about them, as Wynston had implied earlier. Again, Vendi was struck with the boy's maturity. Breathing in his nature scent, Vendi decided that he'd take each moment as it came with this one. In his own way, Wynston was keeping Vendicare on his toes, and he found he wasn't minding.