June 02, 2003.06.02.03. - fountains of (and?) information [imogen-rune] *e[noje]
(imogen)
There must be a particular sort of person who works as she. Does she feel at home in the grey walls of the morgue when everything is silent, or surrounded by her colleagues? Bones that tell tales and flesh that speaks a story beneath surgeon's skill, skill, which some might say is wasted because her patient is long past help anyway? It might feel odd and alien to her to return home to the tidy condominium plaza with its pruned hedges and nearly perfect clean walkways. The stucco'd buildings with stairs on the outside, out of place because the architecht was perhaps from California and had not considered New Jersey winters and by the time it was decided that such things, stairs to each condominium was impratical, too much money was spent and the supervisors hardly cared to begin with.In comparison to the grey walls, grey buildings and stark fluorescent lights, the half twilight of incoming night darkening the green of the lawns and the green belt beyond might be something incredibly out of place.
The green belt is not much of anything to be considered such a thing. Pruned grass and several trees carefully cut back into what is considered appeasing shapes. Wyld shaped by the weaver, slowly being eaten back by the weaver, because every few years, a tree is cut down for 'safety' or for some unknown landscape design that could only be understood by the human artist who worked every once and a while to fit some idea of city beauty.
It's here she's walking, however, exercise, fresh air, freedom from the confines of her condo, off the pathway in the semi dark and past the trees, following some pattern or no pattern at all. Jeans certainly suit the walk, and it is what she wears, having changed not long after she got home. True to form, she had showered as well, hair damp and coiled low on her neck, held back further by a clip or two. As it dries, strands begin to fly away, escaping in curls and waves, catching in the faint breeze that smells of clean air and earlier barbecues, that smells faintly of rot when it passes her, because she'd had a particularly decayed case today, and she hadn't had a lemon on hand. Smells like that bond to the skin. Smells like that make the skin crawl even as it permeates it. Hands slide into the pockets of her jean jacket, a faint clink of keys and coins, as her fingers disturb the contents within.
(james)
she had a particularly decayed case today
something that had traveled well beyond the realms of "normally" decayed
one of those things that was particularly, lingeringly pungent
and perhaps above the smells of the afternoon barbeques in the washed air
he smelled her before he otherwise knew she was comingeven in the guise of a man, the beast remains alert
reading through comparitively dulled senses all the little triggers floating around
one of the most reactive being the tinge of decaying flesh
so that may explain why he doesn't particularly turn his head towards the approaching footsteps
he remains in this lanky stretch across one of the benches
dreads curled up as woven pillow against the top of the back of the rest
dark eyes down at one quarter mast so that he has to peer through darker lashes
ankles waaaaaay out on the sidewalk, pointing towards the little fountain plunked into the little courtyard formation on this quad in some semblance of artistic qualification of aesthetic because it looks good rather than performs any type of true funtional merit other than make a lot of noise
but it seems that's what he was listening to
the way the water tricked into the rain-filthed basin
the natural percussion harmony drizzling across his senses
with the way the weather's been lately, this would probably be the last sound he wanted to hear
but it's different than the rain
there's a higher clarity in reverberative bounce
a pinpoint of melodramatics contained and shaped by the resultant basin
not the overwhelming roar of last night's stormhe still doesn't open his eyes, but chin lifts up when he hears she's within eyeshot
(rune)
The sliding glass doors on to Rune's back balcony open. From somewhere, a thousand somewheres, the low hum of air conditioning. It's cool in the evenings, sleeping whether, but even in places such as these, controlled and dolloped and confined and pruned to within an inch of any possibility of actual life, few are willing to leave their windows open during the day, at night, any time. It's not just the smog that gathers thick around the suburbs, thicker every day, now, as the temperature (slowly) rises and the summer driving season is in full swing. Crime, too, is omnipresent. Someone always wants what you have.The barbecues happen on enclosed patios or balconies. Few sit out on their narrow front stoops and converse with neighbors. As such, developments like this are the Weavers ideal breeding grounds: humans become drones, bees in the nicely structured little hive, without the benefits (and chaos) of social interaction.
Garou are social creatures, though. Even the most private of them, and soon the empty sterility of the plush condominium becomes as stressful and provocative as rush hour traffic. Too much of anything is bad for the nerves: too much quiet, too much noise.
After a moment's contemplation of her cigarette and lighter, Rune tucks them away, slips her high-heeled sandals from her feet and climbs over the wrought-iron railing. It's a delicate maneuver, but after testing the strength of the railing, she extends her long legs and half-reaches, half-jumps for the retaining wall of the patio below.
After that, an easy jump to the ground. She lands, sinking into a crouch to absorb the impact on soft, thick turf, then slips her heels back on.
