July 15, 2003.07.15.03. - bag. fuckin'. heera. [phantom-grania-kemp]aka: "Thanks, needed that."
[noje]
(phantom)
There's an old, abandoned theater in the area, one that is rumored to be haunted because of the somber strains of organ chords that echo through the streets nearby. Beautiful architecture from the twenties on the outside, and the interior filled with the decor of that era; plush seats gone to rats' nests, concession stand home to racoons, rafters housing bats and birds. And still the strains emerge, beautiful and clear.(james)
sometimes, things just inspire a stroll
getting out into the congested scab of the city
plucking out the remnants of fresh air from the exhaust perfume
thinking that maybe there is still a sun or moon in the sky above the pollution clouds
thinking that maybe there is Gaia's rich earth beneath the crusted and cracked asphalt slabshe left the structured landscaping of the complex hours ago
meandering aimlessly up this street and down the next
there really wasn't any goal to his journey
just needing to be out
reaffirming that he's still alive
that the blood pumping through his veins isn't soaking into some bug littered dungeon
but it's fueling each step, each breath, each thought and look
near death experiences do make one appreciate what they have
and he doesn't ask much, he never has, never had much to begin with
it's just the little things that make it all worth it to himask too much and you're bound to be disappointed
rejoice in the smallest victories and there is where you find your reasondreads hang heavy across his shoulders
several weighted against the sore spot along his jawline
deep umber eyes casually swim across the landscape
taking in the wind-blown trash over there, the sprigs of grass fighting through the sidewalk here
each step brings him closer to something, but he's not sure, and probably not thinking about what
at first, he doesn't hear the haunting melody
caught up in some movie that's replaying in his mind
but soon enough, it drifts in to the musician's thoughts
his head tilting as if that would better capture the sound
that's something he hasn't heard before when coming down this way
..... well fancy that.(phantom)
A haunting melody, one that speaks beyond minds to something older, something more primal. One that calls to those with hearts to hear . . . the performer reaches out with his music and pulls, strains wrapping themselves around something that can't (doesn't want to) resist. Even the rats and roaches, bats and birds seem to respond to the sad lonliness the musician pours into each note.Although the song is sad, it seems to brighten the area it reaches, bringing to it some semblence of it's former glory; an illfitting disguise over the slow death that is urbanity. One can almost see the women in their flapper dresses and the men in their casual suits heading into the theater, answering the call of the music.
(grania)
There’s something in the air, something in the vibration of sound across the breeze that speaks not only to musicians but to artists, painting colors on the wind, dancing shimmering sensations and delights through the very air that is inhaled into lungs and held, captive, until savored for each and every minute taste before it is exhaled again.
There is a girl (there is always a girl) with a feline grace, a slide of step that is so near silent it is as if she glides when she moves. But she is not moving now. She has been seated outside the abandoned building for a while now, since the music first captured her attention, crouched by the door as if afraid to enter, to break the spell of the ghosts and goblins within who play with such aching honesty. Slender, lithe form is swathed in black, head to toe, though in deference to the heat it is light silk halter, and filmy silky all but sheer skirts that cover her knees and pools around her form. Sharp contrast the pale skin, the halo of golden curls, the dusty lashes that brush cheeks, only to lift over dark eyes again. She sees the music in the very air about her – she’d not dare enter just yet… lost within the organ’s thrall…(james)
there's a smile that touches his lips to the tune
hearing the haunting, somber melody wrapping around the softer inherant spell
he pauses, indulging, picking apart the harmony that sings of nostalgia
but there's life here - current life
that much he can feel
(even if his head is still spinning from last night)
and dark eyes draw over the thesad of the building
looking for any markings that would indicate... what played within
whatever it is that tried to push away the relenteless decay of the scab world
no matter for how short a timetomorrow's always a question, concentrate on the now
that's the part you never expected to happen
appreciate ithis steps begin again, taking him around the corner
still he watches for those signs of ownership
a part of it because it's within his pack's territory
a part of it is probably a curiosity he should know better than to have
though a dark brow lifts at the crouched figure
(... been a while)
sole of one Cochran drags to announce his presence a few yards down(phantom)
A sound outside but not at the door (what's that?) and the music falters for a moment but doesn't stop. Someone approaching and he can feel the rage coming as he debates moving to his hiding place . . . but it's night, his time, his home, and he's loath to give it up. After all the time it took to fix the organ, after everything he had to do to make this place habitable, no way is he going to give it up. Sad sobriety turns to something more menacing yet just as beautiful, a signal that he knows someone's coming and that he won't back down.(grania)
Sole drags and scratches to announce anothers arrival, and soul shifts it’s focus slowly as if rending the very fabric of time and substance to force herself away from the sounds within that shimmer and slide and grasp and clutch her attention….
