May 23, 2003.05.23.03. - jhoath [imogen-billy bedlam] *e[noje]
(imogen)
Rain. All there is. Is rain. It's been raining for days, and it might feel like weeks. Truthfully, after the long grey of winter, perhaps the grey of spring would be a welcome change. It is, after all, warmer than freezing. But with the rain this cold, and the weather this grey, it's hard to feel grateful for this change. Go to the docks, and the only colour is the men in their bright yellow coveralls. Ignore that, and the docks are colourless, the water is grey. The sky is grey. The rain is grey.The air feels grey.
The after-math of a full moon, the presence of a guest, in her space to stay, or some design of work, the weather, the rain, the cold. Whatever the reason, she is restless and only half an hour after coming home, she's come to stand beneath the eave of the balcony, the cool air, the pounding of the rain. In this weather, even the bright flame of her hair is muted. Partly from some mindset brought on by the weather. Secondary, from the fact she had showered before coming back outside. In this air, the thickness of her hair will not dry fast, particularly not carelessly pulled back as it is. Darkened as it is, it could be almost brown, but for the true heart of red found within it all.
She is smoking, of course. She rarely comes out, without smoking; though she may come out for other reasons, it always comes back to this. Fingers curved around the filter, the orange ember flaring as she inhales, the slow exhale of grey smoke, the smell of it in the air, weighted down by the rain, by the moisture. Instead of sitting, she leans back against one of the stucco'd wall of the balcony. The porch light is on, now, when normally it's abandoned, the faded orange light casting it's own glow, catching in the rain that falls just beyond the far end of the porch. She stands just to the left of one of the mismatched chairs, a file folder sitting on the arm rest, her head tilted at an angle as if to read the pages as she smokes. Review, rememorization. Work, whatever it was.
(billy bedlam)
He's quiet as he moves through the streets. headed for the Eagle's nest(james)
it's the scent that preceeds him
not your typical trashy Bone Gnawer scent, either
among the perpetual gray of the rainslogged city
this is a bright splash of brilliant color
seductive spices and heady herbs
the sheer blistering difference of foreign foods
the sheer blistering heat of Tandoori chicken with entirely too much currythere was a momentary pause (ohmyfuckingshitthat'shot) and return to the kitchen for a second beer (just in case) before the Ahroun made it out to the balcony
it may be raining and dreary and endlessly gray
but at least it's a spring gray - and there's a difference
raised on the streets of Albany and NYC, he spent far too long cooped up this winter
twin bottles clunk on the table, long and lean body folds down into the night-chilled seat
one pack of Camel 99s slings through the air to slide home (safe!) against the beersthat's about when the scent of cigarette smoke filters in over the sinus clearing Indian take-out
bare skin of his back (crisscrossed and savaged by ashen scars) pulls away from the plastic seat
boots beneath the cuffs of tattered BDUs slide a little more towards his center of gravity
dreads fall forward and dangly wave at the tiles below during the leeeeeaaaaan to peer next door"Evenin' Imogen."
(imogen)
She turns her head to glance at the Gnawer, her eyes narrowing briefly, before clearing the expression fading away. "'Lo." She answers, a shorter version of his greeting.The rain is it's own stacatto outside, the rain against the pavement, the rain against the walkway, the rain against the grass. the rain against the trees. It's needed rain. In the last week, everything has begun to flood green. Grass revitalizes. Leaves begun to unfold. It helps to counter act the effect of the rain. At least for some.
An inhalation, this one free of cigarette smoke as she catches the smell from next door. A lift of her chin in his direction, some oblique gesture. "Indian?"
Attention flickers. Billy is walking toward the Eagle's nest, and eventually, he is seen in the parking lot.
(billy)
He stops as he looks around...quiet...memories flooding. he finally shakes his head and grunts. "It's done...forget it." and then he sees Imogen, looking up, he nods quietly.(james)
"Mmhmm." grinned around a forkfull, one polite swallow later there's a thumb hooking over his shoulder "More inside.... I'll reheat a plate if you're hungry."grass revitalizes
leaves grow
flowers begin to bloom
there's some semblance of life returning after the long, dark winter
or at least, the life that's seasonal
for those that are on the balcony witnessing this
there's no rest for the weary
and most definitely. no. vacations.that's about when her attention flickers
and dark gaze swings out over the front lawn
stretching up a little to peer over the railing
(that's th..... oh yeaaaa.)
