August 31, 2003.08.31.03. - a strange collection of accents [imogen-cori][port newark]
(james)
the sun set just a little while ago
sinking beneath the scattered clouds holding down the humidity
but he kept playing anyway
appealing to the holiday weekend masses floating around the public docks
tribally narrating their evening strolls fueled by some carry-out meal or another
aiming for enough spare change to put food in the warehouse fridge again
not that there's been a lot of activity either at the 'house or condo, lately
but it's the principle of the thing
a part of it's his blood, the renown gained in feeding others
a part of it's simply because he wants to care for his pack in any way he canmostly, it's a distraction, something to do other than think
because even though he flashes the charming grin at a young lady
or stumbles into a complicated rhythm on the overturned can to show off to a doting father
or challenges the young son to a game of making faces without breaking beat
behind all the energy of his performance - there's sadness
(it's not just sadness, the boy aches)
but easily enough he dons the mask of a street performer
nothing will detract from the show he offers to the ever-changing audience
something has to inspire them to give, after allinstead, he finds a comfort in the stacatto beats and sheer physical exertion
he's hefted the rebar sticks against the metal drum for more than a couple hours, now
sweat from summer's oppressive heat making the t-shirt cling to sculpt of muscle (and scar) beneath
dreads held out of the way by that faded grey bandana
little round sunglasses have slipped down his nose far enough to let deep umber eyes keep searching the crowd
finding the next person to play to and coax the shining coins from the depths of a dark pocket(imogen)
The sun set just a little while ago. She'd watched it go, just as she'd watched it rise. There might be something depressing about that, except that she was so used to this chaotic routine, or the lack of routine. She does it without thinking. Workaholism, or some strange sense of responsibility.It's busy out tonight. It might be an explanation why she's out here. To enjoy the crowd, if Imogen ever really enjoyed crowds. Or perhaps to enjoy the sea air that fills every breath, something familiar. Docks she knows. She may have been here for a more sinister reason, however, and there's a pager at her hip; it's a holiday weekend that is not quite a holiday.
This however, is a moment of stillness as she pauses to watch James play. The sound had caught her attention (music always does), and then as she approached, the rage had caught it more. There's been nearly no activity in the condo recently. Quiet. Hard to say if the kinfolk is pleased. It must be difficult, at some point or another, to live so close to so much rage.
Each breath is laden with humidity and sea air and civilization (she can smell the oil, the car exhaust, the human sweat), as she sets one shoulder against a nearby wall, her hands sliding into her jean pockets. She's dressed casually like most of the pedestrians. Jeans, a white t-shirt. Except, despite the heat, she wears a light jacket, the fall of the suede low past the small of her back, just past the curve of her hips. It's overtly warm for that, but she does it anyway. Her hair is pulled back from her face low on her neck, coiled there in a careless bun from which firekissed strands straggle away to escape, clinging to her neck, brushing the collar of her jacket, and falling against her cheekbones.
Like rage, it's hard to say if pure breeding is individual. If the aura of ancestory that spills from Imogen's slight slender form would be the same aura that emanated from a straight and narrow silver fang. If she was actually recognizeable by the scent of her blood, or if that was only imagination, assumption because there were few kinfolk with her breeding, and so it must be her.
(james)
there's something in the air
thick metal impacts reverberating in the barrel to echo down the street
oil, sweat, corndogs, cotton candy, pheromones... pure breed
whether it was the inherant tug that had on him or the flash of blazing hair passing through the crowd
his attention flickers from the concussions at hand and to the upper left
chin jerks up in a nod accompanied by showman's wink
though just as easily as he divided his attentions, he returns them smoothly to the paying patronssomething in the way he plays suddenly gets heavier. primal
cloth wrapped tips extacting specific tones dependant on where impact is aimed
what should be a rather toneless steel barrel transformed to responsive kettle
somehow, the pressed and molded metal finds a way to sing to the night's humid air
deepest tones that reverberate straight through a ribcage if one stands too close
a higher pitch that overlays some instinct-tugging harmony because of an expert pitch and tap
the rebar seems a natural extension of his arms, cords across his forarms flexing with what seems like little thought or effort
the makeshift drumsticks the most basic and most utilitarian tools he's ever ownedhe's used them to ruthlessly kill
he's used them to create a primitive symphonybut soon enough, the performance ends, and the street resumes it's normal levels of bustling noise
smiles are offered with soft (slurred) words of thanks to the scattered applause and change(imogen)
Drums on their own have a particular sound. Heavy, primal, primative. Everything comes down to beats like the ones that James pounds out on the steel barrell.Heart beats. The approach of a predator. The fleeing of prey. Inhale. Exhale.