And the music changes and it is a clear signal from within that they know there are people here, and it results in the curve of lips into something resembling a smile… Head tilts, and attention slides, lashes lowered as she turns slightly before they open fully and rest, bright, intense, unwavering on the approaching James. (been a while) It is the beautiful man with the dredlocks who neglected to bring his beautiful mate to model…. It all flashes (recognition) through her gaze, as she uncurls with that animalistic grace, muscles and bone fluid under skin in a stretch to stand her full (not so tall) height.
Her voice is a purr that does nothing to compete with the intensity of music from within, barely reaching out to caress the ears of the intended listener… “James….” The single word breathed with an intimacy that is almost disconcerting…
(james)
his head tips, as the music changes
dreads dragging across the smooth muscular curve of one shoulder
a t-shirt, tonight, because those scars creeping from beneath a wifebeater tend to raise questions
and not knowing where he was going, he wasn't going to take any chances
but at the purred name, his grin rakes (lopsidedly, now) rogue"Gran-ya" slurred, like his jaw doesn't move quite enough to fully wrap around the word, adding a rather interesting drawl to his sharp Yankee accent, without knowing better, one would pawn it off to too much time around the Modi "Guess I owe you'n apology for not callin...."
chuckled softly, easily
beyond the Warrior, he is simply a street performer
that's built into the set of his shoulders, the line of his smile
moon's still swollen above, but waning
just like his (all too apparent) Rage
closer to the doors, his gaze drifts to the left
noting the pried away boards by the broken window
then raising further towards the secondary windows climbing towards the roof"Though think we've been announc'd."
(phantom)
He strains his ears, not wanting to stop playing but ready to flee if he gets a sign of danger other than the rage . . . not all rage is bad, not every Garou wants to hurt the poor metis who lives in the squalor of the abandoned theater's basement. Towering chords reach out, changing the image in listeners minds from one of the city's heyday to one of a darker time when gangs roamed the streets (different kind of gangs than now, ones that hadn't yet fallen to the indifference of today). Any threat and he can disappear in an instant; he knows all the secrets of this place, his home. But he waits, longing for someone to share a little of the night with, someone to talk to.(grania)
The grin rakes lopsidedly, and head tilts again as she steps closer (…beauty in everything...) and fingers lift to touch his jaw that doesn’t seem to quite move enough to fully pronounce her name (not that it is an easy task on the best of days), nails (…suggestion of something sharper, something deeper…) trailing along his jaw lightly, trailing away as she smiles slowly… “Yes.” A pause as if that is all she will say on the matter, before she continues… “I’ve something to show you when you find enough time to call, however.”
She winks, and turns her attention to the subtle change of the music again, laughing softly, the sound rolling amusement as she runs fingers through the halo of curls, fingers dropping to her side afterwards to smooth skirt against thigh… “So it would seem. Shall we?”(james)
the towering chords reach out
literal fingers crawling onto the sidewalk from the otherwise quiet building
they draw on the cement their memorial design
there's just something about an organ, man....
maybe it draws on something dear to him long ago
maybe it is simply the appreciation of one musician to another
he wasn't particularly watching for Grania's touch
but he doesn't flinch away from it
allowing her fingers to run down the rugged, not quite shaved line
feeling the hitch of bone that didn't heal properly near the joint
trailing away to the smooth draw of his chinthere's something different about him
she noticed, yet did not overtly point it out
(there is no shame in battle scars)
that's all he thinks of it
chin lifting a bit in nod to acquiesce"Oh?"
bout all he has to say on that matter, too
still not quite sure what to think of this one
bit of a nod, again, to her suggestion
though instead of stepping on in the doorway
knuckles square and scarred from brawling rap on the wood
opportunity knocks, so shall he, no need to be rude
(a little more hesitant about entering strange buildings, tonight)(kemp oates)
For once not wet to the skin. A little sticky feeling beneath the baggy jeans and shirt, but hey it was summer. Shuffling down the street, shoulders hunched.(phantom)
A knock (how long has it been since anyone knocked on the door rather than just coming in?) and he starts, music coming to a discordant halt, the last chord dangling disconcertingly. He moves silently (surprisingly graceful, but then that's what you get for having to run to the sewers when people approach) to a mostly boarded up window and peeks outside, seeing the man and woman he can't help wonder what they're doing here. Most people are scared off by his music, at least when it gets threatening . . . he reaches into a pocket and pulls out his mask to hide his hideousness before he moves to the door.
