November 09, 2003.11.09.03. - synchronicity of pack / dangerous times [decker-gretchen] *sd[wicker park - chicago]
(james)
there's a strange little dance of fingers poking out from mostly fingerless gloves that ties bandana around dreads
the tangle of jungle-vined hair on the urban primitive tucked nice and neat beneath faded grey
tips of the locks spilling down in some assortment over the shoulders of patchwork trenchcoat
they say that a body loses a lot of heat through the top of the head
so far be it from the Gnawer to go about uncovered and risk a death of chill that'll never happen
seems the same can't quite be said for the Modihe can practically hear the shivering from the steamed up Tacoma
deep umber gaze strafes right-left behind the sheild of little black sunglasses
crossing the lacquer black paint that's glazing with chilling condensation, climbing the foggy windsheild
admittedly, he's.... fairly amused
it shows in the curve that's beginning to form around the Camel long clenched between his teeth
temptation's suggestion guiding finger to draw a little smiley face in the crystalization driver's side
right before lifting up the wiper and letting it SLAP! back onto the glassHoney, I'm home.
pack's slung and dropped at his ankles when hip pitches to lean against the fender
(not exactly standing in the line of fire, is he)(decker)
The rocking of the truck wakes him. The squeeek-squeak-squeeek of a finger drawing the smiley face makes him scowl like a thunderhead.[What the fuck is th--]
SLAP!Oh, that's it. The back door of the Tacoma flies open and the Modi doesn't so much climb out as he barrels, explodes, flows out to land on his feet. This is his HOUSE now, thank you very much, and he didn't take kindly to some idiot kid drawing happy faces and...
(recognition)
Stare. A snort of disbelief. One edge of his mouth crooks up. Then the Modi slaps his hands down on James' shoulders, and until he does what he does, it's hard to tell whether he's going to chuck the Gnawer five miles into the lake or - even more shocking - drag him forward into a brief but hard embrace, pounding him once on the back for good measure.
It's the latter he chooses, letting James go after a second to step back and look the other over, crook of mouth turning into a smirk. It's one day after the full and their rage crackles like live wires brought together, but beneath it all flows the smooth synchronicity of pack.
"Hell took ya so long?" - careless sorta drawl as he takes a step back to slams the back door of his Tacoma shut. "Been freezin' my ass off."
(tristan)
Chi. Fucking. Cago.
Not like he’d turn down the ride, not like there was even a seconds thought before the decision to hop in the car and go. Not like he’s anywhere else to be (....one place, but can one truly place occasional ecstasy ahead of familial bonding? Of course not.... all that was missing was the final fling before goodbye. There are always regrets.) and Momma didn’t raise no fools.Of course. If one thought it cold in Jersey... So he does what he does best. Explore. He hasn’t been playing yet, but local talk says Wicker park is the place to see and be seen. Good Nuff. He don’t have enough to keep a hotel room for long – even as seedy as it is, and he’ll be damned if he lets Imogen spring for a night though the offer was made. In order to find some more permanent arrangement, the pretty boy needs to find a good place to play for his supper. He doesn’t have the advantage of living under the rage warmed full moon inner fire in cardboard palaces, after all.
Knit cap keeps curls in some suggested order, as well as the tips of his ears warm, fingerless gloves do somewhat the same for his fingers, though they are chilled from wrapped around the violin case. Thick wool coat falls to mid thigh, under that a sweater, and a couple other layers. 37 freakin degrees. Brr.
He just keeps walking, exploring, gathering the lay of this new land. Not anything he hasn’t done a thousand times before, and likely will a thousand times again. Though if he’d had a choice? He’d have waited until spring. At least.
(gretchen heidreich)
The sound of a door closing echoes across the rudimentary sounds of a cold Chicago night. Heaving a deep breath, Greta turns and starts down the concrete steps of an apartment building much like all the others lining the Wicker Park area. Digging deep into the pockets of the wool navy coat she comes up with a wrinkled pack of Winston's and a lighter. The wind is denied the idea of toying with her long blonde hair tonight as it's kept pulled back neatly in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Without real direction, she starts down the sidewalk, cigarette lit and held securely between two fingers.(james)
three.... two.... o-
the back door of the King Cab explodes open
the stiff and slowly freezing form of the Modi just seems to suddenly appear out of the cavernous depths like some extremely grumpy leviathan (when are they not?) ready to surface and crunch on a hapless sacrifice left by villagers desperate to appease the grumbling, thunderous monsterJames?
crooks a grin
given the state of his jaw, they'll always be crooked
but this one's kinder than any in the past months
ready to be chucked five miles into the lake as he is
(note: all meager valuables and non-solubles are in the pack at. his. feet.)
notably startled - he doesn't pull away from the embrace
in fact, dares return it in his own way, even if the overlapping Rage may just detonatecause you see, the Ahroun's missed his packmate, too
more than words could articulate
it's the primal sense of completion
the final bolt that slips into the perfect (killing) machine"Wan'd ya be really happy a see me."
and now it seems like the time apart was nothing more than a few seconds
James slips right back into routine
cause out of one deep pocket of the coat comes a wrapped up paper bag
contents: one burger (still steamy), one beer (still cold)(tristan)
A pause in his steps as he sets the violin case between well-worn boots as hands dig through pockets until he comes up with a cigarette and lighter. Seems the boy picked up some of the packs bad habits, slow but sure. Battered bic is flicked, flame sheltered behind hand as it is set to paper and tobacco, first drag taken deep as lighter is tucked away again. Lean form folds, fingers wrap around case once more, and heft it easily and smoke trails in his wake, hanging heavy with breath as he starts to move once more.Steps arrested by the scents wafting from McD’s just down the way, and belly grumbles it’s complaints of poor treatment, threatening on claiming malnutrition if demands aren’t met in short order. Who’s he to argue with such threats? He wouldn’t be what he is if he ignored the chance to eat when it presented itself. Thus, teeth clench cigarette, hand falls into pocket to check to be sure he remembered a spot of cash, and footsteps shift to head in that direction.
