November 22, 2003.11.22.03. - friendly fenrir hello [imogen-decker-tristan-lars][riverfront]
(imogen)
It's interesting that changing cities, changing states, changing licence plates does very little to actually change the style and form of the state issued vehicle that she tends to drive when on call or when in poorer parts of town (mostly, because she's on call). Perhaps all medical examiner offices are required to have the same boxy bulky black looking vehicle. Perhaps because they drive the same. One medical examiner can move from one office to another, and not have to worry about any surprises with their vehicle, drive it within minutes of starting their position without any hassle.Hell, maybe it was part of her education. How To Drive Big American Made Cars... 101.
Alright, maybe not. In either case, her car is the same, and it is could be here, or New Jersey that she steps away from it, except that it is not New Jersey, it's Chicago now, and the car and person is where the similarities end. At some point, somewhere, somebody must have gotten used to this decay, here. Complacency. When the broken window became alright, and fixing it was no longer an immediate concern.
Look at the riverfront, brick warehouses and more modern buildings beginning to follow the path of their earlier brethren and find complacency. It comes and goes in spurts. Sometimes fading into a whirlwind of activity, bills passed, buildings restored. But it always returns again. A cycle that could be studied by economists, were they not effected by the same disease. The concrete sidewalk is cracked and worn beneath her booted feet as she walks up to the Bone Gnawer, seated on some doorstep, on some curb, against some wall, standing at some corner, and smirks crookedly (take a few years away, and maybe once that was mischievious; now, it is wry) as she offers him a bag, grease of food staining the bottom with one hand, as the other hand pushes back flame hued strands of hair from her face, pushing them out of the way, tucking them back into the errant chaos of her braid.
"I owe yeh for the ride up," she explains, and it's not quite how it sounds, since of course, she was the one who drove him and Tristan for the most part. It was, however, James, who brought breakfast.
(james)
the Riverfront
a rebuilt cesspool caught in the mediocrity of time and place
just as soon as it seems something is restored to the proper expectancy of civic pride
an event of monumental trivialties causes the attention of public office to shy away
that would be why the Gnawer is sprawled on a neatly painted bench of dark green hue with complimenting brassy bolts
and the sidewalk beneath is cracked and worn to match the railing upon which battered Cochran's cross
the meandering patterns of the cracks making some artistic reflection upon the patches and quilts of his trench
dreads, however, clash in their heavily tangled drape over the back of the benchhe probably recognized the sound of the engine cutting a few years down the road
some government behemoth that, by the sound of weight on footsteps, was reined by a deceptively slight figure
but it's the smell of the food that draws his eyes from the book resting spread across his palms
dark gaze lingering on the grease-lined bag then jumping up to the wry twist of her once-possibly mischevious smirk
soon enough a brow hikes in mild surprise
and a glance pinpoints page before the tome snaps shut
it's weight set to the side to compensate the reach for bag"Wha's the 'ccasion?"
(imogen)
Her attention flicks, habitually, to try and catch the title of the book he was reading, as he sets the book aside, her dark eyes flicking back toward him as he speaks.It's warm, comparatively, at fifty six degrees tonight, and the wind is still, the sky obscured by clouds, a thick cover that allows no light from stars or moon to shine through; black as pitch.
The bench he sits on has a street lamp that works (and perhaps this is why he chose it) and it casts it's yellow-pale weak rays, creating grey shadows and dimly lit crevices.
She shakes her head briefly, the smirk fading comfortably. "Finally 'ad th'chance t'get 'round t'it," she replies, dismissively.
(tristan)
Saturdays in Wicker Park. Nice. Weather is a nice comfortable 56 and cloudy. Winter’s chill is present but not overwhelming, and people still are out and about enjoying the last few days before some big storm buries them under masses of snow and ice. Light and tattered jacket over flannel open over tank tucked into jeans. Scuffed worn boots across cement, and tumbled disarray of curls glinting in the lamplight. It’s the every day Street player ‘uniform’ fare, of course.Stumble into the light from pathetically nasty little hotel room that’s still better then the cement in some alley, part with some hard earned cash to fill always grumbling belly, grabbing extra salt and pepper packets to tuck into pocket thanks to Jim’s tip of the day, chow down on the way. Set up, play for 5 hours, with breaks in between for flirting, talking, fueling, resting fingers, etc. Close up shop just before 7 with a promise to return for those who are upset at the afternoon’s impromptu concert ending.
Stash the cash, and we’re off toward the Riverfront, the warehouse.