"May I help you?"
Voice soft and smooth, a singer's voice, an actor's voice.(grania)
“Oh….” The purred response that rolls into a warm chuckle. She will not ruin the surprise, and there is still the matter of the music that swells and slides and caresses in an encompassing wave of sound and sensation. He nods, he moves, he knocks and there is a slow melting of her form against the jam of the door, shoulder touches, arm braces, torso melts against arm as head tilts, to rest against worn wood… the vibrations of the music within clinging through the old walls and driving sensation about her in warm twisting delights….
The music stops and it is almost painful with the discordant jolt, her breath catching in something of a moan before she lifts her head – in time to catch the shambling figure of Kemp down the way and closing in… she studies him, seemingly lost for the moment, allowing James to cover answering the question from within….(kemp)
Young with pants so baggy the crotch was somewhere near his knees. Muddy brown hair just past the collar, straggling into the face of the teen. Lanky and thin might fit him if you could see the bones under the oversized clothing. Drawing closer with a faint frown. Organ music? He musta been hearing things. Course about the only thing he knew about organs, besides the one in his pants, was they played them in all those goofy old movies.(james)
he can't help the widening grin when the music stops
(always had been mistaken for a Ragabash, when the moon wasn't full)
that's offered to his sudden companion
dark gaze flips over his shoulder as Grania's focuses elsewhere
(.... aha... the cub)
but when the question arises, he's turned his attention back to the door
just because he was born in the street doesn't mean he has the manners of an urchin"Heard y'playin." easy and warm, James isn't shy around strangers, that's for sure, a lifetime of working street corners for change made sure of that, and something within him seems to respond to the clarity of theater that colors the hidden being's voice, even if he struggles to form words past the new dysfuction of his jaw "Figur'd y'heard us, knocked so you'd know who y'r aud'ence was."
(phantom)
"Is it just you and the woman?"
Still smooth and quiet, but with a slight edge of nervousness . . . he only goes outside when he needs food and never lets anyone in if he can help it. He hadn't seen anyone else from the window, but he can hear the steps of another . . . hopefully it's just another bum, another wino that'll pass by and leave him in peace.(kemp)
Slowing his shuffle. James looked sorta familiar, kinda hard to tell at times with the dark and all but there was that hair of his and he didn't know many with it. A little bit of a grin, maybe, starting with a look at the woman with him. One thing he did enjoy, it was boobs and that's where his eyes were heading first.(grania)
Her smile slides slow, warm, over lips as she meets the burnt umber of James’ gaze, no shyness here, around anyone it would seem as she returns to watching Kemp for a few moments, the baggyness of pans, the thin fabric that is far too big and hides a skinny frame. Her gaze is direct, disconcerting at best, interested at least, unwavering…
The question comes from within, and her voice rolls in it’s own reply (this one could have been on stage, on screen, yet she preferred different artistic avenues)… though the words are direct, it’s oddly lyrical in tone….
“There is another that approaches with a fondness for the female form, those would be the footsteps you hear approaching.” Further reply is left for James as back arches slightly… the silken halter and shimmering lengths of all but seethrough skirt clinging to skin, leaving not much to the imagination. The boy enjoys, and who is she not to enhance the sensation if only for a few short breaths….
(james)
his chin lifts up in a nod
that's aimed at the kid down the way
(yep, it's me)
though he can't help the amusement noting where the kid's eyes simply crawl
with that slimsy silk and whispy sheer skirts
he should be getting quite the eyeful of the outgoing sculptor
(he remembers what it was like to be that age... and if it wasn't for his mate....)"One kid I know, down th'way."
while he may be a Full Moon Warrior of Gaia's chosen children
he's not insensitive
and maybe he can sense the hesitance of the.... Garou... fancy that... inside
he's a Gnawer, for crissakes, and has probably met weirder
so pays that niggling feeling of doubt no mind
(obviously, anyway)
it's all about that easy (lopsided) smile
some small victory to counter his swollen Rage"Didn't mean to impose, wanted to know if y'minded I hang outside a bit to listen."
whatever the intentions are of the other two
he leaves up to them to admit
though it's pretty clear he probably has a question or two beyond that
but in the company of others, won't push
not demanding introductions, nor forcing his way inside
at least not yet(phantom)
One he can handle, two is iffy, but three in his home, in his hole is right out and he steps outside for the first time in days, squeezing his medium smallish form through a gap in the boards on the door. A runt, a whelp, no better than a cub in all reality and he faces them defiantly, daring them to find fault as all others before them have. Half of his face is hidden behind the mask, but his beautiful, clear blue eyes shine through as he takes them in with an artists eye, converting images to music in his mind as he hums their songs to himself. Light and airy, yet mysterious for the woman, angry yet humorous for the man, but the boy he can not yet guess.
