Adrian Flores

☽ Quentin Herrera - 27 - Werewolf - Packless ☾ And so you cried wolf, and I came running. But am I the wolf - Or am I the savior?

[isaac--lahey]

[In the cold light of day we're a flame in the wind]

[wolfwandering-blog]

isaac--lahey‌:

There - that flicker in his voice. He had managed to get Q to listen, at least in the moment, now he needed to convince him. Blinking away the glow, Isaac let out a heavy sigh as that took more out of him than he realized. Tell me somethin’ only Isaac would know.

“You…” Isaac took a moment to recall the moment in question. Memories had been so vivid in the dark but once he was back in the land of the living they seemed….dimmer, if that made any sense. And it probably didn’t unless the other person had been through the same experience. “You told me you didn’t like me living with Bonnie. You didn’t trust her and…and you didn’t like her place. You didn’t like all the witch stuff around the house,” he recalled, his eyes flickering up to the other as he finished his recollection.

He’s standing stock-still as this thing, this witch, this undead boy, this-... Isaac, recalls a memory that only Isaac would know. There’s an errant shiver that travels down the length of his spine and his fingertips feel cold despite the mid-afternoon sun. 

“Isaac....” He says the boy’s name again and this time it tastes less like ash; as though there’s a phoenix rising in place of the friend he’d mourned. Friend... does he still have the right to call him that?... It’s a question that occurs to him too late as he moves forward on leaden legs and pulls Isaac into his arms with a kind of ferocity that so rarely accompanies the gesture. If he’s mistaken in thinking the term ‘friend’ then he’s also miss-stepping with an embrace he has no right to claim. But it’s a risk worth taking to feel the kid alive, even if only for a second. “I’m sorry... Fuck, I’m sorry.”

[wolfwandering-blog]

giatalwar‌:

Packless.

She knew it was his choice, but it still sounded lonely. Wolves were meant to live in packs, right?

Wolves lived in packs…

Did her sister have one? The thought hurt. A sharp stab in her heart. Packs were family and wolves lived in packs. She couldn’t imagine her sister being happy not having other people to boss around. Had she done this? Left Gia behind to be… an alpha… to have a pack?

She shook her head, she didn’t want to think about that now.

“One of the good ones,” she murmured. “Yeah, not many of those, huh?”

He was though. Quentin. He was a good one. She didn’t know why she was so sure of it, she probably shouldn’t be. She could practically hear the voices of both Marcel and Elijah lecturing her on trusting him. But… She met his glance and felt her face flush. She knew he was a good one.

“Toasting to a quiet couple weeks sounds like a good idea,” she agreed. She offered out her glass, tapping it against his beer. “Cheers.” She took a sip.

“I’m really glad you made it. And I hope you don’t mind jazz. It’s not jazz all night though, and there’s some great players here.”

“More ‘an there are good vamps.” He fires back, bristling slightly. It’s an automatic reaction, one even he isn’t expecting. It’s not like he’s a Great Defender of wolves or that it’s even a facet of his identity with which he consciously identifies. Despite his transition, Quentin’s always thought of himself first as a human, and far, far second - as a wolf. It’s almost as if he isn’t one -  until he has to admit to it aloud. So the defensive slip surprises him and he gives his head a shake after a beat of silence. “Sorry.” He mutters, uncertain whether he’s embarrassed about the slip - or the need to defend the wolves in the first place.

 “They’re all shit, right? As a whole. Vamps, wolves...” Quentin shrugs. “But Jackson’s an exception. Maybe the only one. I don’t wanna talk ‘bout ‘em though. Rather talk ‘bout-...” You. It didn’t make it past his lips and for that he’s grateful. He doesn’t need two comments to regret in the span of a minute so he reaches for his beer instead and takes a swig before continuing. “Don’t mind jazz. Is that what ya play? You know... With yer violin?” The briefest smile captures his lips, so quick it’s a blink-and-you’d-miss-it. 

“Could you teach someone? T’play?”

[isaac--lahey]

[In the cold light of day we're a flame in the wind]

[wolfwandering-blog]

isaac--lahey‌:

Okay being dead sucked but this was a p r e t t y close second.

As he stumbled backwards down the stairs, lost his footing, and landed hard on the cold ground, Isaac quickly remembered what pain felt like. Grunting, he placed his palms on the frozen fall ground and pushed himself up. Squinting through the harsh sunlight, he made out the angry shape of Quentin. Well, extra angry shape of Quentin.