Jim’s gift is cut in half with a stop at the am/pm. Half rack of beer, bag of chips, two dogs with everything, all shoved into a bag – ‘cept one dog that’s inhaled along the way – and steps resume through the Riverfront. Somewhere, near, there is a bench with gnawer spread on it, there’s a pretty redhead bearing gifts of food. It’s toward them his steps lead to share the bounty of a good days play.
(james)
there's an expression crossing his features which speaks ....fair enough even if his lips do not
it's written in the flux of shadows cast from the weak rays of the oft-flickering streetlamp above
deepening the wells above his eyes, darkening the fact he needs to shave
boots pull off the railing separating him from what must be water off in the nightblack distance
a subtle reach and twist of wrist turning the book on the benchseat right side up
(A Cartographic History of Chicago)
the crinkling surrender of the bag it's greasy contents"Thank'."
(decker)
Down the street, not too far away:With a clattering din the bay doors of the brick warehouse crash up and open. The Modi hangs onto the inner handle a moment, arms flexed into pull-up position, letting the momentum of the (too-)heavy door pull him up off the ground before he lets go and lands solidly on both feet. It's a strange sight inside: bare concrete floors, bare concrete walls, fogged and clouded windows, a few gaping broken like an idiot's teeth. Overhead the rack of halogen lights are dead, but the dimmer, paler emergency lights glow off a generator putt-putt-putting off in the corner. The exhaust pipe feeds into a crack in the wall. It's dark, and it looks dank and cold.
It's actually quite nice and warm inside. This may be why the Modi's in short sleeves, the black of his tattoos stark on his powerful arms. There are also several incongruous pieces of Rune's condo strewn about the floor: a couch here, a mattress there, a coffee table and a few choice items from the kitchen (microwave, coffee maker, toaster), all of which were hooked into the generator by a large bundle of wires sprouting out of the back. These amenities of home are clustered in a fairly small island of domesticity, mostly dwarfed by the dimensions of the warehouse, its space, and the car(s) parked inside it.
A tarp is still stretched over the bed of the Tacoma, but it looks like Decker's been unpacking. At least, in his floorspace, there's a stack of girlie mags that, for whatever reason or nostalgia, he still hasn't thrown out. Next to that is a sleeping pad, and next to that a box of clothes rumpled together. A few more items are seen nearby. His utensils and his pots and pans he's gracefully decided to share, and they're in a jumbled mess near the kitchen items.
Decker stands in the bay door, shoulder to the frame, head bent as he lights up a toke. Not necessarily with the bare sliver of a moon still clinging to light, but sometimes it's nice to get a buzz. 'Round now's the only time the buzz really lasted, anyway. He raises his head on the puff of an exhale, dropping his matches back in his cargo pockets, the baggy garment lashed low on his hips by means of the same old white(ish) canvas belt. Drags the joint out of his mouth between thumb and forefingers and - fooweeeeeeeet! - whistles sharp and piercing to get the attention of the folks down the way, on the bench.
(imogen)
"Don't mention it," replied as she picks up the book, narrowing her eyes briefly at the cover, or perhaps the subject, "Acquainting yourself?" the question is rhetorical, she isn't looking for an answer.Decker's whistle has the effect of a gunshot. Sharp and piercing, it catches her attention (and likely everyone else's), turning to look toward the mouth of the warehouse, her free hand reaching up automatically to push back strands freed from her braid, tucking them behind her ear. On the motion, she catches sight of Tristan, and his own offerings. It's hard to say if the suggestion of a smirk was for the beer, or for the piercing whistle of the Fenrir as her eyebrow lifts, faintly.
The lanky Gnawer doesn't particularly need to glance down in the direction of the whistle to know who it was, and why. The benefits of pack, and the bone deep knowledge it breeds. He balls up the wrappings of his greasy meal (only Bone Gnawers and particularly starving adolescent boys can eat. so. fast.), shoving it into the bag as he stands.
(tristan)
The violin case swings from where hand wraps around grocery bag in his arm. First dog down, and fingers are licked to gather the remnants of ketchup cheesy oniony goodness that dripped from the last bite. Garbage tossed in can as he walks by – there’s enough time for a nod of hello for James and Imogen though before words follow, there’s the piercing whistle from a little farther down.“brought beer.”
Is what is said, tossed out to confirm Imogen’s glance toward the bag, even as a quick glance sees that James is fed, Imogen....does she ever eat? Presumably fed herself before, and Decker, well, he’s been unpacking so that leads to the second dog with everything grabbed and he inhales as steps turn slightly to head toward the warehouse and the warmth inside.
