May 13, 2003.05.13.03. - banaman [imogen][noje]
(james)
there's a moon up there, somewhere
Luna swelling pregnant with the date
he can feel the ebb and flow beneath his blood inside his bones as if he were some living ocean of concerted flesh and fluids that offered itself tidal to the sky - sometimes, that isn't much of a stretch, but right now it's the Gnawer that's stretched out, in the drizzle, on a bench in the empty spanse of green "park" contained within the Rolling Meadows complex, empty because of the damp weather bringing the slightest of chills riding on the moistureempty save the full moon Garou
whom must be frozen if the slight dampness brings a chill
he's been here for a long time, it seems
head leaning back against the planked rest
arms stretched out like pythons in some lazy crucifixion
ankles crossed way off yonder on the sidewalk
dark eyes slid closed long ago
dreads hanging in soaked weight reaching for the ground
it seems he's rather.... enjoying the rain
(if it could only wash away sin)
or perhaps it's quiet time away from ground zero - how many Ahrouns will be in the pack if that Fang kid joins up? - at the condo on a night like this yet still remaining within bolting distance should anything develop that requires his attentions(imogen)
It's two days away from full. The thought occured to her, today, somewhere during an autopsy, her gloved hands slicked with blood, her fingers wrapping around the solid shape of an organ, seeing it in her mind's eye rather than viewing it beyond the flaps of skin and borders of fat. She had, of late, perhaps been eschewing Garou company, or at least not showing as much of a presence. Chances are, she's simply busy. The doctor is a workaholic and her employment seems to delight in exploiting that. Even now, the pager is a comforting weight against her hip.The rain drew her out, too, slicking against her skin, dampening her hair, strands that had escaped the half contained bun clinging to her cheekbones, pressing against her neck. The sky is grey and over cast, and the sun barely shows through the clouds. She knows, with the same knowledge that she knew when the full moon would be, that had there been no clouds, the moon would only be two hours risen.
Her boots brush against the pavement as she approaches the prone Gnawer, so as not to startle the lazing Ahroun. Her head ducks, fingers tugging through the loosened strands, pushing them beyond her face and behind her ears. "You're lucky y'can't catch pneumonia." She notes, perhaps not for the first time as she approches, dropping to sit on the curb of the sidewalk, glancing sideways at the Gnawer.
(james)
she knows, even with the cloudcover, that the moon would only be two hours into its climb across the sky
he knows, even with his eyes still closed, the steady approach of the purebred kin
there's something that tugs at them, both, so subconsciously that even such noticeable differences have now just become a way of life
so easily accepted without a second thoughtslowly
just like the way the moon has taken days to reach it's climatic girth
a smile creeps across his rain-shined features
the lethargic twist of amusement"Not to mention I stand a smaller chance of getting arrested this way."
dark eyes slowly open, slipsliding their way to glance at the now-seated kin
by all means he should have pneumonia
the t-shirt is sculpted around muscular torso
pulled tight over chest and lean abs by the weight of waterlogged fabric
faded BDUs have given up their cling to form and slowly attempt melting towards the sidewalk
too bad that belt stops them from completing their mission
but now, dreads waver in spidery crawl as head lifts to actually look at the kin
even if it's still a bit skewed beneath the lift of a brow"You're home early."
you don't sleep on someone's couch for collective weeks on end and fail to pick up their schedule
(imogen)
The rain is cold, and in some ways unpleasant, because of that, because the air is cold and the rain is cold and there's a bit of wind, and that, too is cold. She wears a sweater jacket against the cold, but it does nothing against the rain, falling past her hips, skimming past her thighs, protecting her jeans, if only slightly from the cold curb, the damp rain kissed cement. The fabric is black, woven and so the dampness is mostly hidden, except that it clings to her just a little bit more to her torso. A button or two done up of the sweater jacket, and the blouse beneath is barely damp, but for where her hair brushes against her collar."Well," this is smirked, vaguely, as her attention drifts upward. The nearby lamplight catches in the rain water and light fractures, following the drops on their way down. "Y'd want t'be careful; someone may think you're trespassing." The smirk fades. There is a measure of truth. Bone Gnawer or not, the one downside to rage is distrust. In this world, it is hard not to be trusted.
