May 29, 2003.05.29.03. - oogie boogie man [imogen-uaghaihg][north jersey]
(imogen)
The sun is only just beginning it's descent over the world, heading toward the horizon and the lives beyond. Evening has begun. Those who are more attuned to southern climates would note how the twilight lasts longer, those moments that the sun is no longer there, but light still shows, greyed and oranged and yellowed.Though south for her country, she is used to farther north than this, and to her, these moments are too short. However, the sun has been out today, and that is something to be enjoyed, considering all the rain. Even now, the earth smells of rain and the streets are stilled greyed with dampness. The sun was watery today, and now with the evening and twilight setting in, the light is watery.
Coffee cup in hand, she steps out onto the sidewalk, the cafe door jangling shut behind her, her attention flickers upward toward the sky and the street lights that have just barely turned on, pale and yellowed, doing nothing now in the evening light.
(uaghaihg)
Uaghaihg is astride a hot, sweating, pretty little piece of... metal tonight.He's on his motorcycle. He's without pack and his skin is dry, his shirt plastered against and defining the lines of his torso, a rough classical statue the sculptor never got around to finishing and time never smoothed out. With the lifting of the rain Uaghaihg's dark moon eyes are distant, in another place, maybe even another time, where rain falls on green fields instead of a tangle of dirty streets. He breathes on his chill fingers and regards the street flatly, when he remembers where it is that he is, chuffing a laughing little cough at himself.
Then he sees her. The red-haired Brit, oh so beautiful, and oh so stuck up. So he calls out, more violence behind the propulsion of his voice then he knows, "'Ey! If t'isnt th' Queen o' th' Isles 'erself. Shall I woo thee wi' more rhymes, fair ice maiden?"
Yeah... just call him Mr. Social Grace...
(imogen)
Rage. That's always her first thought upon meeting a Garou, and it will be her first thought long after she knows and recognizes them. Perhaps all Garou have their own little signature to their rage. Perhaps there's a way to recognize it, so she cannot mistake one for the other. Friend for foe. A stranger for an Eagle Packmate. Or perhaps she simply has the same hair raising, animal instinct reaction for each, and she simply learns to hide it. Each and every time.Her head turns and her eyebrow arches as she regards him. Fair ice maiden might suit her in so many ways, because there is little about her that indicates warmth. Skin paled, as if untouched by sun, porcelain. Which is, when one thinks about it, a cold way to consider skin. Cold hard and unyielding, instead of the smooth softness of flesh. Dark eyes that reveal nothing more than the barest hint of life, the merest idea of emotion. Her hair, the colours of an autumn sunset, the heart of a fire, and chaotic enough to suit such a thing, directly contrasts that. Even caught in a braid, pulled away from her face, there is a suggestion of wild. Curls brushing her cheekbone, half obscuring her peripheral vision. Strands brushing her collar.
Her response has nothing of the fire in her hair and everything of her eyes and skin. "It didn't work th'last time."
(uag)
There he sits, the embodiment of the tribe she thought she'd fled from the twisting tattoos which coil across his skin to the scars that are as likely to have been from an emotional bar fight than from fighting the wyrm. (Don't let that trivialize them.) There he sits, folding his arms across his chest, leaning back as if the distance would let him get a better look at her. This half-grin resting on his superior lips, and in the cant of his head, which he ducks, suddenly, angrily, as though to shake her stare off like dogs shake water from their coats. "Come 'pon that, I don't remember much 'bout our first meetin'. Think I was a little smashed, if'n ye take m'meanin'."And that's it. She can walk away. Right. Right?
"I do remember somethin' about bein' owed, though." His breath gusts out, ghostily.
(james)
the sun was out today
even though the streets were still watery and gray
the gleaming sunlight meant people returned to their normal events of strolling about
some, perhaps, even shop because they can walk store to store rather than jump from store to car
and who wants to carry around soggy packages, hm?the Bone Gnawer has taken advantage of this
where there are shoppers and packages
there is money
and while the GlassWalker does well to support them all
he's support himself, thank you, at least when he can
and winter brought some skinny times
the mountains of snow were not conducive to street performersbut here he is now
back on the corner, his corner
(where the hell did Tristan go?)
the urban primitive banging his tribal drum
or, at least, the raggedy man on a rather resonating paint bucket
it was enough to bring in enough cash to feed him for a week
or, someone else in the pack for a dary or two
and that's all that matters to himso eventually, he's picking up the overturned ratty, floppy tophat
spare change and various bills quickly counted before deposited in a pocket of faded BDUs
one patchwork trenchcoat shrugged over the faded (was it always gray?) t-shirt
the paintbucket is returned to it's place sitting rather stylishly by a dumpster in an alley
sticks (.... where's the rebar?) and tophat tucked neatly into the backpack that's slung over a shoulder
and now he? is just strolling down the street to enjoy the quiet twilight on the way back to the condo(imogen)
She can step away, distance herself from the tribe, but fleeing from it is out of her reach. Blood. Hair. Accent that taints her voice with every word she makes. Noah; (but he's dead) Gabriel Thunderoak (and she doesn't knwo what to happen to him). Centuries of history and a tattoo on her arm beneath the fall of her suede jacket, that sometimes she can swear she can feel, embossed on her skin."Y'were absolutely sloshed," she notes succinctly, her steady gaze unending as one hand slides into her jean pocket, the other curved around the environmentally friendly coffee cup. "And y'r wrong. I owe you nothing. Y'got y'r cigarette," a smirk, though not quite amused.
Her attention flickers past the tribal relation and beyond to where James walks, identifiable more from a glance though his features aren't quite yet visible. Dreads and patchwork trench. Height and rage.
(uag)
"Tsch," the Fianna says noncommitally. He really doesn't remember well enough to argue properly. He doesn't need to remember to argue. "If'n I recall correctly," he says in that quiet lilting voice, harsh and brash, like its owner... "If'n I recall correctly ye owed me a game as well. Where's th' harm?" His attention too flickers over his shoulder, turning to look at the tall approaching man(?). "Y'still nae got a name?"(james)
one tall Bone Gnawer, coming right up
dreads fall over his shoulders like tangled jungle vines
his trench billowing about ankles as some tribal Shaman's shawl
there's a swing in his gait that steps in time with the heartbeat of the concrete scab they call home
black moon's out tonight
where are your bets placed?distance closes... marginally
close enough to where Imogen could easily fill in the blanks of his features
the guy on the motorcycle would have to wait a few more steps
chin lifts in that patented nod up
closing the distance between he and the kin symbolically since his pace doesn't change(imogen)
Her voice lilts, too, though in a different manner. If one were to hear the two speak together, one would recognize how different their accents are. One may not guess correct from which countries both Fianna (one a former) were. But that they were not from the same one, would be obvious."I just said I wouldn't give you my name," She'll argue one thing at a time. Whether she owes him a game (I owe you nothing) whether or not she said what he thought she did. "Not that I didn't have one."
James approaches but beyond that first glance the redhead doesn't look at him. "And I don't recall you offering yours." Challenge.
[uh.... oogie fell out of the chat....]
Posted by james at May 29, 2003 12:00 AM
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