(decker)
The sound of the door shutting echoes down the street. Something odd about cold air, that: makes the sounds so much clearer. It's a phenomenon born both of the silence of the city on a cold night when everyone's indoors, and of some obscure property of the air itself. Denser, colder air carries sound faster. Better. Something like that.Leaning back against the back door of the king cab, the Modi makes some sort of pleased grunt at the sight of burger and beer. Good deal. He was down to his last $3 and handful of pennies. Seemed the ports around here started shutting down as winter set in and the lake froze over, and he hasn't found the landroute shipping centers yet.
"Erik comin' yet?" - and briefly distracted is he by the blonde pure breed coming down the street. Windnarrowed grey eyes follow her a distance. Looked like one of his blood. Then his attention goes inward. Totemphone is a wonderful thing:
Shit's goin' down. Got a caern rottin' from the inside, no fuckin' Sept, bunch'a scattered packs 'n Wyrm everywhere.
Just like home, right?
(greta)
Though she walks like any other woman on a cold, winter's night ... beneath the surface Greta is much more. Her features are feminine, yet strong; the shape and line of her nose is regal, the natural arch of her brow lends her an air of nobility. With balanced, graceful steps she smokes her cigarette and peruses the night with crystal eyes of bluish-green. The 5'8 flaxen haired woman seemed more suited for a backdrop of Renaissance tapestries rather than the dreary cold concrete city behind her.Breathing out a puff of smoke she crosses her arms beneath the swell of her chest, perhaps in an attempt to keep warm.
(james)
worn-out, beat-up, tattered and begging for mercy Alice pack is hefted off the ground
it's ordeal not over yet, soon it - and all his wordly possessions - lands in the bed of the Tacoma
(gent. ly. though two long rebar sticks rattle their complaint)
James climbs to sit on the rim and place his Cochran's firmly on the well
ankle-length tails of the trench dangling like some technicolor cape
(if only he were so holy)
pointedly facing away from the appeased levia.....Fenrir
because it's an unspoken thing, the way they place themselves even at rest
constantly guarding each other's backs
especially in unfamiliar territoryfirst question only gets a nod of answer
prettyblondpurebreed - who knows how sharp her ears are
but she doesn't get much more than a passing glance from the Gnawer...... peeeeaaachy. funny, that, how his voice seems to clear up over the Totem Phone, the Yankee accent still thick as hell, but now it's lacking the slurring gift a mishealed jaw left him - of course, it's not that out of place, Decker's voice is strikingly different, too. Sounds like we got here just in time for the party.
out comes a tin whispering with papers and padded with baggie
fingers busy themselves in another level of construction
Imogen and Tristan were stuck in a car with him for 12 hours on a rising full
is there any question of whether or not he'd come prepared?
'sides.... he had to make sure the condo was fit to be empty for winter "vacation"
(Walker kinfolk will keep the rent up no matter how long they're gone, it's unspoken they may never come back)
amazing the amount of "secret stashes" so well-secreted they were forgotten(vashton lenneth)
He pushed himself off of that brick laid wall as he looked over Imogen one last time with a worried eyes. (..modi's can feel..) But he brushed it off, (..dismissal..) just as she did with his words.Glacial, the aire of her attitude was colder than the chilling of the deepest night of the darkest winters. (..strangely kinky too..)
The winter lockes of hair lift up with a rise in the breeze that caress his rage enbued body.
...Volcanic, he was ready to snap at moments notice, he was young and dumb and one leathal machine in the world of the Garou.A turn of his eyes
(..coming of the storm..) met with her own eyes since she wanted to be all unaffected the hell and brimstone he was forged of and just let her petite be swallowed into the fray.Good, hopefully you can get something good...or rather helpful and figure what the fuck is going on around here
...cause when I looked at tree, it wasn't looking like it was getting any better....
Time short, just about as short as his fuse getting. Still so close to his moon, immolation for all that would lay a hand on him.
(..conflagoration..)
(imogen)
He looked her over, concerned, and his gaze was returned, steadily, as if daring him to find something wrong that she had denied.Imogen lights another cigarette. Fire flares from her zippo, a pale hand cupping the flame, and touching the tip of the cigarette to it, paper and tobacco and poison lighting to burn sullenly and orange in the now dark.
Her attention flicks down the street in time to see Tristan walk into the macdonald's nearby. Fast food industry was likely going to improve with some of these folks in town. Burgers and beer sales surely will see a jump. She watches, out of the corner of her eye, to see him depart.
