March 19, 2003.03.18.03. - the bluntling! [rune-livingston-pack][north jersey]
(rune)
The brief stint of spring-like weather - highs in the 50s, lows in the 30s - is beginning to fade. It's cold outside, and a blanket of orange clouds covers the sky, reflecting the city lights back down to the earth like the aftermath of a holocaust. Quiet, in the development. Most lights are on, and people are going about their evening routines: television, or the internet, or perhaps a book or the newspaper before bedtime.The Beemer (purple, metallic) pulls into a space in front of the condo. Headlights flash off the downstairs neighbor's bay window, and are then cut off entirely. The engine follows a moment later.
Rune climbs out of the driver's seat, a bag of take-out swinging in her left hand, keys jingling in her right. She pops the trunk and grabs a bundle from within, then pushes it gingerly closed (never slammed) and takes the stairs two at at time. The moon is hidden behind the clouds, but it is still a pregnant present in the back of the Ahroun's mind, made worse, no doubt, by the irritation of the last few days. Keys jingle in her hands as she fumbled at the door, juggling the two burdens, and then she's inside. High heels on carpet, high heels clattering against linoleum as she rounds to the kitchen, depositing the bag of food on the counter, before heading back to the laundry room. The bundle is dumped into the washer, liberally laced with bleach and detergent, before she pops the washer on. Then it's out to the back balcony, fumbling for a smoke, lifting her eyes to the cloud-covered sky.
(james)
the moon's been full
heavy and swollen and glaring down from the sky
even with the clouds thick and gray above
he can still feel that silver stare watching every movethe balcony door slides open
Rune's heels are sharp on the tiles
the sound pulling deep umber eyes from where they browsed the horizon
studying that nuclear orange glow: the city's perpetual sunset
long breath expels a plume of harsh smoke to fog further in the chill
and he's stretching one arm to offer the joint to the Walkerhe's been gone since before the weekend
and now he's appeared just as suddenly and without word
one Bone Gnawer stretched out on the patio chair
boots on the railing, propping the chair up at angles mom would lecture
dreads hanging some cape behind as they reach towards the floor(livingston)
The Eagle Pack's revelotionary Theurge is wearing his casual, trashy outfight tonight (like he does every other night for that matter.) Dogtags around his neck, casting reflections of spiritual essence, worn-out Khakis that is due for some serious time in the washer machine. Yeah, Livingston doesn't care to much about material stuff like having mainstream appearance, nor demenour created by the captialstic society that he unfortunately have sworn to protect alongside with his packmates. His scawny fingers wrapped around the lit joint snap for a moment as he flings away some gray ashes. "Fuckin' cold outside tonight." mutters he under his breath as he brings the Mary Jane closer to his lip, and takes a hit worth waiting for.(dire)
The Jetta comes pulling up to the condo. A little goose of gass at the end to make the turn. Neon green ground effects glowing till it powere doen and Dire steps out. He streches and closes the door heading for the stairs.
He's dressed in his usual get up. Steel toed boots, Jeans, overlarge black leather jacket, but tonight Danni seems to have dressed him in a silk shirt. Black. The black ballcap with the red explination poiint is on pulled low. He roates his left shoulder and grunts.(rune)
Rune flickers a glance a James, both brows lifting in brief question, before she lifts her chin in a nod up to Livingston, in the nigh-universal pack greeting. The pair of them, James and Livingston, are more likely to be taken for packmates than Livingston and Rune. She is dressed to the (somewhat subdued) nines as usual in leather pants, high heeled leather boots, a white camisole that has settled silken against her lean torso, wears a suede blazer as ward against the cold."Always fucking cold out here," the Glass Walker mutters, leaning back against the rough brick wall of the condo. "Fucking always cold."
She takes the joint, takes a hit, and passes it on, pulls a pink cigarette from her colorful pack and lights it, for good measure. Because one can never have enough smoke in one's lungs. Stretching out one long, lean leg, she taps her booted toes lightly on the back rung of James' chair. "Where you been?"
(james)
one in worn khaki's, dogtags, ratty jacket and dreads
one in worn BDUs, some travelworn sweater, torn up patchwork trench, and dreads
one in leather and suede and silken creamy white, sans dreadseasy to tell which two would naturally pack
but regardless, the joint keeps a smooth rotation
even the hazy smoke undisturbed by two Ahrouns trapped on a balcony beneath the full moon
hit, hold.... and pass once again"Back home."
voice just as quiet as the smoke on the breeze
(dire)
He heads on up the steps. Steel toed boots clomping. He nods to those there as his lanky frame accends.(decker)
Convergence, is what they call this. On the tail of Dire's Jetta is Decker's Tacoma. Engine dies, Modi gets out. Blistering rage trails like the aurora fuckin borealis, nearly visible on this full-moon night, a shimmer of heat, a sheen of electricity.Stompin up the stairs to pull the nearest joint out of the nearest hand (Livingston's, as it turns out), sucks down a huge hit. Coughs. "Jesus," coughing still, "hell you put in it? Like smokin oak bark."
(dire)
He hikes up onto the rail. His balance like always, perfect and uncanny. Ok... well not always. He fell once but it was the goblin's fault. He watches.(lucca)
Lucca was a young man. 18 at best. Bearing his Line. The Dusky skin. the thin figure with nice features if not for the fact that they were so plain. Muscled and clearly strong he still moved with dexterity as he made his way along the streets. Coming in from the north. Backpack on his back. Golden necklace of egyptian design on his neck. Eye of Ra tattoo around his own and egyptian design Tattoo's down his left arm in basic and yet intricate pattern. He moved with a way that spoke of being used to traveling. Carrying the faintest touch of death to the perceptive even now.(livingston)
It's hard to tell Livingston's ethnic origin with the black hood pulled up over his head tonight. Only sporadic spaces on his face are uncoverved with shadows or those thick, black, curly, dreadslocks that stick out from the hood pulled over his head. "As cold as a day without, Ganja, My Lady." He replies, never taking his blood-red eyes away from the passing joint. Ever so slowly, almost in slow-motion (probably because he's stoned like a muthafuck!) he draws off the hood from his head and releases those majestic dreads to breathe the air for a few good seconds before he turns, tosses James a greeting, and heads back inside.You can fool some people sometime
But you can't fool all the people all the time
So now you see the light
You gotta stand up for your rightAs always, hearing Bob Marleys' voice in the periphery of his mind wherever he goes...
"Hey, you full-moon dick. I hope you brought with me some Zagnutz? No? Skittles? C'mon, man, you know I kinda dig Snickerbars..." Only time Livingston has the gutts to talk to Decker like that is when, well, when he's married with his beloved bride, Mary Jane with a capital M.
(imogen)
"Just don't boke in my goddamned car," she'd informed the girl, reluctantly as she'd come to the conclusion that she was taking the inebriated kinfolk back to her place. Which perhaps resulted in a long query of exactly what boking was.This was likely a semi interesting car drive, done at ex.act.ly the speed limit. The sloshed minor in the passenger seat tempering her usual speed.
The black sleek mercedes purrs to a stop in her parking spot between Decker's tacoma and Rune's beemer. A dry sideways glance toward the younger kinfolk (tinted with amusement flickering behind dark blue eyes), waiting to see if she can handle the seatbelt herself. After a moment, a helpful press of the button for Nina, and Imogen is sliding out of the car, a hand dragging through her firey hair.
