gmlogbox | [Sandra] :: LOG :: I Am No Diplomat (Reply)

The temperature is cool outside, the breeze calm.
The bulk of the work filling in the hole that'd been spotted by the Shadow Lord a couple days prior has been completed, after a group had ensured that there were no more additional threats breeding under the soil. Obviously, the sept has been on heightened alert ever since, the tension in the air mitigated only by the promise of a moot later on that evening.
And only elsewhere, it seems.
The kitchen, typically bereft of activity at this time in the morning, is host to one occupant, at least. And, of course, it just so happens to be Frederick's favorite person. She's got a book open in front of her, having either already eaten, or working her way up to it, as there's only the smell of a fresh pot of coffee brewing away in the coffeemaker. Never mind that she already has a cup in-hand to take the occasional sip.
Either way, it's back to the usual quasi-business-professional attire, it seems; same steely facade as always, even when, apparently, there's no one around to see it.

The sound of boots hitting the old wooden stairs announces the approach of the young Fenrir long before anything else can be heard or seen from him, and he sure is a morning person judging from the speed and force of the steps, sound more like an avalanche rolling down from above. Just as the noise stops the door to the kitchen flies open as he makes a beeline to the fridge, basically honoring the coffee and its connoisseur with only a brief wave of his hand and a "morn'" as he reaches past to pick up some of the rolls on his way, the detour barely slowing the teen in his quest for food.

Sandra's head raises to afford Frederick an appraising look when he arrives-- a look that follows him as he makes his way to the fridge. She doesn't seem inclined to do much more than offer what appears to be a slight nod when she's acknowledged. "Heill ok saell, Junge Forseti," she says dryly in 'formal,' and almost certainly deliberate Fenrir greeting, as a not altogether friendly nod to the scuffle that occurred a couple days prior.

The teen doesn't bother with knife or etiquette for the assembly of his breakfast, he just breaks the bread in half and puts a seemingly random selection of the available cold cuts between the slices before he shuts it with the heel of his boot, leaning against it and watching her as he chews, muttering a low "Now look at this, she remembers at least something..." between bites, in German. He offers a small nod in return, even manages to crack a smile, as he replies "Oh please, no need to. After all it must pain you greatly to be reminded of it."

"Not as much as it must pain you to realize that you're speaking to a superior," Sandra replies simply, not bothering to raise to her feet. "And you still are, for that matter." She looks up at him, her gaze meeting his directly. Her posture hasn't changed since he arrived; no attempts to straighten, or appear in any way domineering. Likely, she sees no need for it. "Tell me something, Frederick," she goes on to say. "Were you taught to make your judgment calls on base assumptions? Or is that your own unique twist on what it is we're supposed to do as a matter of course?"

The chewing doesn't stop as he listens, he just stands there and enjoys his sandwich. Eventually he decides to hop up on the sideboard and take his perch there, pulling his knees up to hook the heels of his boots into the edge, fortunately the boots seem to be quite clean. He looks over as he shakes his head with a smile, saying a very quiet "Base assumptions? No. I base them on what I get to know. You can complete this knowledge. If you have something to add." He then returns his attention to the sandwich as he starts to balance on the heels of his boots on the edge of the sideboard. Somehow it seems eating just by itself is too boring an activity.

Sandra gives a soft 'mn.' Then, "That's an interesting take for someone who's only too willing to throw around accusations at a moment's notice," is said simply. "Usually, that comes after one's bothered to accumulate all the necessary facts. Per example, I could assume that's why one of us has made rank and," she looks him over, briefly, one brow raising, before her gaze meets his again, "one of us hasn't," this coming with a one-shoulder shrug, "but there could be any number of things that have kept that from happening. I can't say for sure, based ona single encounter." She raises her coffee to take another light sip. "Must be rather freeing, living in the world you do," she says. "Saying whatever comes to mind without fear of consequence. Unabashed, unembarrassed."

"I do not accuse, I just state what is" is his laconic reply as he stays balanced on his perch. "You rank me, yes. By that age, I would expect that." He takes a gauging look over very briefly before returning his interest to his boots, obviously a necessity to stay balanced and most certainly not a strategy to avoid the gaze of hers. "You are almost as old as Jarl Hendrik was. You are right. More questions are in order. I start here. Why just Fostern? At this age? I would expect more. Most back home would not get old enough to rank again at that speed." He pauses, contemplates the remnants of his sandwich before stuffing it into his mouth, adding while chewing "Maybe 'cept a few Godi." With his sandwich eaten, he leans back against the wall and looks actually content now that there is food in his stomach, not quite smug (yet), but certainly happy with himself and the world.

Sandra takes a moment to assess him, allowing for the silence to stretch on without any real indication that it, or its implications, are bothering her in the least. Then, she says, "I suspect that this Jarl changed well before his thirties," allowing at least an actual answer, it seems. "The fact of the matter is that I've only really been at this for five years or so. Which, if you'd bothered to check in on my history, both with my home sept, and with the Fenrir sept that took me in after my First Change, you'd have known by now. It's all public knowledge, so far as the Garou are concerned."

Very obviously the silence does not bother the young Fenrir, he sits comfortably on the sideboard for a moment, eventually lifting himself up on his hands and deciding to balance like this for now. He doesn't bother to look over as he keeps his attention seemingly on his attempts to become an equilibrist, still stating, simply, "I am checking now. Keep talking. The Fenrir Sept obviously did not keep you." It should sound like a question, maybe, but it is very obviously delivered like a statement.