He moves, and her attention shifts, wary, back toward him. A brief light shrug. "I c'n jus' say what's happened. I'm not sure 'ow important'll it'll be in the long run." Her words spill out in smoke, the last of it exhaled with the tail end of her breath.
"We'll see."
(tristan)
12 hours. Rising full. In a car with the Ahroun (..family..) and the ice queen.Is it any wonder the boy needed to get out and just walk it all off? Never has there been so silent a car ride. Well, silent after they threatened him with castration if he even thought of singing show tunes, that is. The majority of the time after that was spent dozing, just as some sort of relief from it all.
Back to the matter at hand, however. Food. Belly on revolt. Empty grumbling demanding fulfillment. Into the McDonalds he swings, pausing to hold the door open for a harried mother and her kids before disappearing inside.
Dollar menu is glanced over, change counted, bag filled. More then enough for two – or for dinner, and tomorrow’s breakfast, whichever comes first. Bag is grabbed and the pretty boy winks at the young counter worker, chuckling as she flushes red all the way up to her hat. He turns, then, and heads back outside, already digging a burger free and opening the wrapper, that first bight coinciding with the closing of the door behind him.
(decker)
A faint snort. Just in time for the party. As usual. After all, if there wasn't a wyrm-bashing party, they wouldn't be here. While James busies himself with his smokes, Decker uncaps his beer and unwraps his burger. Steam drifts up from the pile of bread, lettuce, meat and cheese. He wolfs it down like he hasn't eaten anything all day - and hell, guess what? He hasn't. Wadding up the paper wrapper [that's it?], Decker resists the urge to root around for more. Then he tosses it over his shoulder into the bed of the truck. Once in a while, he even cleaned out the junk back there - though usually, they had a way of making themselves scarce on the back of a passing gust of wind or something like it.The Modi wipes his hands on his jeans and shifts his weight. Pulls out his matches and tosses them to James. There. He's made his contribution. Now he can take part in the bounty.
Sip of beer. He's leaning against the bed of the truck; James is sitting up in it, facing the other way. It's as natural as magnets sticking together in opposing poles: always watching each other's backs. Gretchen comes by and the Modi gives her a once-over, a nod up.
"'Sup."
Suhthern boy.Might be easy to mistake him for your average lowlife street thug, mackin' it up to someone way outta his league. The lazy lean against his truck; the apathetic sort of arrogance with which he observed the world. The powerful muscles, lithe speed; cracked knuckles, oversized Raiders jacket and sagging jeans. Wallet chain, buzzcut hair hidden beneath a knit cap jammed down over the tips of his ears lest they turn blue and fall off. Sheeiit, this fuckin' winter thing...
Might be easy to mistake him for that, if it wasn't for the unmistakeable tension of rage in the air. His, and his buddy James'. Enough to blot out the sun on a night like this, so close to the full. Might be easy to mistake him, except for the unflinching purpose in his hard grey eyes.
Making contact.
(vash)
If she keeps daring
...he will tell. His eyes never lied to him. (..no matter how much she was hiding it..)But she was really his concern, only part of his blood. Just another kin to his kind. (..pure as they come too..) He looked at that cig and just smirked slightly on his lips and he started feeling an itch, he needed to get a rush. Or a b33r. Something needed to be threathing his life right about now are he was going to start lossing his mind.
Eyes drawn from her to move elsewhere, off in distance. he didn't care, just away from her.
...a snort coming from his throat with the ever present boredom, he was hald temped to go over to hide park and just start shreading thing for the fuck of it. (..damn young'in)yeah, we will.
...I think I'm gonna bail for little bit...
They never had anything to talk about and probably had nuthing in common. And small talk, it just didn't seem like it was the number one thing to do on her list. (..or even on that list at all..)Not a bother, keep everything at a business level and just move on Vashton, thats all. Just go...
...and so he did, he didn't say hello, so couldn't expect much of a good bye from him.(greta)
Wide, fair eyes immediately shift to peer at Decker. Even before he speaks, her eyes are drawn to the thug life kid like a moth to a flame. Taking another drag from her cigarette, she offers him a nod as well and withdraws her eyes quickly.A shiver.
To her credit, she doesn't scurry past and away like she wants to. Greta continues forward with the same slow pace she held since she walked out the door of her home. The footfall of booted feet and the faint scent of Chanel in her wake.
Her breath came quicker and quicker as she approached and was close to passing Decker. Nerves.
(frankie oceans)
Maybe in a distant dream or phase in and out of reality.. White dred locks along soft skin.. Short, as they dangle softly in front of round, ever changing eyes. Somehow gentle, kind, yet innocent as they beckon the fresh new pasture of life and destiny...Pleasentries..
She was not in for. While her pack mates left her anew in the moment of connection, the acceptance, she knew for once where she felt most at home... And it was not in the city.
But it was in the city she had to live. Pack residence, all that fun stuff never vanished from her thoughts as she moves up closer to the McDonalds with a sniff of her nose, nostrals flaring to the unhealthy, though oh so tasty food. She was bathed and dressed with more proper clothes.. but she hardly looked the part of someone who had a home.
