drums-on-skulls: .04.29.03.

April 29, 2003

.04.29.03. - summer [jenny]

[noje]

(jenny)
Some hour before midnight when the shadows are everywhere, blue and long. When the air is almost at its coldest and steam rises from grates like the vapors from some witches brew or oracles incense smoke. The hour is that moment when the streets are at their darkest, not in terms of light, but in terms of action; the hour when some stretches are as silent as a graveyard deep below a city in sleep and other stretches are filled with nightlifers.

Behind a dumpster, pushed close to a hollowed concrete stoop, below the faint tracery of old graffitti on brick and stone, a smudge of palor stirrs. The alleyway cats watch the area with lazy, indolent eyes; they don't come close.

Zoom in. Pale hand, scratched and bruised with fingernails darkened by dirt.
Make me invisible, make me invisible.

(james)
shortcuts
it's amazing the shortcuts you find when you're off and bolting in fox frenzy
(we won't go into from what - we don't want to remember that)
worn and faded tank boots beat something of a steady cadence in the alleyway
shortcut from the Rolling Hills Condominum Park to the best little Thai place this side of the border
any border, in his opinion

soles that are slowly losing their tread pick their way through the puddles and grime
Alice pack slaps gently against lumbar spine with each step
it's basically empty, now, most of his Stuff! at Rune's condo
but right now he's in that 'don't leave home without it' mode
given all the crappery that's been happening on Eagle turf lately
never hurts to be prepared, as the boyscouts always say

his attention lingers on the alleycats
the way they slink back agaisnt a far wall because of something that.... isn't him
because they only grant him the briefest of glances
there's something else that has them all itchy

(jenny)
The hand follows through against a curved cheek (anthem of starved youth) then up into hair that was once a blonde but now hangs in too many wild tangles to tell. The eyes are generously set and dark in hue; for an instant they could be the color of the cloudless night sky.

Jenny does not notice the cats, while they stay back (a perverse respect, because cats still recognize...). Jenny doesn't notice much of anything at the moment. Jenny, this smudge of pale against ruined brick and flesh slendered down to bones and the grey-once-white dress, who touches her delerious cheek and licks cracked lips while standing perfectly still.

To her mind, James appears all of the suddenly; he coalesces out of thin air, honeyed cinnamon man with drummer man drumming boots like hooves, and its the sound of the boots which makes him appear, to her, which grabs her wide-eyed attention, which catches the breath in her throat like an animals fur catches on the barbed wire of a trap when it has been taken from it.

Pared down to the essentials.
...light glimmers on sewer water, black and slicked in oil rainbows.

(james)
he's watching the cats
the cats are watching something else
but he's watching the cats
.... odd
and then a breath catches - his head spins
dreadlocks that tumble down to the lowest tips of shoulderblades jump and spin with the movement

one hand already reaching back, fist wrapping around something that ends sharp and deadly

then a brow lifts over deep umber eyes
slow and steady crawl up towards the frame of light brown jungle vines that hang around his face
it's not that he hasn't seen filthy homeless people before
he used to be one of them
not much has changed except the regular presence of showers
but it's that he was expecting somethign a little more... RAR!.... than a girl cowering against a wall
course.... we all know where complacency gets us
(that hand remains wrapped around the handle of the blade)

".... 'lo there."

soft and easy, rich tones trickling out of an easy smile

(jenny)
Jenny stares at this man - interloper - and her nostrils flare for a second, trying to read the air. Then, unnatural stillness again; a loose-limbed kind of stillness that all consumes and threatens no action. Her shoulders lift fractionally when his mellow tones paint the air so easy; another instant, glance to glance, eye to eye, riddle me this, riddle me that, before lash to cheek, she closes her eyes.

Invisible.
Invisible.
Invisible.

Then starts to tremble from crown to toe - piece of paper in a whirlwind storm - from some invisible (too. empty. this world. too grey. too dark. too cold. too. empty. empty. empty.) struggle. Is that how she gets all the predators to leave her alone, probably pretty underneath the dirt and garbage, the feral (no, wild) curling of her fingers into fists,

her eyes open and he's still there looking at her.
She licks her lips.

(james)
interloper, raggedyman, ruffian, uncouth - he's been called worse
but his head sorta just.... tips... as she closes eyes and clenches firsts and, well, really looks like a little girl just imagining she's invisable
because if she can't see the monster, it can't see her
and if you pull the sheets up and over your head, you know that seal's gonna stop the downswing of the murderer's great axe
common now, didn't you know the value of 110 count cotton?
works better'n a bloody hammered iron sheild, it does
..... or something

her eyes are creeping back open
(he's still there)
his head's dipping a little bit, brows creeping upwards - in concert - in question

"You..... allright?"

he should really just move on
obey those heebie jeebies that have been with him since hearing about Aurora
goddamned Hood nature

(jenny)
Alright, numb the word formed by lips that taste of metal and rust without the song of throat to give it voice (like soul). Jenny's shoulder blades blade against the wall as she shifts her weight unlocking the freeze on muscles which only causes them to tremble more. Index finger curled up and pressed against the tip of her nose, a badge against her mouth. The universal sign of quiet.