(lars)
*The walked casually down the street. His trenchcoat swinging with his gait. He wasn't in any especially great hurry. But neither was it in him to just lolligag around. As such he walked forward, barely giving a glance to the people he passed by, although habbit caused him to sniff the air just once as he passed.He was not overly tall at 6 ft, and today he didn't bother to wear his hat. His long brown hair hung to his shoulders, the bangs pulled back and held in place with a simple leather strap.
The most striking thing was an old healed scar that ran across his face from the left side of his forehead and ran diagonally down from left to right across his face in 4 distinct slash marks. A claw mark for those who might know. Lars was lucky however, at least he always thought so, in that it missed his eye. The top two lines of scar tissue going just around his left eye.
Where was he headed? To the warehouse that his tribemate told him about.*
(decker)
For another moment or two he, in the yawning bay door of the warehouse, looks in the direction of packmate and kinfolk. The thought of going out into the cold occurs to him, but is summarily dismissed. Fuck that. Nice and warm in here. He hasn't felt air on his bare arms for weeks, seems like. Always swathed up in seventeen layers and still the wind got through and froze him to the bone.Drag and exhale, ash the joint. His eyes are narrowed against the smoke, and in anticipation of the wind that howls off the river but somehow cannot pierce the bubble of preternatural warmth laid upon the warehouse. After a while his attention shifts, and he watches the Forseti approaching instead.
His stance is relaxed, which is different from the typical arrogant laziness just as a smile is different from a smirk. Or at least, he's as relaxed he'll ever be. Shoulder to the metal doorframe, thumbs hooked into his pockets, the joint waggles from side to side between his teeth. A pause. He flicks a grey glance over his tribesmate. Then the joint waggles up and down and he nods up.
"'Sup Lars."
(imogen)
'brought beer', says, Tristan, and it's a phrase that might almost be as familiar as he is. She smirks, "So I see," her gesture flicking toward the two Fenrir at the warehouse, one known, the other not, before she gestures toward James with the book she holds, her dark gaze flicking on the raggedy Ahroun an eyebrow arching in unspoken question. Do you want it back now?Tristan is walking toward the relative warmth of the warehouse, and a beat after, the petite woman follows. Neither Tristan nor James would be considered particularly large men, but they have head and shoulders over her (at least) just the same.
(lars)
The forseti walked up to Decker and stood before him before he spoke. His muscles were a bit tense, as if ready for an attack at any moment. Of course, he was new to the scab. And the smells of it still put him on edge some.
"Hello Decker-rh..uh Decker."
Some old habits die hard in the forseti."I thought, I'd see where you lived at. And it's good to spend some time with those of the family in this place."
(tristan)
He flashes a boyish grin at the (much) smaller (though never, ever, less intimidating) redhead. He doesn’t say anything else, really, as he’s busy inhaling second dog, and eyeing Lars. Swift up down, manages not to choke at the almost said rhya, tosses back the last bite, and licks fingers, garbage summarily done away with as they move past a can.Hand wipes on denim across thigh, then digs into back to grab two bottles, both offered to Decker as he passes by and into that bubble of warmth. “Hey Decker.”
(decker)
The smell of the scab.The stink of it, which, like any cancerous stench, has a certain nauseating appeal of its own. The crisp of oil-drenched fast food. The pungent scent of gasoline and axle grease. The sour stench of urine in the alleys; the infertile, sterile no-smell of glass and steel. And the scent of concrete wet with rain, which is somehow all the smells of the city rolled into one, and none.
Lars will get used to it.
(no he won't. their kind never did.)Decker watches the Forseti a moment, a critical, assessing gaze. His glance flickers aside to take in Tristan. Just a nod up.
Then, straightening, he nods over his shoulder in the direction of the interior to Lars. "Yeah." The movement is measured rather than quick, not quite a jerk of the head, and it leads into his pivoting with the doorframe as his axis, walking into the warehouse. "C'mon in." Hit and inhale; hold and exhale, and then he crushes the joint out on the sole of his boots. "Home sweet home."
(Boots?)
Yeah: boots. The steel-soled ones he hammered out himself in the Catskills. Uncomfortable as hell, but tough as hell. Looks like Decker wanted to go somewhere tonight. Do something.