He speaks again, and her shoulders shrug, as her hips shift, fingers sliding beneath the fall of woven cotton, sliding into her jean pockets, pulling out a cigarette package. "Someone else decided t'work late. I didn't think I could get what I needed done."
(james)
"Never said I was free and clear."he's either doing a great understudy of the firey kin's demeanor
or his words were as dripping as the bench that cradles his weight
he knows that with the dreads, the faded clothes... he's not exactly the yuppie sales exec that lives three doors down
and no matter how much he scrubs or smiles, soon enough, anyone approaching will feel that Rage throbbing with it's own heartbeat cadent to his
then suddenly, the walls will start to thicken, no matter how familiar he looks or regularly he passes through
the downside to being what he is
the innate distrust of difference that isn't obvious
the fear instinct around an invisable predator
(you don't belong here)he could begin to wonder what side she was on
if, during the full moon, she stepped across the divide to join "them"
the ones that steered clear in the first place because something just ain't right
subconsious instinct for flight over fight
just avoid it a little longer and the monster won't be there anymore
but his gaze doesn't wander back towards Imogen as if he needed to double-check
and if the thoughts ever crossed his mind (they don't) they're pushed away as easily as he's slipping back to that comfortable sprawl
jaw stretching towards the sky as eyes fall slowly closed"Before midnight even.... this should call for celebration."
funny the things that call for celebration
even though she is home later than everyone else that works 9-5
she's trimmed several hours off her normal workday
such a strange reason for joy in this constant, dreary, chilling rain
celebrate today - because tomorrow may never come(imogen)
She must, in so many ways, seem alien to Garou and human alike. Humans cannot understand that she does not run, humans cannot understand when normal things that frighten them do not frighten her, and where their consciences speak aloud, hers is deadly silent. Garou cannot understand her, because she is more human than they can ever be. And yet, she is less human than coworkers, or the yuppy sale exec that lives three doors down.And so, she sits in the rain, in the cold and smirks about celebration. It's far enough from mirth to be humourless. It is a night, perhaps, for introspectiveness. And it's not even yet midnight.
The smirk remains as she offers him a cigarette from her package, "Like a celebratory smoke, would you?" An eyebrow arching in question as she finds the lighter in the other pocket, hand reaching across the breadth of her hips, sliding disjointedly into her pocket to pull it out.
She looks upward once more, her chin lifting slightly, gesturing toward the rain as it catches in the lamplight, "It rains like this all the time in England," she notes, nonsequetorially.
(james)
"Absolutely"still, that smirk surfaces before his trademark smile
too much time around Imogen, Decker, and Rune, most likely
that's becoming as familiar as his normal grin
..... or maybe they can just blame it on the moon
seconds stroll on by before he uncrosses his boots
feet pressing against the ground to leverage himself up to sit
elbows resting on his knees to make a little shelter from the rain
taking the offered smoke and light in turn and smoothly handing them back with a nod of thanks
it isn't until an exhale that leaves the smoke dangling between his legs that he speaks again"That's what I read.... never been any further than Kentucky from home."
he's watching the sidewalk insted of following her glance up
studying the patterns droplets make in puddles
whether they're from the sky or the heavy curtain of dreads that fell forward
creating some little cave topped by his chest as dry shelter
cigarette suspended as if some virgin sacrifice from the deadly waters below"Tell me more?"