(rage 4)(tristan)
Of course it wasn’t the time. Which was why he suggested it. After all – this is the pretty boy kin they know and love or love to hate depending on who is being considered at the time. Movement down the way catches his attention, and who could miss the spill of red hair, the straight posture, the purposeful movement. It still brings a grin to his face (since Decker isn’t close enough to see it.)He’s scarfed the first burger, and licks his fingers, grabbing the box of fries and closing the bag, some rearranging resulting in the violin case, bag, and fry box all held in the same hand, the other used to make rather quick work of the deep fried salty treat. There’s something of a salute in Imogen’s direction, and he even turns that way, before all but running into Frankie.
“m’shi...” mumbled through mouthful before he swallows and chuckles. “Sorry about that – didn’t see you there.” A little tug the crackle of familiarity, but he doesn’t move away like so many others would. “You allright?”
(decker)
A shiver.
Right.Decker doesn't say anything to James. He doesn't have to. It's all in the subtlest shifts of posture. A settling back against the side of the truck, muscles loosening a notch. That he's stepping out of this one couldn't have been more evidently announced if he'd grabbed a megaphone and shouted it from the rooftops.
Let the PR man field this one.
(james)
matches in a box rattling - he doesn't look to the side when he catches them
other thumb smoothing down the llllaaaasssttt little bit of the paper
(perfect)
he doesn't actually turn in the least until that joint's sparked
match waved out then it joins the discarded wrapper
Camel's flicked away to the moist grass beyond the tailgate
slow half-stretch to pass the roll to his packmateone lowlife thug
one.... bum?
patchwork trenchcoat, torn BDUs, fingerless (mostly) gloves, surplus Cochrans, and don't forget those dreads and the fact he needs a shave on the growth since yesterday
James looks like he'd fit in living in the park rather than be passing through save he seems rather... clean... beneath the multiple layers of raggedy clothes
the only thing that stands out as different between them is that frosty Tacoma that's got to be less then a year old
or the fact the two fullmoons symbolize the very polar opposites that works to bond them
long curve of his back seems relaxed as Decker's sprawl is coiledwhen his gaze slips over the woman
the weight she bears suddenly seems to double
(what's it like, with two predators focusing on prey)
her quickening breath plumes and coils short blasts into the night
James' leaks out long and slow on exhale of fragrant smoke
glance to the Modi, glance to the Kin
interesting mix... with that Chanel"Tha translate a good evening"
the last part slowed down to make it past the slur
he's even managing a... lopsided.... grin
is there any reason the Gnawer is PR guy for the pack?(frankie oceans)
The bump.. Startlement rings in her eyes quickly and her youth.. (16) little more then legally able to make judgements for herself, poses slightly nervous in front of the young, graceful kin that stood before her. But could she tell? She stares at him a long moment, gently brushing her hand up her cheek as if to recompose her little frame.. She couldn't possibly be, could she? The look of her makes her that much more a mystery, with blue eyes phantoming across his form to see if he might be some sort of danger.. She slinks back some, wrapping her arms around her form, "Yes." Her voice is soft, shy in it's wake..And to the eyes of Tristan her own travel curiously, glowing in the passing of the full moon with life and yet so much more unknown.
(greta)
She pauses mid-step and manages to do it quite gracefully. Gretchen is not beautiful, though she carries herself beautifully. She's in her mid-twenties perhaps, though her two toned eyes (bluish green) make her seem far older.Smoking was a habit she hated. Were it not for her nerves and current situation, she wouldn't put one near her lips. But difficult situations weighed heavy on her shoulders, so she takes the last puff of her cigarette and flicks it unbidden in the gutter, where a dozen others lay waiting for the street sweeper to come tomorrow and carry them all away.
"Yeah ... " She nods again, leaving the waist length pale ponytail to come to rest over one shoulder. Despite the uncomfortable feeling filling her, she manages a smile.
(tristan)
He chuckles, again, and shoves finishes off another bite of the frys in his hand, glancing down and rattling what’s left before looking up. A slight slide of soft dark gaze takes in everything from white dreds to feet and back up again before meeting blue gaze evenly. Playful boyish grin remains. “Good, hate to have run over and hurt someone my first night in town.”Soft, shy, her voice, and the tingle of slight bit of rage tugging at his senses. There’s no threat of danger, just easy good looks, somewhat graceful in for, long and lean and 6’2”.
(frankie)
She was surely looking up as her frame carries 5'6 or less. Eyes wide and gentle, shifting slightly in shades with a hint of green blossoming around her pupils. Funny how it was so opposite...
Rage filled monster shy and delicate..
Little kinfolk tall and graceful.
She found herself staring, watching him closely as she gulps a little and shakily extended her hand to him, taking his hand in her own and holding it a moment. Testing the waters, maybe.
She wasn't really pretty, per say. But there was surely something special about her.. Somehow gentle in all the Rage she might endure.. And kind in the same sense.