(james)
"Think I get'n th' way a 'is unpackin?"quipped only after the mouthful had been swallowed and the wrapping tossed into the nearby can
(manners, and all)
dreadlocks tipping in wave with the nod towards the gunshot whistle
there might, if she cared to note, even be a lopsided grin that's partially offered as he turns
the tattered and torn tails of the long coat swirling about his ankles some fabric dance
it's adorned by the bend which pulls a small pack from beneath the bench
what's.... borrowed..... from the University library weighting it down
further drooping by the addition of the cartographic reference taken back before it's slung over a shoulderthe other dips following his hand in the procurance of pack and Zippo from pocket
all in the course of the two strides it takes to catch up to her already retreating form
shaken (not stirred) to bump up a Camel held in offer to the kin in turn before he lights his own
what he and Tristan lack in sheer brawn they make for in wirey height
rare is the Gnawer that has a few pounds to shed
but James tops Imogen by a foot (seems more with the dreads) and the other Gnawer tops him by a few incheschin jerks up after the distance had closed, silent greeting to the two Fenrir guarding the proverbial gates
James hasn't quite claimed the amount of space the others have
his little corner consists of a mattress, few blankets, and his Alice pack worth of wordly possessions
soon the smaller bag of books finds an uncerimoniously chosen spot on the mattress
quickly followed by his trench.... now about that beer...
(imogen)
A sound, low in her throat, non-commital, amused at the garbled quip from the gnawer, her shoulders lifting briefly in an equally non-committal shrug.Her fingers flex briefly as he relieves her of the book, tendons stretching as the weight of the not-inconsiderable tome is taken from her, a movement of slight fingers, slender and delicate, before her hand falls to her side, and she begins to walk. A moment later, and the Gnawer falls into step beside her, and her gait modulates. Often, one will change their gait to suit a smaller person. Imogen, herself, often changes her pace for others; often, if someone changes their gait for her, they find themselves meeting her somewhere in the middle in length and speed of step.
There's breeding here: it's not in just the superficial terms, the fact she moves smoothly, and has good posture. That her accent is british, and her words (when she uses them) well schooled. There is something deeper that speaks of family heritage and a good death of an ancestor. Or three. That in her line there is Garou blood spilled, and honourably (gloriously) so and that blood has made its way to her veins to sing for all to see and hear.
It would not take an inhalation of her scent to know her for her blood.
Her hand lifts again, as she takes the cigarette, "ta," truncated thanks, and reaching for her own zippo to light up. Another smell to join the cancers of the city night.
(lars)
The forseti nods back to those that past by him, and then walks into the warehouse when Decker invites him in. By habit his eyes case out the place. Slowly taking in exits, where people were, etc.With a slight grin, the most that generally crosses his face, he turns to Decker.
"Nice place"(tristan)
Decker doesn’t take the beers, and hell – just leaves more for the rest of them. A corner out of the way is found to tuck away the violin where it won’t be harmed in any sudden exhurberant display of manhood. Hey – it happens more then you think around the Eagles. And then to the area that serves as the kitchenette.James ditches his stuff, and by the time he looks around for that beer, an opened bottle is already held out in his direction. With Decker, no one know what he’ll take when. With James and Imogen, there’s always room for beer. Another bottle opened and held in the direction of the redhead with a smile.
(decker)
Decker grunts. "Smartass."Whatever he said, though, it was at least inhabitable. What with James' gift giving warmth to the interior, it really was almost nice. Almost.
There are three doors to the place. The wide-open bay doors in the front for loading and unloading, and the smaller double-doors beside it. And around back, another pair of double-doors with a glowing EXIT sign over it, which led out to the dumpsters in the alley between this row of warehouses and the next around back.
Inside, there are no chairs. There are a few strange-looking seat-high objects, however, hammered and bolted roughly together from industrial refuse. Pipes, two by fours, sheet metal, put together in shapes vaguely resembling upside-down, square-edged U's. Postmodern industrial chic. Ikea, eat your heart out. Decker pulls one of these makeshift stools up and sits on it, nodding toward another one a few feet from Lars.
"Siddown." And as the others made their way in and about, "Y'all met Lars? 'S a Forseti. That's James, my packmate, Imogen 'n Tristan."
(lars)
Lars sits down the moment he's told to. No hesitation, such was the lessons beat into him, many times literally, in regards to a higher rank and sinple orders.The only pause was when he pulled out the large maul like hammer from under his jacket coming almost from no where, such was the magic of dedication, and placed it on the ground next to him. And it was only right for him to show his weaponry in the home of another.
