Her motorcycle rockets its way through the city - a useless night of mingling that yielded - as usual - nothing for werewolves. Daylight jewelry, souped-up witches being through in whatever fucking horrendous private hell the Conclave had conspired to create.
And they sat, and they sat, and they watched as mealy-mouthed politicians jerked each other off.
But not her.
Her motorcycle rockets its way through the streets, down slopes, towards the piers. Towards home. Yuisa's face is an expression of mixed feelings - frustration, intrigue, excitement...
Menace. Machination.
The Moon's harsh in its control - even prideful wolves born into this life are beholden to it. It's an age old spell - a curse to hear most people talk about it.
She's never seen it that way - Blessed are the Wolves, an old Warwick creed. Some call it coping, others call it delirium.
It is Pride.
Matteo's father slumps, half dead before the fight even started - even the turn is too much for him. It's nothing for the black wolf, Yuisa's chosen face, to pad up amid the cheers and boos of the pack - some in her corner, others against her, but none of them matter because she's strong, and she's in control. She feels life slow, heart slow in her mouth, tastes foul, black cursed blood coat her teeth like oil. Feels bone snap, brittle and old, beneath the clamp of her jaws.
She doesn't ask for power, she takes it. And like with Matteo that night, she doesn't ask for forgiveness either, because she knows she's correct. Her motorcycle rockets into the piers, slowly working its way down the cargo alleys and streets until she finds the old foundations of the Portside, but she doesn't stop there, she keeps running the bike, past the bar and to the Port Authority office, where she escapes her bike, removes the bundle, and unlocks the door.
It's dead quiet here, tonight; the security is patrolling the dockyards, and she's unbothered as she moves up the stairs, each step creaking under her weight until she reaches the door of her office and enters, locking it behind her.
Jacket off. Hair comes out of its fastening and she shakes it out before pouring herself a drink and fetching the bundle, clearing her desk off and undoing the ties that keep it hidden and safe. This has cost a lot of time and money to procure, and when she takes it out, it's something she can hardly believe.
It's known that any werewolves killed under the moon will find itself returned to its human shape - this much is known. A werewolf is buried as a man - something any self-respecting wolf should view as a final shame, to be buried in a prison.
She unfurls it onto the desk, almost unable to believe her eyes - the fur is old, ancient, it's edges tattered and worn with time and age. She picks the old thing up - bunches it in her fur, buries her face in it, sniffing out age and magic and brotherhood before she finds the mark, graven into the fur where its color shifts drastically. It elicits a smile, and she turns it over, laying the pale underside of werewolf skin open as she turns the desk's light on, and traces her hands over the strange symbols and letters inked and burned into the crude tapestry - a secret to be puzzled out. This isn't just werewolf skin. It's a weapon, and it's purpose is illustrated by the old effigy scratched into its center in old blood, surrounded by magical esoterica she can't even begin to understand. It will take time, she knows this. But it will be worth it.