The sounds like this jar the bones, and resonate within them. Perhaps the weapons he uses now as tools to make his music are that much better because they have tasted blood and the wielder knows just what primal means, deep in his marrow.
The crowd offers applaud and change, and begin to disperse, as they often do, as soon as a performance ends. The heat of bodies lessens some as she remains where she is, a beat or more, before pressing her hand briefly against the still warm brick of the wall upon which she leans, before walking over to James and his tools of music and war. "Hungry?" she asks by way of greeting, a pale hand pushing back vibrant hair, the colour still pure despite the night, tucking it behind her ears.
(james)
the crowd begins drifting away and moving on to other things the public dock offers for the holiday
(deer scattering before the wolf)
and her words reach him in mid-bend to pick up the overturned floppy tophat which served to catch his earnings
one brow climbs towards the horizontal line of the tied bandana
as if to silently question the validity of her greeting
or at least.... the necessity to even ask it
(when is a Gnawer not hungry?)
though the expression slides into a soft grin then accepting nodthe lower levels of his usual talkativeness a logical consequence of his jaw's bad healing
but now that the performer's mask is gone, he seems quieter than usual
any normal greeting he had reduced to that slip of a grinthe change and few bills are counted then tucked safely into a pocket of baggy BDUs
the floppy, patched tophat folded and shoved into the pack that was hiding at the base of the overturned steel can
in exchange, a clean wifebeater is pulled out and the nearing sweat-soaked shirt peeled away from heated flesh
Eagle's brand raised welt on tanned chest, the memory of savage claws dark stripes down his back
quickly covered by white cotton - Imogen may be accepting of such unusual marks, but the surrounding public may not
but at least he won't reek for the time they happen to spend together
the process finishes with the backpack hung over one shoulder, and the can hefted and rolled back to it's place beneath an awning(imogen)
As he changes, she glances briefly down at her pager, checking the display, before replacing it, and her attention flicking quickly across the crowd as they pass the kin and Garou. Because while she was accepting of scars and brands (bearing one or two herself), the surrounding public may not. And maybe a brief cold dark eyed stare might deter any curious glances.She is more cautious of the veil than some Garou.
She turns to glance toward James, an eyebrow arching before she speaks again. Perhaps she'd misunderstood (or understood) his unnatural silence. "It will get easier t'talk the more you do it," notes the doctor mildly, before her hands leave her jean pockets and she cants her head slightly down the street, "There's a few stands up th'way." Continuing as if her commentary did not require response, and it probably didn't. "Better than th'restaurants 'round 'ere."
She tugs briefly on the collar of her jacket, before waiting for at least a slight pause in the crowd's throng before stepping out onto the sidewalk to find her way toward the indicated direction.
(james)
there's a breif pause and look at the initial observation
for a moment, it seems as if the Ahroun has no idea what she's talking about
recovery comes along quickly enough in the form of a half-hearted chuckle"I know." the pause punctuated by muted clatter of rebar as it's shoved into the pack mid-step "S'not....."
the amount of deliberate surety of which he played the steel can earlier is immediately juxtaposed with the indecision he shows now
meager beginnings of the explanation drifting into nothingness even partially surprising himself
that only shows in the hesitation of his step before following the firey kin
while she has to wait for the crowd to thin enough to easily merge
the tall Gnawer simply strides ahead with those tireless, block-devouring steps
(shortened, of course, to keep pace with the smaller, shorter doctor)
even if the moon is still slender in the sky above
there is yet the instinctual drift of pedestrians out of his way
he'll let them continue to think it's a reaction to the weapons sticking out of his backpack
for surely the musican with such a soft (sad) smile barely curving his lips could not be the deadly predator their subconscious fears(cori lancaster)
Well now, even a down home girl has got t’travel and brave the big city, and what with the holiday festivities at the port, who was she t’resist the pull of corndogs and candy apples, and street venders? And there ain’t no short supply of eye candy neither! Just down th’way there was a badass drummer makin some serious noise for the past couple hours, made her fingers itch to pull the gi’tar outa the case at her feet and join in – but well, she woulda been hard pressed t’keep up w’anythin’ that tribal and it just don’t do t’join without bein able t’show off.