(rune)
"Yeah?" The word becomes a question, as Rune's voice rises on the tail end of the single syllable, drawing it out to make too, as if she'd been spending too much time around Decker, and the rest of the Get. Smoke spills from her mouth and nostrils, rises into the night, dissipating quietly.She snorts, briefly amused by Decker's comment, then glances away. Cigarette in one hand, joint in the other when it comes to her, she watches the horizon briefly, listens to the low roar of traffic on the parkway, shifts against the brick wall of the condo. "Good visit?" A brief pause, a flicker of a glance back at James. "You missed the fucking excitement this weekend."
Then she leans around and peers inside, watching Livingston as he stalks toward the kitchen. Goddamn, she just bought groceries. Fucking fridge'll be cleaned out in no time. Lifting her voice, "There's fucking take out on the counter."
(decker)
One hand behind him levers him up onto the balcony in a smooth strong assymmetric slide. It's cold, but not that cold (not after the fuckin fifteen degrees he lived through while Livingston smoked his joints, anyway) and frankly, rage kept him warm. His contribution to the balcony quotient destabilizes all equations; hunkered on the balustrade next to Dire, his rage is thick enough to breathe.Angry greys settle on Livingston. Heels caught between mass-sculpted sandstone posts, knees bent and thighs at a parallel to the floor, he's got elbows propped and one roughknuckled hand holding the joint to his face.
Ember flames.
Ember fades.Ashing the joint, he shifts his weight to the side and pulls a mashed-up Snickers outta his back pocket, tosses it silently at Livingston. Another stifled cough before some innate sense tugs at the base of his spine, and he turns.
Firey hair. Fuckin nice car. Mmhmm. Turn back. A tug of a smirk at the side of his mouth disappears quick as it came. He passes the joint back to Livingston. Dire resembles some bird of prey, lean and hawkish, perched; Decker resembles some anaconda, muscular and lazier, coiled, full of a hidden violence bleeding through the edges.
(bernadette matthews)
Pale skin.Stretched along the rounded featered of her fac like the pour of liquid ivory, moreso because of the reddish hue of cheeks and her nose.
"Man, Doc, y'live in a parking lot?" Apprently its some odd form of joke as the girl falls out of her side of the car. Grey-bright eyes shining as she leans on the beamer.
(james)
make that.... three Ahroun on the balcony
all converging beneath the shining light of the full moon
how anyone can come close is up to chance and guess
how anyone can survive that isn't blood is sheer luck
or has a great deal to do with the joint being passed around
at least the summation of the rage works like a fuckin' space heater"Not particularly." bit of a shrug rolls muscular shoulders beneath that trench "What happened?"
that's right Jamey-boy, change that subject like a pro
(livingston)
"Take out here, and take out there" he mimics Rune's voice like a 12 year old kid in grumbling grunts of words.BONK
The mashed up Snickerbar launched at Livingston lands right on the head. Too stoned to even bother, or to recognize Decker's gift that hits the floor in a sudden thump, he swings the door to the fridge open and just smiles with joy. "Oh yeah...."
(dire)
His brows raise. He doesn't turn. He does sniff. Then turns. Looks down at the parkling lot and damn if he doesnt look like some merlin pervhed up there. Mayby an oversized goshawk. He peers down at the kinfolks with those glacers heart ice eyes. Observes and then turns back to listen to pack.In his mind he picks up the ol Totem phone. Pushes the mental button For deckers extention. Waits for the call to connect though the haze of tree bark pot and then speaks.
~~ Mate..... and a drunk chick. I didn't do it.~~
(lucca)
Lucca wore simple clothes. jeans. A t-shirt. A Length of red silk acting as a belt. A couple of patches of blues and greens. Seemingly nothing seeming things. But sometimes such things were decieving. Specially to those of his family line. A Car zipped around a corner past him. Quick thinking and with reflexes like lightning what was stepping off the curb was suddenly turned into taking a step back for the nearly 6 foot tall figure as the car practically bounced off where he'd been standing to just continue on it's path and away. He scowled and watched it from the corner for a good 30 seconds before finally stepping off the curb as he had intended. And it's all just punctuated as a person that had been coming up to make sure he was ok suddenly changed their mind and made as if they were simply in a hurry as they crossed the street away from the direction he was heading.(decker)
A snort that might've, might've been amusement as the snickers BONKs Livingston. Then the call with Dire connects. Rage backwashes through like a high tide bursting a dam.'F I was you, I ain't gonna complain none. Lazy drawl, not a chance of expression. Maybe she's takeout fer you.
She's not, but hopefully Dire won't take him personally.
(imogen)
"Yes, Nina," she answers as she rounds the car, her hand trailing lightly around the hood of the car, coming to help, one hand support against the hood of the car, and grabbing the girl by the arm, and tugging her up right, "I live in a parking lot."Once the girl's upright, the smaller redhead keeps a hand lightly on her elbow for a moment, making sure the girl has her balance before adding drily, "Sometimes if I'm good I get to use one o' th'condos, though." Anglo accent, slip-sliding thicker, a burr, consonants rounded out, even out until they're hardly louder than the vowels. Her accent might be damned near impossible, if it hadn't been faded half the time.
(dire)
"Really?" Dire perks up. Having spoken outloud he turns and peers down again with a rather disconcerning grin. He's not a Full moon but he is a get and possesses a touch of rage more than your adverage pansy gaian or somthing. He watches most intently now.
The ball cap pulled low leaves most of his face in shadow but that grin shines out like a great white.(rune)
"Take out everywhere." The Beta smirks, red mouth finding its natural, non-chalant curve. "Fuck you, Bramble."Three Ahroun on the balcony, and a crazy Get Skald. One stoned Theurge in the kitchen, finding Nirvana as the fridge light turns on. One joint, smoked down to the nibs. Another light, easy as anything, and passed along.
It's gotta be the pot that makes all this palatable. Everyone else in the near vicinity has wisely fled, the rage on the balcony is near to overwhelming. "Fucking Theurge camping out in our territory, out in Newark. Said it wasn't our fucking territory. Decker fucked 'im up, then some fucking No-Moon came outta nowhere, acting like he owned the fucking place." Rune pauses, passes on the joint, takes another drag off our cigarette. "You know, excitement, the usual."
(dire)
His voice absently rolls out in his melodic norm. QUiet as his keen eyes investigate the present Decker just gave him"Gonna fuck him up later...."
(livingston)
"Nope. Not that one, tried it 3 times last night. Nope, not that one either." Talking to himself as those glazy eyes navigate and sweep through the continets of the fridge. "Oh? Fuck me? We'll see about that my precious Beta..." whispered so low and slurry it's impossible to hear. A gloating smirk flares up on Livingston's face as he pulls out a thejar with piccles (damn right, that jar is gonna go back with the lid screwed on and only water insde.)(bernadette)
She can't stop giggling.A strange sound, almost infectious like rushing streams--fed on the currents of some joke or the other. Woobily she she's walking, a smile tugging at her lips even as she's directed toward the staircase, "..Funny. But ah'thought we're goin' to'th'condo?" And the brief expression of befuddlement is priceless before she starts giggling again.
Long strands of brightly colored layers of blonde hair swing and catch [..sunlight under glass..] against her unstable gait of her steps -- and the blowing of the wind. YOUr guess which is more pronounced. Fingers GRIP the railing and she pulls herself up as if she were mountain climbing--most of her weight concentrated in her arms...