"You heard me play?"
The question falling into the music he weaves rather than interrupting it.(kemp)
He wouldn't have noticed right now if the guy with the mask had a head where his penis should be, even if it was sing Yankey Doodle Dandy and doing the cha cha. All he really noticed was those boobs. Man and she wanted him to look, he just knew by the way she was nearly stuffing them out there like a trophy on display. And who was he to not look? Grinning for all the world as if he had just gone to heaven and there was nothing but naked angels flying around his head.(james)
if James pays any attention to or forms an opinion on the mask, it doesn't show
(his amusement at Kemp's visual bliss is, however, rather apparent, especially when Grania takes a rather drawn out and deep breath, the Gnawer is well aware of her... unconscious? right... games)
whatever floats your boat, right?
(or pants, in the kid's case, because he's right, she wants him to look, the artisan proud of her work, even if it is her own body, there is beauty in all everything and she's confident in her embodiment of it, and never once does that gaze waver from the boy)
he is, after all, a 6'2 whiteguy with dreads down to his mid-back
not particularly much he can say on style
not that he would anyway
if there's any fault there
the Gnawer doesn't see it
or doesn't care about it"Yeh, half block away."
one arm extends, slowly
bands of steel muscle through his arms flexing
palm up, fingers spread
that would be invitation to shake
intead of a threat"Name's James."
(phantom)
"Phantom."
Maybe not a true name, but the only one he has. Offered as he tentatively takes the offered hand and shakes with his own soft, strong hand. Long, cool fingers are never still as they seem to take in an impression from James' skin, something he adds to the melody he weaves. Blue eyes, a shock of white blonde hair and the half a face that shows is ugly, slightly twisted and a little wrong as he looks the man in the eyes.(kemp)
For his part he was entranced in the view and things were starting to look up. Good thing for baggy pants, it left room for growing, in more ways than one. That smile frozen on his face.(james)
his grip is strong
strong enough to crush Phantom's within calloused grip if he wanted to
but it's clear enough that he doesn't, because the shake is tempered but firm
thick knuckles squared by boxing
palm rough across the center from weilding rebar as drumsticks
but still, the Gnawer wears that easy smile"Heard rumors some sorta Phantom haunted th's place, though never came by t'check the story true." his chin lifts to indicate, but his gaze never wavers, deep and soulful as the color of Mother's rich earth (never back down) "Gran-ya's th'one mesm'rizing Kemp ov'r there."
"Kemp....." Picked up from where the Ahroun left off, the singular word is breathy, thoughtful, coiling like silk around the young Fenrir's ears, like the sumptuous word was meant for him alone, and the way she pulls from the wall, fluid (feline) movement of liquid grace - thighs tense, hips roll, torso slithers, and brings the next heaving breath right into his sights - draws her forward and she reaches.... the tender touch of her middle finger tracing down the bridge of his nose as if finding the lost secret his features contained therein (and perhaps she is), golden brow striking towards the head of glowing curls. But whatever it is she finds, and concludes, it only dances in disconcerting gaze that remains locked on his own.
(phantom)
"Grania . . ."
The name a song in its own right and he only draws the music out of it as he glances at her again, then to the younger man as he hovers nervously, protectively before the door of his lair.
"The rumours usually keep people away. Even your (our) kind never come here, at least not this close."(grania)
Phantom speaks her name and it is a symphony of it’s own, sliding over her senses in a way that pulls another breath deep into her lungs… the fingertip along Kemps nose, slides under his chin, a languid exploration of his cheek, to slide around under his jaw, nails – pointed, sharp (hints of worse just under the skin) – dig slightly in the tender flesh under jaw as she physically lifts his chin, bringing his eyes to hers, holding his gaze with hers for a long moment…. then she leans in, closer…..
There is no mistaking his scent, his breath, the way his chest lifts in hesitant anticipation as her cheek – silken soft, smooth, unmarked – slides across his, bringing lips to his ear as she purrs, softly…. ”my eyes are up here, youngblood…” it is a voice of a young man’s wet dreams, sultry, smooth, oh so promising, the request rich with promise of what will be received should he comply and lift his gaze, if but for a moment.
