Snow's Story

"Max." A calm and cool voice cut into Max's hearing as he stormed out of the cellar and towards the door. The white-haired Adair - generally referred to as 'Snow' by other pack members, a nickname given to him when he was a kid for the colour of his hair, his pale skin and his arctic origins - fixed the younger man with a cold stare.

"It looks to me by the way you're going for that door, that you're about to do something stupid." The white-haired young man folded his arms and raised a questioning eyebrow, "It also looks like you could use a drink. I'm buying, if you stick around."

Snow’s voice brought Max to a hedgy standstill. He was aware of the eyes that had followed him from the doorway of the cellar. Some pairs held him with a sorriness, others curiosity, more perhaps amusement. A few might’ve been disappointed that he’d returned relatively unscathed. But the chatter and clinking was returning to The Den.

He’d already done something stupid.
The sigh that escaped from Max’s lips was one of redundancy.
“I don’t think that’s-“

The force with which the door was flung open caused even one of the most hardy packs some discomfort.

None felt as uneasy as Max did, though. As the werewolf moved in, the damned pup-hopeful fucker who had pissed Baron off, that being Max, sidled into the shadows. Ragenard’s presence was usually an intimidating one; importance tinted with danger. His current state only intensified this. The patrons were momentarily subdued by such an aura. Max only caught a quiet, low impressed whistle from near the entrance. At Ragenard’s final demand, the member who was still working behind the bar - thanks to Max - jerked into action and disappeared.

“I really don’t think that’s a good idea.” Max murmured to Snow.

He was preparing to slip out onto the street when the Pack Leader returned, announcing the run.

What followed was nothing Max hadn’t experienced before. But now he felt detached as he watched. A week ago, had this happened, he might’ve been wondering how the change would affect him, whether he’d be more powerful than these who transformed before him. In the earlier years he’d sometimes take to the roofs to watch their progress in boyish awe.
Now all he felt was bitterness.

The wolves departed.

“Please, Snow, fund the drowning of my sorrows.” He said, grim in his sarcasm.

Snow observed the forceful entry of Ragenard silently and without flinching. If he was uneasy or alarmed by the yelling and thrashing about, he didn't show it. He watched the man until he retreated to his corner booth, and turned back to Max in time to catch his murmur of disapproval. Before he could reply, Baron reemerged, and announced his run. The offer might have tempted him were he not preoccupied, but he had to deal with Max. Running off with the pack would achieve the exact opposite.

Finally, it seemed as though the Den was to return to its regular goings on for long enough for him to get a word in. "Take a breath, let it sit for a while. Doing anything drastic now, while your mind is fogged over, won't end well." he said.

It was a line of thinking that was typical of Snow. Whilst he by no means lacked warmth in his socialising and friendships, where many of the pack were emotionally charged and volatile, he was more than capable of being detached, calculating and coldly logical.

Max found himself letting out a long breath which he hadn’t realised he’d been holding whilst more writhed into their menacing forms. With both Baron and Ragenard off the premises, he was reflecting some. Snow had been speaking sense. As always. Instead of heading to the bar, where he was supposed to be working, Max motioned for Snow and sat down at the nearest empty table. Short glasses sat mostly drained of liquor on the table and he moved them out of the way with a sweep of his arm. Just another sign that he wasn’t doing his job.

If there was someone he could confide in and receive some decent, unbiased advice; he was about to have a conversation with him.

Max didn’t bother to hide the dejection written all over his face as he propped his elbows onto the polished wood and worked his fingertips against his temples.
“I spose you guessed it was a no.” he croaked then let out a chuckle at his own stupidity. “Don’t know what I was thinking. Spent years working up to that moment and now look. All those ideas, those dumb ideas about me being turned were all wrong. Sure set myself up in quite the illusion. He doesn’t give two shits.” The hysteric laughter threatened to return but he cleared his throat instead and sat back in the chair, dropping his hands into his lap and regarding Snow with sad eyes.

