Sunday morning, Elithe awakens to the sound of the digital alarm. Her hand lands softly upon the nightstand. Upon a book. A book? She turns to it, apparently quite worn, leather-bound, expensive. She rises gingerly, minding carefully her neck and the bandages. One hand upon them, the other, the book, she walks groggily past the main room into the direction of what might only be known 'the room upon which technology descended grandly'. Lokariste, however, refers only to it as the computer room. Elithe finds is muggy and abnormally wire-infested.

"Hey." But curiously, he did not seem to be there this morning.

"Morning." She raises the book in silent question. "Mages?"

"Yeah." He rises and walks to her. "I figured it might help you understand a bit of your past." He pauses. "Although, Mage-Garou relations aren't always the most… accepted. So, you might not want to rush home and say, 'Mom! Dad! Guess who I met in Rhydin?'"

Elithe settles into the nearby chair. "I haven't seen my parents since I was very young. In fact, I often question whether or not it's memory or dream." She begins to flip through the pages, and Lokariste stands adjacent to her. He offers his hand gently upon her shoulder.

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, well…" She pauses, and finally shrugs. "What can you do?"

He kneels upon the floor next to her, peering at the book himself. "If it's any consolation, I have no desire to know my father."

"Why's that?"

"He raped my mother."

"… Good reason." She flips another page.

"He belongs to the most bloodthirsty of tribes, the Get of Fenris. Those who believe that all humanity should be destroyed. One… by one."

"Sounds like a charming group."

He smirks. "My mother, on the other hand, was an enlightened Stargazer. She believed in the delicate balance of things. To not bring ill-will to any living thing. The pursuit of knowledge."

"Now she seems to have the right idea." He nods. "I… thought I overheard something about… glass, or… walking…"

"Glasswalkers. It's the tribe I belong to."

"Why?"

"City dwellers."

"No, I mean why not your mother's?"

He laughs a bit. "The Glasswalkers wanted me. After my first… change, as they call it – when I came to realize who and what I truly was, well, I'd already been living my life as a human for so long, it came as quite a shock."

Elithe temporarily closes the book, perching it upon her lap. "What happened? How did you know?"

"Well… I got angry… very angry. They call it Rage – capital "R" – and… I didn't know how to deal with it. My instincts just… took control." Mental images of that night flash throughout his mind, and he nearly grows weak from the imagery.

She extends a hand. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah." He looks deeply into her eyes momentarily.

"What's wrong? Lokariste, what's the matter?"

He sighs. "I acted like my father. It's… like a cancer inside of me. It's wretched, and it feels as if it's slowly killing me." He shakes his head violently. "I can't get rid of it. I try to deny it, not to give into it – that just makes it worse. It just fuels the desire." Elithe stares cautiously into his eyes. "I wish I could fight it. Be rid of it. But it's just a fucking part of me." He rises and walks to the kitchen. Elithe stares blankly ahead. He returns with a glass of water. "I don't like hunting, but the alternative to it is… I go insane. And instead of it being satiated in these… methodical times, it comes out in unplanned, reckless bursts of violent activity. Especially where I do not want it to." He pauses. "Toward people I don't want to hurt."

Elithe lightly touches the bandage across her neck and smirks. "Really."

He sighs. "I'm a loner. And this is why. My so-called friends said that something was wrong with me. I wouldn't go on the hunt. I stayed inside. I stayed away from people, damn it!" He throws the glass across the room, and it shatters against the wall behind her. "This is why!" Elithe briefly clutches her chest, eyes the glass, and then him. "This is why."

Elithe sighs. "You're no worse than a human with bipolar disorder."

"I'm a lot worse than that," he replies with a noticeable sneer. "Problem is, I'm a bit unstable."

"Really?"

His brow descends menacingly over his half-moon eye. "You're not helping this."

Elithe begins to rises, but is halted. "Look, Lokariste – "

"Maybe if I were trained," he continues, lost in his own world. "Maybe if I'd been instructed. But I was too old. Seventeen. That's too old. As a result, I'm sort of Lost."

"Lost?"

"Abandoned. Left behind. Hell, Glasswalkers found me. They said that I had 'attributes' which might be 'useful' to them." He sighs, lighting a cigarette. "I told them to fuck off."

"And?"

"They didn't." He takes a relaxing drag. "Pure and simple."

"So… you're plagued with the same sort of vices that most human beings are. As a result of your… problems."

"Don't play shrink with me, Elithe. I hate that." He stretches his neck. "But yeah, you could say that."

"Alcohol? Cigarettes? Drugs?" She pauses. "…Sex?"

He crooks a brow, exhaling. "Drugs, no. Sex, not often. Cigarettes…" He holds his current in view. "Uhm, alcohol, yeah." He takes another drag. "More like, booze, tobacco, and murder." He pauses. "Used to be." He fires a sarcastic glance. "I'm 'trying to quit.'"

"I see." She laughs. "One day at a time."

"Don't get me started."

"So. How long?"

Lokariste sighs, beginning to collect the shards of glass, his cigarette between his teeth. "How long what?"

"Since you've…"

"Oh, that." He rises. "Eight months."

"Wow."

"Yeah." He disappears into the kitchen with the dust-pan. "I'm going crazy. Literally."

"So, one vice for another."

He returns. "Do you really have an objection?" It is more of a statement than anything, and they both knew she didn't.