“Q, you told me to call you that. That- that spirit, is gone! It’s me….see?” he tried to explain, closing his eyes and focusing a moment. As soon as he opened them again, they were glowing a faint yellow. How else could he convince him?

Somehow, he didn’t expect the clumsiness. From Isaac, yes - but from the bastard witch who’d taken over his body? Not so much. Maybe he was relying too much on stereotype, on the snap-judgments he made of everyone he’d ever met because it was faster and easier than getting to know them. But that wasn’t about to change, and so the fact that the witch fell flat on his ass stuck out in Quentin’s mind like a sore thumb. Like a piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit the way it was supposed to. He was prepared to ignore it when the witch called out to him in a wavering voice. 

‘The spirit is gone! It’s me... see?’

The werewolf paused in his tracks; hating that a sliver of doubt slipped into his thoughts and prevented him from fully walking away. He turned his head to glance over his shoulder, catching the faint yellow glow in the creature’s eyes and wondering whether the light was playing tricks on him. Turning slowly, his voice betrayed him. “Tell me somethin’ only Isaac would know... Tell me when I last saw you alive.” He baited the entity stubbornly, fingers curling into fists as he remembered the last time he’d broken into Bonnie’s house, in order to get a feel for where the teenager had been living. 

[the-bluespirit]

[wolfwandering-blog]

giatalwar‌:

Gia shoved the stool next to her out as he approached so he could easily sit. To be honest, it was a relief to see him. Whole and unharmed. No fights recently then, around here you never knew. And she had to admit she’d… worried.

She watched him signal the bartender and order his beer. He looked good. Her finger trailed along the lip of her cup. And she smiled down at it as he asked her what was up. She tossed her hair back over her shoulder to raise her eyes and meet his.

“No worries, this place gets better the later you stay anyway,” she said. “I’m just glad you made it. The way our lives go, that’s always a nice surprise, isn’t it? Staying alive?”

She was kidding but.. she wasn’t. She hadn’t anticipated immortal life being so stressful and so full of death.

“No coupes this week, no battles last week. Things are quiet, here, anyway. Which I guess means something is bound to blow up soon, right? What about you? How’re things?”

She was quiet as the bartender came over and dropped off Quentin’s beer. Her dark eyes moved between her drink and him, her lips curved into a smile.

He snorts at that as he settles down on the stool she pushes out for him. “It’s all I can ask fer, huh? Best not get any hopes up in this city.” For all his grumbling, Quentin was grateful. Staying alive was no easy feat for a man on the run. Survival was not a luxury he could take for granted. At any given moment the people who wanted him dead could catch up, and it would just restart his race against the clock - if he was lucky enough to escape them first.

(How many times could he beat the odds?... How many times could he play Russian Roulette before he landed on the chamber with the cartridge in it? - One day, it’d be inevitable).

“Yea, been quiet in the Bayou as well - too quiet.” He agrees, forehead creasing briefly to indicate it doesn’t sit well with him. “Wolves are restless sons of bitches - they don’t do quiet. Always gotta be somethin’ to fight ‘bout, somethin’ to debate an’ disagree over. Jackson has his hands full - but not this week. Means they’re up to somethin’; the ones who normally give him him shit.” The werewolf shrugs, as though remembering that he’s not supposed to care. “It ain’t my business, I’m packless - but Jackson... He’s one ‘a the good ones.” Like you, his mind noted silently, and his eyes found Gia’s for a split-second before flickering away as he raised his beer towards her bourbon. “We toastin’ then?”

[loganlemans]

[wolfwandering-blog]

giatalwar‌:

@wolfwandering

This is the first time they meet on purpose. Which isn’t something that Gia even realizes until she’s actually heading to a specific place to see him, as opposed to stumbling upon him someplace either of them shouldn’t be. The bayou. The Quarter.

Nope.

Tonight is a hole in the wall jazz bar that she used to play in, in Algiers, where they can both be, technically. No one has claimed it yet. Someday she might play again. She and Elijah are still working on her music and while it’s come far since the day he offered to help, it’s still not what it was. What she needs it to be, in order to stand in front of people and play.

But that doesn’t mean she can’t enjoy the music of others. And it’s been too long since she did just that. She can’t exactly ask Elijah to come hang out in the open. Marcel is still too wrapped up in his grief. And it’s not that Quentin is her last choice, it’s just funny to her that the person she has to hang out with, is a werewolf. One who reminds her of herself, really.