She turns then, her nails still under his jaw, to press her back against his chest, the slide of hips and silk agaist those reaction hiding jeans subtle, yet clear, as she moves with a dancers (feline) grace, and rests his chin on her shoulder…. (oh…new vantage point…) and smiles at Phantom… “You say my name beautifully, just as you play…” a pause, a shift of position without much more then a smooth flex of muscles as fingers pat kemps cheek (…good boy…) “I’ve never been able to resist a mystery, myself, such as the rumors here…”
(james)
the young whelp of a man hovers protectively (fearfully?) near the door of his lair
the older, muscular Ahroun shifts weight to make himself comfortable against the glass of an old poster display
shoulders roll in a bit of a shrug
a glance away to check the surroundings
(okay, part of it's to watch poor Kemp get tortured, DAMN)"Rumors keep most away, prob'ly still will..... wouldn't've taken much heed, save.." dark eyes drift over, again "Sort've in the middle of my stompin grounds."
gaze held
our kind, allright
though he's not tensed up in display of prowess
not feeling the need to defend his territory (...yet)
rather opposite, shoulders sloping in calm degree
seems he just wants to talk
but since this is Phantom's chosen hideout
he'll let the smaller Garou decide on where to be a little more formal(kemp)
Oh that was it. Damn, first there were eyes, at least he thought they were eyes, mighta been blinking nipples for all he knew right now. And she was touching him? When that backside went against him it was like an electric current and off went the fireworks, all in one big breath catching explosion. Literally panting, that grin flashing again. "Thanks, needed that." And before he soaked her too, he was stumbling off.(phantom)
Not really one for formalities so long as everyone's polite, he follows the full moon's lead and relaxes just a little against the door.
"Your stomping grounds? They didn't tell me . . ."
Afraid the other will make him leave and he won't be able to keep them away, the ones that come closer every year every month every week every day, the dark ones, the really bad ones. He looks back and forth between the two, then comes to an earth shaking (for him) decision.
"You can come in for a bit if you like."(grania)
The glance that lifts and meets James’ glitters with amusement as the boy shudders behind her, and gasps with the suddenness of his…reactions. Tongue slides over lips, slowly, and her grip slides away from him as she purrs a soft “Anytime” and watches the poor boy shamble off in search of a towel. At least he had enough sense to pull away before soiling her skirts…
She smooths hands across her thighs, and moves to stand just behind James’ shoulder, her fingers lifting to just barely touch along the small of his back, nails prickling in fabric lightly as the intensity of her glance finds Phantom once more… “Thank you…” for the invitation, but it lingers – she’ll fade away should James wish it, after all it is his stomping grounds she trespasses on as well…. But within the softly purred words is a hope to hear him play once more…(james)
okay.
that?
just does it
and the Gnawer is suddenly barking out in laughter
(he knows that look, and he does have a sense of smell)"Think you just made the kid's night."
it takes him a moment to regain his composure
(that. was. priceless.)
then offers Phantom a slow, approving, nod
it's as if he can almost see how the little Garou's world just shook with the offer
and while he could easily be overbearing and demand
he's basically allowing the other to make the decisions that make him comfortable
it may be that he's testing
it may be that he's just polite
it may be that he understands that fear, for some reason
(it may be that he's taking no chances, tonight)"'Preciate that, would let 's talk freely."
glance slides over his shoulder
Grania isn't sent away, nor her touch shunned
but speaking freely will include her, as well
that much is clear
just as clear as her hope to hear more of the music(phantom)
The small (puny, runt-ish) man slinks back in, pushing aside a loose board to accomodate the larger form of the man . . . not waiting for them to follow he heads back to the organ, his baby, his lover, his home. The disrepair of the place is obvious - how could it have escaped such a fate? - but not as bad as one might have imagined from the shabby exterior. The place is cleaner than expected, and apparently loved. A home, not just another abandoned building occupied by junkies and squatters (although there is a bit of evidence of such in the lobby before they enter the theater proper). Again Phantom moves with his (un)usual grace, but now there is audience to see as he makes his way through the building.Taking his seat on the organ bench (the organ is the one thing in the place that looks untouched by the ravaging hands of time), he begins to play again, first the air he'd composed for Grania (and it fits what he's seen of her perfectly, his fellow artists would appreciate that) and then the one for James. Both flow together, around each other, no obvious end to hers or beginning to his; they just are. It seems as if he's picking something out of the air, playing a song he's heard somehow, somewhere.