"..does yer house look'ah'll brit-sy?"
(james)
excitement, the usual
the story doesn't particularly surprise him
nice to know they're dealing with territorial disputes rather than what's been "the usual" lately
so he doesn't exactly complain
rather he's stretching out beneath that layer of palatable rage
soaking up the invisable heat that washes off of it
fuckin' thing's gotta be good for something
the joint's down to a roach, now
and he doesn't need that much anyway
so he's lighting up a Camel instead
black Zippo's trademark CLACK! snapping closed"What? You mean the no-moon's still walkin?"
smirked as a brow lifts
looking back to his packmates
seems the Gnawer's in a ripe mood tonight
or so fucking stoned out of his mind he isn't editing the comments as per usual(imogen)
"I 'aven't got a clue what defines a 'brit'sy' 'ouse," she answers, words half paused as she pauses as Nina bumps against her shoulder, a hand reaching out to steady the kinfolk, "I guess you'll have to decide fer yerself."A narrowed eyed glance, (amusement laughs, where her lips don't even twitch) as she half pauses to tilt her chin up to survey the younger girl. "I," she declares, "am never takin' you out drinkin' again."
By now, Nina must be feeling the shudder of the Garou's rage (everyone else near the vicinity has wisely fled). Imogen surely has, her attention finally flickering from the seriously sloshed blonde, to the collection of Garou (rage burns) on the neighbouring porch. It's hard to say if Bernadette's alcohol level makes the rage more bearable, or just that much worse.
(lucca)
He crossed the street. In plain sight and easily seen. He crosses the street and stops. setting his pack down a moment and opening it. shifting some things around and then gathers the bag up again. Slinging it over his purebred shoulder and started walking again. glad that so far he hadn't been a beacon for much of anything.(decker)
You'd think he couldn't hear the street from here but - boy's got sensitive ears. Another glance over his shoulder, over Imogen and Nina's heads, all the way out to where Lucca is."Company," a muttered word directed at Rune. Her choice who she decides to send out for the official greeting. Not him, though. Soon as that's said the Modi slides down off the balustrade, the sweatshirt riding up his back to catch on the waistband of his lowslung jeans before he flips it down and, thug-swaying, follows Livingston into the condo.
Where's that fuckin takeout?
(dire)
Dire's still watching like some perched angel of death onm a churire or something. Then the Eyes flicker up to Lucca(rune)
Rune snorts under her breath and shoots Dire a brief, sharp glare, some of the lovely full-moon angst finding its way through the pleasantly expanding bubble of almost-goodfeeling filtering through the rage. She shifts her cigarette from one hand to the other, takes a last drag, and flings the butt into the sand-filled coffee can by the door.Lights another, and sinks another half-inch down the wall in her easy slouch.
"Fucking hell." It's the clink of glass against the metal shelves of the fridge that draws the comment, or maybe just the full moon above. "Yeah," muttered beneath her breath. "Still fucking walking. Dire - " lifting her voice, lifting her chin in the metis' direction, she continues, "you wanna fuck him up, challenge a no-moon for talking smack, you challenge him and do it fucking right. You don't like that order, Erik might overrule me. You got the fingers you wanted. Otherwise, it's fucking done."
(bernadette)
Blink.When she finally feels the rage, and her pace quickens fractionally "Lars's up there." The Georgian drawls with a faint grin, the radiant tension just reminiscent of her association with the lummock [who was certinly NOT there.] her hair is annoyedly, pushed after her shoulders with a sweeop [..daytime.. it reminds you of early morning sky--too bright.] Hard to feel much of anything but the inner procession of her thoughts..
"Ah'didn't know ya'hung out w'Lars."
More giggling.
(rune)
Company Decker says, and Rune lifts her gaze, following the trail of his eyes out to Lucca. The Glass Walker snorts beneath her breath and glances around the pack.Whom to send?
Livingston's stoned, Dire's crazy, Decker's raging, and James - the easy-going member of the pack - is just as bad. So: it's her. That's the choice, and not necessarily a good one with the moon full in the sky, but the best there is, today.
Taking a drag from her cigarette, she pushes off the brick wall ambles down the long staircase. Yeah, it's a beeline for Lucca alright.
They're coming outta the woodwork tonight.
(dire)
Dire is still watching like some perched angel of death on a church spire or something. Then eyes flicker up to Lucca.
His voice comes out quiet"He disrespected me 13 times and waned to stare me down. HE started it, I'll just finish it. He stays clear of me, he's fine. If not.. well that's fine too. Can't back down from a challenge. WOuldn't be prudent."
(lucca)
He didn't notice the approach of Rune right away. Because he simply wasn't looking for it. But he did notice as she got closer and it was noticable she was heading straight for him. The backpack shifts. Hand on the latch. Stopping dead in his tracks to see what was bout to go down. Purebreeding of his tribe Bleeding off his lean form as he watched her.(imogen)
"Uhm." A quiet sound, in the back of her throat, as her eyes flicker up toward the balcony once more, Rune stepping off, and heading toward .... great. New comer. James. Livingston."Lars isn' there, Nina," a flicker of a frown across her face, though she makes no move to yet stop the other girl from heading that way, should she really be all that inclined.
(bernadette)
Delayed.
[.................................reaction.]She's still moving up the stairs, one shaky step after another. And its not QUITE as if he's a mess, but certainly intoxicated, the colored of thin winges against the rail bleeds white with the pressure of her grip. Her gaze follows the woman jumpinng off of the balcony and then--
she blinks back to Doc. "Oh."
(rune)
The Glass Walker has no pure breed of which to speak. None at all, in fact, mongrel like all her damn tribe. What she has, though, is confidence, in spades. It pours from her lean form, shapes the long, easy strides of long, leather clad legs into something more than a mere walk - something closer to the slow, swaying gait of a predator, and an urban one to boot.And what she has - under the full moon, now - is rage kept under the most narrow of reins. At some of the other buildings a quarter mile away, people were milling on their porches, soaking in the breath of spring that comes with a fine, cool night. Here, the balconies and porches are empty, except for one pair, separated by a short jump over a balustrade.
"You're on Eagle turf," the tall woman says, lifting her pink cigarette to her painted red mouth. "Coming to make a full introduction?"
Newcomer. Lots of those, lately.
(james)
Company
Decker follows Livingston to the mecca that is FrigidAire
Dire perches like a bugnut gargoyle
Imogen drags a plastered kin up the stairway
(nod up)
Rune jaunts off to meet'n'greet
James? He lets the front legs of the chair smack down the tile
shifting to join Dire on the balcony railing, or at least where railing meets stairs
(that angle of support far more sitting space than the single bar)
stoned as fuck, and that's probably why he takes the balancing chance
one leg thrown over so he can go the rest of the way with much more speed than style
not that the Walker can't hold her own
he's just not one to pay half-assed attention should something happen(livingston)
While the packmembers are outside, or inside, doing their thing Livingston is cooking up food in the kitchen. Plates, pots, forks, kitchen-knives you name fly about as he's getting his groove on. Whatever he's making the ooze and the sizzling sound coming out from the kitchen only concludes one thing. Yeah, that's right, Livingston is doing it again. He's playing the "restaurant owner"... Better that than the night before, though, when he was playing Police officer. I mean, standing outside in the traffic and flashing a fake badge, and tell people to pull over because he considered having a bad haircut was a crime wasn't exactly a smart thing to do. Nevermind, when shit really hit the fan Livingston was bad ass Cresent moon. The type of Cresent Moon that you don't wanna fuck with or only Gaia knows what sick painspirits he would bind in your butt-cheeks. That's why he's part of the Eagle pack. He's the spiritual arbitrator believe it or not. The very key for perpetuating this pack.Right now? He's apparently stoned a little too much. Just leave him be.... for now.
