December 14, 2003
.12.14.03. - rite of manflesh [mother larissa] *me

[new york city, central park, sept of the green - RETRO]

(james)
for one thing, it would have been a helluva lot easier to go back to Albany
the city was home, the Sept was Family - but that was only the silver lining
the crux of the problem presented itself in the black stormcloud of which the glittering lining surrounded
several years ago he did not depart the city on the best of terms
the subsequent visit to honor Sledge's mother's passing also didn't go incredibly well

James had hoped to avoid confrontation in the breif journey home
remaining anonymous and distant throughout the solem ceremony ending in celebration of the respected kin's life
to this day, the challenge issued by his ex-packmate's younger brother weighs heavily on his heart
as a child the Ahroun learned a Garou's life was too short to harbor regrets
yet he finds painful memories continue to gather dark pool lapping acid at the shores of his mind
the skirmish with the greiving Ragabash remains a rare thorn invsably worming into his side
Kyle never forgave him Sledge's death, no matter the undeniable fact she had fallen to the Wyrm
not even a Cliath at the time, the No Moon refused to believe a great Ahroun could do nothing to stop it
distraught, he could not forgive the perceived insult of the Gnawer's returned presence
removed from the celebration, the night ended in the frightening display of blood and fur

since, James has only returned to a small, deserted field north of the city
accompanied by nothing more than deep sorrow and - only once - his mate

such sorrows find themselves floating in the depths of umber eyes
reflecting liquidly the letters proclaiming the approach of Warrior's Gate
now was not the night to risk confrontation in such a time of need
these things are cast away when his mind clears passing beneath the barrier
they are not needed for completion of his task at hand
instead he remembers the success of earning rank few months past

from a strategic strap on the small duffle bag slung over his shoulder
two lengths of rebar find their way into his hands
at the site of a convenient boulder of granite the bag is lain beside his boots
and a series of strikes creates echoing rhythm offered at the feet of the bawn

bone rhythms
the high pitched melody which croons to the distant presence of Mera at Bethseda Fountain
the softer harmony to murmur in Mouse's meek ears nestled in the grasses of the Great Lawn
the strengthened beat which announces his presence

to any others, his departure would seem nothing more than a street performer unsatisfied with the acoustics of the rock

winter creates another landscape of Central Park
gone are the lazing citizens enjoying picnics on fields of lush green
the summer flowers that seemed to bloom for his acceptance as Fostern had become dormant
white dunes from recent storms throw glittering stars against the night's velvet sky
the trees reach for the ground beneath the weight of pristine, icy ornaments
frosted snow crunches mutely beneath the soles of secondhand boots
the tails of tattered trench flutter and play in the flurries of passage aftermath
dreads hang heavy to insulate warmth about his head and shoulders
breath plumes steam into the lamplit darkness

the path takes him past Stranger's Gate and around the slopes of The Great Hill
a quiet nod all that greets the curious looks, or perhaps the beginning of a (forever) lopsided smile
patience a virtue as whispers rocket through the Park's proverbial grapevine
he does not need to add to the cacophany of sound creeping in from the surrounding metropolis
there is a reason he chose to enter at the Park's northern border
it is not until he nears the path's split towards the Precinct that words pass his lips

"Flaaaash."

the familiar greeting offered as the public relations Garou materializes slickly out of the shadows
dark eyes slanted to the side when the Glasswalker joins his trek
and soon the two pause beside a bench to exchange a concise set of pleasentries
all a means of returning to another's territory covered before the Gnawer attends to the matter
while desperately ignoring the overwhelming Pine Sol scent burning his sinuses from the nearby Ross Pinetum

"I need Moth'r's help." Chiminage paid in the form of bills pressed into Simon Gentle's hand, the sheer amount donated to the park's maintenance perhaps explaining the depth of his need. "Will sh' see me?"