Sandra's brow raises. "I'd rethink that statement, if I were you," she replies, her tone calm, but there's a cold weight of authority to it that's impossible to miss. "Don't presume to think that you're entitled to answers, and don't make the mistake of thinking that a permissive attitude is what kept my teeth away from your throat for conduct unbecoming. It's only - *only*," she stresses, though her voice doesn't raise, "by virtue of recognizing that precious few could accurately guess the circumstances I came from that I'm offering you anything. I suggest you take it in the spirit in which it's given." A pause. "Now," she begins again, some of that chill leaving her voice-- for now-- none of it seeming to rise to the realm of actual anger, "like it or not, I earned my rank. Regardless of what you think of me, personally - and regardless of the time it took to earn it - I expect you to recognize that fact, and everything that comes with it. Do I make myself clear?"

The balancing act seems to end with a snap as the Fenrir jumps off the sideboard, not without his boots hitting the floor with the usual noise. He dusts his hands off with a small nod, almost a bow, as he starts a very slow pacing across the room, taking his time, every step resounding in the small room as he muses "Very well. And crystal clear. You outrank me. You want me to respect your rank. This I can do. I am confused though." he walks past the sitting woman in the same slow pace. "You accuse me of not knowing you. I ask for information. You do not wish to give it. Why is that?" He turns around, approaching her again, still in the same slow pace with the sound of heavy boots, "You talk about circumstances you come from, you do not provide them. But expect me to understand them. What is the goal of this?" He stops, turns towards her. "If you want to inform me, do. I want more information. If you want to intimidate me, do not waste your time. I have seen fates worse than death. I have experienced them." He pauses, then turns to return to his sideboards. "And delivered them."

"First," Sandra replies, "I objected to your tone. I wouldn't be worth the rank in the least if I failed to address either that, or the manner in which you addressed me before. On that, I think you can agree. Second: I never indicated that I was opposed to answering your questions. 'Keep talking' isn't, however, a request for information. It's a demand that you're not entitled to." A pause. "That said: the departure from Tower Falls was amicable. You know as well as I do that the Fenrir don't want, and have no patience for, someone whose dedication to the tribe isn't complete, even if that wavering dedication is shown only in uncertainty. I could be the spitting image of Fenris himself, and I'd still be shown the door if I showed indecision prior to my Rite." There's another pause-- a moment's consideration, then, "Stepping away from it was one of the most difficult decisions I've ever had to make in my life, but it was the only one that made sense, for both myself, and for the tribe as a whole."

The pacing stops as the teen turns around, his head cocked to a side. "My tone. Hmm." he muses before he slides up onto the sideboard again. "I am no diplomat. Request, demand, it is both the same. At least the result is." He pauses, contemplating the wall, it seems. "That is what matters. I need not be liked, I need to get my work done." He turns his attention back to the table, his head still slightly angled as his usual stoic expression returns. "You were allowed to leave? Simply like ... 'I don't want to anymore' and go? How?"

Sandra pauses-- considers for a time. Then, "As I said, I changed late: unexpectedly. My aunt and uncle, the parents to the Theurge of the family, were collateral damage. She raised roadblocks that made entering into the tribe near impossible, citing all manner of unsubstantiated rumors, using the timing of my change as a means of illustrating to the elders the reasons why I wasn't strong enough to be considered a viable candidate. I fought her on it, of course. Continued my training in spite of being put through the proverbial ringer-- moreso than most, as you might imagine. But it was in the midst of this that I was noticed by a visiting Lord who, being something of the curious sort himself, questioned me, and seemed to think I had a far more promising future among his tribe, rather than what was then my own." A beat. "I agreed, when it became clear that, no matter how well I did during my Rite, it was practically a guarantee that I would not be accepted into it. It was-- infuriating, to say the least, and made separation easier. But, as my Rite among the Shadow Lords, I was tasked with showing to the elders of Tower Falls the depths of her mistake, of her pettiness, and - upon doing so - received a formal invitation to return. All of which can, and will be confirmed." Beat. "I declined, obviously. For the reasons I stated. I felt it would be disrespectful to return to them when I had reason to think that my adopted tribe would be a better fit."

The story is met with little of a reaction for a while before the teen shrugs slightly, returning to his balancing act. "Strange. The Tribe is usually glad for new warriors. We need many new cubs, few make it to the Rite. Fewer past the Rite." He pauses. "But they simply let you go? This is weird." He balances on his perch. "In my old Sept they'd simply have killed you and be done with it. Easier."

Sandra's brow raises. "This," she says, "in spite of the need for new warriors?" A pause. "Well. There were a few who probably felt it would've been for the best that I'd been killed, my cousin among them, but though the Fenrir of Tower Falls are proud, they weren't too proud to admit that they, too, had made an error in judgment. There was bad blood between us already, and little that could be done to correct for it. They have unit cohesion to think about, and a Philodox that may well have it out for them probably didn't set particularly well with anyone, at the time-- regardless of whether or not that happened to be the case."

With a loud 'thump' two boots hit the floor as Fred jumps off his perch, the scowl showing that he can indeed make more than one of two faces. Something in that narrative seems to have rubbed the Fenrir the wrong way. "Well, what ... whatever." He whips around. "I ... I should return to the Bawn. Duty." He quickly turns to face the Lord, forcing a smile onto his face. "Requesting permission to leave".

Sandra watches him for a moment, noting the-- maybe not discomfort, but the Something that's suddenly brewing around the young man's head. She doesn't ask her own questions, however-- not yet, anyway, arching a brow at his request and saying a dry, "Dismissed," by way of reply.