Silence. Too weary to take his form in with more then a brief flutter of panic starting at her traitor's mortal heart. Silence, c'mon. James has seen insanity before; he's probably seeing it now.

Her fist clenches tightly again and swings down to press against her side, sharp, sudden. The movements are shadowed by grace, something like deer possess, but something also more: sweet, wide eyes swerve upward then back to James.

Jittery. Fearful. Seeing ghosts. Seeing monsters. Hearing them, anyway. Something sends her ( - colt spindly - ) skipping out of the shadows and around the dumpster, closer, keeping track - perepheral - of the darkness clawing underneath the concrete hole. There's a helpless leashed violence in the sweep of palm across her (luminous, when they shouldn't be; plain as plain can be) eyes.

"..where'sis?"
whisper.

(james)
he's seen insanity before
he's held it in his arms within the body of a small child
he's skipped and sashayed his way through fucking Wonderland
he's.... seeing it now
..... peachy

see Jamey-boy? shoulda kept walking
think of all that Thai food you're gonna be missing out on
cause you know this will become one of those allnighter things
and even though there's some biting sarcasm in his thoughts
the moon is black in the sky, and the Ahroun's blood stays at low tide
there's even a warmth in his eyes
watching this girl skitter around the shadows like a headshy filly

by the time she's around the dumpster, he's taken a step back
Alice pack settled down on the ground
his body sinking into a comfortable crouch beside it
elbows settle on knees, wrists dangle freely
oh yes, big dangerous Bone Gnawer warrior....

"Hibernia."

at least that's what he thinks she's asking

(jenny)
Even crouched, the gnawer seems bigger then this girl is, but one part of her mind is comforted by that: the lack of threat implicit in posture. The other part has taken the word and turns it over in her head. Connections want to be made, but the wire is broken; language wants to breach barriers but it can't without knowledge. Shy, Jenny shakes her head. I don't understand. (The way children don't understand it when their fathers beat their mothers bloody with a broken knife of glass.) I'm not quite making the connection. (The way things that vanish don't notice until they're gone that they've ceased to hold on to reality.) I'm not quite --

then a flicker [fall, stars] in her dark, animal gaze, another catch of her breath.
"-but it isn't green."
voice which just
wants to
fade.

(james)
while he may look human
while he may even be able to pull off this decent act of being human
the wolf will never disappear, never completely
and as much as he's speaking to her with words
he's composing vast poetry in motion
the universal language of body that goes so much farther than the words of mind
his shoulders slope downwards beneath the faded gray tee
bands of strong muscle through his arms stay lax and supple
his head tilts, just a little askance, lengthening and showing one side of his throat

he could go six ways furry from Sunday before she could even cross the alley towards him
but right now he's telling her everything but threat
an understanding in deep, warm, earthen umber to the tension within hers
somehow... relating to the way she just isn't sure

"No, not here."

(jenny)
So maybe it's the unspoken (speechless) body language. Maybe it's that her frail (dying) body is just too weak after all those months of running and these past weeks of urban squalor and hiding and she's just plain too exhausted to keep reacting intensely to old fears. Maybe it's just the fact that something about him says 'animal' before it says 'man'.

Whatever it is, a measure of calm soothes her brow. Head remains canted, tilted at that angle, while thought rifles through memory; while things go on behind the reflection of James twinned and thrown back in his face. Ahroun, right? Whatever that is.

"-is this your..." lost. Words won't come. As close to desperation as her kind can be. "...place?"

(james)
the eyes may be what looks and seeks and gathers the visual stimuli to climax in decision and information
but it's the rest of the senses that flesh out that skeletal creation
he can hear the weakness straining her voice beyond the desperation
he can smell the wear and tear that leaks away from her in (sickness, dying) hormones
he can taste the fear that continues to ebb and flow off the frailty
some riptide that could suddenly tear the shaking body to unrecognizable pieces should the wrong move be made, or weight shifting in the direction that it shouldn't, or a thousand other things that could send her running out into the near-midnight traffic

his head doesn't drop, but it moves forward to create a nod to her angle
there's just.... something about her
it goes beyond the wildness
something etherial lurking in the shadows cast by the spindly creature
how strange what they both notice yet cannot define into specific words
(I've.... felt this before....)

"A part, yes."

his hand moves slowly, wrist lifting up infront of his knee
arm stretching out towards the Alice pack
plastic crinkles as it's pulled free of a pocket
half-packet of jerky held out towards her on open palm
then it's tossed the meager distance, landing a foot or two away, so she can keep hers

(jenny)
[I dream of fire and hemlock]

Her gaze (not sharp; just dark. in another world a million glimmering seacreatures constantly surface and resurface. the shadows that fall across gaunt features are made unbearably) lovely doesn't waver until he throws the jerky and it hits the ground.

[I dream of the black creature and his dark rider.]

Then Jenny sinks to her knees - an act of pageantry, lyric and reminiscent of a creature half-forgotten - and touches the concrete with her bruised finger tips. Her eyebrows pull together and she lowers her head. Defensive. Protective. I will stab you.