The waning Galliard came into being and it's effects play upon her tiny frame as she snaps her head to Imogen, then Decker and Gretchen and so on.. So many to be seen in the wake of the evening, "Are you ok?" Her brow wrinkles softly with concern.(james)
since it seems that things have changed
James shifts weight to turn around on the lip of the bed
heels of his boots snagging on the tread of the Tacoma's tires
he doesn't exactly look threatening, now does he
all (crooked) smiles and warm brown eyes beneath that faded bandana holding lumbar-length dreads at bay
high amount of Rage on a barely waning full moon is another story entirely
but we're looking past that, right?
right."James." one hand stretches towards her (reaching out of the sphere of crackling energy) in a proper gesture to shake "'scuse'is lack've etiquette.... moon seemsa grabbis tongue when a pretty la'y walk by."
luckily he handed Decker the joint to occupy the Modi
else he'd probably get shoved into the truckbed at this point
but the street performer's charm is backed up by his smile(tristan)
She takes his hand and holds it, and brow arches, corner or lips twitching in amusement as he awaits her verdict. She watches him, and isn’t really pretty per se – or at least so she thinks. He, however, is far too pretty for a boy – as he’s often been told. She asks her question, and he chuckles, nodding. “Right as rain, ma’am. Why do you ask?”He shifts the violin case into a more comfortable hold, letting his hand remain there as long as she apparently needs too.
(decker)
Decker snorts like a motherfucking bull at James' little quip. Steam actually blasts out of his nostrils, though this is more an effect of the weather. He snatches the joint up from James and straightens up. Doesn't push off the truck. Doesn't ever push off, and doesn't ever need to.He just straightens. A symphony in grey and black: the heavy folds of his winter clothing that don't quite disguise the honed weapon his body was. The switchblades, the brass knuckles, the fetish axe coiled into a black tattoo on his right arm - it's all incidental.
All he ever needed to kill, he was born with.
A long hit off the joint, brow furrowing, eyes narrowing with the burn of hot cannabis-smoke. Then those gunsteel-grey eyes flicker over the kinfolk once. It could shatter self-esteem, the callousness in that stare.
"Quit flinchin'," he says on a drift of smoke. "Yer fam'ly."
Cryptic tonight, Decker. Or simply untalkative, as always. Then he passes the toke back to James, clasps him briefly and familiarly on the shoulder [pack. together. good.], turns and stalks calmly up the street.
Hurricane: eye of the.
(frankie)
Her shoulders sank softly as if somehow hope was lost by his response and a gentle kiss presses to the top of his hand, "Ok." She slinks back again, focusing on the violin at his side. Curiously, almost surely animal like, her head cocks to the side and stares at it. Her hands sinking down into the warmer depths of her pockets, watching, "Y..you aren't afraid of me?" The voice is like a child lost her way, gentle and yet there's the faintest hint of a tremble there. He was beautiful.. in her eyes.. But what would any man like him want with a frightened 16 year old? He didn't flee, but some mortals simply don't flee from the Rage she carries. Some have the tolerance, though even less have enough balls not to feel uneasy around her.She pulls her arms around her again, bowing her head slightly like a submissive animal checking something unfamiliar.. Her tale would be tucked between her legs if she had one in this form.
(greta)
Treading through the slur of his words she manages to piece enough together to make sense of them, only to have Decker's interruption disturb her thought process. Upon his back her eyes shift to narrowed slits, he reminded her of ...A gloved hand extends and shakes James' hand. It is not fear that pumps through her pores and permeates her scent. Rather, an uncertainty of whether or not she wants to be anywhere near either one of them.
"Gretchen, nice to meet you James" Her voice is deep and raspy, while maintaining a wholly feminine feel. Withdrawing her hand she crosses her arms over her stomach to combat the cold threatening to bite through her heavy wool coat. "It's okay." Is all she offers in reply to James playful excuse for Decker.
(tristan)
She. Kisses. His. Hand.
The other brow shoots upwards not, but he doesn’t exactly pull away, instead chuckling a bit. She lets go of his hand, he finishes the fries, and tosses the carton in the nearby can. Afterwards, while she’s stil contemplating her next question, staring at the violin case, he rolls up the bag that contains the other burger and frys, offering it easily toward her.
Others need. A hood provides.“Hungry? Got some left in there...” That easy grin seems pretty well situated, by far his normal expression. She continues, and he actually laughs and leans down to whisper, playful, as if some great secret held in his words. “No.... you’ve yet to give me a reason to be afraid.”
What would a boy like him want with a girl like her, anyway....
He straightens, and nods. “Name’s Tristan.”
(imogen)
The buildings here are a mixture of old and new, fresh architecture and older more worn brick and buildings. Strange, the sight of older buildings against the sight of new. It clashes, almost, and not pleasantly.Tristan has found himself a new friend, it would seem, and she smirks vaguely as her steps alter, taking her across the street, away from the two, tapping ash from her cigarette as her head ducks briefly against the cold stiff wind. It's better than it has been.
Breath in the night air. For the moment, free of the singed taste of rage, and tainted by the smell of cigarette smoke.
(james)
that snort gets a crooked grin
[pack. together. good. grunt.]
and he takes the joint back in stride"Pleas're's mine."
he's speaking slowly
just to get that slur and native Albany accent in some semblance of control
though she wouldn't be the first that he's had to actually write for
his family.... left with the Gnawer
HIS. FAMILY. left with the GNAWER.
