Tate Eastgate ☾ Alloy

The Fall Festival has turned Alloy into something louder than usual—which says a lot for the sleepy little Appalachian town. It's a kind of chaos that makes Tate occasionally wonder if hiding in the woods until the weekend is over would really be that irresponsible.

Main Street is closed to traffic and the red maples lining the street are strung with lights. Stalls with everything. Crafts with hand-knitted socks, soap vendors with scents called Whiskey & Birch or Hollar Moon, and a stall with kitschy signs like Blessed and Fall Obsessed. Food stalls have everything from massive paper bags of kettle corn, cider and wine—with a not so subtle option for moonshine, roasted corn, and pepperoni rolls alongside turkey legs.

Behind the packhouse— the converted old church— some members have grills and a chili cook-off set up. And all around are different activities, cake walks, a live bluegrass band, and Roan's pick-up has been converted to a hayride for the kids.

None of which distracts from the lively crowd of werewolves that have descended upon Alloy, neighboring packs from all over the Eastern seaboard coming in to see the sanctuary pack under the guise of a street festival.

Tate has spent the last three days managing visiting Alphas, smoothing over territorial posturing, and making sure no one mistakes Alloy's kindness for weakness. It's exhausting, but he keeps smiling and sighing.

Now he's by the main stage between sets, helping a few older teens wrestle one of the banners that had come loose back into place. It was supposed to read: Welcome to Alloy's 47th Annual Fall Festival. But currently it read: Welcome to Allo.

"Tate, hold this—no, the other side—"

He catches the fabric before it can tangle in the scaffolding, adjusts his grip and shoots the teenager 'holding' his ladder a look that's aiming for patience and looks like judgement. "You know, if you'd just listened when I said to use the brackets—"

"Yeah, yeah, you're always right, we know." The boy grins, unbothered, and finishes securing his end. "There. See? Teamwork!"

"That's one word for it." The beta shakes his head and manages to take a step before the next crisis.

But it's not a crisis that finds him—it's Mawmaw Jeanie, one of the pack's elders, approaching with a paper plate stacked high with food and a look that says she's not taking no for an answer.

"Now don't you start," she says, her thick Appalachian accent softening her words. "I been watching you run yourself ragged all day and you ain't stopped once to eat."

She hushes him when he tries to argue.

"You're skinny as a rail and just about took off Morgan's head for the banner falling off." She thrusts the plate at him—two pepperoni rolls still warm from the oven and something fried on a stick beside it...pumpkin pie, maybe? Judging by the triangle shape. And some brisket stuck with a plastic fork. "Sit and eat."

Tate takes the plate because arguing with Mawmaw Jeanie is pointless. And he is starving. "Yes, ma'am."

She pats his arm, satisfied, then gives him a long measured look—the look that many of Alloy's residents give him. The look that tries to imagine what Alloy would be like if he'd taken the Alpha role from Roan.

She finally hums as she shuffles off. "You're a good boy, Tate."

He finds a spot on the steps of the packhouse, out of the way but still close enough to keep an eye on things. He's halfway through the last pepperoni roll when raised voices cut through the festival noise.

Tate throws his head back, willing the chaos to not escalate so he can finish eating. No shot. Whatever trouble is brewing is getting more attention and Tate abandons his plate on the porch.

Near one of the craft stalls, a visiting wolf—older and with that traditional pack bullshit painted all over him—is standing too close to someone Tate doesn't recognize. The guy has tension in every line of his body, but he's not backing down. Not submissive. Just cornered.

"—belong here, all right," the visitor is intentionally speaking loud enough to draw attention. "Wolves like you make real packs look pathetic. Crawling to a sanctuary because you couldn't handle—"

"Hey." Tate's voice cuts through without needing volume. He's already walking across the street, hands raised in a what the fuck, bro gesture. "We got a problem?"

The older visitor turns, sizing Tate up, likely recognizes the beta and makes assumptions. "No problem. Just having a conversation."

"Didn't look like a conversation." Tate's smile is pleasant and doesn't reach his eyes. He squares up, stepping between this asshole and the wolf he was trying to pick a fight with. "Looked like you were being an asshole at my pack's festival. So here's what you can do: you can apologize and walk away, have yourself a nice time until you chill the fuck out. Or you can get off our mountain. Your choice."

For a beat it seems like it could go either way. The old man's jaw works, clearly wanting to push back, but something in Tate's steady, unblinking stare makes him reconsider. He mutters something that might be an apology and stalks off toward the parking lot.

"You alright?" he asks, voice softer now, genuine. Then, because he's Tate and can't help himself but throw on that charm. "Welcome to Alloy, by the way. I'm Tate, local beta and crisis management."

He studies him for a moment—calm, assessing, but not invasive. Just trying to figure out what he's dealing with.

"First time at the festival? Or..." A pause, careful. "First time looking for sanctuary?"

