July 01, 2003.07.01.03. - claiming [decker-imogen-spots]James...PM...:Decker Rohl
Three in the afternoon. 80-some-odd degrees. Summer's fullfledged now, the solstice past, the days shortening, the heat rising off the pavement to bake your soles to the ground. It's a New Jersey feel, somehow, this citified heat: long shadows in the corridors between skyscrapers, the golden-red glow of afternoon through glass and concrete and smog. Premature sunsets. Even out in the suburbs there's the taste of the city in the air.
He's parked where he hasn't been for a while. Bottom of Imogen's stairs. Drab military-green shorts are shorts only in the loosest sense of the word; the hem hangs an inch below the knee. Sockless feet are stuck into an ancient pair of flipflops; jersey sticks to his back with sweat, and leaves a myriad of tan lines across his shoulders and upper chest.
CD walkman, headphones, waiting around. A lady walking her dog toward the green belt comes by and he squints up with one eye. Her stare is the sort usually reserved for something vile and frightening, cockroaches and mangy feral-dogs. "Don't ferget to pick up the turds," he reminds her, cynically helpful. She walks all the faster, dragging the bristling Fido away.
There's something about him that frightened the prey-animals and angered the predators.
Other than that the afternoon's pretty devoid of excitement. He's tanning into summery brown, at least on the upper surfaces of his body. Like a water animal, he's countershaded, lighter on the inside of his forearm, the underside of his arms. No spa-cultivated supertan, this, but the simple darkening of a rough-born boy who should probably be working at the docks for his day's pay instead of loitering on the good doctor's stairs. That's all right. He still had a couple bucks, enough for burger and fries and gasoline. He'll go tomorrow.
Imogen SlaughterTue 04:02PM
The sunset bakes the sidewalks until they are almost uncomfortably hot to the touch. The air isn't hot in comparison to deep southern summers but in comparison to the days of rain and sixty degree weather, it was a scorcher. The breeze hardly stirs and the air tastes of smog and car exhaust fumes, that kind of heat that sticks in the back of your throat.Still, it's pleasant enough, the sun warm, the air not so humid. Summer as it hasn't been, belated like the spring was belated. It's nearly four pm, which is actually rather early for the sleek mercedes to come into the parking lot and drive into one of the tenant parking spots. It's early for the flame haired woman, strands half tamed by the benefit of some elastic or another. What strands refuse to be tamed, wild and curling, denying all attempts to calm the chaos, fall to cling against the curve of her neck, brush the collar of her blouse and slide against her cheekbones. Fading bruises now, the slow descent from dark black and blue to greens and yellows, mottling. One could not tell it was summer by her skin, pale fine flesh that would likely burn rather than tan. Not that there is much sun to be found in a morgue. Or a car in early morning when she is either going to work, or coming home.
There isn't much in the way of freedom with strict business attire for the summer, except that her blouse is short sleeved and she had tossed off her jacket during the drive. Lighter fabrics, thinner, lighter weaves, still dark colours, sombre. She opens the back door of the car, grabbing brief case and jacket, fingers curling around the first, the second drapped to stay best as it could on the brief case.
Bristling fido and his surly owner is long gone by the time she approaches the walk way, heading toward the stairs where the Modi loiters. She pauses, just as her shadow begins to reach his feet, her free hand sliding into a pocket, finding keys as she looks at him. "'Lo." Somehow one syllable is at least better than simply staring and waiting.
Decker RohlThe tinny blast of music is audible even two yards away. Bassless, all music sounds about the same, four-four time, common time, the high section of the percussion and little else. He can't have heard her greeting. It doesn't matter how good his ears are; when he's blowing them out like that, he wouldn't hear apocalypse itself falling on his head.
He can see her, though, through the honeygold lashes that scatter the sunlight into rainbow hues dotting his view of the world. Talk about rosetinted glasses. There's some motion of her lips when she speaks. He tugs the earphones down, nods up.
"Wasn't 'spectin' you til like eight o'clock." That's his idea of a hello today. He should probably move out of the way, but the concrete's warm beneath his body, and hot everywhere else. He'd shadowed himself a comfort spot in the sun. There's an absurd sort of flair to the silver on his wrists, flashing brilliant against his tan like the world's cheapest attempt at bling-bling.
Imogen
He's blocking her way up the stairs, and so she remains where she is, the keys jangling together softly as she draws them from the pocket, and holds them neglectfully by one finger looped through the ring.Her eyes flicker down to his wrists, something that by now, might very well be oddly familiar, for him to see her do, for her to see on him, before her attention flicks back up, "I was supposed to be in court," she shrugs her shoulders slightly, "It was postponed."
Her attention flicks away to some undecided point and back again, "So I came 'round for a bit before I go back."
Decker RohlA flash of his eyebrows: one of his many wordless gestures, ambiguous, all amounting to a shrug or a nod. He shifts his weight on one elbow and leans to that side, giving her enough room to get by him. If she felt like it.
"Go on, then." Jerk of his thumb over his shoulder. There could be something infuriating about his insolence: that he dares act as gatekeeper to her own damn house. He doesn't seem to care, though. He hooks the earphone back over his ear and turns the music back up.
Imogen SlaughterTue 04:40PM
She stares at him for a beat of unreadable silence broken by the heavy beat of his music. There could be something infuriating about his insolence, and there must be. She might have said something, under her breath so quiet that sensitive ears, music blaring in one and close to blaring in the other, couldn't hear.After the ambiguous moment, she speaks aloud, not yet taking a step through the opening he'd provided, "Just going to sit 'ere on the steps then, are you?"
Decker RohlTue 04:51PM
He'd been reaching over to pull the other earphone on too. Reseal himself in noise, and fuck her muttering. Then she speaks aloud and he stops, halts, freezes even if not for the indefatiguable laziness in his motion that would never, under normal circumstances, simply freeze up. Tilts his head to look on up, his hand coming down to rest on his stomach.Pause.
"Yeah. Gittin' some fuckin' sun." Aggressive, a glance tossed at the gap between him and the banister. "What, 'sit scarin' you, thought o' walkin' by so close?"