He’s not playing sides to stay alive, not like she is if that’s what she would call what she’s doing- it’s not how she would put it, but she doesn’t know how else to put it either- but their end goal seems to be the same. Make a life, stay alive, maybe even find some kind of happiness in all of this.

Either way she has to admit, she… feels something. Some kind of connection, friendship.

Maybe she’s just lonely. Possible. And also probably pathetic. She sighs and orders a bourbon, not even considering this influence of her sire’s. She’s always been a beer girl.

She lights up a little as she lifts her head and sees the man she’s waiting for finally coming in the door.

He won’t admit this to anyone, especially not Gia, but he’d be lying if he said that he isn’t looking forward to meeting up with her tonight. He can’t quite put his finger on it; on why exactly he jumped at the prospect of her company more quickly than he was used to, and without the wariness that normally delayed his response to such offers. Maybe it’s because with her, he can take a short-cut and skip the part where he normally dissects the other party’s motive, their interest in him, the pros and cons of going out on a limb. 

With her, maybe he can be himself... Or, as close to it as he dares.

“Gia, s’up?” The werewolf greets her when he finds her, eyes flickering down to take in her appearance. He isn’t normally good at noticing those things, but he likes the way her shock of dark hair contrasts against the colour of her skin; the whimsical smile that tugs at her lips as she swivels in her seat to regard him. “Sorry I’m late.” He notes the drink she’s already ordered for herself and flags down a waiter to ask for a beer. “What’s new?” Because he does wonder; when a week comes and goes, when a second one follows - whether she’s still alive, whether Marcel or the Mikaelsons have stabbed her in the back and left her to burn, whether another werewolf has made the mistake of snapping his or her jaws in Gia’s direction... 

He doesn’t wonder about many people, but he wonders about her.

[isaac--lahey]

[In the cold light of day we're a flame in the wind]

[wolfwandering-blog]

isaac--lahey‌:

Granted, he was expecting some sort of reaction to him showing up on the man’s front door step. But this reaction? Not exactly what he had in mind.

“Q…” he managed to get out, narrowing his eyes as he tried to focus on the man and drown out all the rest of the bright noises and sounds of the world. Was he angry at him for being so careless the evening of his death? He knew he may have let him down after he told him countless times to be careful but still….

“Q, I’m….I’m sorry…” he croaked as he leaned against the door frame.

He was prepared to walk back inside and slam the door, prepared toi gnore everything that came out of the impostor’s mouth - until the witch called him by his nickname. 

“Who the hell gave ya the right t’call me that, huh? ‘Cuz I sure as fuck didn’t.” He snapped, taking a step forward instead and staring down the witch in Isaac’s body. “Ya don’t get t’ steal a  kid’s body an’ then come cryin’ on my property when people give you shit for it. Who told ya my name anyway, huh?” He demanded, running through the possibilities in his head. All Quentin could think of was the other slimy witch he’d beat up the night of the Harvest, when trying to find answers about Isaac’s whereabouts. Maybe they were in league, what did he know? The thought incensed him and he stepped forward, body reacting before his restraints could kick in; shoving the boy back, off his doorstep. “Who was it?!”

[isaac--lahey]

[In the cold light of day we're a flame in the wind]

[wolfwandering-blog]

isaac--lahey‌:

Everything was so…..bright.

Not only bright but so  o v e r w h e l m i n g. What day was it - was it even the same year? The simple chirp of a bird or the rustle of the breeze seemed like sensory overload. After a seemingly endless amount of darkness even the simplicities of life seemed to much to handle. And speaking of life…he was alive again? He could feel, touch, see, smell, hear….hell, he could breathe again. How could he have forgotten what it was like to breathe? To feel alive.

But then there was too much. Too much - to go from nothing and then everything at once was just too much. He needed to find somewhere - someone to help him. And this is how he found himself stumbling to a familiar front door, barely keeping his feet beneath him as voices rang through his head and the lights blinded him. Help..he needed…help…

The sound of a doorbell was never welcome to Quentin.

As long back as he could remember, a doorbell was just the harbinger of trouble. Few specific instances stand out in his mind; the first time being when his mother received news of his father’s death, crumbling on the doorstep. Other instances followed; the news of more loses, punishments dolled out by the mafia when he didn’t complete his quotas, grueling and abusive searches by the CPD... 