A brow on Simon's head lifts in curiosity at the change in James' pattern of speech, the tell-tale ridge along the line of his jaw which inspires query to the battlescar, and remains lofted during a quick thumb through of the cash; but the Philodox's cool and calm demeanor never once betrays a thought. Moments stretch to minutes before the nod comes. Slowly. Controlled. "Wait by the Elm."

"As Sim'n se'z." Countered with a showman's wink - he understands Flash's need for acceptance and reinforcement though makes nothing of it, overtly - the duffle stuffed with several sets of winter clothing and two blankets wrapped around four family size cans of Thick'n'Chunky soup for those that need it left on the bench for the other to take. "Chim." Bag tapped lightly with the tips of rebar. "S'f'r Spotli'."

-------

"What's this I hear about you messin' up your pretty face?" The words ring crisply above the sound of a battered shopping cart's wheels twenty minutes after James took residence on a bench facing the magnificent tree at the southern end of the lawn "Didn't I warn you to be careful with your new rank?"

elbows pull off his knees and jungle-vine ropes of hair slide over shoulders when James turns
removing himself from study of the ancient tree to take in the visage of the ancient Garou
dark eyes shining with a certain fondness for the skinny, unkept bag lady parking her cart behind his bench
the Ahroun slides to the opposite end, shrugging off his coat to bunch on the seat as a make-shift pad
shoulders hunching to protect himself from further exposure to New York's unforgiving weather

"You'll catch your death of cold." Matronly quipped to accompany the sharp string of bony fingers flicking contact with his ear, his greeting replaced by an overreactive wince. The Theurge, however, primly takes her place on the warm jacket regardless of her admonishing, as they both know the cold is the least of his worries. The younger Gnawer merely ducks his head at the scold and (mostly) covers the creeping smile with a well-timed swing of dreadlock curtain bowing to the pull of gravity, mutely apologizing with the offer of a new packet of beef jerky. "So tell me." Paused as strong teeth sever a mouthful of preserved beef for thoughtful chewing, sharp eyes peering from beneath her jacket's hood to all but physically bore through James. "What's brought you all the way back to New York?"

the conclusion of the statement in reference to the Athro's prospect of helping and caring for the Fostern shown only by the youthfully warm glow rising in aged eyes

eyes of the deepest umber hold the studiously raptorish gaze
then sweep away in a show of respect that (so far) keeps his tailbone off the frozen ground
lower lip pulls beneath the nibbling attention of his teeth
left thumb presses on the back of right wrist for a moment's pause
the layers of sweaters hiding dedication's tattoos across upper arm
the wicked steel weapons safely concealed for the duration of his request

"There' trouble in Ch'cago, Moth'r." His voice is soft, his eyes deliberately miss Larissa's scowl at first hearing the slur, glancing instead once more to her eyes in hopes of finding recognition for the battlescar which causes it. "Pack follow' th' call a save th' dyin' caer'..... but coupla'th'r Tribe'n me. We foun' maneat'rs, too." He catches this particular scowl, it's joined by a rather distasteful look of his own. "'s our duty a wipe'm out." The matriarch's jaw tips in subtle, chewing, nod. "Jus' like it my duty, 's highes' rank Gnaw'r a those we know, t' seek out s'm'ne a teach me th' Rite a Manflesh so we c'n be sure those we fin'r guil'y."

at the last, his speech had begun to slow. soften.
the Elder Gnawer would not need her astute, piercing gaze to find this weakness
James harbors the still open wounds across his soul as plainly as the ashed scars on his back
he is an Ahroun, one of Gaia's Warriors, born for the sole purpose of being Her weapon
yet already he has been forced to act as a Half Moon and weigh the guilt of suspect Garou
in his mind, he will never be able to wash the blood of his former pack from his hands
even if he knew - beyond any doubt - they had fallen into the irreversible darkness of the Abyss
the monumental weight of making such decisions again is not one he is prepared to take lightly
(he could not bear to destroy an innocent life even one more time)
this is the admission writ in the eyes that lift to Larissa's

"Will y' help me learn't?"

(st)


[email scene in progress]

Posted by james at December 14, 2003 12:00 AM