Couple blocks up thataway where the sounds wouldn’t collide, another crowd gathered by a fiddler sans roof – who was rakin in another bit of shiny coin from the willin crowds.. and over there is a mime, of course, and just down th’way some guy near stabbed his own toe while jugglin blades! Was th’funniest damn thin she’d seen in a while.
Bu our girl – long and lean with just enough curves in all th’right places has laid claim to a picnic table set up near the food stands. Ain’t no one seem inclined t’bother her none, really, even if she’s as approachable as ya kin get. Just yur everyday down home cowgirl – from the top of her cowboy hat keeping long brown hair back from her face, to the tank top, and boot cut jeans in black denim, to the cowboy boots that are planted on the bench below where ass is planted on wooden table. And if’n ya look closer, that seems t’be a rope coiled and hooked to th’side of her gi’tar case that’s set between her knees, arms wrappd around the neck as she slathers her corndog with a liberal amount of mustard before indulging in steamy treat.
(imogen)
The gnawer trails off and the former Fianna turns her head to look at him over her shoulder, briefly, her hand coming up in an automatic motion to push back strands of her hair, dislodged by the slight movement. An eyebrow stirs briefly before settles and she glances away, before falling in step beside the much taller Bone Gnawer.In many ways, Imogen must seem almost child like in comparison to others. James isn't even that bad, tall as he is, he's lanky, which does not dwarf her as much as the brutal broadness of Decker, nor is he as tall as Lucien, who dwarfs nearly everyone. Still. She is only an inch above five feet (two inches with the boots she wears), and he's six feet. The difference is pronounced.
There are certain things that minimize this, however: the erectness of her posture, a poise that transcends height. The force of personality, strength of will, perhaps.
She lengthens her stride to match James's shortened strides, though she is not a slow walker to begin with.
It's silence then, and it's perhaps the sadness that keeps her quiet, some respect for space, though none had been requested.
(james)
at the breif glance, deep umber clashes with dark skies
but without her inherant poise, it's his gaze that drifts away first"S'nothin."
soft enough that he doesn't bother trying to consciously correct the slur
(could he really talk about what's bothering him, anyway?)
it wouldn't be the first time they've walked in total silence
(at least this isn't a hostile one)
they must be quite the pair strolling down the walk
one pair of boots scuffed and worn, the other merely supporting height brought on by posture
one dressed in surplus threads, the other in the attire of a professional
one tangle of dark dreads tamed beneath the faded bandana, one tangle of brilliant autumn flame struggling to be free of loose bun
one stride lengthened in assertion of force and will, the other shortened out of consideration
one set of eyes cast in dark glance on the sidewalk ahead, the other watching the concrete that passes beneath his stepsperhaps in another time and place it would be amusing to know how she would stand out in a crowd more than he
but it's not anything he's thinking about
he just makes sure not to trip over her when she stops before the stand of choice(cori)
“Mmmmmmmmmm…” there ain’t nothing like the perfectly deep-fried golden brown crunchy sweet cornbread wrapped around all beef frank on a stick slathered I yellowed spicy mustard – it’s as near t’perfection as ya can get really on a day such as this. Save th’sweets for the kids, and go straight for th’protien, and wash it all down with fresh squeezed lemonaid with a side helping of..purity?
Well that brings dark (soft) gaze up from the food in hand, crook of finger following to nudge hat up just a little as she searches the crowd. Tongue slips from between lips to capture an errant spot of mustard before it’s followed by her finger to get what she couldn’t reach, and eyes rest on that flaming hair. Looordy what she wouldn’ta done for some hair like that when she was younger… had a friend in school – Rosie mae her name was, that had the prettiest curls and Cori weren’t a bit shy in sayin how jealous she was about that. The memory brings a grin to her lips - easy goin and carefree that smile is – before she actually notices the man walkin at the pretty woman’s side. Now there’s an unlikely pair if’n she ever saw one… that boy just done blended right on in while the pretty little thing stuck out like some beautiful rose amongst thorns. Not that he’s a… aw hell. She can’t help but chuckle at th’runaway notions traipsing through her mind as she watches em head for food. Maybe they won’t be shy bout joinin’er at th’table.