Another sound added to the constant hum of traffic, the buzz of the lights, the plink plank plunk of the fountain, the canned laughter rolling from the television in a unit opposite them, one of the few with an open window.
"Imogen, James." Greeting, this, uttered as she selects a cigarette and lights up, the sharp scent of smoke coiling into the rest of the scents in the night air. "...sup?"
(imogen)
Now, tonight, the weather has cleared, and a sliver of the moon spears the sky on its setting descent curving toward the edge of the earth. Twilight passes faster here than farther north, and passes incredibly slower for those more attuned to such southern climates as L.A, Alabama. By now the final slanting rays from the sun have died and there is barely a glow to the horizon, and the sky has a luminescence all its own, pale grey, pale blue.Her eyes are dark blue when they flicker upward toward the sky and the sliver of a moon, the slow beginning of waxing once more, Luna's inevitable pregnancy. Stepping around the bench upon which the Gnawer reclines, her fingers tap lightly across the back of it, uninsistant, more a placeholder for a greeting than any actual speech that she may offer. Like Rune, Imogen is lighting up, though her cigarettes are less colourful, offwhite with darker filter, set between pale unadorned lips. She steps, casually, easily, and perhaps out of habit, moving downwind of the two, where either her cigarette, or the particular sickly sweet scent of decay, fluids long gone bad and flesh that should have long been buried cannot quite be caught.
This is one of those smells that she may get used to, but she is aware of. Such a scent is something she has gotten used to, but she is never, ever unaware of its presence.
The turn of her attention fully toward Rune as she speaks, a brief movement of her mouth that equates to a smirk of greeting, as she answers, be it automatically, as she exhales cigarette smoke, poison and cancer easily from her. "No' all tha' much, an' y'rself?"
(james)
and above it all
pack
of this? he would not need sound nor scent nor sight to know the Walker moved closer
she? he could simply..... feel
the tightening prickling between his shoulderblades
that causes him to stretch up a bit on the bench
hands lifting off the seat to wander across the back in some lazy crucifixion
ankles haven't quite uncrossed, yet, but heels are pushing against the concrete
simply because that tilts his skull to look at the now upside-down Beta
flashing a little grin (that grin) before his attention wanders towards the drumming fingers with a glance
but, unerringly, deep umber follows the path of the Kin crossing behind the bench until attention focuses on Rune once more"Just listening to the rhythms."
rhythms?
every spirit has it's rhythm - you just have to learn it
he's mastered Eagle's, for when the time that come it's needed
seems with all the rain, he's trying to find what's inherant within the little elementals that wander and play within the fountain
by the drumsticks tucked into the side pocket of his BDUs, probably picking it up, as well(rune)
Rune does not glance up toward the sunset, which seems pale and unremarkable to her, as it always does. Sunset, twilight, in movies these things are richer and deeper, without the inevitable band of ashen-brown-gray smog that always rings the horizon, even on the clearest nights. In the distance, more low trees, little more than windscreens between competing developments that have stolen their unmemorable names from what may have been here before. What they promise: tranquility, some level of comfort and solidity, some illusion of space to those weary of the city. Or rather, that is what they promised two decades ago. Now, two generations have been raised in such suburbs, and each new development is always billed as an escape from the one before."Not much." Rune smirks, a faint curl of her cruel red mouth, crimson lips peeled back around the golden filter of her French cigarette. Not much. All things equal: that's not bad. The smirk breaks briefly, something like the cresting of a wave, as she casts a glance toward James. The shadow of amusement deeper and different than her usual sardonic demeanor, but only a shadow of such. "Rhythms, hmmm?"
Another drag, and she exhales a plume of smoke into the dark half-light. Her attention strays to the sky, the sliver of moon silhoetted there, its darker three quarters a shadowy presence. The sunset may not draw her glance, but the moon always does. "You've heard abuot this Endron stuff?" she asks, her attention falling from the sky to the kinfolk seated there on the bench. "I've got a list of their lawyers, some other stuff, but - " a brief shrug of her shoulders as she draws abreast of the bench and holds out her cigarette to James, an offering. " - anything you can find, might be helpful."
(imogne)
She turns her head to answer Rune, "Somethin' about a ... " she searches for the word. It would be easier if Garou had their own terms for such things (they do, but not in a language Imogen could ever hope to comprehend or imitate) it might be easier. It's the dual terms that get her. "... spirit o' sorts beneath where they're located. I'll see what I can find. If y'give me..." Pager. It's a shrill sound, sharp, and results in the kinfolk's immediate attention, her hand coming from her pocket to clap on the pager clipped to her hip, thumbing the button.A curse, quiet and succinct, "Shit," muttered around the filter of her cigarette, a cloud of cigarette smoke, as she views the display, dimly lit. She glances up to Rune, completing her sentence, as her free hand, unhampered by the pager in the other hand reaches up to take the cigarette from her mouth, "If y'give me what'cha have, I c'n try and supplement it. An' maybe check inta where they've been before." Despite distraction of the pager in her other hand, there is a vague sense of thought behind her dark unrevealing eyes. Imogen is nothing, if not a scholar.