It was enough to make him think he’d be happy not to hear another doorbell ever again. He didn’t know who’d come calling in New Orleans either, certainly no friend of his. Jackson wouldn’t risk a venture outside of the Bayou, he was too high-profile, and his people needed him too much for him to risk a capture. And Gia didn’t know where he lived.

So the werewolf took his sweet time to reach the front-door, debating it all the while. When he wrenched it open, the familiar face he saw made him scowl. 

“Forget it. Whatever ya want, it’s not happenin’.” The werewolf sneered. “Thought I made myself pretty fuckin’ clear the first time around - I don’t wanna look at ya, I don’t wanna talk to ya, an’ I sure as hell ain’t interested in helpin’ ya.”

[timbradford]

[wolfwandering-blog]

@the-noble-mikaelson, @niklaus-no-mans-son

[wolfwandering-blog]

giatalwar‌:

It wasn’t as if Gia didn’t know how werewolves triggered their gene. It was one of the first things she’d learned. And then, having realized what her sister was, it was something she couldn’t stop thinking about. But somehow him saying it… her hands tightened into fists, nails digging into the skin.

Had her sister killed someone in self defense…

Or had she triggered it on purpose.

It didn’t sit well with her that she couldn’t convince herself on way or another.

But Quentin… isn’t her sister. And she can’t blame someone for killing in self defense. Especially not with the friends she keeps. She hasn’t killed anyone herself, its a line she’d rather not ever cross… but Elijah’s training has made her think she is capable of it under the right circumstances.

“Yeah,” she says finally. “Of course it’s still on the table.”

She grabs two, pops the caps off easily and crosses the room back to him. He’s offered a truth he obviously doesn’t enjoy sharing. And Gia doesn’t owe him one in return but…

“I wanted to be one. A vampire. I knew what they were, and I wanted to be one. To be strong. To take care of myself. Live forever. I don’t really tell people that part.”

She lifts her eyes to meet his, lifts the second beer towards him.

“Still on the table?”

He was being sarcastic, he doesn’t actually expect her to say yes. Quentin hadn’t moved, but in his mind, one foot was already out the door - and the mental note of ‘avoid all possible future interactions’ was already being written, in anticipation of being told ‘Leave me alone’. Instead, Gia absorbed his story without comment - and, more importantly - without judgment. 

And maybe it was because of her no-questions-asked reception that Quentin returns the favour, listening to her own story with interest but without the interrogation. He doubts he can suppress the questions indefinitely, but for now, he pushes them aside and merely nods. 

The tension between them hasn’t resolved entirely, but some of it has rolled off his shoulders more quickly than he’d anticipated. They’re acquaintances at best, a fragile connection that is budding like the shoot of a plant; not yet strong enough to survive the unexpected chill of an early spring’s morning. But it’s a start, he thinks, even though he doesn’t quite know what’s meant to follow. It’s only been a few years maybe, but he can’t help feeling rusty and wholly out of his league when it comes to this sort of thing.

“Still on the table.” Quentin agrees, a faint smile on his lips as he settled down and tilts his can of beer towards hers. “Cheers an’... Thanks again fer steppin’ in back there.”

[wolfwandering-blog]

giatalwar‌:

Gia closes and locks the door behind them. Not that that would stop anything supernatural, but there’s something about the action that still calms her nerves a bit. She moves around him, huffing at his answer. After dealing most of the time with Marcel, and especially Elijah, there’s something almost jarring about his roughness. His complete lack of manners. Well. Maybe not complete, if she’s being fair. She can tell he’s trying.

Elijh would be appalled by him. But then, he’s a wolf. Elijah would be appalled in general.

“It’s memorable. It’s also traumatic. You die. There’s not much pleasant about it. So even if I did remember it all, maybe I just don’t want to remember. Do you want to chat about exactly how you triggered yourself?” And if there was a bite to her tone it was because she wanted to steer them away from this conversation.

The fewer people who knew Elijah Mikaelson had sired her, the better.

She sighed, pushing her hair back, the other hand resting on her hip. “Look, I just- do you want a drink? Because I could use one. And maybe we could start with an easier topic?”

There was what some would consider an almost old fashioned entertainment system set up so she could play music whenever she wanted, in whatever format. And underneath that, in the drawers, was several bottles of liquor. One of which was a particular scotch she never could have afforded otherwise. She left that and pulled out the Jack and the tequilla and set them on coffee table.