(imogen)
A brief smirk, slow and quiet. "Alright," acceptance of the lie.The moon is a bare sliver in the sky, and still his rage is a crawl over her skin, working it's way across her flesh. Perhaps he can get used to it's pulse enough to forget the effects it has on human and kin alike. Perhaps. It's hard to forget something like that when you can see the children shying away, and the adults casting wary glances. Memories of a darker time. Imogen certainly cannot forget such a presence as rage. Though she is better than most in absorbing it and the stress it creates, than most.
Her eyes roam with the ease of her profession (see everything), and catches the glance of Cori, a moment's pause in her steps, a catch to her movement, as she regards the good ol' girl, pausing briefly at one of the many stands, one that sells fresh french fries and sausages and hot dogs.
"Caught someone's attention," she notes mildly. There are certain types of attention Garou can garner. The quick look-toward-look-away[itmighteatme], the wary stares, the near hostile glares. Imogen herself can be on the receiving end of her own rainbow of glances, but there's a particular glance of a Garou catching scent of her breeding.
Cori's glance might be that, or might be nothing at all. Imogen reaches into her pocket for her wallet.
(james)
it wasn't exactly a lie
he could have added any one of choice phrases after that
s'nothing he can talk about here
s'nothing he can talk about at all
s'nothing he can talk about with her
and seeing that none were really beneficiary
he could have just left it as vague as he did not to offendright
the proper conclusion to that beginning would have been I want to remember
but just as conveniently as the earlier explanation was clipped
her direction of his attention serves to skirt the subject once again
(his pain is blatantly fucking obvious)
nonchalance as the hungry young man infront of them suddenly hurries up his order
he plays it cool even as Imogen makes her request
the order of a dog with ev.ry.thing. tossed in slur over a shoulder
but then his skull is rotating towards the benches in question
chin lifts, as he focuses on the cowgirl
earlier glances may have been polite, mildly attentive, curious, and/or brief
but dark eyes meet hers dead on
this is, after all, right in the middle of his territory
and while the young girl isn't exactly what he's been hoping to find to take this burning agony out on, in fact, he'd much rather find some unfair brawl to jump in on, he's hurting enough to let the challenge seep into deep umber before he thinks about it
but it disappears as the vendor offers the steaming dog in it's foil wrap(cori)
Well now, ain’t that something. Miss Pure there brings the attention of the raggedy man her way and be damned if he don’t up and up challenge her right off the bat with them umber eyes of his. Now – everyone has certain things that’ll just piss em the hell off – but Cori ain’t one of them that rankles under a challenge. She meets that gaze and a brow lifts a bit toward brim of hat as fingers lift and she tips her hat in his direction, that easy grin remaining just where it is. Ain’t challenging him – seems she’s done stepped in some territory. Billy did say there was a pack runnin round this way, and she’s surprised it’s taken this long t’be noticed, honestly.
He orders, and then reaches t’grasp his order, and she flashes another grin as head tips in invitation toward her table (like he wasn’t gonna come over here and see who she was anyway…) for both him and th’pretty lady. Before gaze drops (..respect..) and she takes another bite of her dinner, Shiftin the case between her thighs just a little bit (rope within reach, always..) into a more comfortable position.(imogen)
She orders, too, a sausage and no, nothing on it, thank you. She deflects, briefly the question on where that charming accent was from, as her attention flicks over her shoulder as James scopes out Cori, and then turns her attention back, shaking her head about the drink, and paying for both of them.James's tension raises the hair on the back of her neck, and she would have stepped away from him as he reached out for his own hot dog, if it hadn't been for one of any number of things that kept her from flinching from rage.
Some kid starts screaming and Imogen's head tilts toward that direction, a brief sudden frown. It's habit. Screams, sirens, such things that draw her attention, draw her toward it, rather than away. The mark of her profession, somehow.
That the child's screaming was nothing more than a temper tantrum draws her attention back, flicking her gaze toward James as she takes a bite of the steaming sausage.