"Pardon me," a twist of her mouth, half a grimace as she gestures with her pager, indicating the source of her departure. Cigarette ashed and reinserted in her mouth, she steps around the Glass Walker Ahroun, back toward the condos, her apartment, her telephone and then her car.
(james)
it's the almost puppyish twist of his head that says mmhmm rather than a vocal affirmation
now, he could be referring completely to the trickling, tinkling sound of the fountain just outside their conversation
or.... he could be referring, at least partially, to the sudden whim to show her. rhythm.
whatever the connotations of his response, he keeps them... mostly... to himself"Jhoath."
barely. murmured.
almost inaudible to the Kin
and with her pager going off, probably more towards completely than almost
and in the reach to the offered cigarette (thank you) he scoots over a bit on the bench to make room
conventional couples sit there to watch the sunset
perhaps Garou will get away with watching the moonrise?"S'what Billy called it when he came by to get his patch."
he knows more
that's clear in dark eyes peering through the cloud of exhaled smoke
a glance towards Imogen heading towards the car
then back to his Beta - now may not be the time to fill her in?
at least... here on the green belt?(rune)
Rune's dark eyes lift to follow the kinfolk's exit. Her brow wrinkles, puzzled by the reference - she hadn't heard that much - until James clarifies. Rune offers a brief wave to Imogen as she leaves, then sinks onto the bench beside James, kicking her long legs out in front of her."Later." Rune says, confirming his wordless question. Trapped spirits with mysterious names out in the middle of the woods: part of the job, maybe, but not her cup of tea. Her shoulder brushes James' own, as close to the usual affection shown between lovers as they can get away with, in public, in the eyes of the world, and she casts him a sidelong glance as she holds out her hand for the cigarette, nails gleaming like blood in the light. "Anyone told Erik yet?"
(james)
"Don't think so."just as easily as he asked the wordless question - he's moving right along
the way his head shakes is an excuse to shift his weight against her shoulder
the long stretch of muscle that leads into bicep rolling against her arm in a shrug
it's the easy familiarity of the animal pack
it's the mindless contact of two people that obviously live together
(in whatever capacity)
one last drag and he's returning the smoke to her bloodtipped fingers"Haven't seen him for about as long as I haven't seen Decker around. Not something I particularly want to broadcast, though Billy gave me a few details."
(rune)
"No," she replies, flashing him another one of her devilish smirks as she lifts her cigarette to her mouth. "Let's keep it off the radio. Even the dedicated channel."Some flicker of a shrug as she casts him another sidelong glance. Lipstick smeared across the filter gleams dully in the amber lighting, some trace of the gold color showing through the translucent smear of color. Some of that color has found its way to his mouth, and as she glances at him, she transfers her cigarette from one hand to the old and reaches to smudge it from his skin. The suggestion of the sharp edge of her nail, the heat of her body beside his, in the gathering chill of the growing night, the sinful curve of her hip, fitted snugly against his body, the sure awareness of movement.
Her eyes drift up to the sky again, the ring of orange on the horizon, the darker sky above them, where only a few of the brightest stars shine out through the haze of light pollution. "Think it'll ever be fucking summer again?"
(james)
there's the slightest tip of his chin
maybe even a curve of a mirroring smile
(that's what he thought)
he's about to say something - but is verily distracted by her reach
his brows reach towards browline of dreads in concerted - yet subdued - surprise
his lips have a mine of their own and pull away from her cleaning fingers in widening grin (.... hey!) than ends in laughter as musical as the softly bubbling fountain (.... guess it.... wasn't my color)there's that underlying edge
that primal burr that's beneath their skins
reacting to the careful suggestion telegraphed in everything but words
(you're doing this on purpose)
but he retaliates only in the way he kipes the smoke
playful grimace while making a point to try to wipe away the freshest layer of lipstick on the filter
coupled with a matter-of-face nod"Entirely too soon. Why, something wrong with spring?"
she's asking about the warmth of summer in tones from a place just as warm
the actual.... absense.... of an accent that's entirely Californian
just in the way she phrases images drawn of beaches and sand and big blue skies
he's responding with the tones of a harsh winter
the sharp cut of words that could only come from New York
he's all too used to the Union's cold
how opposite, their worlds, in every possible way
.... except one"Learned it."
shared on a whisping curl of smoke beyond his lips
chin lifting towards the fountain just before them
keeping up the rotation of the cigarette(rune)
"Yeah," she smirks, snagging back the smoke with an incidental graze of her fingers along the strong lines of his hand. "It's too fucking cold. Hafta wear too many fucking clothes."Five dollars, easy, says she won't change her look come the full heat of summer, and then she will complain about the oppressive humidity, the sweating stink of exhaust fumes, the weight of the wet air on their respective skins.