“I’ve got beer too.”

She stopped moving, dark eyes settling on him. She didn’t want to fight with him. Strangely, she found that she wanted to sit and get to know him. To talk.

And yes, to find out more about her sister.

His hands swing up, palms out in a gesture of surrender. “A’right, a’right. No questions ‘bout you dyin’. Touchy topic - I get it. But just in case you’re wonderin’...” He trails off, weighing whether he should proceed or whether he’ll regret it. It didn’t occur to Quentin to be more polite, but it did occur to him to be more honest. Here he was, berating her for answers, trying, unconsciously even, to get beneath her skin - while he kept doors on his own identity so firmly locked. “I shot someone.” He announces bluntly, eyeing her carefully to see how she’ll take the revelation. “Killed ‘im... ‘cuz he woulda killed me instead.” The defense comes before it’s even asked of him, because he’s so prepared to give it. 

Most vampires turn by being made victims first. Most werewolves activate their genes by being willing perpetrators. He wants to see if that’s how she’d see him, as the others did.

“... I’ll take that beer if it’s still on the table.” Quentin adds, as though it’s a natural segue in the conversation. He finally looks away from her, pretending to take interest in the rest of his surroundings as he wonders whether this is the part where he gets a boot out the door.

[wolfwandering-blog]

Adrian Flores Quentin Herrera

[wolfwandering-blog]

giatalwar‌:

“Very, very silly.”

Gia double checked the streets around them as well. But they seemed as empty as they had their entire walk here. She might be close to Marcel, but she was pretty sure that didn’t warrant anyone keeping an eye on her. She wasn’t a key player in anyone’s game. Not… really.

Her connection to Elijah was one they’d kept mostly secret so far and she had no intention of changing that anytime soon. Which made answering his question… difficult. Her standard answer was that she didn’t know, didn’t remember. Having no story meant not having to worry about keeping it straight. Rouge vamps killing or changing someone wasn’t unheard of.

“No, we aren’t born with a gene.”

But had she been born with one? With the wolf gene, like her sister? Or had it skipped her? Did it mean anything… if she did have it? Or.. had it? Even as a vampire she hadn’t killed anyone, if she killed someone now would it matter?

She opened the door and held it for him to follow. Their apartment was only one floor up so she headed for the stairs, fully expecting him to follow. The place wasn’t anything spectacular, but the apartment she shared- had shared- with her sister, was roomy and clean and nice. She’d been so happy when they found it. When they’d moved in. Just the two of them. She’d had plans…

“There isn’t much of a story,” she said. “I don’t remember much,” She shrugged. “I’m fine with it. I mean, I like it, being a vampire. It’s a lot better with the daylight ring though.”

“Good. That’d have been some messed-up gene.” He mutters, before realizing what it must sound like. Quentin steals a glance at her, adds a ‘sorry’ under his breath as they stop in front of her door and he shoves his hands into his pockets. “I just mean like... The bit ‘bout drinkin’ blood... Would mean that humans would be preyed on by their own species... Kinda fucked up.” He tries to explain. But really, when it came down to it - didn’t humans do that already? They were one of the few species that killed their own members for far lesser reasons than survival. Out of anger, hatred, ambition, or just out of pure whim. A little bit of blood-sucking was probably tame by comparison. The thought unsettled him... Gia aside, Quentin was resolved to hate the vamps on principle alone. 

“Nice space,” the werewolf remarks approvingly as she opens the door to let him in. His gaze travels over the furniture, and he likes that it doesn’t suffocate. But Gia’s answer brings his gaze right back onto her. “How’s that possible? That ya don’t remember? Are ya tellin’ me that drinkin’ someone’s blood an’ being killed isn’t memorable enough?” It’s just sarcastic enough to imply disbelief, without crossing the line of overtly rude. After-all, though manners are certainly not his forte, Quentin is well aware of his place as guest in her home. He owes her.

He doesn’t like it.

[wolfwandering-blog]

giatalwar‌:

There was no real way around it. It was bullshit. There was no other way to put it. She didn’t know what the fuck the witches or Marcel had been thinking. Except that they’d been desperate. Desperate people did stupid things, no matter how high up they were. This was all proof of that. She knew it was above her pay grade. There was some shit she just didn’t understand or know.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

She was grateful for the quiet as they walked. She wasn’t sure what the hell she was doing with this either. Taking a wolf home. The danger wasn’t just being seen. A wolf was a danger to a vampire as a rule.