recognition in the jerk of his chin upwards
('lo there)
that second beer is held out in blind offer to the firey Kinfolk(imogen)
"Billy." Some form of greeting, and the file folder resting on the arm rest shuts with a muted rush of air, a stirring of papers. Somewhere during the day, the wind had tossed rain onto the wood of the chair, and the dampness has warped the shape of the file folder. Her hand smooths absently across it, before she begins to move, walking to the railing. The cigarette returns to her mouth, held stable as she places one hand on the cold balustrade and reaches out with the other to take the offered beer, "Ta. No on th' food, though. I ate on th'way 'ome."A vague smirk as she twists off the cap of the bottle, a hiss of condensation. Swallow. Instead of returning to her previous leaning position, she sits on the edge of the chair's armrest, one foot perched on the chair's seat, resting the beer bottle against the bend of her knee, dark eyed attention flickering back toward the scarred Wendigo.
(billy)
He almost blends tonight...almost...he forgot to take the feather from his hair and forgot to take the apache moccasins off...but he wears blue jeans and a Tommy Hilfiger Sweat shirt. he speaks in that choked rasp of a voice as he picks at freshly cut knuckles. "How y been Imogen?" looking at James, he returnsthe nod. "James was it?"(james)
half the time she turns him down
whether it's for a place to sit, or that he'd make a plate of food for her
half the time it's negation
but that doesn't stop him anyway
taking care of his pack just seems natural for the Gnawerbefore he's settling back against the plastic chair
the yet unopened beer is held out towards Billy
silent invitation to come up the stairs and get out of the rain"Yeh, James."
seems he takes care of those that fight beside his packmates, too
(imogen)
A sudden smirk touches her mouth, amusement flashing in her eyes as she glances at James offering Billy his last beer. Her cigarette is stubbed out in the ashtray by her feet as she glances toward Billy, "Well enough," simple answer, that really means nothing at all, as her hand tugs through her hair, the strands loosened from the careless ponytail that caught her hair low on her neck.A flicker of her attention across the wendigo, a sharp dark glance over normal clothing punctuated by native trappings, moccassins, a feather. The cut knuckles, the flesh split, cracked.
(billy)
He moves up the stairs and takes the beer with a nod of thanks. grabbing the cap between 2 fingers, he pops it off easily enough...forget the fact that it's a twist top. "Hey I don't suppose rune Leftmy eyepatch laying around here somewhere did she?" thankfully thay can't see the empty scket through the thick bangs that hang down(james)
the beer - the last, what was supposed to be his own - relinquished without a second thought
though there is a partial grin there
let's see how long he survives the food before running inside for refills
though the way the Gnawer simply inhales it - seems like at least half the plate
boots pressing against the tile to make room for Billy to get past should he want a chair to go with that beer
a breif, thoughtful, frown later there's another nod of his head
dreads snaking a bit over his shoulders"S'inside."
rather Modi-esque slur given the modicrum of manners still evident in the boy
he'll share his food (well, beer, he's guarding that plate), but he won't make them see it
there's a stretch and lengthening of muscle that brings his frame out of the chair
rising into the oblique light filtering through the rain onto the balcony
without a shirt, as he turns, it's easy to see the small glyph branded onto his chest
and the (garou) claw scars that slash deep gray furrows crossing down his back
.... seems someone was upset with the boy at one timeonce inside, there's a pause just before hitting the stairs
(holyfuckingshitthat'shot)
beer first.... eyepatch second(imogen)
She gestures at James with her beer bottle as he gets up, the amused smirk coming into the foreground again, the amusement that flickers briefer this time. "Your english is going. Y've been spendin' too much time 'round Rohl." Not that the englishwoman herself can talk, the language she speaks can sometimes appear to be a language all of its own, with its own inflections and terms. Grammatically, near perfect, it has pronounciations and truncations all its own.James back is turned, so he cannot see the longer glance the redhead gives James's back. Consideration, thought. She can cut up the body of a human and trace the path of its death; she can look at someone's old wounds and trace the path of their scars.
She looks away, toward the rain, and then the dripping Wendigo. She does not sit on the same balcony, but next door, her own balcony. Another swallow of beer, before she leans down to place the beer on the balcony floor. Pick up a cigarette package, and taps out a cigarette, sliding it between her fingers. Silent now, an easy thing for her to fall into.