Rune is not a woman easily satisfied.
By now, the cigarette has been smoked down to a bare nub. She takes a last drag that is practically melting filter and then flicks it, expertly, toward the convenient ashtray, complete with a Keep America Beautiful sticker that has been thoroughly defaced by some enterprising teenager stuck in this bland land of relentless conformity. Her eyes narrow as she follows then passage of the cigarette, end over burning end, and then shift to the fountain as he nods. Without turning her head, she gives him a rich, arrogant look mirrored in the slow lift of her chin. "Yeah?"
He will feel as much as see the drift of her attention back to the fountain. The shift of her attention, once her eyes dance over the burbling waters. Deliberately, she kicks off her expensive shoes - her toes curl over the heel, holding one down, then the over, until the heels are free of the strap. Then: she lets loose, kicking them into the air, catching them, putting them aside on the bench. Beneath the ashen scent of her cigarette: alcohol, expensive lotions. Above them: cool, chlorinated water, the smokey scent of seared meat.
She stands, taking in their surroundings in a slow survery, scanning on several levels, sight and sound and the intangible, ever-present bonds of pack. No one else has been around for days and days, really, sometimes their restraint is more for form than substance. Amused, or perhaps self-amused, the razor curve of her grin as she saunters toward the small fountain and glances down, pennies line the bottom like copper blooms. The faint spray dampens her silk shell, but only just. The heels dangle from her right hand, and she slips her left into her pocket, with a jingle of keys as she considers the little fountain.
"You'll have to show me." The curve of her grin is almost musing, though there's a certain challenging darkness in her eyes. "...though I think this one's a little small. Wanna go for a ride?"
(james)
he's watching the way her fingers breifly taunt over his hand
brows decidedly lift at her response
(his own suddenly paused - or lost)
..... he ..... can't really argue that
and he probably wouldn't want to if he could
imagination runs wildhe has no idea the level of bitchery that will begin come summer
he has not known her long enough to experience it
but there's probably just as sure a bet: it won't change anything
in fact, he'll have the excuse to do something about it
and again, we are finding things the Gnawer will simply not complain about, himself
not a single word of argument will issue from his mouth"Yeh."
is forming between them, instead
a little agreeable sound sorta just. grinned
because he's returning to that lazy sprawl across the bench
elbows hooked and dangling over the back of the seat
fingers drumming a little tune on the wood
that sound, too, seems to come to a pause as she takes a moment to study the fountainhowever, it's not polite to stare, Jamey-boy
and he was definitely going to in that anticipation of the shell further dampening
he's not looking away, exactly
rather letting his gaze slither down that style that will never change
(except strappy sandals replacing the heeled boots)
and rest on the dancing water, as if in consideration of their present situation
it's more of an instinctual reaction
because he knows what it is she scans for
and his gaze only rises once again after her suggestion
(tracing. every. damned. curve.)
flowing smoothly into the curious lift of a brow"Depends." weight rolls forward, wooden drumsticks clacking in the loose thigh pocket as he stands, long legs closing the distance between them in barely two full strides, and his weight shifts, leaning to peer into the copper speckled fountain, and then leaning in as if to pass some confidential comedic nugget of observation - but it's in the lift of rugged jaw, the hardened edge to the partial smile, and the precise tilt of his head that shows he can be just as arrogantly rich in his looks as she - even if they both know it's an act he puts on just for her, and his voice drops to a whisper that slides in under the volume of the falling water "Do you promise to ride me 'til my knees are too weak to stand?"
the first time, his brows lifted in that wooooaah type of surprise
Posted by james at June 02, 2003 12:00 AM
the second time, they are lifting in that slow creep of righteous challenge
deep glimmer in dark eyes that quite literally begs and dares her to accept it in the most devilish of ways
balance submits to the call of gravity that seems to be stronger behind him
dodging the swipe he's sure will come, knowing how that will fuel her ire for the next one
the restraint they maintain for show rather than substance heightening something in the air between them
because he's backstepping towards the Z3 quietly waiting in the lot
because they're going to a place far away from prying eyes
one of those places they'll do nameless things - just because they can
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