(james)
by the time he turns back around with his meal
the glaring challenge isn't in deepest brown - at least for the moment
seems somewhere in the process he found some purchase on the flare of Rage
(a fight in public on the docks with a girl is not the way to make yourself feel better, Jamey-boy)
a simple addition of her movements (tip, grin, invitation, respect) brings a breif shadow of that trademark grin in return
but he is so focused on Cori that the sudden pitch of the child's scream doesn't even make him twitchwhich, given his usual concern for the welfare of children, should make some begin to worry
whatever weight his attention had gathered, it lessens in some subsconsious response to the glance
in the time it took Imogen to take a single bite and chew, his dinner is already half gone
the pause is only long enough to safely swallow before the rest of the dog disappears in a couple of bites
though even as he inhales the food, he keeps his manners about him, napkin grabbed and used out of etiquette rather than necessity
the good doctor hasn't made as much of a dent in her food, but he begins towards the bench anyway
he ate first because it's rude to talk with your mouth full, and he figures he's going to be the one doing the talking(cori)
She ain’t really looked away much – just enough t’not challenge the man (cuz, yannow, even if lasso’in her a ragin guy in the middle of the crowd might gain her a tip or two? It just ain’t th’way t’blend and all… even if it would be fun’er’n’ell. He’s focus’d on her and she ain’t lost her focus on them, even chuckling as he inhales his dinner in th’time it takes’er t’take the last bite of her own. Wiping her mouth and fingers with the napkin before well aimed toss sees wrapping, stick and wadded paper tossed in nearby bin.
All before he’s halfway to her. After all – her momma didn’t raise no unmannered cads neither (though she’s got a doubt or three bout couple of’er brothers…) and she makes sure she’d done swallowed and finished lickin her lips and catchin the last of spiced mustard b’fore they get here.
When they do, she tips her head, and with a grin greet’s them with what they surely gotta be expectin – soft southern drawl, not quit so deep as Texas, not quite as genteel as Georgia, but somewere’s in between. “Well, howdy there, sir, ma’am.” All this’n’manners too…(imogen)
It's a moment where James walks on his own, before Imogen does step to follow, a slower easier gate that does not speak of predators and wolves (though something sharpens the edges of her movement), nor does it speak of prey and deer and softly formed meat.She doesn't eat nearly as fast, but tosses the half finished dog in the garbage on the way. If James hadn't seen her eat before, and well, he might have begun to wonder if the good doctor had an eating disorder of some kind. But he had seen her eat, so maybe he doesn't.
A brief inclination of her head that speaks of some form of greeting, without actually speaking. Her hands briefly probe of her suede jacket pockets, her jean pockets before stilling.
(james)
Cori finishes her corndog by the time he's crossed half the distance
by the time he breaches that midline, something unavoidable by the kin becomes all too apparent to the cowgirl
Rage that all but audibly crackles when the invisable spheres of the two Garou begin to overlap
(backlash of what's grown out of emotional pain even beneath the sliver moon shining above)
Rage that's begging for a reason to detonate even as it's held tightly in check
(morality wanes when the animal instincts take over in self-preservation)
Rage that's.... accompanied by a crooked, easy grin?"Evenin'" he is still working on mastering smoothing out the harsh clip native accent adds to even the simplest words because of his jaw "Passin' through?"
there is a certain element of congeniality about him
because no matter how nasty his mood seems to have the potential of being
he is the pack's PR guy, after all
thumbs hook in the straps of the backpack
shoulders remain low and even
there's even a cant to his head that matches the lopsided grinJames has seen Imogen eat, so does not worry about the meager portions consumed
Imogen has seen James in battle, at least remotely, so probably knows he isn't half as relaxed as he presents(cori)
She’d noticed th’rage from across th’way, as it swallowed up the potence of the redheaded kin’s purity, and as he draws near – well it ain’t no surprise t’either of them that the tables next t’her perch are rapidly empty’in now too. He ain’t near as relaxed as she is, that much is sure – but she supposes that it’s only natural what with the first question from ‘is lips. Seems she was right bout the territory hoppin, don’t it? But all it gets is a grin and nod as she remains where she is, arm wrapped loose around her guitar case (fingers slidin along woven rope comfortingly) as chin lowers in a nod, that smile remaining nice’n’ easy. “Yessir.. heard of th’festivities and well, these boot’re made f’walkin, as th’song says. Billy said I’d run inta some people I should say howdy too up round bout this way if’n I hung round long ‘nuff… you one’a’em?”(imogen)
She does not do much for the conversation, a frosty silence, though her dark eyes, rimmed in pale copper lashes, flick briefly over Cori, in thoughtful interest, either brought on by her words or by the accent.Her attention then, shifts away, roaming the crowds. Some distance away, there was a small ferris wheel set up. The lights cast their neon glow, flashing and bright. A fiddle player reams into a riff that soars across the scales, and someone plays with devil sticks that glow neon in appropriately placed black light spotlights. She is paying attention, however, for all the actions to the otherwise. James's rage is like scorpions beneath her skin, and Cori's own rage can hardly be helping.