“So, he told me to get out, anyway. I won’t be here by the time he gets back. I fucked up.”
‘Fuck him’ another part of Max wanted to say. He didn’t. Not just because he was surrounded by werewolves who could give him a good crushing for the disrespect, but he still had immense gratefulness and reverence for the man who had saved him from his slippy descent all those years ago even if that was hard to feel right now. But over the last few months, and especially right now, Max had been left to fall. He didn’t think Baron would be throwing down the rope at all, not after that fiasco.

He grimaced.

"You think that's why he won't turn you?" Snow folded his arms as he sat down, "Because he doesn't give a shit? You're wrong. If he didn't give a shit, he'd turn you and not care whether you survived the night. Being turned kills as many people as it transforms. The people who it transforms aren't the same person afterwards."

He met the eyes of the bartender and beckoned for drinks. He didn't much care what drinks they were. "Did he tell you not to come back?" Snow's eyes fixed on Max's. "No, he didn't. He didn't want to deal with you being in his face about this, but that isn't him kicking you to the curb. Baron doesn't do that, not without a damn good reason."

The bartender covering for Max brought over a bottle of whiskey and a pair of tumblers. Snow nodded, passing over money, before splashing out a draught for each of them. He downed his, before letting out a sigh. "I don't give a fuck whether you're a werewolf or not, Max. You're my packmate. You're one of us. So swallow that lump in your throat. I've only got so many heartfelt words in me before I'll start feeling like I'm going soft."

“I’m sick of being this person. He doesn’t care enough to take into consideration what I want. This is my life.”

Max knew of the dangers. Hell, he’d seen people turning, heard their screams, and experienced their rebirth. Baron’s harsh reminder still hadn’t deterred him. Surely the fact that he still wanted this to be his destiny showed the sheer amount conviction he held; how much he needed this.

He wanted to look away as Snow gave his version of reasons for Baron’s behaviour, feeling ashamed. Snow was right to have the upmost respect for Baron and what he did for the pack. When his drink arrived he picked it up in a tense hand and took a sip, letting the whiskey burn along with his frustration.

Kind words like this were rare to come by in an environment where poweress was so highly regarded. But, they always managed to come about when it mattered the most to packmates, when you were one of them. One of us. To be receiving such treatment had him rethinking things, yet again.

“He didn’t tell me not to come back. But I don’t think I should, anyway. I was suffering this daily grind with the idea of becoming something more, Snow. And that’s not going to happen.” He took a nostalgic look about The Den.

Max swallowed the lump in his throat and smiled kindly at his friend, a necessary sorrow taking over him.

“I’m done. I love you, I’m grateful for everything that the pack has done for me so far. But if there’s nothing more… I’m done. Staying around, watching the pack succeed and develop… and having no actual, useful part in it, ever? Realising that means I’m done.”

"You're ... done?" Snow repeated, disbelief evident in his voice. "Max, listen to me, you don't have to be changed to have a part in the pack. You're so hung up on the idea of wanting to be something different, or 'more'. You don't have to be that, it's who you are that makes you one of us, not what. Why can't you get that through your damned thick skull?"

The paler young man ran a hand through his hair, "Uhg, c'mon, don't do this. Man, you can't just ... walk! This is your home, our home. Whose ass am I going to kick at pool every night if you're gone? Who's going to sit and pretend they're not enjoying stupid corny movies with me? C'mon ... you belong here."

“I do have to be that. It’s part of who I am, who I want to be.”
Done.

Snow was making this more difficult than it had to be. He hated the look on his face, those practically pleading eyes. Max felt like a bad person. Gulping from his glass, he tried to keep the reminiscing of his time with the pack at bay. That was it, it seemed like it was already over.

“I’m not going to join a fucking vamp clan, mate.” Max smiled warmly.
After pushing his now empty glass away, he organised the collar of his jacket, indicating that he was preparing to leave.

“Not done with you, Snow. Just… this whole…” He blew out a sigh then got to his feet, stool scraping out behind him. “You know where I am if you need me. Sure you'll find someone to fill the void anyway. Just know that they'll never have hair as good as me."