Decker keyed it in right at the beginning
Jus like home
she's not the only one casting a glace at the sidetracked Modi"Knowwa good 'talian joint roun' here?"
speaking off.... the joint in his hand offered
she may be Decker's family... but he? is a Gnawer
some things come naturally(frankie)
Her arm slips free of her body and inches out slowly to take the remaining food. The other arm follows with an eased sway, uncurling the beg to peer inside.. Sniff Her nostrals flare again before her fingers brush through the opening of the bag, crackling against it and down into the remainding burger and whatever else was left. She backs away slightly as if the man would take her food, and hurridly opens the wrapper to expose the flesh of a hamburger.. She sniffs it again and just as suddenly, begins to divour it like a starving youth. Sure Mark probably feeds her, but this was the good shit. Not that healthy stuff.. Even though she knew it was horrible for her, she loves it anyways.She held the beg rough against her between her chest and arm, like a teddy might be held by a child, and stares at Tristan a moment, mumbling with a mouth full of food and swollowing harshly before she coughs a little, "Frankie." Her voice was still soft. A small pause brought her eyes to look over his frame again, before she begun to consume the leftovers.
(decker)
For the moment.Moments don't last long. Soon enough another source of rage closes in. Falls in beside her in that way he had - coming out of just about nowhere, homing in like a migrating bird to magnetic north. A shark to blood.
Decker.
Faint scent of potsmoke clings to him, though it'll wash clean. As will the mild high, burned through by rage. Beneath that scent, the scents of the city, the cold, the burger he ate, the faint whiff of the beer still in his hand. The scent of his packmate when they had briefly embraced. The scent of him: recently showered, shaven, razorblade keen.
Inhale-exhale.
"Where's Vashton?"(tristan)
He nods as she takes the bag, a shift of position as she moves away to scarf the still warm deep fried goodness inside, leaning a shoulder against the bricks as he glances over the way. A helpless shrug and grin is offered in wake of the redhead’s smirk. Some things never change, no matter where one travels.There is no move made to take the bag back. As easily as he gave it away it could be considered part of the norm for him. Case is set between his feet again, before the ritual search for cigarettes and lighter begins again (always a mystery that makes one think they’ve switched pockets since the last was lit). A few moments, one is lit, things are tucked away, and his gaze falls again to the young girl. “Pleased t’meet you, Frankie.”
(greta)
The neat line of her jaw tightens for a moment as she takes a deep breath of cold night air. It was her favorite time of year, her mother said it was because Winter ran in her blood. Greta nods her head, sending the long bunch of gathered hair over one shoulder to rest against her slim hips."Yeah. A few. I'm from here..." She replies..almost certain he asked about a location ...somewhere, and to his offer she then shakes her head. "No thanks ..." Standing with good posture she's repositioned herself on the sidewalk to face James and the truck head on.
(imogen)
Her senses are coiled tight, and she can swear she can feel her nerves vibrate as the Modi falls into step beside her. It's half instinct that causes her to breath in, and catch the scents of it, an instinct found mostly among animals (wolves) to catch certain smells. Certainly, wolves did not often catch these smells as she does: potsmoke, alcohol, city.She turns her head to look at him, flicking her cigarette away, a constrained movement. The butt spins end over end to collide with the brick wall, and the ember shatters. The cigarette falls, the fire dead.
Her hand pushes back strands of hair, before she answers, "He wandered tha' way," she gestures with a slight lift of her chin behind her, opposite to the direction she'd taken.
(frankie)
"Do you play?" She asks softly, continuing to divour the unhealthy little meal she was given. Eyes darkening slightly, watching the violin case, "Could you play for me?" Her lips bring about the faintest of a smile, though it disappears ever so gently into the depths of her soft lips.(james)
James has always been good about playing opposites
that would be how he makes a living on street corners, after all
appease to what the public wants and needs to know
and by the way she's shifted to meet him head on
seems one Fullmoon moving away hasn't lessened the tension
so he? remains on his little perch
all six feet of him folded precisely to balance on the lip of the truckbed
seems he's more liable to fall off of it rather than spring at her
and there's a nod to her decline"Yeh? 'ow long? Less'n 12 hour, m'self."
joint clenches between his teeth for slow inhale
more for him, then"Any nearby?" slooooow that accent down, Jamey-boy "'e'll be hungry whenne get back."
nodded after the Modi
(oh look, there's Imogen)
carting McD's into the park for breakfast was one thing
he's not about to drag a full meal all the way out here
(decker)
But Decker doesn't look over his shoulder in the direction she indicates. No, he's looking at her: intently, tuning into not just what she says but the nuances of her expression. The flickers of her eyes, the shape of her mouth."He bother you?"
(tristan)
He can’t help the chuckle. Not sure why he’d be carrying around the case if he didn’t play, but he doesn’t tease the poor kid too badly. Instead he nods. “Yes ma’am.” Even though she’s easily five or 6 years younger then he. “Been playing since I was a kid. Now it’s how I keep good nutricious fast food in my belly.” A playful wink before cigarette is propped between lips, and he folds to a smooth crouch.The case is unlocked, and flipped open, and he rubs his hands together to warm them a little bit before touching the gleaming wood lovingly cradled within. The hand warmers that keep the wood from freezing are held a moment as well, before moved aside and he picks up his baby with hands wrapped in fingerless gloves. A soft cloth is used to wipe it down, quickly, before it’s dropped in the case and he stands again.