Imogen SlaughterTue 04:57PM
"No," another negative that she says without need to think or consider. She shifts her grip on the brief case, the jacket slung over the handle shifting between the movements of her fingers.The house keys, car keys, work keys hit together disonantly as her other hand reaches up tugging through the loosened strands of hair, pushing back the bright hair from her face as she looks at him, direct and still holding his gaze. Because she wasn't 'scared'. Or refused to be, perhaps. "I want to know why you're here."
Decker RohlTue 05:07PM
A beat.Then he moves. Suddenly. Smoothly. Sits up in a flex of abdomen and nothing else. Elbows come to rest on his updrawn knees, forearms and hands hanging loose. Muscles churn under his skin and the ink that marks it, so like the bands of flesh moving beneath a snake's patterned scales. The motion seems a logical prelude to his standing up, just as smooth and just as sudden, but he doesn't. He arrests right there. Right at the cusp of standing. Taut.
He draws two quick breaths. His nostrils flare twice and compress twice.
"Maybe I'm waitin' fer you to git home." It's almost silken. It's almost sussurant. It rasps at the edges like a steel file. "Maybe I'm waitin' to see ya. Maybe I'm waiting fer you to walk close enough fer me to touch, 'cause that's about as close I'm lettin' myself git lately."
Then, slowly, he sinks back. Tension runs out of him like water, deceptive. He smirks at her. "Enough reasons fer ya? Could always call the cops on me like 24C threatened."
Imogen SlaughterTue 05:24PM
Give her this, if she is afraid of him, really, of his sudden movements of his rage (some fear renewed by a rather poignant reminder), she doesn't flinch or take a step back as he moves suddenly. Some part of her is tense, but some part of her is always tense, lately. Waiting for the other shoe to drop. He has no way of knowing it's not only with him."I wouldn't like to see what a Garou would do when confronted by cops intent on arresting him." Whether a Garou would fight back, kill them, rip them limb from limb. Whether the Garou would go, and go furiously insane behind bars for a day or two before finally snapping. Kinfolk have taken the fall for Garou before, to save them from such a fate. Quite a few humans have likely done the same, though not willingly.
Her weight shifts slightly as she looks away a moment, toward the manicured green lawns of the condominium plaza, green from all the rain, poisonous fertilizer and care done by minimum wage workers. "Well, I'm home. And you can see me." Her gaze resettles on him after another moment, "Are you just goin' ta stay ou' 'ere after?"
Decker RohlTue 05:37PM
It's a glare. It's a challenge. It's a stabbing offensive. It's an attack in everything but body, the way he nails her down with his stare, the way the angry grey never quite reflects the blue of the sky. Hell knows what's got him riled up this time. Really, he doesn't need an excuse. The electric-charge sensation that cloaks him is excuse enough.Then, abruptly, he gives it up. Looks away and shakes his head slowly. He might be answering her question. Likely he's not. The quiet goes on for a while. The lady and her dog are circling around the long way to avoid coming by Imogen's condo again. He watches them detachedly for a moment. The sunlight is crisper in the north, smogscreened though it might be; it casts the angles of his face into dark and light, sharply divided.
In a photograph (and it's doubtful he even has a single one saved somewhere. after his short days are over, there won't be a record of him, his high planed cheekbones and his hurricane eyes. there won't be a record at all except in memory and, just maybe, if that end was fucking glorious enough and he took enough wyrmlings down with him, in song.) he could be striking. In life, he's closer to terrifying.
Eventually his attention comes back to her, though his gaze doesn't. He nods at the stairs behind him, and to the left.
"Why don'tcha siddown a while, Imogen."
Imogen SlaughterTue 06:04PM
He glares at her and for moments, she stares back. The offensive glare of his eyes backed up by the heavy weight of his rage.She looks away sharply when he gives it up (it must be a relief, sometimes, when he doesn't look at her), up the stairs toward the front door, before her gaze flicks back as he speaks. A beat, before she steps up past him and up the stairs (and if she was lying and she was terrified of him, it's firmly buried to the point it no longer matters), without so much as a word.
The brief case is dropped at the top of the stairs just beneath the overhang, the jacket thrown over it, keys dropped to the side with a dull jangle, and then silence.
A few steps down, and she drops to sit above him, back setting against the railing, the sunheated wood pressing against the thin fabric of her blouse, almost too warm. It's been a long afternoon and the sun has been out the entire day, unobscured by clouds. Everything is beginning to retain heat from the sun. She's a rather petite woman to begin with, and isn't prone to sprawling or taking up all that much space. One leg draws up to rest on the same step upon which she sits, while the other, on the step directly below, as she sits, sideways. It's easy enough to look at him from this position, dark blue eyes slitting slightly against the sun, framing the view in coppery red.
Whether meant or not, on either side, he had gotten his third comment. She was almost close enough to touch, if only because she refused to sit miles away from him. Somehow, it seemed more ridiculous when sitting, than standing.
The music is still loud enough to hear, the beat consistantly audible. Her attention flickers toward the ear phone for a moment, before toward him, "if y'were anyone else, I'd tell y'about the damage those things can do t'yer ears," she says finally, inanely, hand reaching up to press back strands of hair once more. Speech, if only because for once, she might not wish the silence.
Decker RohlTue 06:13PM
She can see him easy enough. The reverse isn't quite as true. He would have to twist around to look at her, and it seems like too much trouble. So she sits, he lounges, and doesn't ask why.Why she didn't just walk in. Why she came back. Why she did as he said (asked) and sat down behind him.
Somehow joints were a nighttime thing, at least when the moon is small. He doesn't feel the urge, doesn't have the longing, doesn't go for his weed. He does, however, rub his wrists absently. Then she mentions the volume of his music - inanely perhaps, and perhaps out of a lack of anything else to say. Somehow leaving the silence to roll out seems improper.
He looks at her over his shoulder. After he's turned away again, she hears him snort quietly. He pulls the earphones off completely and taps the power button. "Christ, Imogen. Don't needya to mother me."