Finally, her head turns and she nods her head across the distance, flicking a gesture toward Billy, "Want some ice?" Careless query as she draws farther back against the chair arching an eyebrow toward the Wendigo.
(billy)
He leans on the rail of the balcony and takespull of the Beer. not a drinker normally, hmakes exceptions from time to time. the story of his life is there on his body even clothed...the way his back doesn't quite move in suynch with the rest of him, the slight bow in his right leg, the mutilated hands athe scars that run up his neck...even the way steam rises from his shoulders.. and off the mint green colored skin that just shows above the collar of the sweat shirt (Bale fire burns) Looking at Imogen, he shakes his head. "No...thank you...I don;'t think Ice goes well with beer....but i appreciate the offer.(imogen)
A brief smirk, humourless, "No, it doesn't," she answers, dryly and without any sort of ruefulness, as she sets the cigarette in her mouth and lights up, resting her wrist on her bent knee. Smoke exhales, slowly, easily, familiar, and her attention flickers from the bruised and battered and scarred Wendigo to look out toward the rain and it's pattern as it falls.(billy)
Another Pull of thbeer and he smiles politely at Imogen. "So how's business Imogen?" a loaded question? nah...Billy doesn't work that way.(imogen)
A polite smile from Billy and the pure kin turns her head to look at him again, without such trappings of politeness. Her hair is damp still, perhaps from the rain, perhaps from an earlier shower, since her clothing shows no dampness beyond where the strands brush her shoulders, and several curls and waves have come free from the pony tail to cling jealously to her cheekbones, curl against her neck.She leans back, now, half in recline, still sitting on the chair's arm rest, her one leg drawn up to sit on the chair seat, the other, carelessly straightened out before her. She is a small woman, and this is a position she manages easily.
Her head tilts back to rest against the chair back, eyes slitting through the half haze of her cigarette smoke to regard Billy. Reading his question, perhaps. Or contemplating the answer. There are, of course, many degrees of answers.
"I don't believe," she says finally, "that that sort of small talk works with medical examiners; unless they're inclined to clichés." After all, there are a multitude of horribly dated answers that can be provided.
How's business?
Dead.
It takes a whole new meaning.(billy)
He nods and half salutes with the beer. "Fair 'nuff....I actually came to pass on some information about the new bad boys in town."(james)
his gallant return is branded with a rather Walker-esque smirk"If I start saying y'all.... beat me."
the irony: a Yank developing a southern drawl
though he has picked up the pack's verbal idiosyncracies
his Frankenweiler mentor would probably pummel him
all those lessons in how to not speak like a Gnawer....somewhere, between the pitstop in the kitchen and the rummaging upstairs
the Gnawer had cleaned the plate (does he even chew?) so that was left behind
he returned with three bottles (hospitality, always, even if they're refused) and one eye-patch
the first are settled on the table with a thick rattle of glass - for whenever
the second is held out to the battle-scarred (which of them aren't?) Wendigo
brow lifted in curiosity for the last part of the conversation caught(imogen)
"Y'can hold me to that," she answers, sideways to James before her attention returns on Billy. Inhale cigarette smoke. Words spoken are framed in smoke as she speaks to Billy, gesturing with a tilt of her head toward the Gnawer, "Tell him."The last of her smoke exhales, only to be replaced by another hit on the cigarette.
(baelyn marr)
Bright. Ass. Red. 2003 Mazda Miata Speeeeeed baby, it’s all about the speed.
That, and it matches the nails, manicure and pedicure, of the driver. A driver that careens around the corner just a hair too fast, squeal of tired punctuated with the pow of a tire blowing, further squeal as the Miata is with a confident jerk of wheel and slam of breaks hits the parking lot of some condominium complex and screeches to a halt after a final sideways skid.
It’s enough to piss off the neighbors, and gather the attention of anyone sitting out on their respective balconies at 12:30am.
And if it’s not? The opening of the door and spilling of leather-clad blond from the interior might garner a bit of attention, from previously mentioned manicure seen through open toes of sandals, three inch heels adding to the 5’8” height that unfolds to stand, hands smoothing over leather covered thighs, adjusting the corset top before reaching in to grab jacket (leather, of course) to toss over it all.