"I'M GONNA BE IRON, LIKE A LION...IN ZION..." And the singing continues.
(dire)
He winces as Liv sings and looks to James with a "Do you hear that SHIT sort of look. Chuckels. Checks out the drunk girl again and dismisses her. Danni'd kick his ass and looks out watching Rune too. He twitches and points "Goblin." Off to the right of rune and Lucca. As if telling James so they could both keep an eye on it.(lucca)
"Eagle turf? Sounds like a gang. Why would that concern a wanderer like me that's just been passing through?" his eyes narrow slightly and his muscles tense.(dire)
Seeing Lucca tense, oh yes. Dire sees it. Those frosty blues see it Righously. He turns on the rail too. Limbs seemingly with extra joints or something coil. His legs coming up. The heels of his boots catching the rail and rasiing him off his ass. Botrh arms inbetween his legs gripping the rail too. NOW he looks more like a bug nut gargyole. All knees and long limbs.(imogen)
A flicker of attention toward James as she catches his nod, a dark blue-eyed glance, before she glances toward Bernadette, an eyebrow arching slightly toward the girl.A shrug of her shoulders, suede jacket shifting with the movement, "Sorry," she comments inanely, a hand reaching up to tug through vibrant strands of hair, loose fallen over her shoulders to spill across her face with any which breeze that may catch them. Even a cant of her head sends it back into her dark eyes.
Like the Eagle pack can perhaps feel Lucca's breeding, so too, can he perhap catch the redhead's leaning in that direction. Pure blood. Good breeding. All coveted things in this world, and the small slender woman, seems to have her own share.
"Want a coffee'r something?" she inquires, tilting her head toward the blonde kinfolk, attention flickering toward the neighbouring condo from time to time.
(decker)
Inside, the Modi sheds his sweatshirt. Wifebeater and jeans now, he drags up a stool and hoists himself up at the breakfast bar like he was expecting Livingston to serve him. But pickles ain't his taste, so he leans a forearm on the smooth slick top of the breakfast bar instead, reaching out to riffle through the boxes crowded on the counter.Chicken...chicken...chicken...beef. Smells different, looks different. Texture's darker, richer. Cold by now, but just as good. The carton jumps at a twitch of his fingers, spiraling out across the bartop to be stopped neatly by the fingertips of his other hand. Chopsticks. Chopsticks? Nope, all gone. Anyway Decker just uses 'em to stab the meat like an unwieldy fork.
Fingers, baby. While he's grabbing food into his mouth like he ain't never been edumacated for manners, his eyes don't even look down at what he's doing. Splatter? You bet. He care? Hell no. That's what the maid is for.
Livingston's cooking. That ain't good. Decker keeps a wary eye on the Theurge, making sure he don't light nothing on fire. Himself included.
Carrots and pickles are dumped in together, followed by half a frozen pizza and three hot dog links. Decker don't care; he ain't eating that shit anyways. "Better not put that pickle jar back inna the fridge empty," he comments after a while. Sucking sauce off his finger, he continues, "Last time Rune had a fuckin' fit 'n a half."
(james)
goblin, one o'clock, roger that
chin covered in eleven o'clock shadow drops in nod
there's a bit of an amused acknowledgement
he hears that shit allright
he's also heard Livingston when not quite up to singing par
but it's the newcomer he's concerned about
on his own journey that's got him trekking through the mountains far far far from sobriety
he doesn't quite see what the Skald does
but he reacts to that preperatory reaction
sliiiiiiiiding off that railing
boots finding their wait halfway down the steps
one guttered Camel flicked to a remnant puddle off in the grass
he's lighting up another
carefully watching the Walker and the stranger(rune)
"Gee." The single word, flatly spoken, is accompanied by the edge of a caustic crimson smirk. The Glass Walker crosses her arms, careful to keep the smoldering tip of her cigarette away from the fine suede of her expensive blazer, "I don't know. Good breeding doesn't fucking exempt you from the usual courtesies, does it?"She pauses, and jerks her head back toward the balconies, where Imogen - and all her good breeding - stands, and Dire and James loom like a pair of gargoyles. "Not the sort of thing to be done in the middle of the street. We can do it in there, though."
Then she turns and saunters back toward her porch, clearly expecting him to follow.
(lucca)
"good breeding doesn't make me stupid either." He watches her for a bit then moves after her. Bag still in front of him. Hand still on clasp. Muscles keyed for what may be thrown at him.(livingston)
Livingston's dreadlocks rapidly spray to the right as he turns to answer Decker "Look, lissen, I know that you know that I know that I dind't to that on purpose." Another smirk flares up on his face "How do ya want it. Medium, rare or shit-brown? Hehehe. I'm just fuckin' with ya." He trows the carrot back into the pot and turns around to keep doing what he's doing - cooking up the whole goddamn kitchen.(bernadette)
Purebreed.
[..its not just for garou anymore.]But how anyone call tell this smallish [particularly inebriated] form is nOT garou is anyone's guess. The curving round of her cheekbones or the hollow of her throat [ Now, thrown back as an idea takes possesion of her intoxicated mind.] all denote the sort of breeding that made one remember..
..courtly things...
[the royal tinkerer at'cher serve m'liege.]"Y'cuz ah'been wanting to tell you about mah' new 'speriment."
(decker)
Decker, he keeps to his cold mongolian beef. Fuck that shit Livingston was making. He wasn't no Fianna, didn't have that handy dandy resist toxin gift. Him, he'd probably take one bite and die in agonized throes.Fingers are fishing through cold syrupy sauce to dig out the last slices of beef. The broccoli he leaves in there for the next unfortunate soul. Maybe Imogen or Nina were vegetarians. Cleaning his fingers off on his pants, he clips the box shut and slides it away.
Both forearms crossed on the breakfast bar now, the Modi leans his weight up to peer over the Theurge's shoulder at the pot. "Gonna actually eat that?"
(livingston)
"What are you smokin', man?" Funny how the Theurge, who probably came out from the womb of a weed plant, can say something like that "This is the finest LOTUS-stew you'll EVER find on the market." Glaring down the pot, then back towards Decker he whispers "the secret is in the spices I use. After tasting one of my stews you'll slide across the linoleum floor for weeks. Without stopping!"(rune)
Maybe the savage woman heard Lucca's retort. Maybe she didn't. She doesn't give any overt sign, as she continues walking. Over the curb, across the bit of sere winter grass for a shortcut that saves her all of .0005 seconds, then onto the walk and up the first set of stairs. She passes James, passes Dire, offering both her packmates a quick nod of acknowledgment for keeping an eye on her as she greeted the newcomer, then settles back against the wall, tossing the mostly finished cigarette into the sand-filled Maxwell House can by the door. Leaning back against the rought brick wall, she fishes another smoke from her pocket and at last glances up at Lucca, presuming he has followed her up the stairs.Her voice drops a notch or two, keeping the conversation private, as dark, khol-ringed eyes flicker over the Strider.