Imogen SlaughterTue 06:23PM
A brief snort of air to answer his own, "Well, that's comforting," she answers, some sort of thread of wry sarcasm (like his mockery, carelessness, she has her defenses and barriers), "I don't particularly think I'm the mothering type."He doesn't bother looking at her, so he can't quite catch the narrowed eyed frown that comes and goes like a summer storm; nor can he see the slow pass of her thumb across her index finger, the habitual pass of her attention over the well healed groove of a scar. She rests her head against the railing support, attention flicking upward and away toward the harsh blue sky, as she exhales, slowly, through her nose.
Decker RohlTue 06:52PM
A silence. He lets it slide. He's tired of fighting. He's tired of fighting with her. His temper's what started the problem in the first place. He scrubs at a spot of engine-oil on his palm, licks his thumb and tries again.Then with some small amount of care, he sets Livingston's CD player aside and turns on the stairs until he's sitting much the way she is, back to one banister, heels to the other. There's more length to him, though, and he isn't the type to fold and scrunch. He takes up more space, broader and wider, a larger sprawl.
Antiparallel, he looks at her for a moment. This is, in fact, the first time he's looked at her for some time. Not a glance, and not at her bruise. He looks at her throat and at her cheek, at her eyes. Behind her, the white stucco condominiums are sharp and bright against the sky. A welcome breeze lifts sweat off his skin. He pulls his shirt up and wipes his brow with it, pulls it back down.
"'M sorry I hitcha." In the end he finds he has to say it - not for the sake of absolution, but for some blind, stupid hope of it that's impossible to let go of. As if with words, with blood, with pain, he could perhaps strike the whole of the night from existence. "'N I'm sorry I jus' left ya there."
Imogen SlaughterTue 07:07PM
She isn't looking at him, when he looks at her, her attention flicked upward toward the sky, the breeze that had skimmed across his skin skimming across hers, brushing through the fabric of her shirt, of her pants. Somebody somewhere is having a barbecue and the air smells of charcoal and burning meat.It's hard to say what she'd been expecting now, after her caustic comment, barriers up and repelling. Whether she'd expected him to snap back at her, get furious and stalk away as she pushes it and him too far one more time.
She had certainly not expected an apology.
It's not that she stares at him in open mouthed shock, or even that her eyes widen, only that her features go carefully blank, as her attention shifts toward him an for a long moment it's just that.
Her hand moves finally, in some sharp meaningless gesture, some small motion that is meant to answer him (but of course it is not eloquent enough for that) or help her find the words to do so (but there are none, or there are too many) or simply a gesture of nothing, meaning nothing because she has nothing to mean and feels she must do something.
The thoughts are half born, some flicker of it behind her eyes, but too fast too quick for even her to catch them all, let alone him.
And finally, "I wouldn't 'ave wanted y'to stay, anyway." Absolution is a hard thing to hand out on so many levels.
Decker RohlTue 07:22PM
He watches her close up on herself. He watches the thoughts flicker unreadably; it's her talent to be able to do that, but it's a damn frustrating one."Know that," he says at last, and maybe he does. Now he does want a joint. He could blame it on the slipping sun that cast his shadow long and ridged on the stairs, that made valleys and ravines of the folds and creases of his pants, the tiny vertical ribs of his jersey. He could, but he knew that wasn't it.
The hand that had tugged his shirt up and then down again stays loosely bunched in the thin material. The cotton's a tight fit, hugging against the hard curves and planes of his body, but the material itself has been washed so often that the knit is loosened, the weave slowly beginning to unravel as all things do in the end. Here is the cloth; here the tapestry; here is the thread you add to it, until the scissors snip it off.
Here is your life, the extent, the expanse, the length. This is what you get. The war, the violence, the losing battle.
And these, the moments.
He bows his head forward for a moment. Then he raises it and looks at her hand like he might take it. He doesn't, though. He gets to his feet and steps off the stairs onto the path, doesn't go far, doesn't go anywhere, stands looking into the evening sun and wondering what now.
And what now circles back to what then, what before. Reknit and close. He turns back, his hands finding their way to his pockets. He sits down again, the way he had when she first walked up, facing west, back to the flight of the stairs.
"Tell me something," he says.
SpotsTue 07:46PM
Hibernia.
He has been here once before.
then, he was interupted as he stumbled upon a beaten and bruised kin.
Feels ages ago, even if it was less then a month.
A month here has done little to change his patterns.
shoulders sagging, shielded by a light windbreaker.
He peeks at 5'11 wearing those everpresent, slightly to large boots, that make a slow, rythmic tap tap against the asphalt of the sidewalk.
Jeans worn to perfection rising low on narrow hips.
Skinny, is a king word for the small metis known as Spots.
Mohawk a ragged mop of darkblonde curls on his head, that is striped with white, looking almost like some failed barcode experiment.
James had given him the number to call Rune.
Perhaps he should have, instead of what he now has done.
But to follow the Spirit that guides him is natural.
So he walks through suburbia, hands deep in pockets, and a half forgotten, half put out smoke clenched between lips and teeth.
The metis goes to meet the eagles pack.
goes to meet what he cant help feel, is a return back home.
His tribe is there.
(imogen)
Life leaves its echoes upon everyone, marking them forever by certain situations and actions. That a certain day might mark someone forever. In some cases, it's truly scars, marks that will never go away. In other situations it's simply the way someone reacts to something. To shut down, instead of react angry. To react with scorn, rather than get angry.Tell me something, he says, and her attention has turned to the sky once more, hands straightening out against smooth slippery fabric of her dress pants, fingers spreading against her knees, stretching the tendons.
The sky is much paler than her eyes, the clear blue deepness compared to the darker more clouded blue.
This is the harder way to do it; at least for the one who has to answer. To actually think of something to say, something to answer. And make it matter.
And finally, more or less, she does what he did. Avoidance, as her attention flickers toward him again, glancing at his turned back, "Like what?" After a silence long enough that he might have thought she wasn't going to say anything at all.
(decker)
"Anything."(spots)
How do you know one corner from the next?
You dont.
It has nothing to do with visual recognition.
Nor any of the other senses most humans take for granted.
Just that tickle along his back.
the slightest shift of the gauntlet.
A ripple in the fabric if you will.
It always changes when those able to cross it freely remain long enough in an area.
So he stops on the corner, blue gaze searching the row of houses glimpsed behind the hedges.
One like the other.