(grania)
She laughs softly, knowing she made the young mans night, and probably will for some to come, and with a wink for James, fingers slide over his back and she slips through the boarded up door, entering the young garou’s domain following with that same (un)natural grace, fingertips lifting here and there, to follow the line of some shift of wood, some lean of wall, gathering the impressions of the home as she moves…
Then he begins to play, and her eyes shine as she moves closer sinking to a fluid crouch near the organ, entranced, enthralled with the way he composes from the thin air, recognizing what he hummed with her name, and how it now weaves through the heavy piped sensations… arms warp around knees, and eyes close, and she simply lets it wash over her and drown her in the delights of his talent….
(james)
he follows, quietly
nodding thanks that Phantom makes his access easier
and as they work their way through the building
he looks around in curiosity (watching his back) rather than intrusion
as Phantom sits, and Grania crouches... James finds a sturdy looking seat and unfolds it for his own perch
that smile returns, widening to hear the tune that illustrated his name
while business may be at hand, he's respectful of the artist
listening quietly as fingers drum an absent (habitual) accompaniment on the wooden slat which functions as chair's air
only as the songs seem to ebb into something else, does he break the trance"Beautiful...." murmured, and his voice only barely grows for the next "Name's James Branson, Jukebox, Drums 'n Skulls, Fostern Full Moon Bone Gnawer of Eagle's Own. Our territ'ry spans most've Northern Jersey. Not here t'drive you out, Phantom, but woud 'preciate knowing more 'bout you and what brought you."
that, of course, goes for Grania, too
the details on her are still rather vague
but he's keeping his speech to a minimum for now
it's clear he's having to think about the formation of words
struggling to adapt to the newly ill-formed jaw
even if he's not particularly going to let it stop him if the need arises(phantom)
He stops playing reluctantly then turns to face James in respect of one of greater station (for fear of getting beaten otherwise, it's happened before).
"I'm a gibbous moon . . . cub (spitting the word out with disdain; even he knows he should be more by now) of the Bone Gnawers . . . I was brought here by some others who found me in another city. They taught me some, but not a lot . . ."
He's polite, but doesn't seem to know all of the proper ettiquette.(grania)
The Gnawer speaks, the beautifully dreadlocked man with more scars then those on his flesh, things that run deeper and more true, and more intensely awe-inspiring then he would ever suspect… and his voice weaves the music, and then it fades, and with such aching reluctance it actually brings tears to her eyes, dark eyes that lift to Phantom with a smile of pure appreciation for the beauty woven at his fingertips…
A tilt of her head, lashes fall in shutterclick memorization of the moment, before she lays her cheek to her knees and looks at james with a smile that lingers amused… “I am simply Grania… Twilight’s child…” but it is there she stops, letting the words linger….
(james)
Bone Gnawers?
a brow certainly lifts
then the smile widens
at least he's not another fuckin' Fenrir
the moon explains such heartbreaking talent, too
he's drummed with the Galliards of his tribe at moots
as a musician there's a healthy respect for their musical prowess
chin drops in a nod
there's more, of course
but he's not focusing on that now
instead his attention turns to Grania
(... Twilight's Child... he's heard that before...)
and a brow lifts, expectant"And does Twilight's Child have a tribe?"
not always one for pomp and circumstance
he did notice she left that important part out...(phantom)
Half glad to be out of the focus of the ahroun's eyes, half wishing he were the center of attention again . . . but his eyes go to the beauty that is Grania. Hers is the kind of beauty that has inspired writers, musicians, painters and all other kinds of artists for centuries, and he memorizes her (shape, voice, movement, mystery) for a later date before his eyes go back to James.(grania)
“Of course….” It rolls from her lips with a soft purr, more pronounced, more sensuous then any she has let free again, the words themselves a caress over the ear, down the spine, tickling along the skin with pinpricked anticipation of what touch could do coupled with that sound….
It is then that she moves again, such fluid grace and sensuality flowing through a form more attuned to pelt then skin, arms sliding from knees till nails prick at the floor, head tilting, sliding cheek along silk covered knees, till chin rests, and it’s a slow roll, a curl of form that melts to the floor that sees her shifting back, pitch of hips pulling her to the side as muscles and bone and skin continue to melt to the floor, halo’d curls resting in palm of hand as elbow finds floor… some great languid (feline) now reclined comfortably on her side, knees bent toward chest, fingertips dangling over knee…. “Don’t we all?”
