Lawrence Keane made his way to the Brewery with little ceremony. Moderately paced, confident footfalls carried him along the sidewalk, with his hands tucked into the pockets of a blazer that was nice, but hardly ostentatiously so. The blazer was fairly representative of his person, with his slacks, hair, and even his poise possessed of a delicate, muted dignity.<br/><br/>The night was comfortably cool, and the walk gave him time to think. After the debacle up north had brought the final death on his old pack's priest, he'd seen fit to move on, and he wasn't sure if it was despite or because of the instability that resulted from the loss of his mentor. Kris had known what s/he was doing, guiding him as he sought to adopt the new Path that was meant to govern his dealings with the beast within him, and he'd made a great deal of progress under his or her tutelage. With Kris dead, though, it left Keane dangerously adrift with a partially-completed transition. His old pack might have been able to help, but the survivors were struggling enough just to maintain a reputable presence, given the losses they'd been handed.<br/><br/>It was better to start clean. A new pack was risky, of course, but if he drew the right packmates, he stood to have a better chance of making it through the adjustment period to the new way of being with his higher processes intact.<br/><br/>He nodded politely as he drew close to the others, but chose not to break the silence with a spoken greeting. From the carriage of the assembled, there seemed to be something almost sacred in the silence as they awaited the next step, and Keane held a strong respect for the sacred, even if his conception of sanctity had changed considerably over the past year.