A couple on the stairs there.
Another walking his dog there.
Finally, a drag that revives the struggling glow of his smoke.
Grey smoke released from thin lips, to be caught by the breeze, and torn to shreds.
What is he doing here anyway?
He really should have called ahead, and have James meet him.
It would have been the right thing to do.
Cause he has started, however slowly, to see an inkling of what life could be.
Away from his tribe, and all that he knows.
"Fuck..."
Uttered so softly, as the smoke is thrown down, and stomped, as if it was to blame for him beeing here.
And with the slow Tap Tap of boots, he begins to walk down along the rows of hedges.
Searching the houses, and the surroundings for some sign, some glyph or mark that would reveal the packs home.(decker)
(i gotta post faster cuz i'm gone in like 40 min, y'all!)There's no glyph to mark the land. No runes carved into the door. No thundercloud forever looming over one condo; no sound of distant howls.
There is, however, the intense rage washing from the man (correction: Garou) on the stairs, whose attention is, for the moment, tuned out across the expanse of the parking lot: black asphalt sea.
(james)
it's..... hot
strange thing when you tend to live through most of the night
the day seems all the more glaring, baking, broiling, swel. ter. ing.
he spent the latter part of it at the condo's pool
even playing with a few kids
(it's the little things that count)but that was an hour ago
now he's the only one by the glistening, crystaline water, sitting at the edge just at the 4' marker
dark gray cargo shorts soaked to nearly black
the back cuffs weighted behind his knees to dangle right on into the water his feet are still in
black t-shirt plastered to lean form
(you try to explain such scars to children)
dreads almost seem tame now, with the cling and drape of water
Camel smoke billows out of his lungs towards the setting sun
one more drag, and he's stretching (sloshing) his way to stand
meandering across the slippery when wet! concrete towards the safety gate(imogen)
A brief sound in the back of her throat, some sort of acknowledgement that she'd heard him. A moment, where she perhaps considers the question again, and if she had something to say, when Spots comes into view, tapping his way, searching the houses and surroundings for some sort of sign.Exhale, "It looks like I'll owe you one." Her eyes narrowing as the metis walks closer in his aimless search.
Her eyes narrow slightly on the movements of him, perhaps because humans don't tend to go wandering around here. After all, if Spots can feel the rage from there, a human would certainly not come any closer.
(decker)
The Modi's attention comes up. His hair's shorn close to his skull, faintly glistening with sweat - hot today, humid too. His eyes might be grey or blue or something of both; it's hard enough to tell at a distance. He eyes Spots for a minute and grunts under his breath."Yeah."
Subtle change in posture: the hunker a little broader, more obviously confident, a touch more tension in the bracket of the almost-bare shoulders. He doesn't bother to raise his head high like a dog sitting up, but the angle of his jaw's held a little differently. Body language, street-thug language and garou language. It's all the subtleties of it that made the claim: this is his land and these are his buildings. He doesn't own them by money, but he does by bloodshed.
James put in an appearance. He glances over. Nods up. Sinks back, elbows onto the stair above him. Another gesture, another meaning. James, PR man, can take point. He'll fly wing on this one.
(spots)
Rage.
Mark enough for anyone, washing so heavily from the seated man.
And it sends a shiver down his spine, quite unlike that which led him to the area.
this one, announces the shoulders sag.
He found atleast one.
Yay.
Some part of his brain had hoped he would run into james here, and get away without meeting anyone else.
Its never that easy, is it?
Steps slow, as he approaches the house, a glance cast to the two there.
they were busy, so he stops, and fishes out another 'bro from his pockets.
Bic brought up, a flare of light against his face, before he once more drags deep into his lungs.
And exhales slowly.
He has rage within him as well, but the feelings of it are diminutive at best.
Never the warrior at the best of times.
Gaze down, seeming locked on his boots.
And james appear.
If Spots notices him, it doesnt show, remaining where he is, waiting to be called.
He knows his place.(james)
there's a nod up (answered, one to the kin, too)
there's a thuggish melt back on the steps (acknowledged)
there's another gesture (deep umber rotates left)
it's all in the body language
where phrases transcend vocality
it's the method of the animal
of packthough as he gets a glance of that skinny form and barcode mohawk
instead of settling into the ease of ownership
the Bone Gnawer grins and changes course
wet feet not quite slapping against the concrete
but the step's quick enough to get to cooler grass in a heartbeat
(and the Fenrir before he bolts)"Hey Spots." called out as the metis gaze locks on the ground, waiting til the look up for nod up "S'up?"
(imogen)
There's rage here, sitting a step or two down on her stairs, and approaching from the pool, leaving small puddles of water with each step. It's palpable, it's in the air. Her eyes follow Spots for a beat, three, now, still leaned against the railing of the stairs. Her posture change is subtler because she isn't using her body language to mean anything. It is infact something controlled, and smothered. She brushes back strands of hair from her face again, as James's voice grasps her attention and then back away.She has no rage, which might not be an easy thing to pinpoint. At a point like this, it's not as if rage was flames of a candle, they're bon fires, blazing hot and hard and the burning warmth spreads everywhere. She's possible close enough to Decker that the fact that she is, in comparison to the burn of rage, startling cool might be hard to gauge. What she does bring to this odd gathering, however, is the weight of her breeding. The evidence of pure blood.
(decker)
Decker frowns at Spots. The name he overheard from James. What sorta name is that? He notes the downcast eyes. Thin shoulders. Weirdass hair. Knew James.Must be a Gnawer.
He loiters a while longer, silent now. His attention's focused forward. For lack of a better word, he's ignoring Imogen, at least in intellect. In that, though, is an odd sort of trust. A physical, visceral belief that his six was safe. His gaze stays on Spots. Out of the corner of his eye, he notes James coming forward.
(spots)
He does look up then.
Offering a slight nod up to james.
Kinda natural to do as your head raises.
"Hello James."
nice day, aint it.
Good to meet you!
The metis would probably greet james like that.
If not for the two on the stairs.
The signs clear enough.
This, is their ground, not his.
So the metis waits, gaze lowering back after it rose to look at james chin.
Hedges covering James feet.
Shame.
He kinda liked those boots the gnawer wore.