Tongue slides over lips, as dark gaze crawls along the floor to dance over Phantom’s figure, seeing his wish for the limelight he so quickly shuns, before she finally replies with a slow arch of golden brow toward golden curls, head tipping to capture earthen brown gaze of the full-moon once more “Bagheera…”
And there are those who would kill her for such a tale, there are those who would not believe her, there are those who would be fascinated and simply wish to know more…. It remains to be seen – which are they……(phantom)
The movement (the song) and his eyes go back to the woman on the floor, wide and full of wonder. No one had told him anything of other shifters, barely anything of his own kind of shifters, in fact and he can't help but turn back to the keys of the organ and play Grania's song again, this time with a sensuality he hadn't incorporated before and a little more mystery. Music is his way of speaking more than words; music goes beyond what he knows how to say, music transcends launguage, race, breed, tribe, color, creed . . . The metis cub - despite (or because of?) his lonliness, despite his lack of knowledge, despite his face still hidden by the mask - is music, and it's himself he pours out onto the keyboard. And when he stops, the air around them quivers with a magic as if one can see the images he's played, feel the presence of the idea he's called to being. Yet everyone knows the song isn't finished, not by a long shot. There's too much he doesn't know.(james)
Grania has a glowing beauty which inspires the most passionate of artists to compose until their fingers bleed
James.... doesn't quite compare
he'd probably stare at someone like they had two heads if the reference was made
he's just... James
one Ahroun
one Gnawer
with dreadlocks
designed to blend and fit in anywhere
cause that's what Gnawers do don'tcha know
there's a bit of a smirk to her first reply
Of course we do it seems to say It's a question of which we claim
then a brow decidedlylifts
Bagheera?
well goddamn
he knew she was a changing breed
he could just never pinpoint what
that would very well explain it
her kind was supposed to be... well.. dead
the War of Rage could be thanked for that
but one thing Gnawers are good at is accepting what's thrown at them
and a slow, thoughtful, nod seems to do just that
Bagheera then.
curiosity is veritably peaked
but now isn't the time
and his dark gaze holds hers for a moment, and turns back to Phantom
though the song keeps him from speaking
lips were parted to begin forming words
but the breath wasn't right, the moment wasn't prime
his jaws remains slack with the sudden power of the metis' song
at least it's giving him time to recover from that big of information she gave him
(and dayum he's impressed)
the air is ALIVE with the beautiful, mysterious melody"The others still 'round?" his head tips, dreads dragging over t-shirt in the movement, asked so quietly because he hates to break the woven spell "Cause they'll wanna know this too, Eagles won't run an'one out with no cause. Terr'tory's big 'nuff to share some space, so long as you keep yer noses clean, keep 's informed, and don't do anythin' to give 's cause. Alpha's Blood Eagle, should meet'im, tell yer story, cause he's th' one that'll say if you stay or go."
he doesn't want to destroy the magic of the music
but there is duty to be upheld, safety for the organ player in the knowledge
drifting to silence again(grania)
His gaze holds her, and the dark depths shimmer with amusement and the strength hidden within lithe form that all but dares him to deny it, to say aloud that they are all dead and she lies (…lies, little kitten, will keep you safe…) and when it remains unsaid, and his curiosity (…killed the…) is piqued, then she relaxes completely – the illusion she presents unchanged, though one could, quite possibly, envision a long tail tapping lazily behind her without much imagination….
….the song begins anew and her eyes shine with appreciation and delight, knowing he plays for her, of her, and the feline is nothing if not genuinely awed and touched by the efforts, the movements of air formed song formed a beauty she could never hope to grasp within the forms of her own artistic endeavors… her breath falls… “beautiful…” the word purred, and she is quiet once more while beauty gives way for duty – which is merely beauty in another form….(phantom)
Head shakes but he doesn't stop playing, now weaving James' voice into the song, playing the night rather than just the one person. His voice falls into the song (enhances, not distracts) while his own tune enters - lonely and sad, quiet and eerie, sneaking upon the listener almost before one realizes it's there - as he answers.
"No one is here but me, I was left alone."
Close every door to me/take all I love from me. He's been alone for so long; it's good to have someone here at the same time as he wishes they'd leave; this is his place, his home and they're invaders, invited or not, wanted or not and always respect the territory of another - you're in his territory, as is she . . . Lost and alone, alone and forsaken and at least it seems they won't be taking him from the place he's come to love more than anything in this world because who would keep the dark things back then? Even now he can sense them, but they don't come while he's here at this bench, while he's playing. They wait to catch him when he goes out (and he never goes out if he can help it, but a man has to eat, doesn't he? Even a scrawny little metis whelp has to eat.) and about.Out of the corner of his eye he watches the woman (cat), but he can't see James and his nervousness (paranoia) at that enters his part of the song as well.