The case is nudged a little in front of him, for any that might be braving the cold, and fingers tuck curls out of the way, under the rim of knit hat. Chin held to keep the cigarette smoke wafting away, he stretches his fingers, then quickly tunes the well-loved instrument. There’s a wink then, as he takes a drag, then places the cigarette on the edge of a nearby garbage can. Toss of head, and chin finds place on rest, and finally the bow is slid across the strings, soon filling the air with the sweet soft croon of the violin.
(imogen)
She catches his regard, the intentness of expression on the return of her gesture, attention sliding forward once more. The action arrests to pause and settle on him."No," flat denial, immediate negation, before she qualifies it: "There was a death at.." fingers flick in impatience as she tries to remember the name of the school, "St Patrick's school? 'nd f'r some reason he wants t'know about it."
Her gaze shifts beyond him, quickly, briefly as the sound of the violin splits the air, catching her hearing and her attention, and then her gaze turns back to the Modi, her hands sliding into her pockets. "I told 'im I'd look into it. Let 'im know."
(decker)
Decker shakes his head at the rest of her qualification; it's questionable whether he even listened to any of it. "Ain't askin' you was he botherin' you. Asked you does he ever bother you."(frankie)
She couldn't stand as the music play.. The world a shadow with no merciful delay and slowly she sank to the floor, back against the brick beams supporting the overhang sheltering them from the rain. Wild eyes suddenly explore the pitch of his music, his shifts and posture. It was rather curious to see how mezmorised he made her by the simplest notions of his violin singing with a heart of so few to know.Better yet, she was captured by it. Inspired, and she could dance the music into the night if she only.. tried. The pounding of her heart shook her breast with magical notions piercing her mind. Watching.. He was beautiful to her. Truely.. But not for his physical appearance, but the music he made.
(greta)
The woman inside wants to step back from the taller man. Her internal fortitude and sheer stubbornness refuses however to let that happen. Greta lives with their (curse) Rage daily ... and she's developed inner mechanisms to deal with it as best she can. She realizes, by the tightening of her gut, that he is as her mother is .. as the other man is as well.Struggling once more to weed through his slurred, accented words it takes her a few moments to respond. "I was born and raised here." She leaves out the trip to Washington and her mentally challenged Mother in an apartment 3 blocks away. It's much easier that way. "Italian Restaurants?" She questions, just to be certain she understood. "There's one about 4 blocks away...dunno if it is still open." It's then that her eyes roam over his form, his dredlocks, his clothes. Besides her wool coat and the scent of Coco Chanel ... she could just be another middle class College student.
(imogen)
"No," she repeats.(tris)
There is something that aches as he plays, something that speaks of loss and sadness, with an underlying strength to be heard, seen, if on just had the reason to look for it. It isn’t the first time he’s played since healing, but it’s the first he’s played by request since........since the dark pre-dawn hours in some unnamed hotel far away from here.
There’s an cry of perfected notes, before forcibly the music shifts to something more lilting. The emotion he weilds from simple wood and string impressive with the ease of long association. He’s good. damn good. And somewhere in his gaze is the knowledge and confidence that breeds.
(decker)
Long stare.Then he turns away, taking a breath. "Yeah okay." Sniff. It's cold out; it makes his nose run and his eyes sting. He walks at a leisurely pace, though there's never anything leisurely about him. Laziness is one thing. Leisure - relaxation - is another. "Might pack with him."
The comment is simply tossed out to die in the airspace between. The sound of the violin doesn't even make him raise his head. Hell. When one comes, they all come. No wonder their tribe totem was a rat.
"'S the Caern." A shrug. Clarification: "The school," and she might actually know where his mind's hopped in their conversational thread. Guess he was listening after all. "'S fucked up."
That's all the detail he gives; there's silence for a few blocks.
(frankie)
Maybe that dark place far away is where she set her mind.. That empty moment of life where she knew what she was, what had happened... the story of a warrior.. the loss of so many.. the foundation of a new beginning and the wealth of sadness...A tear came to her eye.. And even as the upbeat music rang she became irritated by it and stood slowly. The memories he sang of in his violin, flourished the memories of her own past. And she could not bare to leave it untold.. any longer.
(james)
rather than lowering his head in ascension
James' chin moves up in a nod
(they'll find this habitual trait among the pack)
yep. Eye. Tal. Yen. Food.keeeep her thinking about the question at hand, Jamey-boy
not that clench in her gut you can practically smell
the mechanisms that quickly move to smooth it out like nothing's happened
it was little more than a shift in the atmosphered that caught her attention for but a moment
oddly, seems he's used to kin that deny feeling the level of his (and the Modi's) rage that threaten to turn flesh inside out
simply because it's swelled as pregnant as the moon high above
it seems they're both playing that game, or at least seem to be
he isn't exactly impressed by the lovely scents Coco bestows on her flesh, either
not that he would be able to name it if his life depended on ithe only remembers the rich inscent smokiness of one wo......
don't go there, James.
deep umber of his gaze drifts away at the direction
filing it away for future reference"Thank."
(tristan)
The music swells, then slowly slides away. There’s a lingering smile as the notes hang on the still cool air, hanging as if on crystalline wings. He pulls the bow from the strings, and the violin from under his chin before shrugging a little and grinning at Frankie.Imogen and Decker move away, there’s a slight chuckle at not even garnering a glance from the Modi, before his attention turns to Frankie again. “Fingers are a bit cold – I’m better when warmed up a bit.” Hard to believe, really that he could be better, but it’s just his style to say something, anything to break the silence.