Quite spiffy actually.
Smoke lifted to lips.
Drag.
Wait.
Exhale.
the wash of rage.
The sense of that pure blood, scented behind (above) everything else.
He wants a joint so bad he can taste it.
But this isnt the time for it.
Gaze still on ground, his voice low.
"Sorry I didnt call ahead...."
He really is.(imogeN)
She is impassive as she considers the interaction between the two Garou, a steady dark eyed gaze, as her weight shifts slightly, settling more comfortably against the almost too hot railing.(decker)
Yeah, okay. Enough of this. The Modi straightens up, gets to his feet. Squeezes his fist and pops his knuckles (like maybe he was just itching to beat some backbone into Spots) and then turns on the bottom stair, flawlessly balanced on the none-too-wide ledge, to face Imogen briefly."Lissen." Too low to be overheard; pause. "When you gonna be home tonight?"
(james)
those boots are spiffy
.... if he was wearing them
but right now it's just the water that hasn't evaporated yet
soaking wet clothes: built in air-conditioning, baby
and as Spots looks up, there's that familiar grin
and as Spots looks down again, he doesn't seem to make anything of it
nor the eagle eyes of his packmate over on the stairs
muscular shoulders rolling in a shrug"No worries, you wouldn't have known I was back. Mother sends her best."
quietly offered
so James and the strange Garou have a bit of a past
the way his head tilts, there's a hope that will get Spots to look up again
rather than having to do a verbal reminder infront of the other Fenrir"What's got you so far North?"
(imogen)
Yeah, okay. Enough of this. The Modi straightens up, gets to his feet. Squeezes his fist and pops his knuckles (like maybe he was just itching to beat some backbone into Spots) and then turns on the bottom stair, flawlessly balanced on the none-too-wide ledge, to face Imogen briefly."Lissen." Too low to be overheard; pause. "When you gonna be home tonight?"
(decker)
His tongue tucks briefly into his cheek as he stands regarding her. No affirmative; no promise to stop by; no question to see if he can. Just a vague nod up. "Okay. Later, Imogen."Then he heads on over to Rune's after a brief glance at James, taking the stairs in twos. Gonna get his keys and go for a drive. Maybe he'll go make a few bucks today after all.
(spots)
It isnt james.
All to clear in his posture, the hang of his head.
A neck that doesnt strain to rise his head.
The slightest twist of lips, that coul be the birth of a smile.
but a still-born one, as it vanishes, perhaps unseen.
"Looking for you."
Fingers flick the ash of the smoke as he pauses.
"Wanted to repay you for what you did before."
James earler appearance so unexpected to the young Get, he completely forgot it then.
Left hand coming from pocket, fist clenched around some bills.
"And introduce myself to the others."
Been to long already.
but the knowledge of the pack having atleast two of his tribe in it, has kept him away.
no secret to James.(imogen)
"Another time," she answers, a half sentence which is what all greetings seem to become, after a while. A sidelong glance follows his departure briefly, before she gets up herself, fingers sliding through loosened hair.The slender woman is clearly not of the Fenrir persuasion, with red hair that speaks of colours of pure autumn, sunsets, rich colours of red and roan, the setting sun piercing through it, catching in lighter strands that are almost blonde.
Compared to the two, and the other who just left, she is considerably more dressed than the rest. Navy dress pants skim her frame, and in this group of people wearing t-shirts and wife beaters, she wears a pale blouse.
She takes the several steps up to the balcony, pushing aside the suit jacket and opening the brief case.
Out come the cigarettes. Spots, apparently, had the right idea, as the woman lights up.
(james)
he's pretty sure it's not him
remembering the Fenrir's response to learning of family in the area
well. he's damn sure, actually
and while he may not be able to see the stillborn smile
he knew it was forming
just by the tones that quietly eeked from the small metis' mouth
and perhaps by the fact Spots worked up the guts to come all the way up here in the first place
so that keeps the easy grin on his facewanted to..... wha?
as the left hand comes out
the Gnawer blinks a moment
(Well I'll be damned...)
and the grin simply widens
accepting the payback with a nod of gratitude
(sure means something to repay a Hood)"'Preciate that." dark eyes stray to the Modi's departure, an almost non-existant response, then he's turning to the little Get with that same (trademark) grin "Just missed Decker, everybody else is out."
well, Imogen is still there, obviously
but he's well aware of her preference to avoid Garou
rather than jump in on a meet'n'greet
if she wants to join in, she will
and dreads tug against the wet shirt's cling with a nod back towards the condo"Welcome to a beer, if you want to stick around and wait til someone gets back." a breif frown, he's realizing the anchor of fingers on smoke made the water dripping from sleeve down the steel of his forarm has taken the cigarette for a proverbial swim, as well, and the useless guttering embers flicked away to spin out over the hedges "C'mon."
(spots)
He swallows.
The cash handed so easily to James.
Anyone worth the soles of their feet repay kindness if it is in their power.
"You left so quickly before. Forgot about it when you came back. sorry it took so long."
If he recognised the name of Decker, it doesnt show.
Perhaps imogen has met a few Garou.
But if it werent for that oh so slight tingling of his rage, when compared to the bonfire that is james, it is near impossible to guess that he is one.
The submissive stance he holds even before James that he appear to have some history with.
The sagging of shoulders.
And lowered head, not looking at imogen after that first tentative glance.
But James makes the dreaded offer.
Had things been slightly different, Spots would likely have turned him down.
But you dont say no to an invitation (order) from a Rhya.
It leaves scars.
So it is a hesitant nod that is James only reply.
He doesnt move however, but waits for James to lead the way.(imogen)
Cigarette smoke, an exhale as she sits back on the top steps of her own condominium, half in the shadow now, though the sun is nearly completely set. She doesn't appear to be paying much to the conversation anymore, setting one shoulder against the support connecting to the top stair, slowly smoking the cigarette.Imogen had gotten a tentative stare from Spots at one point or another, and perhaps the bruising across one cheek had been caught, perhaps not. Half healed and the shadows darkening as they are, everything starts to smooth together, and distance and a quick glance can make some things harder to catch, harder to see.
The ember of her cigarette flares in the growing darkness as she inhales sharply, drawing it into her lungs slowly.