The long haired man nodded to James, who he's just had the opportunity to meet before this evening. And a wave to Imogen and Tristan.
(james)
two Ahrouns and a Forseti walk into a warehouse...that's the equivalent of two and a half moons in an enclosed space
luckily, the one shining above the blanket of clouds is but a bare sliver of silverone nod of thanks to the pretty-boy kin
and dreads hanging to mid-back seem to lengthen as his head tips back
almost half that bottle poured and drained in a single action
(common now, this moon's when the buzz actually sticks around, regardless of the fact James can't hold his drink)the place was.... spartan and straight out of Junkyard Wars, but certainly inhabitable
James made sure a decent amount of Erik's roll was leftover
but for now if they could do without he didn't bother with it
at the very least, the warehouse rent is covered for the next month or two if they don't come up with more cash
if they do, then they can begin collecting amenitiesgiven the effectiveness of his giftly rite, the warehouse is damn warm inside
and soon enough another layer is stripped away
thermal paring down to a wifebeater that had seen whiter days
from beneath creep the darkened stripes of a savagely scarred back
ashed a striking black in comparison to summer's fading tan
shirt's sent in a careless arch towards his bedspace
then the Ahroun pulls up a... cha.... no, this one is more a bench"Yeh.... mettim las' nigh' in Wicka.... long wit'a coupla 'ther Garou n kin."
(imogen)
"A pleasure," she answers, automatically toward Lars, a nicety perhaps more normally meant for truly human encounters, but what is still habit, now. It doesn't matter that it's meant or not, as she takes the beer from Tristan as it's offered, taking a swallow that is considerably more controlled than James's half drain of his own bottle as her attention flicks across the interior of the warehouse, the changes and the furniture, thrown together (literally) as it is.Tristan smokes, so she does not bother worrying about the exhale of grey smoke as she raises the bottle in thanks, before finding a seat, herself. She is, perhaps, mindful of the fact that some here do not share her addiction to cancersticks. She gives some distance to Lars.
(lars)
*Lars appreciates the distance although honor demands that he would not complain in the house of another.
But he nods his head again, and his voice, with it's slight germanic accent and nearly perfect (definately taught) english replies back*
"The honor is mine, Imogen."(decker)
As the maul appears, Decker glances briefly at it. Traditionalist Fenrir, obviously. If the carefully chosen words didn't give that away right off the bat, the weaponry and the actions did. Beers are getting passed around, but Decker passes it up and nods at the maul."Y'any good with that?" It's almost a rhetorical question. The Forseti, after all, obviously earned his deed name by it.
(tristan)
“Hey Lars.” Easily tossed as he nods welcome in Imogen’s direction. James downs half a bottle, Tristan chuckles, grabs the bag of chips and a beer for himself, as well as a second for James, dropping the latter off on the way as he pulls up....uh...something to sit on... comfortable enough, sort of. He’s sat on worse though. (WAY worse. Heh. Different story, that.) and then in afterthought to Lars he waves to the rest of the beer. “help yourself.” Before he pops the top off his own, tosses back a swallow or three, before opening the bag of chips, handful grabbed, the rest offered around.(lars)
*He nods his head to Tristan as well at his greeting to him.*
"Thank you, but I am well fed."*His head turns to answer Decker's question.*
"I can hold my own, Decker.." *slight pause as he forces himself to not add the suffix* "But I am still working on getting better with it."
*He replies simply and honestly enough.(james)
he pulled up the bench specifically for it's vague proximity to Decker and Lars
since the Forseti was liked by at least one of the pack, might as well listen and learn, eh?
not quite as considerate as Imogen, however, on space granted
at least he exhales ceilingward rather than at face-level
besides the length of the somewhat uneven platform allows a table space for beer...s ("Thank'.") and ashtray
(seriously think any of these guys are going to vaccuum?)otherwise, James sits quietly
(decker)
The Modi nods slowly. Thoughtfully, almost. Then he shifts on his seat, reaching down to give the rawhide laces of his boots a tug. Up on his feet, then, the Modi walks away without explanation.All the way to the bay doors, reaching up. Like Lars Drammenstein, he isn't particularly tall for one of their tribe. Six feet, give or take, and he stretches up to grasp the cord on the door, yanking it down in a flex of arm and back to send the heavy door rattling down. Normally, these things are operated by hydraulic pumps. Machinery. The machines are long dead; it was the Garou that moved the door now, pitting brute strength against sluggish half-frozen hydraulics.