the quiet afterthought request
(talk to me so I don't think about what's boiling inside of me)
replacing the hunger for violence with the Frankenweiler instilled craving of knowledge(imogen)
He burns with rage, and it's a curse, a gift, a hand that twists inside, grinding against bone and muscle and sinew. Rage is sometimes just too much to handle. As he hands them back, she takes a cigarette of her own, lighting up, before she ever considers speaking again. Inhalation, and exhalation, inhale deadly smoke and hold in nicotine and tar, exhale slightly less deadly smoke, head dropping briefly. Strands curl against her cheekbones and swing before her face, not a curtain, most of the strands contained at the base of her neck, some vague containment of the red. It has, in the wet, become darker, near black in shades, in edges like rusted iron.The cigarette dangles between her fingers, burning orange, a twin to his own cigarette. "'t's colder like this. Hardly ever like y'r summer. It doesn't get like y'r winters, either. S'just grey." One shoulder lifts in a shrug, as her head lifts, and she takes another drag on the cigarette, her words mixed with the smoke as she exhales. "The sun's not usually as bright, we're farther north'n you, but it's the clouds that really do it."
It wasn't to him, but she had proven once before that she could speak of her home country without thought, just stating how it is in a more lyrical fashion than she often speaks. "They aren't kidding when you can pratically time your watch in London by th'rain." A brief smirk, "I was there, once, for... about a week or so. I checked. It rains nearly every day."
(james)
it's a careful choreography of movement - keeping the water falling from his shoulder to spill across the swell of bicep and length of forarm from crossing the fence of fingers and claiming the as-of-yet dry paper of the Camel for its own
and he watches the twist and tilt of wrist
and the puddles on the ground just slightly out of focus below that
rather than glancing up at her as she speaks
perhaps, also, calming himself in the way the smoke lacadasically coils up from burning cherry to splash against his chest"I mean to get there one day." absently, as if the smoke and puddles has more of his attention, though obviously he listened to the (calming) lyrical descriptions she offered his curiosity "Least.... somewhere on that continent. Make all the things I've read in books seem real."
(imogen)
It must feel, this week, that the rain will never end. It must feel that starting Sunday until now, grey, grey, and grey, that the rain will never be over, the ground will never be dry. The grass will never stop smelling wet; the aforementioned grass, however, is quite pleased with the state of affairs and have achieved a deep shade of spring green.She isn't really looking at him, either, perhaps because he won't look at her, and her direct gaze is only good in confrontation. Dark eyes are cast about, the park lights, the ground at her feet. The trailing edge of a boot lace.
"S'different from 'ere," she answers, finally, "Different feelin'. Even th'Garou 'ave different outlooks. Th'traditions y'keep 'ere are held stricter there."
(james)
there's a long, slow draw from the Camel
crackle of tobacco and paper drowned out by the soft gray, gray, gray drizzle
he can feel the nicotein and various other toxins surging through his blood
cooling his body further as blood vessels breifly contract
then on the pluming exhale, everything returns back to normal
except the cigarette's now a half-inch shorter"When I was still a cub, couple 'Weilers.... one Winger, one Waxer.... came back from a walkabout that took them to the National Museum in London. They had the most amazing stories to tell." still just... absent "A lot of them were about how different it was over there. Especially upholding the Ban."
muscular shoulders roll in a shrug
the wet cotton pulling across the chilled and alert nerve endings throughout his torso
dragging at the weight of heavy jungle-vine dreads"Made us curious about what the world was like outside of Albany."
it seems as if he was going to say something else, but he stops
letting the thought wash away as if the rain really could cleanse things(imogen)
There's a pause, here, where she does look at him, an eyebrow lifting slightly. The paus estretches as she waits to see if he will say what he had been about to, rather than ask him about it.After a minute, she reinsterts the cigarette, and runs the wandering hand through the loosened strands of hair, pushing it away from her face. She tilts her attention upward, one hand reaching out behind her to rest on the grass, bracing her weight as she turns her attention to the sky.
It is safer for her to look at the sky than him.
"The 'Ban'?" she asks, finally, smoke spilling out of the corner of her mouth as she speaks around the filter. Water hisses against the ember, lost in the tattoo of the rain.