(james)
anyone worth anything repays kindness
it's just the way of the Hood to dish out kindness
regardless of whether or not he expects it to be paid back
most of the time it isn't
which is why when it is.... it means something
but the Gnawer's head ducks, leaning in a bit"Stay for a beer, it'll be a few hours at least." said for the Fenrir's ears alone, there's no requirement to stay until someone gets back, but hanging out for awhile at least purports the effort "Least I can do that you came all this way."
grinned
so what if it seems the normal salutation of the pack
some reward for sniffing them out
braving the Rage that's resident seemingly even without one of the Garou being present
it's still a genuine offer
an invitation
even if Spots wouldn't consider refusing anyway
left shoulder sinks towards the ground, a little, as weight shifts to turn
long strolling stride keeping to the grass until he's at the base of the steps
trotting right on up with little (.... little.... ) grin at Imogen"Grab a seat, get comfortable, Rune doesn't allow smoking inside."
unless the moon is full
but he doubts there'd be a visit during then in need of any explanation
one hand waving absently to the plastic porch chairs
the other reaching to open the door
which is left open as he moves inside
stripping out of the soaked shirt
(ashed scars from Chrinos claws darkly patterned within tanned flesh)
that's thrown blindly into the laundryroom
only indication of any aim is the wet SMACK of fabric onto washing machine
next stop is the kitchen
the fridge sighing open, bottles (three) clinking into his hands
soon enough he's back outside
(door closed this time)
one beer held out to Spots
and before he sits, another is held with a lifted brow towards Imogen
he'll toss if she accepts(imogen)
The gesture toward her catches her eye and the slender woman's attention flicks up toward James, by and large ignoring the stranger."Don't throw that," she warns him, dropping the cigarette into the ashtray beside her before unfolding to stand. She's hardly over five feet, five foot one, five foot two. Once standing, the woman steps to the balustrade where the two balconies are close enough for her to reach across for the beer. "Ta," she says, a flicker of a glance toward the Metis sitting.. well... on the balcony floor when perfectly good chairs are available.
With the disappearance of Decker, the rage is abated leaving James and minorly, Spots as the only sources.
(james)
brows lift at Imogen's response
wot? him? throw?
considering the Modi's aim the other night
safe to say none of the pack would try out for the NBA
(not mentioning that whole Rage and suspension issue)
top railing presses against the upper half of his thigh
his six feet two inches making up the reach between the balcony that the foot shorter Kin would be shy
chin dips in an affirmation welcome to slang thanks
then the still soppy Gnawer sinks into the
..... well... all the chairs are unoccupied
(not surprising, honestlyt)
so he chooses the closest one
it affords easy focus on the lawn out front anyway
glancing to the Metis"Welcome." escaping carbonation hisses as the bottle's finally opened "I bet you can guess the message Mother sent back."
without Decker there
and the moon barely growing in the sky
the absense of Rage is significant
even if his is an inferno compared to the Metis'(spots)
As Imogen approaches the railing, the lack of added rage is more evident.
He risk's another glance towards her, the slightest frown appearing on his brows.
For lack of a better word.
He is confused, and concerned.
"I can guess. Same thing she has threatened me with the last two years."
Bottle opened with an easy twist, and he sips the cool beer.
He hadnt realised how warm he was, until the amber liquid rushed down his throat.
He savours it for a moment, then takes another long drag of his smoke.
Holding it in, he seems to ponder something.
his gaze raised slightly, to James waist level when he sits, his words causes the smoke to escape his lips in small bursts.
"Why is she hurt?"
Second kin he has met here in the eagles territory with bruises.
It makes no sense to him really.
How can they mistreat them so?
This one not of Fenris blood, but her breeding strong yet the same.
Why would they let them get hurt?
And why wouldnt they heal them?
A slight point of his bottle towards the railing separating the two houses.
"I can heal her, if it is alright?"
Offered softly, before another sip of the beer is taken.
That is sooooo good.(imogen)
The beer bottle hisses open as she twists it, and takes a sip. For James's benefit, at least the bruising is faded, the swelling gone. Healing no where near the rate of a Garou, but still, much faster than a human could ever manage.Her attention jerks toward Spots as he speaks, her eyebrow arching in indifferent question as she takes another swallow of beer. "She can speak f'r herself, thank you. And as much's I 'ppreciate the offer, it's none so bad as ta need healing."
(grania)
Beauty in everything. This is what she told the man the other night – an odd one, he – and she is again out prowling (stalking, slinking) the streets looking for that beauty. Inspiration found in the tiniest things..
The splash of kids finally coaxed to leave the pool at this later hour, not because it is chilly (it is not) but because they are hungry, and there’s the promise of pizza that hangs on the wind. Laughter and splashes and mass exodus is viewed from the distant sidewalk by dark gaze, tilt of head, intensity’s stance as each minute detail is captured
(Jonny there almost lost his shorts, his face and neck flame crimson deeper then the sunburn gained as he looks wildly to see who saw, Melinda snickers and points it out to her friend who peeks, offering Jonnyboy a shy smile, which only deepens the blush further, and on the way by Melinda (sister, cousin?) is pushed back in. Footprints wet on the cement, towels scooped up and slung around dripping bodies, laughter and squeals empty the pool in short order.)
dark eyes glitter with promise of starlight that isn’t quite seen under the lamp where footsteps stopped, the light capturing golden halo of curls, dancing as she tips her head slowly the other way, fingertips lifting to trace along the lamppost (feel) sliding over the imperfections of the paint and metal, intimate caress for inanimate object.