(james)
Phantom is concentrating on his music
so perhaps he doesn't see the Gnawer nod
while the metis may be of so few words
James is a musician, and the music tells him what he needs to know
it is also in the blood that pumps so valiantly in his veins
he understands what it's like to protect the little you have
he understands the confusion in wanting conflicting things
he understands the paranoid fear of being in a suddenly new situation.... alone
he understands the sorrow for..... more things than he'd care to admitwhile the music swells on, he's pulled a scrap of paper out of his pocket
probably some receipt from some convenience store purchase he's forgotten by now
a glance at it.... proves it was a receipt for the last round of Thai take-out
(hm... should wash these pants)
from another pocket of the baggy BDUs comes a pen
(be prepared, sayeth the Boy Scout motto)
the number for a cell phone (Rune's, but he has it) scribbled down
the paper is folded in half - and only now does he actually approach Phantom's claimed throne
they all respect the territory of another
he, in his chosen seat, respected the metis' need for space and company all at once
gently, the folded paper is placed as a little tent on a flat plane of loved wood
within the scope of vision, but not enough to interrupt the magical flow
(he knows of Grania's entrancement, and far be it from him to disrupt music)"I'll teach ya what you need to know, it's more dang'rous here than you expect." murmured "I'll find you when Blood Eagle wants t'meet, if you don't call first." a beat, as he listens here, so close to the overwhelming throb of brassy pipes, he waits for a lull in the notes before the last "Thank you f'r playin, Phantom."
and he means it
the gratitude is genuine in slurred voice
there's a glance to the feline stretched so gracefully on the floor
(Bag. fuckin'. heera.)
bit of a grin in farewell
and he moves up the aisles between the dusty, nested seats
letting himself back out onto the street and on his way(grania)
She is entranced (….entrancing…) by the music, by the swell that slides deep within the soul, rending it with an emotion so deep, so personal it simply cannot be put into words… Her gaze slides over James as he moves (….I could devour you…) with a lazy blink, a tilt of head, a shimmer somewhere deep in her gaze of secrets (….bagheera….) untold… smile sliding across lips easily in answering farewell before she is in motion again…
Back arches, and abdomen flexes to pull her upright with a dancers grace, the quiet pensiveness still surrounding her, the aura of mystery and subtlties that speak volumes sliding over her in rippling waves as she slides to a stand and completes the stretch. She moves toward the boy then, this cub who remains lost in his music, who finds solace there that he cannot find elsewhere, a soft purr sliding through her voices, under her skin… “I will take my leave now as well, if you wish it….”(phantom)
Face turns to her and he smiles (twisted face smirks, sneers, but the smile is clear in his gorgeous blue eyes if nowhere else) and a shake of his head turns to a nod because it's late (early) and even he must get some sleep sometime. A pleading tone enters the song as he asks the question with as much dignity as he can muster.
"Will you come back?"
Afraid the answer will be no, terrified the answer will be yes, the half of his face that is covered by the mask a . . . mask . . . of indifference, but his in his eyes - as in his music - his thoughts (feelings) are not so well hidden.
"You can come back."
An invitation not issued lightly; the boy is not one to whisper falsness and lies. He means what he says (says what he means). Long (beautiful) fingers of one hand snag the piece of paper on the ledge in front of him and he slips it into his pocket, the playing of the other hand uninterrupted when it's partner leaves and then rejoins.(grania)
She smiles, a slow creep of emotion staining lips as she reaches to touch his face, fingers lingering along uncovered jaw, her cheek falling to slide against his (…mingled scents, welcoming touch…), all without marring his playing, achieved in the boneless seduction of one well used to working around odd obstacles in order to maintain the beauty of something, anything, the colors woven in his music surrounding them… her voice then, soft and soothing across his ear… “I will come back.” Before she pulls away again, touch lingering until nails slide along his jaw and then fall away.
Fingers slide into hidden pocket somewhere within the whimsy of silken sheer skirts, and pluck free a golden case, a card plucked free and set upon loved wood where folded paper had momentarily resided… upon it, her number, the address of her studio, and her name…. The silken purr falls free once more… “and you can call, if I am away too long…” There is the kiss of lashes against cheek, a shutter blink falling to capture the moment in perfection… “Good night, Phantom…” and with that, she turns and makes her way toward the door once more, and on her way…(phantom)
They are gone, and as they leave the building they seamlessly leave his song until it is just him, alone again in reality and in music. But not so alone as before, maybe; he has hope at least and what is worth living for if not hope? The music comes to an end (but not a true end; how can any work come to an end until its renderer is gone from this world?) and he carressingly closes the lid before taking up Grania's card and stuffing it into the same pocket as the scribbled cell phone number, then heads to his hidden bedroom in the basement.(fade to black)
Posted by james at July 15, 2003 12:00 AM
CommentsPost a comment