May 31, 2003.05.31.03. - it's better not to ask [imogen][noje]
(james)
the sky blazed white hot fire
lightning split the darkness into the god's cheshire grin
thunder rolling heavy mere moments later
rain hammered the ground in sentient angerby all means, most would stay inside
perhaps that's why the Bone Gnawer is out on the balcony
sheltered by the building from most of the wind and rain
his dark eyes gaze earthen to the show the sky provides
just as the soil peeks from beneath sheltering leaves in the planters below
deep umber focuses past the thick curtain of dreadlocks to the gray storm aboveit's cleansing, really
just as the earth is washed (away, at times) with the pouring rain
he feels as if the Rage in the sky were some magnet for his own
why not allow it to pull tidal at the constant volcano dormant beneath his flesh?
he has given his life to fighting for the preservation of Mother Gaia
it's only fair that he receive some compensation in return
no matter how small it may seem to others
it's enough for the Gnawer
this reaffirmation of what it is he fights for
(what he sweats, and bleeds, and cries for)
it's the beauty in the savagery of nature
witnessed by this urban primitive within the scab's concrete jungle
shaman's tears bled for the glory etherial in the billowing cloudsit places a faint smile near permanent on his lips
course.... that may also be the joint rolled from Livingston's stash
dangling between thumb and forefinger that slant up to a wrist lain across bent knee supported by boot on chairbut why look a gift horse in the mouth, hm?
one thing his Tribe won't do is complain when they've got it good(imogen)
It's a violent night, with the wind tearing across the condominium plaza, and howling between the trees. Once, in the aftermath of a thundering retort, he could hear a child wailing, the sound muted by walls and window and distance. One of the perfect children from the perfect families who lives here. The mother gave the Eagle packs baleful stares, whenever she saw them. Luckily, considering the hours they all kept, she did not see them very often.The mercedes is a shadow amidst the rain, an impression of shape and size, with headlights a bleary break in the darkness. Then it parks, and the lights cut off, and for all the rain, and all the clouds, and none of the stars, no moon, it cannot be seen.
Night's like this, everything is black, with porch lights and street lights barely pinpoints amidst the gloom. Until lightning flashes and everything is day-bright, limned in electricity, limned in light that is natural, but seems out of place, ghosting objects.
She steps from the car, rain water soaking through already damp and wet hair, chilling her to the bone. She is not so undignified as to run, but she makes her way swiftly across the parking lot, up the pathway to the stairs. She looks up only as she gets beneath the eave of the balcony. And then, she stops. Where most people would go in, get dry, she digs into the dampened pockets of her jacket, pulling out a cigarette packet and lighter, her other hand combing through the soaked tresses of hair, stained red-black, like rusted iron.
A sideways glance to the opposite balcony, the Gnawer and his joint, and her lighter flares, providing minor warmth and light for her cigarette. Inhale, slow, and she shucks her jacket for the much drier blouse beneath, tossing the damp suede on the patio chair.