Dressed in black, as usual, but in defference to the heat of the day, it is a whispy light skirt that swells and flows about her knees, midriff bare, up to the matching black halter that keeps her ‘decent’ for the most part. Face is bare of makeup, fresh as the newborn day, skin tanned a deep golden from days spent lazing about in the sun…(james)
there's a soft chuckle
the way Mother said that
when grabbing. his. cheek.
made him think Spots would already know
but he promised to pass it along anyway
then the subject turns to Imogen
and his head tips in consideration
wet dreads dragging over drying flesh
snagging against the welts of ashen scars
falling forward to frame the glyph brand on his chest"Accide...."
then Imogen speaks up
and the Gnawer can't help but chuckle
though it's mostly hidden in another slug of the beer"And I was about to say" still so amused, open mouth of the bottle tipped towards teh kin on the next balcony to make his point "Ask her permission, not mine. Spots, meet Dr. Slaughter." the young Get would probably not call her by her first name anyway, and that's up to Imogen to give. "Neighbor, associate, and friend." as well as any more detailed association to the pack, or its Germans, her pure blood surely speaks for itself. "Dr. Slaughter." the bottle tipped back towards the little Garou "Spots, friend from down AC way."
he also grabbed a joint when inside
battered Zippo CLACKS to searing flame
he takes the first long drag
then it's offered to Spots(spots)
Wide eyed.
His head dips low, to stare at the tiles he sits on.
"I apologise. I did not mean to offend."
How could he explain it to her?
That he would not adress her, because she had not spoken to him before.
He doubts she would understand it even if he tried.
The way he sits so still.
It is like a dog that has been beat to the point where it no longer shies from punishment.
Just stoicly accepts it as a natural thing.
Slight tension of narrow shoulders.
Either Imogen, or James.
He doesnt care.
It doesnt matter.
He insulted the kin.
Someone above him in rank and status within the nation.
Ignorance, is never an excuse.
And it might not be very bad, her bruises.
But they are still bruises.
But his offer rejected, or so he belives, he says nothing.
Just stares at the tiles.
Her name tucked away in memory.
He will not repeat the mistake again.
If anything can be said about the small freak.
He learns quickly.
Atleast, when it comes to some things, if not others.
The offered joint, instead of the expected punishment has him sitting very, very still.
Then hesitantly, gaze rising as slowly as the sun is setting, once more to james waist, he accepts it.
Looking at it for a moment, as if it is a viper ready to strike, before he brings it to his lips.
And taking a long hit from it, holding it in, he passes it back to James.
And the smoke is released, slowly through mouth and nose, some tension slipping from his shoulders at the same time.(imogen)
"It's a pleasure," said without meaning, a habit, because this is how you answer to greetings. Her eyes narrow briefly on Spots and his shame or sorrow or ... whatever it was before her shoulders shrug slightly, in differently. "S'nothing," dismissive.A brief glance at the watch around her wrist some understated gold thing before she steps away from the balcony railing and drains the last of the beer, dropping it by her doorway. Brief case picked up, jacket laid against the brief case once more, keys jangling as she picks them up. Either going in or work again.
"Night," said as she turns her head, glancing mostly toward James, rather than Spots, before she starts down the stairs toward the parking lot. Work, then.
(grania)
Slender form twirls around the streetlamp when eyes are convinced to leave the still rippling waves of the pool, the way light dances over the water in little peaks and falls to shadow in little valleys… but she moves around the pole, fingertips holding slight weight to lithe form as she leaaaaaans… and twirls, before soft laughter bursts from lips, and she lets go and falls away from the lap, hands tucking into the straps of the straw colored knit fabric backpack that hangs from shoulders. Steps are light, almost… dance steps as she slides down the walk in front of the condo’s before movement catches her eye, and she watches the flame-haired kin as she moves down the stairs and toward the parking lot. Steps pull to a stop again, head tilts, and dark gaze watches… flame against darkening sky, against pale cheek, the confidence of walk, the pride through spine, the repression of guarded gaze….(james)
he takes back the joint
and begins the rotation towards the kinfolk
but then she's dismissing herself
and there's the smooooooooth halt and hitch up in toast then reroute back to his lips"Night"
and he's quietly camping on the joint for a few moments
watching Imogen head towards the parking lot and her Benz
then the slow drop of hand to pass the joint
but it's held above Spots' line of sight
forcing him to look up to grasp it
pressure increases between toes and tile
heel lifted a bit to nudge ankle against the small Get's knee"She rejects everyone's help that way."
softly
seems he's talking from experience
there was nothing wrong with Spots' offer(spots)
It is held above.
And Spots doesnt reach for it.
(If you dont see it you freak, it aint for you! Little fucker, Ill show you your place!)
Instead, there is a nod for james words.
"I truly did not mean to insult her James-rhya."
Words soft, and low enough not to be heard outside the balcony.
A soft sigh, and a shake of his head.
He takes a sip of the beer, silent for another few moments.
"Ill be staying at a motel near the bus station tonight. Dont have to be at work until friday."
Shaking his head some.
"But there is something you have to know James-Rhya."
And the slightest tension arrives in his voice, and shoulders again.
He isnt sure how the gnawer will react to what he has to say now.(james)
it's held above
it's held in offer
he's quiet a moment before a gentle"Look up."
he doesn't argue the appelation
knowing the difference in rank, now
it's perfectly natural for Spots to call him that
even if it's still WEIRD for him to hear
the joint is patiently held until Spots takes it
and only then"Go on. I told you before to always speak freely."
what's not said:
and there's nobody else here to enforce otherwise(spots)
Only as James tells him to. (Orders it)
Does his gaze rise.
And the joint accepted, if a bit slowly.
Held, he takes another hit of it.
Might as well do this with the slight buzz of the joint.
"Eva Braun, the Get kin. She is staying with me down in AC. I claim responcibility for her, and her future actions now."
In other words, whatever she does, any anger it arises, or punishment it deserves, is to fall on Spots shoulders.
Elders in the nation do this for cubs a few times.
Or for prized family members of their Kinfolk.
sapots does it for someone that for all intents and purposes, (in his own world) is above him in rank.
Not forbidden in any way.
just unheard of.