The drizzle of rain is not enough to tame wild curls just yet, nor is the hand that passes through it as wry grin slides over painted lips. Door left ajar (the door is not a jar! It’s a door!) as she walks around and sings to a crouch at the rear right and surveys blown tire. Only then does voice breech barrier of lips in a muttered “Well, shit.”(billy)
Taking the eyepatch with another n of thenks, he sets the beer off to the side, then brushs his bangs back...he was a handsome boy...maybe 18 ars old...the bangs over the left side of his face gave him a roguish look...that along with the blood of past warriors made him moreso attractive...but when the left side of his face is revealed...some replace attraction with horror...4 claw scars..Garou claws run from his forehead to his jaw. the eye socket destroyed...Bone fragments stick out at sickening angles...in the middle of the destroyed socket is the remnants of his eyeball skewered by a bleached piece of bone.he fastens the eyepatch to the fragments around the socket with a series of fleshy clicks and then he settles back, grabbing the beer again. "any of you speaks any natvie Tongues?"(james)
there's a sidelong glance at the sudden pow of the miata skidding into the parking lot
(.... interesting)
but his attention flickers back towards the Wendigo
just in time to catch part of what's normally hidden beneath bangs and patch
if there's any reaction to it (and there isn't) it doesn't show
patiently waiting for the other male to go on
there's a breif frown, again, one of those thoughtful ones"Not particularly."
english (which is degenerating), slang, few choice words in spanish, and their own native tongue of beastial sounds and body language - that's about it for his repetoire
(billy)
He nods as hre goes through the translation in his mind, then nods. "Jhoath...was a wyrtm spirit that the Uktena bound into the earth many centuries ago...endon has set up a camp over it's restingplace...and Ifear they are trying to awaken it...I know that the war Wolves that attack t barrens are from that compound...and they have Banes Guarding it."(imogen)
The sound of a tyre blowing out draws her attention away from the conversation, not without a slight shake of her head. No, she does not speak any Native American language. Nor does anyone she knows. Certainly, Rohl would not be the type for such thing.Hell. He barely speaks English.
Endron is brought up, and she looks away from the Miata, her attention (for all the fact that, in the end, she doesn't want to know) turns to the Wendigo and Gnawer.
(baelyn)
Ah, well. She stands again, and grabs cell phone from her pocket, dials, and AAA is called. Hand on hip, conversation ends, phone tucked away.
Seemingly moments later, the tow truck pulls up, a greasy looking driver climbs out and changes the tire for her. Exchange of cash, and she’s folding back into the car, and the Miata resumes it’s course. Out of the parking lot, down the road. It’s all about the speed.(james)
a dark brow slowly lifts
...... peachy
but the information is quickly filed away with a nod
"How.... delightful." Whatever happened to this vacation hard workers were supposed to get? "We've been looking into that. What else do you know?"(billy)
He shrugs. "I know it ain't gonna be a walk in the park...and I know there is a village of kin not farfrom the place...a reservation even....I just wanted to ensure the information as passed on."(imogen)
She ashes her cigarette, head ducking with the motion, glancing at the ashtray and the fall of ashes like the snow long gone. She does speak up, though, and the words are directed more to James (in the end, she is affiliated with Eagle pack, and if she has loyalty, to anyone or anything, it is them), "I'll try an' look up deeds. See who owns th'land an' why. Whether or not anyone's contesting the damned thing."(billy)
finishing the beer, henods to the pair. "Thansk for the beerand your hospitalit...I should get home and do a wolf Patrol(james)
peachy.
fucking. peachy.
that's really his only response at this point
but that, in itself, is not conducive to conversation
so..."Ta." shot at Imogen, seems he's picked up her slang, as well, or that's just cutting past directive vocabulary, and back to Billy "Rune's been typing at some people, though I'm not sure what's come up. I'll make sure it gets to the rest when they get back tonight. Thanks Billy."
(billy)
He nods and places the empoty bottle with Jame'sothers then drops off the balcony an easy hjog soon has him off into the night.(imogen)
A shrug answers James's thanks, though some brief smirk lurks in the corner of her mouth, half hidden, by the subtlety of expression. The shrug is something near 'it's nothing'; dismissive."Nigh', Billy." said on his departure, a beat before another inhalation of cigarette smoke is drawn into her lungs.