(james)
the mercedes rolls in black ghost through the nightmarish weather
he's paying more attention to that than the baby's wail across the plaza
(admit it, Jamey-boy, it still tugs at you, your need to protect)
perhaps existentializing some beauty in that too
fine, expensive, German engineering rugged against the rain
well-exterior dampening the true sound of the storm
wipers flicking themselves silly to keep the way clear
insulated interior keeping out the muggy, moist chill
then the lights cut, wavering beams suddenly swallowed by the shadowy night
door opening to allow the electric, ozone-filled atmosphere into the climate-controlled world
and it's something of a cordial glance that follows the Kin on her journey from car, to rain, to balconybeneath half-lidded gaze, he watches the way Zippo flares into a thousand prisms falling from the sky
the ambient glow settled behind the veritable waterfall between the respective balconies
then slow and sure he's leaning forward, weight leveraging onto the Cochran II's picked up from the surplus store earlier (tank boots hawked and replaced, good riddance to the memory of the chiminage gift, he's suffered enough because of the Skald), toes spreading on the nicely padded (and intact!) soles as long, lean body stretches from the chair, BDUs giving into gravity and wrinkling about his ankles, long sleeved shirt soon following suit but catching on the buckle of leather belt
dreads settling about broad shoulders complete the move
the forward momentum continues, carrying him towards the railing
like some Mohican from a DVD he watched the other night, form enters the divisive rain-inspired waterfall
he may not be fleeing the enemy to later rescue his life-love - but the imagery is there
the way the downpour suddenly weights ropey mane of medium brown to near black
the sculpt of wet fabric pushed up to his elbow over muscular arm suddenly glistening in the rain
the undulating focus of his features through the steady shower
spastic lightning illuminating the joint sheltered beneath the overturned palm of his handthough once she takes it, if she does, he withdraws and without a word and sliding doors wsh and whisper about his soddy retreat back into the condo
(imogen)
She doesn't take it, though her head turns to look at him, damp hair sliding the fabric of her shirt leaving darkened marks in the strands wakes.She exhales cigarette smoke, using the cigarette as a gesture, a movement of her hand, "One addiction at a time, I think," she says, before replacing the cigarette in her mouth, holding it in the corner with her lips, and both hands slide into her jean pockets.
Her jeans are dampened, across the thighs where water soaked through her jacket and dripped downward. She'd been out in the rain long before the fateful walk from her car to the condo. She watches as the Gnawer walks into the condo, before turning away, taking another drag on the cigarette and stepping to sit in the same chair she'd left her jacket, back against the armrest, one foot drawn up on the edge of the seat, the other straighter. Her hand brushes against the wetness of her jeans, contemplative.
(james)
Fair enough his expression seems to say
as it's always been, and ninety-to-nothin always will be, the offer was simply there
while still in the process of replacing the flesh she so easily (proverbially) flayed, he still considers her his friend
it's something that goes beyond the association they have through packa few moments later, the doors are whispering again
heralding his arrival with two beer bottles clutched in one hand
he doesn't make the cinematic stretch, this time
instead ambling down the steps and into the virulent storm
longer legs making it easier to step to the adjoining pathway a few feet shy of the Y connection
yet still avoid the mud that's forming beneath the growing grass
this time, it's the chilled, already opened bottle that's offered instead of the joint
(one thing he knows she'll never turn down)he doesn't place himself in the empty chair
instead sitting back against the railing: he'll never so much as sneeze from excessive exposure - so the fact the damp speckles on the back of white shirt spread fabric thin to show the dark scars over tanning skin beneath doesn't really come into consideration, a warm shower later will fix everything
there's a familiarity between them, yes
though whether forced from weeks on end in a motel room together, or congenially evolved since
he doesn't invite himself comfort within her den
the fact he crossed to her balcony is explained by the fairly newly-lit joint
he doesn't suck them down as fast as his packmates
(and it's good chit - he doesn't need to)
so that she's only taking one addiction at a time may lead to her later acceptance
and it would be simply rude of him to require her to further dampen herself should she choose to do so(imogen)
One addiction at the time, but she will smoke and drink at the same time, and she reaches out to take the bottle from him. "Ta." The bottle is placed between her and the back of the chair, pinioned in place by her hip and the wood. Cold seeps through damp jeans from the refrigerated glass.She doesn't offer him a seat, which somehow might come off as rude in more ways than one. He does, after all, always offer a seat to her. Nonetheless.
The ember of her cigarette flares as she inhales, and she moves slightly, sliding forward and leaning over the raised leg, arm stretching down, and down to catch the ashtray on the ground by the foot of the chair.
She straightens again, leaning back against the armrest and reaching out to put the ashtray on the armrest opposite to her, between her and the Gnawer. easy access.
Only then does she pick up the bottle again, her other hand pulling the cigarette from her mouth and reaching out to place it in the ashtray. Take a pull, and then she speaks, a casual question. "Know the bloke from last night?"