That join passed back to James, held so james wont have to stretch.
his gaze back down again. not at the tiles, but at James thighs now.(grania)
The redhead gets into the car, and pulls away, and only then does the slender girl move once more. Lips curl into a grin, and she moves from cement to the grass, a moment spent bent, slipping off sandals, before standing, to let them hang from her fingertips, toes sliding through the manicured grass, little dance step here, there, and she twirls again... thoroughly enjoying the sensations of new summer warmed grass on bare flesh…(james)
he listens to this
quietly
even taking the joint back for a thoughtful drag before answering"Then I suppose." slowly, measured, on exhale, dark eyes studying the joint's glowing cherry "You should start teaching her some manners because the only reason I didn't kill her for disrespecting my Beta then hurting me was because she was Luc's girlfriend at the time."
he's curious if Spots knows that he was the one that originally broke her arm
not to mention the entire story in semblance of truth
as well as her former association with Eagle pack
he's familiar with Elders protecting cubs through responsibility
he was also raised in a different school of thought"Because I won't have as much mercy if she does it again. " another slow drag, eyeing the girl twirling in the grass (seems familiar), and handing the joint back, gravity taking hold of his buzz and settling weight a little lower in the chair "Which would be a pity because I'd hate to hold you both responsible for her ignorance and stupidity."
he knows Spots knows better
knows a little too much, in his opinion
but you can't change someone in a day"Claim her or not, Spots, no matter how much you want to protect her and take the fall yourself: we're all responsible for our own actions." brow lifts, with a glance "I hope she realizes how bad of a position she's putting you in."
(spots)
He listens carefully.
then nods.
"I know, and I thank you for it. She told me everything, and I cannot say it wasnt her own fault."
He shrugs his shoulders a little then, pondering something it seems.
"If she does it again, you are free to exact any punishment you see fit on me."
Upon taking responcibility for her, he has all but warded her completely.
She cannot be punished for her actions without going through Spots.
It is his place now, to punish her or not.
And to take any punishment she draws, on his own shoulders.
But to punish her, while knowing she is claimed for like this, is a crime in the nation, for all tribes.
Of course, when Eva hears this, he is likely to get his ass kicked both once or twice.
Too Spots, it doesnt matter that much.
Not as much as it does that she is a pure bred kin of his tribe.
A resource to be protected with his life if need be.
After all, she can do what he cannot, and that alone makes her more valuable then Spots.
"She doesnt know I have done this. I dont think she will like it. But it is my choice. And I formally apologise for her earlier actions to you, as I will to your Beta when I meet her."
A deep bow of his head towards James.
Some things come all to easily for the young get.
"I should get to the motel. If you are not busy, perhaps you will allow me to buy you lunch tomorrow, to celebrate your achivements james-rhya."
And thus said, he stands slowly, gaze lowered.
A glance to the twirling figure, he ponders it for a while, then looks to James. (Bare feet)(james)
"I know the laws, Spots." chuckled, wryly "I also know how to use it against you - which is what I'm telling you I don't want to do"because that would short the Nation by two Fenrir, not just one
who would protect Eva, if Spots were killed for her mistakes
but it's clear the Gnawer doesn't want to hurt the little Metis
rather likes him, honestly
just as it's clear that he feels the exact opposite for the kin
and is fairly chafed at the decision Spots made
he doesn't want to risk another friendship over that little fucking bitch"She caused bad blood to be spilled between me and one of my packmates. She is the reason that Luc believes" - not believed, believes, he hasn't seen the Skald since, and that hurts him, deeply "I betrayed him, which is something I would die before doing. Since you took her as your claim, I'm being very honest with you - that's something I'm not prepared to forgive easily. Though maybe now, because of your concern, dedication, and apology, she may live through the next time we meet."
one more clarity: up until now, she wouldn't have survived it
the young Metis can feel that in the weight of the dark gaze on him
he wouldn't have to see James' eyes to know that truth
but at least it's also known that the Ahroun accepts his apology
while his own tribe may not officially follow formality, he's not one to ignore it
but as serious as his words were in tone
they easily melt into something softer, smiling, as he stands
those wet longshorts cling to the plastic chair
(damn that was comfortable)
and the all but ashed joint is sacrificed to the roach gods over the balcony railinghere, beneath the oblique glow of the neighbor's porchlights
the tracks of his scars deepen
savage clawmarks that drape from his shoulders
extending the tangle of dark dreads down his back
the slender shadow of brand's raised welt on his chest
(Eagle's branded son, claimed by right of flesh and fire)
a hand extends, slowly, to shake"Glad you dropped by." grin rakes lopsided, almost.... shy.... someone celebrating his achievements. who'da thought? "Think I'll take you up on that offer."
(grania)
Head tilts, twirl stops, flimsy skirt flitters and flies and falls to rest again over creamy thighs – there is the feeling when someone is looking at you, when someone notices that you are there, creeping along skin until attention is gathered and dark gaze searches for the watcher…
Perhaps it is the strange man from nights before.
Perhaps it is someone wondering why she dances in the grass, their grass…
There is a joy in that, the sensation and wonder that goes along with a single word that voices a world of possibilities, a universe of dreams… perhaps… maybe…
Familiarity in the tilt of head, the impish grin, the playful step of body in sinuous motion, music that only she can hear, only she can feel… movement on a balcony pulls gaze that way, and the form of Spots is studied with an intensity that he might recognize… it is the mark of an artist flaying the skin to watch the way the muscles and bone work underneath, just to better portray it at another time… (…heaven is in the details…)(spots)
He listens, then nods.
There isnt much to say to that really.
he didnt think the gnawer would appreciate that spots placed himself in the way.
But he hopes that james will understand, that he truly didnt have a choice.
Not when it comes to the kin of his tribe.
He appreciates the honesty, and if the fact that the Gnawer had the kin targeted for death comes as a shock, or surprise, it doesnt show.
they both know the laws, and spots knows it can be abused to the point where James could kill him for a true, or imagined crime of the kin that would warrant such a behaviour.
But they both know that Mother Larissa dont take kindly to such behaviour.
In fact, had she known about the fight between the pack, and the get kin, she would have sent james home with a message for all involved to face up to her (And a never ending session of cheek pinches) for their stupidity.
To Spots, it doesnt matter.
Instead, he nods to james, another half born smile creasing his lips, before he turns, moving of the porch.
"Im in the motel by the bus station. Come by tomorrow when you have the time, if you want to. Ill not be going anywhere."
And he slips from the house, and down the street.
Another glance cast to Grania, but the woman is left to her own devices, as Spots heads towards the motel.
Atleast he is still in one piece.
always something, right?
Right.((and fuckitall, players pass out))
Posted by james at July 01, 2003 12:00 AM
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