"Well, like I said," she announces, on a cloud of exhaled smoke. "This is Eagle territory. So, introduce yourself."
(decker)
"Ain't smokin' nothin'," a frisson of irritation, which comes so easily under his moon. In a single gesture the Modi pushes back from the breakfast and is on his feet. "Gonna fix that right now."As for sliding on linoleum, Decker had some guesses as to why. He'd rather not stop to consider them, though. Heading into the living room, he sits his ass down on Rune's couch, dirty feet planted like roots, and pulls Rune's tray of goodies over. His own cigarette paper, Rune's weed sprinkled in. None of that bong shit. Rune puts her mouth on that, and god knows where her mouth has been.
Quick 'n easy, he rolls himself a fatty and tucks back on the couch to light up, one foot on the edge of the coffee table, other ankle across the knee. The match is pulled to life across the wall behind his head, brow wrinkling up to watch its passage. He lights up and shakes the match out, tossing it right into the bong's mouth like Mike J scoring a three-pointer in his prime. Bullseye.
"Rune's finest," drawled at Livingston. Which is to say: better than your shit. "Want one?"
(james)
unlike the Modi inside
the scents coming out from the Theurge's concoction
at least what are bold enough to drift outside through the partially closed sliding door
are down. right. tempting.
(booyah, baby)
he's eaten things that haven't smelled half as recognizable
if it weren't for the fuzzy concern about the newcomer
he wouldn't be standing outside anymore
but... duty calls before stomach, apparentlyso he's making space for the two to go up the stairs and onto the balcony
watching Lucca instead of the gourmet meal that must be inside(dire)
He absently rubs his nose. Super sniffer is finding that reek foul. His eyes water d he turns as they come up on the deck too. Resetteling and extending those long legs back to the floor. He watches.
Reachng up he peels off ap to run a hand though his hair, blond. Over his left eyebrow there is the tribal tattoo of the Get.
Hat is replaced backwards and those frosty eyes behold the strider.(bernadete)
Sobering.Its slow but a impending headache. [..damn that metabolism..] and Nina quietly finisheds her climb on the stairway and promptly crashed into a chair limbs flopping iddly even as she slouches into it, knees curling against her chest even as frightningly alert grey-cast eyes flicker to the scene going on abouts her...
Whats goin on?
(lucca)
He does indeed follow. But he doesn't leave it so people are behind him just yet. He stops before passing the first of her packmates. Looking them ove quietly. "I was born with the name Lucca. To the Garou I have taken then name of Saif. Many Spirits of the blade. Ahroun Cliath of the Silent Striders." his voice low but clear. What more could be expected of a Silent Strider.(betnadette)
"Man."Is all she says looking to the first familiar face, which WOULD be james. Did James know this dude was a garou--is this how garou operte they just walk up and say ... howdy? Damn she thought it was alot more furtive than that.
"Where's th'secret handshake?"
(rune)
"Caidanieve." Easy, quiet, her introduction, the single word (that is not a single word) spills from her mouth. "Fostern Glass Walker Ahroun, Beta of the Eagle pack. This is Blood-Eagle's territory. I'll let the Alpha know you did your introduction nice and proper."Some strange intervention of a smirk, the expression that lifts the corners of her mouth in ironic imitation of a smile, but with a distinct edge. "You can call me Rune."
The Beta gestures toward James and Dire. "My packmates will introduce themselves."
(imogen)
Instant coffee is all one needs when one is sobering up. No need for gourmet coffee here. Nina is still wondering about the secret handshake when she steps back outside, pulling the door shut behind her. Two steps to the chair, where sprawls the kin. Two coffee cups in hand, she offers one to the other blonde girl, while taking a deep swallow of the bitter liquid, controlling her wince. (one might think she hates coffee, but that she drinks it almost as much as she drinks beer)"Experiment?" she prods as she leans up against the wall, sliding one hand into her jean pockets, taking another swallow of the coffee.
(james)
there's a glance back
(hey! i know you!)
flashing a bit of a grin at Nina
followed by a bit of a chuckle at her mumbled query
(fukkifyno)
but his attention wanders back towards Lucca
Strider, huh?
peeeeachy"James, Jukebox, Drums-on-Skulls, Claith, Full Moon, BeeGee, how do?"
if he was wearing a hat, he'd tip it
but rather his chin jerks up in the pack version of hello
toasting a bit with the half-smoked Camel(bernadette)
She takes the coffe and 'Shhhes' Doc' motioning to Lucca and the rest of them idling about befotre them--as if it were some kind of play she didn't want to interrrupt --too interesting.
The pale headed female's voice is low-toned as she leans toward Doc'. The impression is certainly of two people at the threatre, grey eyes flashing over the tiniest details [..impossible to forget--ever.] with a mixture of wonder and good part of curiousity.
"See, ah'been s'perimentin with the frequeny n'intensity of leat beams for--" pause. "--a buyer and ah' came up with the most handy-dandy side invention."
(dire)
He nods and after james speaks his own voice issues out. seemingly in cadence.
The melody of his own a bit intresting he has a Garou high tongue accent."Dire Warning. Cliath Get of Fenris Skald."
He reaches up and scraches his cheek. Still keeping an eye on Lucca(lucca)
He nods to each of them quietly. His attention going for the most part back to Rune. Seems like she would be the one it'd come from if trouble came.(imogen)
Amusement (shhh, Doc!) arches her eyebrow as she glances at Bernadette, remaining half reclined against the wall, a hand running through her hair. Both are pale woman, with pale skin, porcelain hued flesh. Bernadette's hair is white, sunlight caught in the strands, even with the sun long set. Imogen's hair is flame-kissed, burning red, all the colours of fire and sunset, sharp against her light skin.Her dark eyes flicker across the group once more, before looking away, out across the parking lot, lamplight lit, cars filling nearly every space.
Bernadette speaks, low toned, and her attention returns to the younger girl, tucking several strands of hair behind her ears as she regards her, a faint sound of acknowledgement, a lift of her chin as she waits for the girl to continue.
(rune)
Lucca nods to them and says nothing more. Rune snorts beneath the cusp of her breath and shakes her head, fine, inky strands spilling dark around her face. "There's some other folks down in the Barrens. Take State Route 53 off the Garden State Parkway and find the trees and shit. Can't miss 'em."The Glass Walker smirks, and lifts a hand to run it through the fine strands of her hair, sifting it away from her sharp-featured face. "You can hang out for a while if you want. Keep your fucking nose clean when you're up here, alright?"
...and that's pretty much it. "I'm gonna go see what the fuck Livingston is doing to my kitchen," off-handed, to her packmates, before she turns and retreats inside.
(dire)
He rubs his nose again "It fuckin' reeks...."(lucca)
"i'll keep that in mind. Thanks." he repeats the directions in his head memorizing them. Seeming to relax a bit when Rune seems satisfied enough. and only then...