[I never dream at all.]

Then she looks at what James threw. Back at him. Nope, doesn't have a clue what that is. There is, however, a moment of almost lucidity, like clouds shattered and left her mind clear, for a moment. The clarity brings back shy shroud, which tints her words a paler hue: "Do you want me to leave?" I was running anyway. All she remembers is running.

[I dream of hunters.]

(james)
"I'd rather you eat."

his chin lifts, gesturing towards the jerky
he hadn't made it to the Thai place yet, that's all he has
and he's giving it to this strange, wild girl without a second thought
grasping at that sudden moment of lucid pattern which allows concrete thought to stray within

"I'd rather you have someplace sheltered to stay the night."

he can see how the street is tearing her apart
he knows.... something.... is fracturing her mind
but Gaia knows if he can figure out what it is
(or if he'd even understand)
she's curling in on herself to protect the weakest parts
he's a hunter, but doesn't lunge, doesn't strike out to wipe this weakness out of his territory
he's just calm as can be

(jenny)
Jenny doesn't seem to know what to say to that, and her glance is shaded wary. (There isn't any such thing as shelter. Walls don't work. Locks don't...) A wariness which has no connection at all to cynicism or (human) self preservation.

Perhaps there are words somewhere (...sleeping in thorns...) which her tongue has no eloquence for; and all eloquence has to find an outlet through movement, the sudden sorrowing language of a glance, a frail shadow slimming across her face, a delicate movement which rolls muscles forward until she can lift the jery between her fingers and incline her head in thanks.

Gracious. Nothing like nobility--the predecessor of that idea.
"...what is it?"

(james)
shelter is a farce
locks don't hold
walls don't protect
reality doesn't mean a fucking thing anymore
but sometimes, you have to cling to what you can
and the faithful Hood offers all he can
(Banaman, you shouldn't be doing this, James)

though her question makes brows lift
(you can't be serious)
blinking once or twice as he recovers from her question
(well.....)

"Beef jerky..... food."

that's like.... staple
he can't even recall a time he didn't know what it was

(jenny)
Jenny, gentle as the fall of moon glow upon ivory, smiles. (...not sad. Sorrow. Smiles the quietest swan song.) There's a moment of awkwardness and that preternatural stillness while she looks at James' offering and one half of her wonders if it would be okay to give the gift back--or if it would break some kind of rule.

Quick glance over her shoulder, quick dart of liquid eyes back to tall lean gnawer. For an instant, the tangle of filth and (dreaming) girl is crouched at James' side. Swift. Silent. For an instant, dirty thumb presses against his cheek and tilts it to the side.

Then her entire body tenses. Goes rigid. Listens.
(Don't you hear it? Nobody hears it...)
Absolutely fucking terrified.
(...and that's why I am...)
Wearied to the bone.

A sudden sharp intake of breath and a sudden redistribution of weight which sends her bolting away before his instincts tell him to breathe once more.

The fleet flown girl.

(pm)
to James: moment of revelation her dirty thumb to his cheek, moment that strikes a new precious memory he never had but maybe he could have dreamed. a scent. smells are important. smells can be sexual. (not with jenny, purest of the pure.) smells mean more then people give them credit for, but he's garou. maybe he'll understand.

summer. golden summer. pale twilit midsummer nights.

the first summer, the summer that all summers after were based on; the first moon rise. the way the air smelled when the world woke to that concert.

brief impressions. little gifts.
surreal.

and the jerky is tucked between his knees.

(james)
it's a flicker of movement, just a blink from her achingly gentle smile to when she's by his side
he could sense an attack, paranoid from the wicked mojo plaguing Eagle territory, shift and meet her touch with the barbs of razor talons that turn her tangled filth into nothing more than a pretty stain on the alley floor, unnoticed and unknown by any other than the Ahroun Gnawer
yet all he does is breath

one. single. breath.

on it rides the blooming wings of summer
not just any summer that's graced the earth through countless millennia
but that very first one that kissed Gaia's flesh with rippling flaxen fields of wheat
the kind that glow so brilliantly warm it steals your breath away
the kind that gently fades into the warmth of twilight blushing before the dark of night
the kind of day you wished would never end because it will never be like this again
every day after will only be a shadow, a glimmer, something that strives to recreate but will never be the same
no matter how much it glows, or how pure the light shines down from the spanse of sky above
it's still only a dim reflection of that virgin day

there's a dirty smear on the curve of his cheek
darkening the shadow of post-midnight stubble
and by the time he exhales that breath - she's gone

there's nothing left but the stinging scent of terror and the memory of her gift

his head shakes, tangle dreads cascading down over his shoulders
muscle flexes and contracts to lift the Alice pack off the ground
long body unfolding and returning circulation to his legs
dark eyes sweep towards the shadows, wondering what it is that spooked her so badly
questioning, he is, and unsure if he'll ever know or understand if he does
but there's Thai to bring home to the pack

(fuckin' surreal)

Posted by james at April 29, 2003 12:00 AM

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