(imogen)
She stares back, evenly, gaze for gaze, until he turns away, and she turns away, exhaling her breath as she pushes her hands deeper into her coat pockets, finding warmth trapped somewhere within the fabric. The wind cuts through everything here. Even wind breakers hardly seem to do any good. She nods briefly, he might pack with Vashton.S'the caern, he says, and her gaze flicks toward him, question breeding to be only answered by his second phrase. And then, she only nods once more. Yes, it is fucked up.
Silence slides between them. One can hear the wind blowing down the streets, and the sound of tires against pavement as cars make their way... well. wherever anyone would go, late night, Sunday. Someone has hung a flag from a pole situated outside of their shops doorway, the pole points horizontal, and the flag snaps in the wind, it's edges beginning to fray from wear. Give it a month or two, and it will be shreds.
A block or three of silence. Finally, "I'll see if 'nything else out o' the ordinary's happened there, then," she tells him, with a lift of her shoulder.
(frankie)
Instinct brought her to approach him, feral eyes and something unknown lingering behind them. She couldn't smile, only let the edge of her sadness benefit the incredable music he had once bore into the night air. Somehow it was frightening, yet soothing at the same time. Her greesy fingers shifted from the empty beg she had clung to throughout the play and the song locked into mind like a repeatative beat neverending. She couldn't pull away as a tear streeks down her cheek, and awe brought her lips to open with realization of what she might have just done.She stops, and wipes it away, "Beautiful." She whispers, turning her hand to stuff the empty beg into the garbage.
(greta)
Her flesh is not Rage proof. It feels as if it's singed by the burn he keeps so well hidden. She, for 27 years of her life, has learned to deal with a mother sometimes bent with bouts of Rage...tears...screams and blood. It's a mask she wears when faced with their sort. One that never bends the pride filling her heart despite her denial.Nodding to his thanks, Greta dips her head to the side down ... eyes drifting over and beyond the dirty gutter housing her used up cigarette. White straight teeth worry her bottom lip before she lifts her eyes back to greet his face...somewhere other than his eyes.
"You're new here. Be careful. It's a dangerous time to be in Chicago..." She just met James, and her interest was nothing more than general ... passing...far from anything remotely romantic.
(frankie)
She nods softly, shifting her hands to play along one of the dred locks. Her greesy fingers smudge across the torn jeans, shifting blue sneakers on the ground and a thick hoodie keeping her warm. She shivers a little, and looks around..
Such a gentle thing..
So unbroken and yet torn to bits
"I'm also a performer.."
Galliard calling
"Maybe... soon.. I can perform for you, too."(tristan)
There’s an easy enough grin as he lifts a brow. “Oh? what kind of performance?” Curious as he looks up and over the street, before that dark gaze rests easily on her again. “And I’d be happy to watch you perform. Us artists should stick together after all...”(imogen)
At least he'd given up on that. It saved her time, in the long run, because lord knew, she'd do it anyway. "Yeah," she'd watch her back."I can try. But if it's... a holdin' company, anything like that, I might have problems," and this is added to her mental list of not quite legitimate research she did. "D'yeh have the address?"
(decker)
Decker shakes his head, reaching up to cram his tube cap on lower over his ears. "Kin show ya where it is. Don't wantcha goin' there yerself, though. Two o' the locals tracked a Dancer in'na it yesterday." There's no guarantee that Surgen had been a dancer, but Decker tended to try to err on the safe side.(james)
at the sound of her voice (deep and raspy, while maintaining a wholly feminine feel) his gaze drifts back
and James pulls himself out of the abyssmal thoughts he was about to cast himself into
(not tonight, not when the moon's so close to full)
but for all he does to keep that volcanic rage at low embrous burn
there's a sudden impact flare to focus it on her again
(whatever happened to that mellow drummer?)"Well...... tha's why I'm here, Grech'n."
and a breif grin flits across his lips - lopsided - at the warning
he seems so calm and centered even beneath the admission of such fate
he was born to live in dangerous times
he knows that when Luna has graced him with her smiling face for the last time
he will die in them, toobut he doesn't think about tomorrow
today is what mattersboots slip off the tire's tread to meet the ground
tails of his trenchcoat swirling around ankles
the pack's picked up out of the bed and back door of the cab opened
all his worldly possessions set carefully on the back seat
there's a stretch - and the burnt-out half joint's set on the instrument panel
and the door's shut after the lock's thrown
(hope Decker remembered his keys)"Watch out y'self."
the grins almost... cavalier... even if his eyes don't meet hers
(stop thinking about it, Jamey-boy)
then the raggedyman simply picks a direction and moves off
(greta)
Then ... she flinches. The flare of Rage draws both brows together and snatches her breath straight from her lungs. The charming, cavalier grin does nothing to untie the coiled muscles ready to duck or run at the slightest movement. Smiling faintly, Greta nods...takes two or three steps back and watches him gather his things and turn to go. She did not expect any different. They were born to die, and that was the simple way of life.With hands shoved deep in the pockets of her coat, she starts back towards her apartment, head bowed and expression somewhat thoughtful.
Posted by james at November 09, 2003 12:00 AM
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