(james)
introductions are done
responsibility is done
Dire can handle Lucca
and the Gnawer looks aghast"That does NOT reek!"
snorting as if to simply disregard that thought
clear it from his mind
the sheer audacity to say such gourmet cookin..... reeks
the nerve
he's on his way back inside the condo
not to defend the sanctity of Rune's kitchen
but to see if there's enough to grab a bowlfull(livingston)
All this cooking makes Livingston wanna light up a phat one, again. And that's exactly what he's gonna do. Now, when you've been smoking pot for 2 consecutive days your cordination and your sharp senses ain't what they should be. Livingston knows that he always keeps at least 1 rolled up joint in his backpocket for times like this when he's either too stoned or too lazy to go and find his secret place where he staches all the weed. He pulls out a nice looking cigarr. But this one is not a cigarr like you've seen before. It's thick, long, and it's beautifully decorated with glyphs and other supersticious symbols ala Haitian-style. Totally forgetting that he had swaped the joint last night he flicks his Zippo lighter open with a click and....LIGHTS UP HIS FETISH!(Livingston's Fetish is a special cigarr that was given to him as a gift by a Voodoo-priest when he went "hiking" in Haiti together with a Bone Gnawer friend. It's a Level: 2 Fetish that, when activated, allows Livingston to have direct contact with his familar spirit: a smoke elemental which he calles the "bluntling". On rare occasions, though, said smoke elemental seeks contact with the physical world out of curiousity and thus it, well,... goes on exploration tours from time to time.)
KHAA-BOOM! BAAM! SCHWOOSSHH!
Lights go out in the kitchen, and the stew inside the pot starts to bubble like vulcanic lava as the spirits just swirles out from the glowing top of the cigarr and materializes infront of the Theurge.
"OH FUCK ME!!" booms Livingston "He's on the loose. Pack! Help me! The bluntling is on the loose!"
(ooc: alright. gotta go. if ya'll wanna go ahead and play out the scene Livingston so nicely started :-P)
(bernadette)
Watchers.
[....put me in coach! I wanna play!]The pair hung about in a corner of balcony talking in hushed voices behind thier steaming mugs of coffee. The smell of alcohol permeatibng from even as the analytical [...what DO kin think--DO they?] gaze of 2 pairs of eyes folllow the nuances of conversation.
"ah.. came up with a lil' do-hicky taht causes tempa-rary blind-ness when'ya use it to anything nearby--ah' thought t'might be better than mace'r'somethin. Revolutionize th'market.."
Her gtaze shifts briefy to Doc' for approval--did she think it'd be marketable?
(dire)
He grunts and nods "Dude my 4 year old cooks shit that smells better than that shit... that's foul."(lucca)
Introductions he holds his nose. "i don't know who your cook is. But I'd cut off his hands if I were you. smells like he's trying to poison you guys."(dire)
"SEE! The strider agrees and he just fookin got here!" Dire nods to the strider like the guy is some food critic or something.(imogen)
For the most part, oddly enough, the kinfolk is ignoring the conversation next door, her dark eyes more interested in the somewhat sobered kinfolk sitting nearby, and the outside parking lot. Her attention drifts downward with a coppery sweep of eyelashes, her hand reaching out to brush pale fingers at a slight discolouration on the thigh of her jeans.A sideways glance, consideration, as she tilts her head in a slight nod, burnished strands of hair falling before her eyes, glancing at the blonde woman through a weave of hair.
"S'probably be huge for the security industry. An' those big on self defense. Dependin' on the permanent effects on 'em are."
(decker)
The bluntling.
Is on.
The loose.Yeah, okay: last time this happened? Livingston vanished off into the umbra for about a week and came back beat up, dragged down, and stoned off his ass. Decker saw. Decker knows what the bluntling's capable of. Decker ain't gettin' near it.
A grunt of annoyance as the Modi heaves himself out of the comfy couch, makes his way on over to the door. The bluntling comes zinging at him from behind and he ducks his head casual-like and takes a drag off his own joint. The bluntling whizzes overhead like a F-22 fighter jet, slams into the door, dissolves through the door, and leaves behind a small green smear of marijuana paste.
The front door opens, then. Decker steps out trailing a static haze of rage, dragging the door shut behind him, pulling the joint out of his mouth as he nods up at James (who doubtlessly saw the greyishblue blur streak past).
Two words:
"Bluntlin's loose."Joint goes back between his teeth, waggling up and down once as he vaults one-handed up on the balustrade. "Have fun." And he? "Goin' next door."
(rune)
The Glass Walker is not so much concerned about the reek as about the possibility of fire damage, or something similarly completely fucking messed up. She stalks through the door, unconciously holding it open for James, behind her, then continues through down the hall, into the living room, where she pauses long enough to shoot a glare at Decker. "You let him fucking cook?" ...followed by harsh, swallowed sound. "Jesus Christ. He's only allowed to use the fucking microwave. Fucking hell, Livingston - "One look at the kitchen and Rune throws up her hands. Someone else can deal with the goddamned bluntling. She marches into the kitchen and hip-checks Livingston aside long enough to turn off the damn stove, then turns right back around again. Pausing long enough to grab a container of General Tso's Chicken and a six-pack, she turns around and marches herself upstairs, muttering under her breath.
"Jesus, fuckin', Christ. What a pack."
(bernadette)
"Not sure I haven't tested em much--ah blinded my'self accidentally for a few hours tho--"Caused a fire.
[..no biggie.]She yawns idly sleepy eyes lifting briefly enough to drain the coffee cup. No help there-- and a yawn soon follows.
"Thought maybe ah'd let the local PD test it out--y'think they'd be interested?"
(james)
Bluntling is on the loose
Rune grabs some chicken and a six-pack and goes upstairs
Livingston is hip checked and crawls off back to the belly of the gangabeast
Decker is heading off next door to.... well... he'll refrain from comment
James? is outright staring at the greybluegreen streak, the resin paste on the door, the jet-trail of inscent smoke, and then the Modi
(you. bastard.)
he's only.... heard.... of the bluntling
(wooaaaaah)about face, he's back on the balcony
kiping the smouldering cigar from the Theurge on crawl-by
shrugging a bit at Dire and Lucca
and then Ahroun, just for shits and giggles, is off across the lawn
following by scent if nothign else the errant wandering spirit
continuing this journey off into the greyblue yonder(dire)
He grunts and chuckels Hopping off the Rail. "Gotta get home to the pup.... afore she kills her baby sitter."(bernadette)
She nods and follows Imogen in.Crashing for the night.
(decker)
Whump. Across the balustrades and down on Imogen's balcony. The kinfolk's leading the other kinfolk into the house. Lars' mate, was it? Something like that. Decker, he loiters on Imogen's balcony, tapping ash off his joint while grey eyes follow the progression of James and the Great Blunting Race. Over hill and under dale...Joint caught between teeth, he rotates his wrists, interlaces his fingers and pops the knuckles. Then he pulls another hit or three or seven off, gets good n stoned n shit to counter some of that full moon effect. Taps the joint off the side of the balcony and, for the second time that night, levers himself up in a one-armed arc to sit coiled on the balustrade.
Not quite ready to head on in yet, and anyway he figured he oughta wait for permission and such. James and the greybluegreen streak is far away now. Try trickin' it. Tell'it you got somethin' to show'it.
Briefly, Decker's eyes light on Dire and his new buddy, but slide right off. He'd heard the introduction filtered through the totemlink, and that's about all the socializing he cared to do.
The joint's down to the last quarter by the time Imogen re-emerges, Nina presumably sleeping like a baby. His eyes pass over her wordlessly; similarly wordlessly, he takes the joint out of his mouth and extends it to her.