But he… seemed… different. 

Which was about the most cliche thing she could think it that moment. She glanced at him again, snorting softly at the question. She could throw it up to the thing about her sister, she guessed. But he didn’t seem to be a fan. Whatever answers he might have probably wouldn’t be the depth to which she was wanting.

No. There was more than that.

She sighed a little, shrugging one shoulder. “You already know I play the violin. Sometimes, stupidly, out in the bayou. I haven’t been a vampire long, you know? I know you said… that you weren’t a wolf that long. It hasn’t been long for me either. I didn’t even know it was all real.”

She led them right and felt a certain amount of relief to see her building coming into view.

‘Sometimes, stupidly, out in the bayou.’

“Don’t think I know what yer talkin’ ‘bout... ‘Cuz that would be really silly.” He feigned ignorance. But a smile curved over his lips at the recollection, and Quentin ducked his head a little lower to hide it. True enough he’d found her weird that day; but the mix of bold and blind had intrigued him, and given their earlier encounter today, he was beginning to think it was a common theme for Gia. He just hoped she wouldn’t pay for it any time soon.

“I’m listenin’...” The werewolf offered somewhat vaguely as she started talking about how, like him, she’d only recently been introduced to this world. “But it’s different for fangers. You’re not born with a gene, right? You’re bitten. So what’s your story? How’d it happen?” Maybe it was nosy - the thought occurred to him too late. After-all, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to answer the question if it was thrown back at him. But, depending on how frankly she answered - maybe he’d have to. “I mean... If you wanna talk ‘bout it...” Quentin added a little uncomfortably, realizing too that it might be a sore spot. He stopped walking when they reached her front door, glancing over his shoulder to make sure they hadn’t been followed.

[quotemadness]

He was a child; but he knew his own soul, it was precious to him, he guarded it as the eyelid guards the eye, and without the key of love he let no one into his soul.

Leo Tolstoy 

[todayitwillbedifferent-blog]

｡･ﾟﾟ* a heart that’s broke is a heart that’s been loved❞

[wolfwandering-blog]

todayitwillbedifferent:

It’s almost endearing the way he squirms, and for the first time today Elena doesn’t feel overwhelmed and bombarded by someone’s need to try and make themselves feel better by the way the offer information or promises they don’t intend to keep. “Sure,” the brunette finally relents with a small genuine smile, before she can help herself. “But thank you, really. I uh, needed to find my brother quickly and doubt I could have without your help.”

And then she lets it go, partly because she doesn’t want to make the bouncer squirm and more than he already has, and partly because she’s gotten to slip in her thank you one more time as the last word.

“She was.” Elena’s voice cracks slightly, and she fights to regain composure. She wants to tell him that it takes a special person to take in two kids after a tragedy and navigate a way through that. She wants to tell him that Jenna never faked it, that she understood there was no such thing as perfection but fought to be the best she could for them every day.

But she doesn’t know him, and hell if that kind of word vomit won’t scare not only this poor stranger but herself as well.

Elena also isn’t sure that she’ll be able to stop once she starts. So, she focuses on something else once she notices where his gaze is pointed.

“Oh, do you know John too?”

He doesn’t want to tell her he’s sorry. He thinks back to John’s tired, polite - but ultimately automatic answers at the door. He thinks about how much less it meant from a virtual stranger. He isn’t the one who’d murdered Jenna Sommers - so what difference did it make whether he’s sorry about her death or not?...

— He just hadn’t done anything to help prevent it, either.

So all he can do is stare at the floor beneath his feet and politely pretend he doesn’t notice when her voice cracks and she fights for composure. When the question comes, it’s almost a relief - a reason to vocalize something other than the clearing of his throat and to wonder whether he’s overstayed his welcome. “Uh-... Yah, somethin’ like that. Helped me get outta trouble, once. Not long ago. Jenna, him, you... Seems like yer all a good breed.” Quentin tells her with a tight nod. His mind travels to Katherine once more, wondering how she fits into this familial equation. Does she play house with the rest of them? Maybe it’s none of his business. “I should go.” The werewolf remarks, not two seconds later. “Thanks for, uh... The talk. My... Condolences about Jenna.” He adds, dragging that word out from the recesses of his memory. It’s been years since he’s last used it, longer than that since he’s truly meant it. 

This time, he does.