His apartment in Vargeras was a dusty, uncared for place. In a while it wouldn’t be his at all. Without any income, since he was walking, he’d be out on the streets soon enough. No matter, he’d manage. He'd scrape by somehow.

It was time for a re-evaluation.

Snow's heart sank as he realised he wasn't going to change Max's mind. "It won't be the same without you, Max." he said, standing himself. "Just don't end up in a gutter somewhere, for fuck's sake."

He placed a hand on Max's shoulder, "You'd better stay in touch. And you know I've still got your back if you need anything." he said, shaking his head. "I still think you're an idiot. But it's your decision to make... I hope you find what you're looking for. If you need help, just give me a call."

Grimacing, he let out a heavy sigh before releasing his grip on Max's shoulder. "This isn't goodbye." he said.

"I'll try not to." Max grinned, all teeth, and returned the friendly gesture, his fingers curling to take a firm grip on Snow's shoulder. He gave it a bit of a shake then nodded his head slowly and sadly, meeting those expressive eyes which he currently thought were full of honesty. "It is my decision to make. Exactly." said Max, referring to more than what Snow had just confirmed. "Here for you too, bud, always." He lowered his arm in unison with his friend then shoved the end into his pocket along with the other one. His stance was awkward, tense, like he was being forced to do something that he really did not want to.

Snow's last words had Max's sorrow surging back.

He could take it all back, forget about his juvenile wishes. He could continue working at the bar. Even if it was all he'd ever do, he'd still be surrounded by friends; accepted.
But that couldn't be all he wanted from life.

"Goodbye" he managed with one last whisper of a smile.

Max left The Den, stealing into the newly turned night without a backwards glance.
Emerging from the haze, he was able to see everything a little too clearly.

"For now." Snow added softly as Max was turning away. His voice was momentarily unsteady.

He watched as Max walked to the door, then a few moments later stepped after him. He caught the door before it closed and stepped out onto the threshold. He opened his mouth to call after him, but stopped before the words left his mouth. He bit his tongue and watched as Max disappeared into the night.

After he was long gone, only then did he speak.

"Fuck." Snow punched the door frame, violently. At least one of his fingers broke.

One of the other pack members came to the door. "Snow, close the damned door. You're letting a draft in." he said, "Come on, mate. Come have a drink, yeah? No good to be had just standing there."

"Yeah..." Snow muttered, "Sure."

The door swung closed behind him.

Enter Bowen Eli Davion, a lone wolf, not a member of Baron's pack. It had been five long years since he had caught this scent. Surely this was the same pack scent he had detected on that bloody night. Surely this was Baron's pack. The sleeves of his black button down were cinched up at the forearms and the cuffs of his ragged blue jeans hung over a pair of brown boots.

Bowen smelled the air and then moved to the bar. "I suppose you don't have any Macallan 1939?", he said and paused short before following up with his true order. "Give me a glass of the Aberfeldy then." His drink of choice was still very expensive, likely the most expensive choice The Den had to offer. He took a seat.

The grating sound of a chair being pushed back from a table sounded as another member of the pack rose from his seat. Snow had been treating Vanessa's interactions with Bowen with disinterest until now, but as violence began to erupt, he downed the remainder of his drink, and got to his feet. The white-haired werewolf wasn't as large or intimidating as Marc, but he stared him down without seeming to be remotely cowed by that fact.

"Marc," he called sharply, narrowing his eyes at the other man, "He's not causing any trouble. Leave it. He knows Baron, let Baron deal with him."

He stepped over towards the pool table, but as of yet made no move to physically intervene.

Lost in thought and ancient memories Bowen did not react as he would have, as he should have, or as his decades of military training and muscle memory would have had him act. He turned to face Marc to his right, also Marc's as the other man had touched his right shoulder with his right hand. Marc's strike, a left hook came across his body, and across his right arm as it retreated from Bowen's shoulder. The blow slammed into the right side of Bowen's face with enough force to spin his head back around.