(imogen)
She does step out again, her hand dragging through the vibrant strands of red hair, splayed fingers sliding through the thick cacophany of strands. The motion arrests as he offers her the toke, reaching out to take the joint from his offered fingers. Silent as he is, she holds the hand wrapped roll between her fingers, setting it between her lips, inhaling slowly. Dark eyes, half obscured by a strand or two of already free fallen hair cross over him once more, wordlessly, as she takes the joint from her mouth and offers it back to him.A beat or two after he takes it back, she exhales the fragrant smoke slowly, grey hued, and spilling from her lips.
She hadn't been much inclined to pay attention to Lucca to begin with, and now the opinion still has not changed. After all, she heard his introduction, if only briefly.
(james)
now the Bone Gnawer
he's an Ahroun
he's a fighter
he deals with flesh and bone and blood and guts and things you can put your hands on
(or.... in)
this spirit familiar thing is a completely foreign dignitary that has been dropped into his lap
why was he volunteered to play spirit wrangler?
short term memory does not prevail
suddenly Rune was disappearing and FWOOOOSSSSHH the F-22 reeferspirit was doing a formation bombing overhead
and now he's finding himself chasing Slimer of the Great Green Resin through the Rolling Meadows condominium complexTrickin it..... riiiiiight
quite the delayed reaction that filters back on the totem phone
that's right, send the Gnawer that's been smokin' since noon after the bluntling!
least they'll have something in common....
both with more smoke than brains...
(bluntling)
FFFFFWWWWWWWWWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOSH!!!!!
free at last, free at last thank god al...eh? what was that? eeeeeeeerk! switch directions and zoooooooom, its crawling under the pretty purple thing (preeeeeeeetty car!!) and back up the otherside and around and HEY! someone's Chasing! bout time we had some fun hm? The grand poombah of weedheadedness backtracks, whips around James to tangle those floping dreads into dissarray and whoooooosh! he's off again in a streak of greeeeeeeeeeeennnn.... (can't catch me!)(dire)
He heads down the stairs and twords the Jetta. In. Firing up the green neon ground effects. No doupt hindeirng james more than aiding.(james)
fuck
dreads flop and the Gnawer ducks
yeh, the goal of the game is to trap the bluntling!
but not from inadvertant smack and impale skull
boots skid on the wet asphalt
and it is by sheer luck and toked prowess that he avoids slamming into the Beemer
(hit that, and just keep on runnin', boy)
bolting in the new direction and following that greeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeen
at least it's a way to run off the Rage(decker)
It's the old stoners' ritual, passing the weed. To her and back, taking up the joint and examining the burning tip like the secrets of the universe were writ bright upon the irregular ring of fire at its tip. One last breath drawn off the joint after a while, next door to religiously.She exhales: smoke.
He twists to crush the joint out against the balustrade. A flick of the wrist dusts it off and the roach tumbles off into the planter below.Dire's gone. James is gone. The bluntling is most definitely gone. His rage is still there, thickening the air. Breathing gasoline. Still, it's a sight better than it was an hour or so ago, with half the pack camped out on one porch.
He exhales: smoke.
Coiled on her balustrade, hands between knees, fingertips interlacing, he studies her. "Y'alright?" Strange, he hasn't even spoken to her since he shoved her rather rudely out of the way some days ago. Maybe even before that.
(bluntling)
Laughter! can you hear the laughter (dats some goooooooooood sheeeeeeeeet mang!)
and the spirit dashes hither and yon (and skids to a stop at the flashing greeeen neon ground effects.....cooooool!) and then again! zipzingrun... gonna catch me ya gotta do better then that, gnawerboy! Maybe this will help....
sneakyrustle of leaves that herald where he is in the bushes by that building there.. rustlerustlerustlerustle and then... whe james is thiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiis close the bluntling bursts out and that inhale as James fixes to mutter? ulls greeeeeen in deep, floats around and coats lungs then explodes from nostrils with a streek and fffhhwwwwwwoooooooosh! he's off again! (can't catch me!)(james)
skid, stop, peeeek in the bushes
he's this close
thiiiiiiiis close
(the fuck he gonna do this close)
THIS! CLOSE!......
TOO!
CLOSE!
the green spirit cloud bursts out and goddam if he wasn't inhaling
he can feel it.... feel it! coating his lungs
he can feel.... feel! the pinprickles of the hit taking hold
(and goddam if the bluntling! didn't make him hold for the appropriate 33.2 seconds)
ffffffwwwwwwwwwwwwoooooooooooooooooooooooooooosssssssssssssssshhh
the bluntling! is off again
the Gnawer is.... still sitting where that hit put him on his ass
blinking a bit as eyes cross
(ho. lee. chit.)
dreads grab hold of trench to find some sort of purchase as head shakes
one hand clutches the sidewalk to steady it before it rolls on away
(eaaaasy there, cowboy)
then the lamppost molested as the Ahroun physically pulls himself upright
(damn the weather's right nice up here)
he's following.... not.... quite as fast(imogen)
The smell of smoke still hangs in the air, as the blue-greyness begins to disperse, scattered by the faintest movements, the briefest stirring of air. He can smell, too, the latent breath of alcohol, the rich smell of coffee. Everything must seem that much more potent when the moon is full.One shoulder rests against the outer condo wall, space between them as the full moon crackles through the air, and his rage prickles across her skin. It's a sight better than it was barely fifteen minutes before. Garou in compact spaces with Luna pregnant in the sky, had made her wish she'd drunk more, and that her alcohol level wasn't nearly so low. That her tolerence was lower.
The question results in a faint frown, a furrowing of her brow as she considers him. She can't directly recall the last time they'd spoken, it was probably some small meaningless thing.
The heel of one hand rubs lightly against her jean clad thigh before sliding into her pocket, movement slightly halted by the pager she wears clipped to her jeans, "Yeah. I'm fine."
Consideration visible through the narrowing of her eyes, a slow pass of her attention over his coiled form. "How've y'been?"
(the bluntling)
The molested lampost knocks. the bluntling. on. its. proverbial. ass.
Laughter is highpitched and outright hysterical (hol.ee.chit.) as dreds grab hold and the lampost is molested and the bluntling manages to get itself to proverbial feet and this time remains tantalizingly just that. much. out. of. reach.. whatcha gonna do NOW gnawerboy!
Oh! Look! Who's that over there? Old missus magillicutty..... that laughter turns evilly amused as the Bluntling is heading THAT way... betcha the ole'bag will never know what hit her uptight churchgoing god seeking praying ass (she will SEEEeeeeeEEEEEEEEE the light!)(decker)
A quiet whuff of air out. He flicks a glance down at the knife-edged square of moonlight slanting in under the edge of the roof. It's a little past midnight, the full moon barely past its apex, but southerly because of the tilt of the earth."Ain't bad, considerin'."
Considering the moon was round as a demon's eye. Considering its cold silver light lit in him a fire that no amount of smokehaze could choke. Considering underneath that chronic-induced high, that looseness of joint and that ... d e t a c h e d n e s s ... of nerves he feels like he could slaughter an army and still be hungry for more.