(james)
she's arranging herself around the beer and ashtray
he takes a moment to lean backwards, joint plucked from between his teeth to hold out of the way
dark eyes falling closed, the stretch is far enough to allow rain bravely driven by the wind near enough to fall into dreads
it's a cleansing thing, really, this downpour: Gaia's washed clean
having spent the majority of his life on the streets of New York state without a protective roof
(one isn't born knowing comfort-giving rites, of course)
perhaps there's a symbolism there to him, as wellMother's Warrior
partaking of this ritual spring (downpour) shower
seems it's not only the Theurges that maintain some sense of spiritualityalso a convenient way to weight dreads to hold out of one's face
her question draws him back to the balcony
head moving in a slow, negating shake"Only know he's Garou." the next question: Was he bothering you? writ in the lift of a brow, though it's verbalized through "Should I?"
(imogen)
The beer is put on the armrest beside the ashtray, and she leans back again, fingers plucking the cigarette from the tray as she reclines once more.The question written on his brow, in his expression is unanswered, or unnoticed, "No," or perhaps not, "Not so far's I know," said contemplatively. There's a pause, here, because really, her comment must have seemed out of place, unless there was a reason James should know him, in the silence, she completes the motion of reinserting the cigarette in her mouth and inhales. Her words come out, framed by blue grey smoke and that particular smell of filtered camels.
"I recall a ... law, I s'pose abou' introducin' yerself in new territory, is all," a brief smirk, "was wonderin' if he was bein' incredibly rude, or not."
(james)
the slight tip of his jawline downwards
his inner commentary on the response just as contemplative
translation: Not yet."Incredibly, if he's been Northside. Last night woulda been an insult to the Clutch or RoadRunners."
the joint sizzles on another slow inhale
zigzag crisping and curling in the embric heat
call it an invitation for more(imogen)
A faint sound, acknowledgement, as she takes another drag on the cigarette, slow and easy rather than answer immediately.Lightning flashes beyond the balcony, bright and sudden, sheet lightning that outlines every curve of the clouds in the sky. A second passes, two (one hippopotamus, two hippopotamus--), and thunder crashes. She waits for the final retort of the sky to fade away before she speaks, "I mentioned that."
It might be some sense of tribal loyalty that causes her to avoid mentioning that the Garou had been north already, once, twice. Perhaps the territory lines simply do not occur to her, not clear cut in her mind.
(james)
lightning flashes - silhouetting the wolf quite literally at her door
probably a very imposing thing, that
an Ahroun backed by the fire of the sky and rolling thunder
the raggedyman with a wild mane of heavy hair atop a body with the strength to kill. so. easily.
but then again: this is James, and that is Imogen
that thought probably crosses neither of their minds"Think he'll take it into consideration next time he's up this way?"
she didn't mention that he had been
whether out of (former) tribal loyalty
or the blur of territorial lines to those who don't bark at the moon
but.... she mentioned it to him in the first place
therein lays the key(imogen)
"I can't say I'm a particular judge o' 'im," she answers absently, speaking around the filter of her cigaratte as she runs her hand through her hair once more, coiling the soaking strands at the base of her neck, letting it fall against her skin again, for a brief moment before she pulls an elastic from her wrist and confines the wetness as best she can. The elastic has left an indentation across her skin, pink against the porcelain flesh. She covers it with her other hand, setting her wrists on one eleveated knee."Though I told 'im about that, too." A brief smirk, "Bit o' being messanger, I suppose." The smirk is wry and dry and wholly caustic, amused by the role she plays.
(james)
there's a bit of a smirk around the joint
(it's the things she doesn't say, Jamey-boy, you're learning)
it isn't quite as caustic as hers
regardless of the amount of time he's spent around the brooding Modi and serpentous Walker
unless fired by the full moon hanging heavy in the sky
abrasion is a fairly foreign thing to the Gnawer
and right now he's as mellow and rolling as the dark clouds above only appear
lightning cracks once more (.... rag'bash .... the'urge .... phil'd-) and thunder moans over the cityscape"Join the club."