(james)
maybe it's the animal in him
that he can sense something that she doesn't intend to show
perhaps it's carried on some faint scent wafting between the balconies
or shown by the unconscious tilt of her head to hide it
or.... maybe he just knows her that well
because there's a sly little look across the distance between them after the Wendigo leavesone that says that wasn't a y'all in it's brevity
he's leaning to snag his pack off the table
shaking out a smoke to grab between his teeth
dark eyes taking a much longer stroll towards the kin"Bum a light?"
(imogen)
A faint sound of acknowledgement in the back of her throat as she unfolds from her perch, fingers sliding into the pockets of her jeans. Cigarette held and burning between her teeth, she pulls the lighter from her jean pocket and reaches out across the distance to offer him the battered zippo."Anything else I should look at?" Research does appear to be something the good doctor is effecient at. She has information at her fingertips that is unique to her position; and the patience without the rage to perform the tasks.
(james)
he'll meet her halfway
it's almost some wry Genesisy ballet of addiction
as Adam reached unto God
across the great divide of the eternal soul
.... the Gnawer stretches to take the lighter from the kin
even going so far as to wink a thankshis head bows, heavy curtain of dreads sheilding the light from the rain
still caught in this precarious stretch between the balconies
deeply carved gray marks glistening as they slowly soak from exposure
he's returning the Zippo before drawing back into his own space"Coordinate that with Rune, I'm not sure what they've found or need."
his body twists to sit on the ballustrade
one leg dangling into the chasm that divides them
the other bent with a toe firmly planted on the terracotta tiles
he doesn't seem to mind that his right half is getting wet
just keeping his head tilted so the Camel stays dry(imogen)
She does not sit again, instead reclining within the half alcove formed by the balcony eave and the railing, lifting the cigarette to her mouth again. Another inhalation, a slow drag of smoke. Exhale, through her nose."If she needed anything," she says, more contemplatively than anything else, "Likely, it would 'ave been asked."
She sinks to a half crouch, one final drag of the cigarette, before reaching out to extinguish it in the ashtray; on the return, her fingers catch the neck of the beer bottle, closing around it, drawing it close as she stands.
A swallow of beer, bringing the level of liquid to half empty, "But," attention returning to the Gnawer, "I'll check."
(james)
there's a slow and steady drop of his chin which results in a nod
they both know how adept the Walker is on using her resources
(.... ahem)
so if she needed Imogen to check on something, she would have already gotten the ball rollingso they lapse into silence, instead
nothing but the sound of emptying beers
nothing but the sound of crackling embers
nothing but the sound of pattering rain
it's not the dreary rain - at least to him - of winter
that desolate onslaught that just brings more ice and snow
now... this is the rain that will make the green linger a bit more
before the earthy browns of summer drought sets in
life will come out of this
no matter how much longer his may or may not last
and perhaps there's some satisfaction in the Gnawer"Night Imogen."
just as softly as the earlier salutation
dark eyes swinging over with a little bit of that trademark grin
among other things, he does actually enjoy hanging out with the Kin
even if it's just listening to the rainweight shifts off the ballustrade
empty beer bottles are gathered
that full one no one got to is contemplated
then another look at it's tossed across the divide to her
and the Bone Gnawer ambles on inside(imogen)
Silence, and she looks away, frowning, if only briefly. It's a fraction of a second before it fades, and smooths, and she's simply contemplating the rain, and the parking lot, the beer in her hand, feel of the glass, the touch of liquid to her lips as she takes another swallow. She might very well be alone, for all the attention she pays the Ahroun.He might very well be alone, for the same.
That he knows her expressions, from time to time, and that he can catch the curve of her smirk when it lurks in the corners of her mouth is nothing compared to the impenetrability of her expression now. Nothing, beyond that she might be thinking, there might be something. That there is life, and emotion, but it is beyond grasp, where she keeps it, and stores it, away from view.
It's late, it's raining, it's a good time for contemplation. Her head turns as the Ahroun speaks, tossing her the full bottle of beer. Instinct prompts her to catch it, plucking it from the air as she answers, "Nigh', James."
He goes inside, the door shuts, and for a moment, the kinfolk shuts her eyes and listens to the rain. And forces herself from her reverie. The beer is drained, the full one unopened for now, damp file folder picked up. She walks back toward the door, pulling it open, and stepping inside, shutting it behind her with barely a click, the wood of the frame creaking against the wood of the door.
The rain continues, unabated.
Posted by james at May 23, 2003 12:00 AM
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