All things considered, that he could sit here, sit still, watching her watching him with that slowmoving attention to detail--
Yeah, he ain't bad.Tonguing that notch behind his upper left canine, he notes that he'd left his sweatshirt behind. Summer clothing on a very wintry night: white wifebeater, thin enough to show the tattoo's trailing tendrils across shoulder in diluted black, and dark bluejeans intentionally two sizes too big, sagged. It's either a cold wind or the intensity of her concentrated gaze that raises a ripple of gooseflesh across his arms, pale blond hairs standing up.
"Hell you lookin' at," he wants to know, and, arms flexing just a notch as elbows press into knees and lever his torso a little more upright, giving him that angle to look comfortably down at her, "fuck didja let Lars' chick sleep on yer fuckin' couch fer?"
(james)
bloodshot deep umber eyes narrow at the laughter
(this means war)
then blink two or three times realizing just how dry they are
damn he could use a drink, too
the very thought stops him in his tracks
lips actually smacking at the sudden realization of cotton mouth
(oh my god)
Missuz Magillicutty is on her own
she could use a good shakedown
she'll probably run naked through the sprinklers
(she's SEEN thuh LIIII'T!)
and he doesn't damn well careshort term wha...?
there's a shortcut taken
one Gnawer half clambering half falling over the safety railing around the comlpex's pool
(OOF!)
gathering his legs back beneath him before they wander away on their own
oh no... arm... you come back, too
and don't you leave those fingers behind
hand flexes to make sure all is attached
(toes too, good)
and he's slooooooooowly pulling himself back upright
making a.... relatively straight line towards the coke machine
oh for Gaia's sake now he has to count change
(bluntling)
oooooooooooh Ms magillicutty is on her own.....
and then not... (hold. hold. hold. hol. hold. hol....exhaaaaaaaaaaaaale!) and the Bluntling is cackling madly while dashing away and the old biddy is sitting there S.T.U.N.N.E.D. (stooooooooooned) and the green streak is belining it back toward the stumbling discombobulated Gnawer and the poor, poor coke machine... change? we don't need no steeeeeeenkin change! ziiiiiiiiiiiiiiip and damned if that coke machine doesn't fall right the hell open spilling soda cans to the ground in multicolored rainbow of caffinated goodness with the spirited laughter accompaningy the giggling hissyfit of the Missuz deciding she's gonna go for a skinnydip in the pool.... (damn kids, don't watch - scar ya for life seein that many wrinkles floatin....)(imogen)
Ain't bad, Considerin'.Much can be told by how someone answers a question like that. There are those who answer it with complaints, digression. Or worse, a negative answer without elabouration, waiting for the other to ask what they meant. Those that answer that they are fine, no matter what the situation, no matter how bad it could be. Those who aren't bad, because well, bad is much worse than this is. And because it can always be worse.
Psychologists could have a field day with such a simple thing as the answer to "how are you?" and the answers of some, and the reasons behind it.
She nods, slightly, hair falling forward with the movement at his answer, before her attention snaps back toward him, an eyebrow arching. After a moment, she answers the second question, "Because, I didn't trust 'er t'be able to gi' me directions back 'er place, reliably, an' I wasn't about t'leave her wanderin' her sloshed ass blindly around." Her hand runs through her hair once more, pushing back the strands that never quite seem to tame, that seem to fall forward with the faintest breeze, the slightest tilt of her head.
(decker)
Faintest breeze. Slightest tilt of her head.Or this, the slow thorough plow of his hand into her hair. Watch this motion, this hand, because it's the same one that ripped someone's guts out. A dozen someones. A half-hundred, more. Black axe-tattoo magnetic-hypnotic on his arm, laid over hard ridged edges of triceps on the outside, the horseshoe; the bulge of veined bicep on the inside.
Suddenly conscious of his place again, there's a glance flung over an almost-bare shoulder as if to ascertain Rune or Livingston or someone wasn't gawping from the other balcony. Not that they would be. Not that they cared. He's the only one who cares about public displays of affection(?), or the lack and consequences thereof.
He extricates his hand from her hair and if there's a curve of his fingers over her slender shoulder and a slight pull forward, it's not a trick of her mind. Then his hands fold one into the other, the one that had touched her curved into the palm of the other between his knees. "Since when were you a good fuckin' Samaritan?"
(james)
holy shit it is a SEA of cola
and the Gnawer just stares
jaw even hanging somewhat agapefuck the change
Gaia has smiled upon him
the heavenly chorus chimes in the sound of aluminum cans rolling on cement
the bright lights of revelation shine uponeth us from the pool
(Haaaaa lelooyah)
gather 'round children
we have been saved
the smile of the lord shineth down
blessed by thine Gnawersbody folds and hand sweeps! a root beer as it ambles past
carbonation hissing crunch to pop the top open
head tips back and he SLUGS it down
the can would be finished, but balance wanes, and he nearly goes into the pool
that, he leaves for Missuz Migillicutty
pointedly turning away from the stripping cronehe finds a bench and settles down
watching the sprinklers come on for the lawn over yonder
seems he's forgotten totally about the bluntling!
lighting up a joint of his own
seems he's more interested in that then the bluntling!
cause it's his stash from a pal up in NYC
(gooooood chit)(bluntling)
Blessed be thie Gnawers!
Hallowed be thy name!
thy kingdom come...
Thy will be done...
in hybernia as it is in heaven...
the Crone is swimming and James is ignoring and striking up some substandarad sheeeeet from NYC way and the bluntling cannot be forgotten (what were we doin again?) and dreds are tugged and pulled (hey! remember ME?) and there's the sprinklers....
oooooooooooooooooooh SPRINKLERS....
(rattarattarattarattaratta feel the rhythm of the muuuuuzak....) and with a ffffffffwwwwwooooooooosH! the Bluntling is OFF again and that sprinkler....
looks mysteriously like its getting closer.
closer.
Closer.
Splatsplatsplatsplat of drops on patchwork trench soaking dreds and the cackling begins anew as the Bluntling then runs off to see if we can wash Rune's beeeeeeeeemer! That purple would be muuuuuuch prettier with a sprinkler on top, huh?(james)
the Gnawer looks up at the bluntling!
a dark brow lifts
and he holds up the (substandard) joint in question"Think ya betta'n this?"
ooooh.
smoke-out challenge.
(imogen)
Perhaps sometimes when she looked at him, she can see the aftershadow of his grey massive war form. When she looks at his hand, as it reaches up to go toward her hair, she might see claws, sometimes, instead of thick calloused hands. Or worse, the wounds, that she sees and can recognize, because she may know the path of carnage that a Garou can leave even better than he. Because she studies it, where he just leaves it in his wake.But she does not move away, and rarely flinches from his touch, even those ungentle ones that leave bruises. It must be a certain mindset. Or certain carelessness.
She steps forward as his hand tugs, lessening the distance and the space between the crackling air becomes just that much less. A smirk traces her lips, something on the edge of amusement; it would be more, if his rage was not so poignant. If walls were not so thick. "I've let Garou stay on my couch," him, once. maybe twice. James, who knows how many times, and even Erik, once. "Why not smashed kinfolk." It's not a question, just a flat statement, as she regards him, one hand swinging free at her hip, the fingers curling inward toward her palm. She doesn't even bother looking at her watch, she knows what time it is, and her lips thin slightly as her chin lifts to look up at him, "I've got t'go." said simply, before adding, "I've work, in th'mornin'."
She steps away from him and toward the do
Posted by james at March 19, 2003 12:00 AM
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