Omega - he's run more than one errand and delivered more than one message for the pack
weight shifts a bit, resettling from where gravity called him downwards on the slick railing"Anything I should be aware of?"
another thing he's learned - get the opinions of those... smaller... than you
or at least lower on the alleged food chain
rank can breed confidence, and confidence can breed arrogance
he's well aware of those that thought they were powerful taken down by a threat they didn't think was there
those that cannot fight as you can will notice the things you do not
and it never hurts to be aware of something so that it does not become a threat
knowledge is, after all, power
(and wouldn't his Frankenweiler mentors be proud)(imogen)
A shake of her head slightly, "I don't know anything, other than he's ..." of my tribe, but... "Fianna." He's not of her tribe anymore. That she might feel herself a traitor is never quite a subject broached. Then again, however. A woman who never claimed her tribe to begin with (and wanted, and wants nothing to do with them) can hardly feel that she has betrayed them anymore than she had before. "So I can't exactly answer that question."The cigarette is taken from her mouth, and crushed in the ashtray, a final exhalation of cigarette smoke and she reaches across her to the back of the chair, pulling the jacket from it's hang, and drawing it over her shoulders, carelessly.
Lightning again, and unnatural daylight in the night sparks across the parking lot. Seconds pass. Thunder crashes. Her head turns, away from him briefly to look out over the rain, thoughtful.
(james)
again, that slight tip of his skull that signifies a nod
for a moment, he seems to remember that he has a beer
finally lifting it to his lips to take another slug or three from the cold glassit's what she doesn't say
perhaps the knowledge that the... bloke... is Fianna sets off a little chain reaction of thoughts
a little stoned freight train running rampant along the tracks and only taking notes of the stations it passes through
smokestack belching clouds of supah-green as it whizzes (floats?) on by
he's well aware of the problems his pack has had with Fianna in the past
especially concerning the firey Kin
for some reason he's got the feeling those won't be the last of their problems
while he may not be versed in the specific traditions and beliefs of the various Tribes
there's that little issue of blood claim that comes up at the most impeccable of times
mm. hm.the strange Garou hasn't given her a problem..... yet.
there's an amazing amount of levels to exactly define "problem"
one, may be manhandling her as was done before
two, may be simply disrespecting her in a myriad of other ways
three, may be that none of them (note: Modi) know what's happened so far to react thusly
he could come up with more
and a breath fills his chest to put a question to voice"I'll keep that in mind."
it seems the question floated away
or was physically clipped by his tongue
(she knows, what he would ask her)
but as she looks to the rain instead of him
perhaps she doesn't see the veritable shift in directions
the way his gaze sweeps left rather than look to her and inspire his curiosity
the way the skin beneath and to the left of his lower lip pulls between teeth for thoughtful nibble
the attention falling to the roach burning entirely too close to his fingers
one last drag, and it's flicked away into the night
(to the Roach Gods!)
just as his weight pulls off the railing to stand"Night Imogen."
and continues in a turn towards the stairway
easier to take a walk in the rain than to ask
because she knows what he's going to ask
and he's learned: it's better not to ask(Imogen)
"Night, James. Thanks fer the beer." The words remind her, and she reaches out to grab the bottle by the neck, drawing it up for a drink as he leaves.She sits out in the rain, shielded from the rain, rather than going inside, at the first. It's a near summer storm, and so within thirty minutes, the thunder is a distant purr. Long after that, and the rain begins to slow, the pound becoming a trickle, and long after her beer is done, she sits on the porch, eyes settled on the parking lot, the buildings. She rarely sleeps to begin with. James knows this nearly as well as his Modi packmate does. Dr. Slaughter sleeps brief spurts and never deeply, never soundly. Long after her skin rippled with gooseflesh, beneath the folds of her jacket, she sits. Breathes in the silence. Wraps herself in solitude.
She does get up, finally, and walks back inside, before the sun rises, but not much. The door clicks shut quietly in the pre-dawn dark.
Posted by james at May 31, 2003 12:00 AM
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