To his credit Bowen did not fall. He did not even stumble away. If Marc didn't press the attack Bowen would turn back around and bring his right hand up to his jaw as if to mock Marc. There was no rage in Bowen's eyes. In fact he had the look of someone who was victorious and he had not even thrown a punch. It was then that Snow called out to Marc and if afforded a moment Bowen would lean his pool cue against a nearby wall.

When and if Marc pressed the attack he would find his follow up blows deflected. The movements of Bowen's body, his shoulders, arms, and hands pushed blows wide and to the outside. The tactic had the side effect of unbalancing Marc and opening up the centerline of his body for precise swift jabs to the bridge of his nose. The first or second jab would bloody Marc's nose, a psychological victory for Bowen.

If Marc threw more than a few more punches and did not back off Bowen would follow up one jab with another swift strike to Marc's Larynx. The interruption in Marc's breathing would likely cause him to reach for his own throat to which Bowen would respond by boxing Marc's ears with the flats of his hands. This would provide Bowen plenty of time to finish the larger man but he didn't. He was taking away Marc's senses one by one. Bowen would back away and let Marc recover if he could.

Despite his massive size, Marc wasn't quite the untrained thug that he might at first appear. Instead of wild and reckless, his swings where controlled, and Bowen would have a hard time exposing him up as he fought with an intuitiveness that came with years of conditioning. Bowen got a few licks in, but nothing solid as Marc leaned his head back out of their path as if he could anticipate which ones he wasn't in a position to deflect.

Bowen's precise blows had caught him off guard as he hadn't expected the stranger to have the military training he appeared to have. He was on his guard now though and from the way he centered his weight and kept his arms squared off to his body, Marc seemed to have some measure of training himself. Military perhaps? Or law enforcement. It was difficult to say where he had learned to fight, but he was a man who knew how to control his size and strength.

Meanwhile strong arms locked around Venessa and pulled her off from Bastien much to her ire.

"Keep her out of this," he told the man holding her before turning to point a finger at Snow. "And you keep out of this too, Snow."

He straightened his shirt before picking up a pool cue from the table and giving it a quick examination.

"Baron's going to have your ass for this, Bastien," Vanessa warned.

"Baron's not here, babe," he replied smuggly before moving in to take a wild swing for Bowen's back with it.

Most of the people in the room seemed content to simply observe, rather than join the fray. In fact, money was exchanging a few hands as quick bets where being laid.

Bastien would find his attempt to strike Bowen in the back with a pool cue futile. Bowen had followed his location through his peripheral so Bastien was forced to come at Bowen from his right side. Bowen was still trading light blows with Marc who he had initially wrote off as a common thug and now realized had some close quarters training. Though for his part, Bowen wasn't really using anything more than basic defensive techniques honed through decades, nay, centuries of practice. When Bastien came in with the cue wound up and ready to swing it forced Bowen to step back and disengage with Marc.

He caught Bastien's wrist at the start of the man's swing. Using his momentum he twisted the man's hand down violently with enough force to break the arm at the wrist. With a pull and a twist of his hips, he would send Bastien sprawling to the floor between the two fighters and the cue clattering and then rolling away, across the floor. Bowen stepped around Bastien which also put some distance between Marc and him.

Bastien rolled on the floor with a groan, holding his broken wrist as Bowen stepped away from him. A few others moved to intervene as Bowen seemed to be holding his own, but a scathing glare from Marc set them back.

The message was clear. This was between him and Bowen now.

Bastien on the other hand, didn't quite get the message. As he saw the smug look in Vanessa's eyes, his own turned to a wolfish golden hue. There was a sound akin to a growl in his throat as he grabbed an abandoned beer bottle that had rolled up against the leg of one of the pool tables.

He smashed it against the pool table leg and made it to one knee as he eyed Bowen up for an opening.