The Fall Festival has turned Alloy into something louder than usual—which says a lot for the sleepy little Appalachian town. It’s a kind of chaos that makes Tate occasionally wonder if hiding in the woods until the weekend is over would really be that irresponsible.

Main Street is closed to traffic and the red maples lining the street are strung with lights. Stalls with everything. Crafts with hand-knitted socks, soap vendors with scents called Whiskey & Birch or Hollar Moon, and a stall with kitschy signs like Blessed and Fall Obsessed. Food stalls have everything from massive paper bags of kettle corn, cider and wine—with a not so subtle option for moonshine, roasted corn, and pepperoni rolls alongside turkey legs.

Behind the packhouse— the converted old church— some members have grills and a chili cook-off set up. And all around are different activities, cake walks, a live bluegrass band, and Roan’s pick-up has been converted to a hayride for the kids.

None of which distracts from the lively crowd of werewolves that have descended upon Alloy, neighboring packs from all over the Eastern seaboard coming in to see the sanctuary pack under the guise of a street festival.

Tate has spent the last three days managing visiting Alphas, smoothing over territorial posturing, and making sure no one mistakes Alloy’s kindness for weakness. It’s exhausting, but he keeps smiling and sighing.

Now he’s by the main stage between sets, helping a few older teens wrestle one of the banners that had come loose back into place. It was supposed to read: Welcome to Alloy’s 47th Annual Fall Festival. But currently it read: Welcome to Allo.

“Tate, hold this—no, the other side—”

He catches the fabric before it can tangle in the scaffolding, adjusts his grip and shoots the teenager ‘holding’ his ladder, a look that's aiming for patience and looks like judgement. "You know, if you'd just listened when I said to use the brackets—"

“Yeah, yeah, you’re always right, we know.” The boy grins, unbothered, and he finishes securing his end. “There. See? Teamwork!”

“That’s one word for it.” The beta shakes his head and manages to take a step before the next crisis.

But it’s not a crisis that finds him—it’s Mawmaw Jeanie, one of the pack’s elders, approaching with a paper plate stacked high with food and a look that says she’s not taking no for an answer.

“Now don’t you start,” She says, her thick Appalachian accent softens her words. “I been watching you run yourself ragged all day and you ain’t stopped once to eat.”

She hushes him when he tries to argue.

“You’re skinny as a rail and just about took off Morgan’s head for the banner falling off.” She thrusts the plate at him—two pepperoni rolls still warm from the oven and something fried on a stick beside it...pumpkin pie, maybe? Judging by the triangle shape. And some brisket stuck with a plastic fork. “Sit and eat.”

Tate takes the plate because arguing with Mawmaw Jeanie is pointless. And he is starving. “Yes, ma’am.”

She pats his arm, satisfied, then gives him a long measured look—the look that many of Alloy’s residences give him. The look that tries to imagine what Alloy would be like if he’d taken the Alpha role from Roan.

She finally hums as she shuffles off. “You’re a good boy, Tate.”

He finds a spot on the steps of the packhouse, out of the way but still close enough to keep an eye on things. He’s halfway through the last pepperoni roll when raised voices cut through the festival noise.

Tate throws his head back, willing the chaos to not escalate so he can finish eating. No shot. Whatever trouble is brewing is getting more attention and Tate abandons his plate on the porch.

Near one of the craft stalls, a visiting wolf—older and with that traditional pack bullshit painted all over him—is standing too close to someone Tate doesn’t recognize. The stranger has tension in every line of their body, but they’re not backing down. Not submissive. Just cornered.

“—belong here, all right,” The visitor is intentionally speaking loud enough to draw attention. “Wolves like you make real packs look pathetic. Crawling to a sanctuary because you couldn't handle—”

“Hey.” Tate’s voice cuts through without needing volume. He’s already walking across the street, hands raised in a what the fuck, bro gesture. “We got a problem?”

The older visitor turns, sizing Tate up, likely recognizes the beta and makes assumptions. "No problem. Just having a conversation."

"Didn't look like a conversation." Tate's smile is pleasant and doesn't reach his eyes. He squares up, stepping between this asshole the wolf he was trying to pick a fight with. "Looked like you were being an asshole at my pack's festival. So here's what you can do: you can apologize and walk away, have yourself a nice time until you chill the fuck out. Or you can get off our mountain. Your choice.”

For beat it seems like it could go either way. The old man’s jaw works, clearly wanting to push back, but something in Tate's steady, unblinking stare makes him reconsider. He mutters something that might be an apology and stalks off toward the parking lot.

Tate watches him go, makes sure he's actually leaving, then turns his attention to the stranger.

"You alright?" he asks, voice softer now, genuine. Then, because he's Tate and can't help himself but throw on that charm. "Welcome to Alloy, by the way. I'm Tate, local beta and crisis management."

He studies them for a moment—calm, assessing, but not invasive. Just trying to figure out what he's dealing with.

"First time at the festival? Or..." A pause, careful. "First time looking for sanctuary?"