(james)
"Ban of Man."when she looks at him, he doesn't see it
perhaps there's a periphreal sense of it
the predator always cognizant of his surroundings
but given that it is his friend that looks at him (no matter how unsafe it is for her) he allows it to slide
or maybe it's just something he doesn't want to acknowledge so he doesn't have to answer
sometimes it's easier to talk of other things"Help not Man for his survival unless it threatens ours. Hurt not man unless he threatens us. Kill not man for food unless we might perish."
so, so quietly recited - just for her ears alone
even when you're a Hood they pound it into your brain
even when you're the one most likely to break it
(know thine enemy)
finally, the burnt out Camel is flicked away to hissing death in a puddle"The Plague was a big part of it. We'd end up carriers since it wouldn't kill us, blamed for the spread when we went around helping the poor whom were hit hardest. Watched the Squeakers get hunted down. Then the Inquisition and the Burning Times. Helping out became more trouble than it was worth. So they developed the Ban to save our own asses since there wasn't any appreciation for saving other's."
(imogen)
The Inquisition, the Burning Times, "...the Impergium." Said slowly, the word and name formed by a mouth not used to such Garou terms, though it has a mirror in the English language.She ashes the cigarette, and minutely, ashes hiss against the puddle at her feet. "They do not interfere wi' th'humans, no. But.." a smirk, vague, "They are more superstitious in Britain. Our stories are older, and they," she might mean the humans, or perhaps the Garou, "'ave a long memory. S'better not t'awaken such things, I suppose. Because, someone might remember silver, or someone might think o' it. More than one would, 'ere."
Another drag on the cigarette, and she flicks the cigarette from her, joining James's in the puddle, ember dying. "I never, not once, saw a Garou speak wi' a human when ..." her hand moves, vaguely, as she dismisses one phrase, or perhaps searches for the best one, "I was growin' up. Some took it tha' seriously."
(james)
normally, it's so easy for each of them to hold the other's gaze
rarely is there a confrontation or challenge between them
a meeting of various levels of respect
how strange it is to have barely even looked at each other
much less hold focus so casually - the way none would ever expect between a full moon and a kin
so maybe that's why he chooses now to tilt his head
though goes no further than the sideways glance"There are some that take it so seriously I'd be throated for shacking up with Geedubs and Germans." it's a soft, wry smile that joins that one, though when he nods, the gaze swings away again "It's that superstition that intrigues me, I think. Never ran into it upstate..... but I know it's a big part of what drove us here in the first place. I guess sheltering comes in all sorts of forms and I'm just getting that itch again..."
(imogen)
Normally, even if not looked at, she holds gaze. It's a bit of defiance, full moon or no full moon, that the kinfolk appears to be unable to do. It's the same instinct that a kin normally has to look away, in reverse. Tonight is different and her hands swipe across her jeans. A brief smirk. Slight amusement, internal as she does not voice it."Well. Stick t'the main cities, an' there're Gnawers there, I'm told," she shrugs her shoulders slightly, indicating a lack of knowledge.
Her hands rub against her jeans again, and she stands, "I need t'go. 'Njoy y'r night."
(james)
his chin lifts in a miniscule nod
taking the information provided into consideration
though who knows when or how he'd even leave this place
he's got too much that makes him want to stay
he doesn't want to go through what made him wander last time
yet, there's this craving....
he hasn't felt it for awhile
he's been so damned content
and maybe that's the problem"Thanks Imogen. 'Night."
she's standing
and he's rotating on that point of pivot
returning his shoulders to the rainsoaked benchback
climbing back onto his invisable cross when arms stretch back out
he doesn't look at the sky
those eyes are falling closed again
face tilted to the drops as if to wash everything away
..... the rage...... the sorrow(blame it on the moon, Jamey-boy, just blame it on the moon)
Posted by james at May 13, 2003 12:00 AM
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