A solid kick impacted Bastien's side before he could move in on the fight, as Snow stepped forwards upon the shattering of glass. He followed Bastien to the floor, grabbing the wrist holding the bottle and shoving it into the floor as he made to pin him down. "Drop the bottle, Bastien, you've gone far enough. This is between Marc and the newcomer." he snarled, his own eyes - themselves perpetually wolfish - meeting the other's feral stare.

Much as he disdained the manner in which this fight had begun, if Bowen was rising to the challenge, he wasn't going to intervene between him and Marc. But Bastien was another matter. "I would have hoped my packmate had more balls than to resort to a broken bottle from behind. That's a coward's tactic."

He moved a bit farther from Bastien least the enraged wolf free himself from Snow. At this point about three meters separated Bowen and Marc. Bowen relaxed his stance ever so slightly. "I did not come here to prove anything. I am just here to talk with Baron and for a drink.", he said calmly. Bowen's breathing came slow and even as if he had been at rest the whole time. He was in his element. Sweet adrenaline coursed through his veins but to those watching him he was still cool, calm, and collected. He was acutely aware of the pack instinct. He knew they were chomping at the bit to protect their pack mates, Marc and Bastien. It was a driving instinct that a few were resisting because of a code of ethics, morality, and/or some illusion of honor.

He trained every day of his life. His welfare, his life, and the lives of those who served under him depended on his physical and mental performance in the face of adversity and extreme violence. Bowen had obtained peak physical fitness and maintained that level for decades and it did show subtely in this fight. If the fight continued it would be indisputable. He was a trained killer, that made a life out of killing those that needed to be put down.

On a lighter note: He even had plans to travel to Wing City this coming summer to take part in the second annual Asland Ninja Warrior competition. Of course he would be running the courses against a handicap. He was happy about it even if he had to run those courses against a handicap.

He really had no reason to advance on Marc. So he waited and if Marc wanted to close the distance again the fight would shift into something much more brutal, much more violent than the previous engagement. Eventually Bowen's constant training and experience would produce an opening that could be capitalized on and this opening would result in a strike to a vulnerable part of Marc's anatomy. Once the larger werewolf was stunned or disorientated the follow up would be a more permanent and debilitating disable. "Easy...", he said calmly.

It was very possible someone was going to walk away from this fight with a permanent limp and it wasn't going to be Bowen unless Marc got extremely lucky, decided to up the ante with a weapon, or shifted.

The fight was short, and brutal. Blows where landed by both as they exchanged holds and grapples to try and subdue the other while ribs and faces absorbed the jarring impacts of fists. Marc had size and weight on his side, and the advantage seemed in his favor, until Bowen ended it with a decisive strike.

The crack of bone was audible even over Marc's shout of pain and anger. The damage to the knee was furthered as he came down hard on it, adding the impact of his own weight to the already damaged joint.

It drew more sounds of pain that he bit off through clenched teeth as he held himself up on the edge of a pool table.

With Marc down though, there was no one to keep the rest at bay. Bowen would find himself alone, in a bar full of hostile wolves that were weighing up the risk of moving in on him.

Baron's return from his run likely couldn't have been timed better as the massive black furred wolf shoved the door open to pad inside. He threw his head from side to side, a warning glance to anyone thinking of continuing the confrontation. His steps stopped beside Marc as he took in the situation. Two of his wolves where down, with Snow atop one of them and a piece of broken glass discarded on the floor beside them.

His fur rapidly receded and Baron stood up from the floor.

"What's going on here?" he demanded.

"Marc and Bastien bit off more than they could chew," Vanessa bit out. "That's what happened."

The wolf holding her restrained let her go now that it seemed that the fight was over and she brushed her arms off indignantly.

Baron was well aware of Bastien's behavioral problems, and Marc's unwillingness to pass up a fight, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to sort out what was going on.

"Get them to the hospital," he stated bluntly.

A couple of onlookers moved in to help Marc and Bastien to their feet and from the bar.

Snow stepped back from Bastien as Baron intervened, and moved to slip back to his seat in the crowd. He wanted little part in anything that was to come next. Baron's business with this newcomer was his own.