(james)
there should be a part of him that's amused at the collection of accents suddenly surrounding the table
one musical (if currently silent) Cornish lilt
one Yankee twang garnished with battlescar slur
one...uh.....Southerner?
about all he can place is that it isn't from Alabama"Depends'n who yer sent t'run into." she may misinterpret the overall catalyst for his tension, but right now he'll let her think what she wants, he's still keeping that easy grin reflecting hers. ".... and y'are?"
(cori)
She laughs then – and ads her own bitta music to t’mix as she offers a hand t’shake with a wink. “Wasn’t sent t’meet no one – just told t’keep m’nose clean and mind m’p’s n q’s. Billy seems t’think I’m jus some pretty lil girl most days. Mite over protective and all.”
Voice drops, slilght, softens further, so as not t’carry farther then th’two it’s intended for.. “Cori ‘ropes’th’win’’ Lancaster, coggie songster daughter o’th’fog from down th’Barren’s way. Billy Bedlam’s th’one who told me t’behave wanderin round up’n here… “(imogen)
For Imogen, the problem isn't locating when someone is Southern. It's locating when someone isn't southern. The american accent all has a drawl, in spite of what many of its inhabitants think.But at least she has the skill (hah) to recognize that Cori and James are from different locales. Cori and Rohl or Cori and Nina? Not so easy.
She glances briefly toward Cori as she introduces herself. The flame haired woman's eyes narrow briefly and perhaps the introduction did not make much sense.
She has no introduction to offer for her own (none she's willing to give, anyway), and instead she gives some semblance of a nod, a brief glance in James's direction, before she turns and begins to walk away.
Friendly folk around here. Really.
(james)
his hand finds its way to reach hers
grip could break the bones within it if he put his mind to it
luckily, he's not, and the experience is rather pleasent"'Bout what we ask." he wasn't speaking loudly to begin with, it's easier to manage the slur that way, so he doesn't have to adjust much "James Branson, Drums'n Skulls, BeeGee fullmoon fostern'a Eagle's. S'our digs 'round here, bounded by th' water, highways'n airport." he catches the look from the good doctor, and whatever communication continues between them seems like nothing more than the break of eye contact "Billy's been at'r sides a time'r two... mind yer manners'n yer welcome. 'Joy th' party."
dreads cased in faded bandana tip back towards the various activities on the dock
but after another easy grin, the tall raggedyman turns to fall into step with Imogen(cori)
Posted by james at August 31, 2003 12:00 AM
Grip is right strong, and though her hands are slender, it's clear there's a good bitta strength in them as well - and she ain't no stranger t'hard work, neither. "Please'd t'meet'ya, Mis'er Bransen. I'll b'sure t' d just that." She' almost finishes that up with the question if he was th'drummer down th'way.. but theres a bit of communication with glances 'tween them and seems her curiosity won't be answered t'night. SO that grin appears one more time and she chuckles "M'momma'd come up'ere from down home and skin th'ide right off'n me if I didn't, sir, don'tcha worry none bout that. Got me a whole passle fulla siblin's skeered of'er switch, and I ain't no different. Ya'll'ave a good'un."
Fingers lift and she tips her hat his way again, afore settlin it back right correctly on'er head and with an easy stretch 5'11 form pulls from th'table, fingers wrappin in handle of guitar case, rope held inside against'er thigh as free hand tucks inta denim an she heads down th'way, soon lost in th' evening crowds.
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