Unless otherwise addressed, he simply took his seat and ordered another drink. It was over, and time to go back to solemnly brooding.

He turned to Vanessa as she laid blame and then to Snow as he returned to his seat in the crowd. Bowen fixed his collar and yanked his shirt free of his pants as it had been neatly tucked in before and the tussle with Marc had pulled half the fabric free already.

Though he had seemed to be enjoying the fight as it happened caught by the slight and subtle smirk at the corner of his lips. This had been a ruse to infuriate his attackers and a reaction of his own self confidence. Now that the fight was over there was not a hint of it remaining. After Marc and Bastien were pulled to their feet and then helped out of the bar Bowen would speak softly to Baron.

"I need a word with you concerning Ardelean.", said Bowen in a soft tone and with a serious look on his face.

Bowen gave no apology for the damage done to Marc or Bastien as he felt he had nothing to apologize for and to do so would only show weakness. On the flip side he did not necessarily expect an apology from Marc, Bastien, or anyone else as to apologize for one's nature or someone else's actions would be foolish. It was the rule of the strong, common in many packs he had encountered, something he was intimately familiar with, and something that was sometimes at odds with the world as it got smaller and society became kinder and gentler. In many packs this was the case and he had experienced it first hand from his birth into the world and again when he first howled to the moon. He had not always been the lone wolf he was today. His long since dead liege was not the last to betray him.

Even as Bowen informed Baron of his need to discuss matters with him, Vanessa approached him as well.

"Carlisle and Julienne are downstairs," she told him. "It looked like there was some trouble out in the streets."

Baron grabbed his clothes from the floor where he had discarded them earlier.

"Downstairs with me," he told Bowen as he headed for the cellar door.

"You too," he added as he looked to Snow before he started down the steps.

It was easy to mistake Snow for a kid, but truth be told he hadn't been a kid for some time now, and he proved that tonight. It was more than that though. He had shown an initiative and a willingness to enforce, and he hadn't succumbed to the pack mentality that often gripped their kind. He had a good head on his shoulders and a touch of morality that was needed if a pack was to maintain its humanity. It was time he started treating the kid like an adult.

The invitation for Snow to join Baron in speaking among the senior pack members was a first.

Snow looked up with surprise as Baron spoke to him, before quietly nodding his head. He rose from his seat and moved to follow him downstairs.

A small part of him was envisioning what Max's reaction might have been. He wondered if his friend would have been clapping him on the back or if his bitterness about not being turned would have made this into a point of contention.

There was no use dwelling on it now, though. Max was gone. He made his way down the steps.

Present day...

Baron descended down the steps, pulling his clothes on as he went.

"What happened?" he asked as he reached the cellar.

Julienne was laying on her stomach on one of the cots while Jesse swabbed the bits of metal that had grafted to her flesh. A small tray of tools sat on a chair next to him and he retrieved a scalpel and a pair of tweezers to begin the tedious process of removing the metal from her flesh.

Carlisle meanwhile was seated on the second cot waiting his turn when Baron reached them.

"We ran into trouble on the way back. Elliot didn't make it. A man - or machine really - pulled a knife on us. There was another, on the rooftops somewhere, but I didn't get a look at him. We were blind-sided. I didn't smell wolf, I don't think it was a rival pack."

"Fuck me," Julienne hissed through grit teeth as Jesse pulled one of the metal shards from her skin and dropped it into a metal tin on the floor next to the cot.. "I hadn't smelled or seen anything like it before. It wasn't human. It looked like a robot of some sort-" she broke off as she bit out a string of expletives as a second piece of metal joined the first in the tin.

"She's right. I have no idea where it came from. A new weapon of the Ardelean Society maybe?" Carlisle said.

"It's possible, but we need more information before we jump to conclusions. Snow, I want you and Julienne to head out after Jesse is done here. You two are our best trackers. Don't engage it, but I want to know where it came from. If it's Ardelean, they've finally gone too far."