The door thumps down resoundingly and Decker comes back, him and his thuggish shoulder-swaying walk, pausing to look down a pile of debris they'd salvaged from the dumpsters after last week's cleaning blitz. The larger chunks of drywall are here, as well as the less rusted pipes, the good hinges, some of the industrial hooks and pulleys. A minute passes. Then he sees what he's looking for.
Decker stomps on a board, a crack of steel soles on wood, and seesaw mechanics flings a six-foot length of pipe resting across the other end up into the air. The Modi pulls it out of its trajectory, whirls it once in his hands to get the balance of it. The steel pipe slaps solidly into his palm when he stops it. Now he had a makeshift fighting-staff, and he starts back toward the Forseti.
Stop fifteen feet away in an open area with plenty of room to wave large weapons around.
"Show me," he says simply.
(imogen)
A brief glance toward Lars as he says he's honoured. An eyebrow arches, and then settles, and she dismisses it.Dark eyes, an indescribable shade of blue, flicks toward the maul as it presents itself, and her interest in it is markedly different than Rohl's. Consideration of the shape, weight, make of it, rather than interest in the skill of the one who wielded it. The imprint the weapon would make on flesh. The damage on bone. Her mind traces it out and comes to conclusions as Decker stands and walks towrad the bay doors. The sound draws her attention, as she draws the cigarette from her mouth.
The woman, attractive though she may be, has a tendancy toward being unreadable, expressionless. There is very little expression now, but for a brief flicker of a coppery eyebrow as she unfolds from her seat to walk over to James. And ash her cigarette in the ashtray (because he's right; probably no one will vacuum here), and as an afterthought, grinding it out, crushing the ember beneath her fingers and the soot-smeared glass.
(lars)
The fenrir grins, and stands picking up the maul easily.He gets into a comfortable ready stand. One hand held up near the square hammer head, the other held near the very base of the handle.
In an instant he moves and begins to swings at Decker, he blocks with the middle when necessary. The top hand offering more control to his swing, the bottom hand pull and the swing of his hips giving power. From time to time his top hand slides to the end of the handle next to his other hand for power.
They are Fenrir, this was a battle not to the death, although outsiders watching might thing it was. No this was fenrir dueling, and to give any slack was to weaken those you spar against in the long run.
(tristan)
Show me, says Decker, and there’s an amused slide to the pretty boy’s always ready grin.
See, it does happen regularly. Tests of manhood, teaching, learning each others skills and weaknesses. Speaking of which... to James. “Found an old gym round here yet?” May as well resume boxing lessons at some point – new city and all, no telling what they’ll run into.There’s a glance toward where the Violin is stashed, to be assured it is indeed far from harms way and closer to himself then the dueling fenrir.
(james)
"Shou'da brough' popco'n stead'a chips, Tris."the domesticated island of the warehouse is truly small in comparison to the rest of the cavern
however, James has been witness to more than one Fenrir test
and he's especially cognizant of Decker's methods of schooling
not to mention the disrepair left behind because it always ends up involving furniture
(sometimes, it only involves furniture - he remembers the day the lacquered coffee table pissed the Fenrir off....)case in point: couch and coffeetable are moved
it doesn't matter that, as of now, the Modi is twenty feet away from them in the open space
it doesn't matter that, as of now, the Forseti would have to also move away and into the open space
James. Just. Knows.
very few of their furnishings are actually completely comfortable
he's going to make sure they lastbut other than that breif pause, he's not too concerned about what's going on
settling back on his bench, dark eyes are on the sparring Fenrir
(watch and learn, Jamey-boy)
though the comment is cast aside at his kinsman"Neh..." elbows rest on knees, almost empty bottle dangles from one hand, the smoke held loosely in the other "...'nuff space 'here, though."
(decker)
No, it's not a battle to the death. At all.The last time he fought a tribesmate with a hammer, they were both in warskins, and it ended with chunks of flesh missing. That was friendly sparring. This? Homid-formed, no gifts, no rage? This was just saying hello, Fenrir style.
Decker holds the makeshift staff by the center, his hands reversed - one palm down, one palm up, the grip firm but not white-knuckled. He holds it like he knows how to use a staff, when in truth his experience is almost solely with an axe. The resemblance is superficial at best. The balance is completely different, as is the style - the broad sweeping blows and the rapidfire thrusts of a staff, compared to the brutal chopping motion of an axe. He watches the other's ready stance carefully for cues, noting the placement of the hands and how they denoted Lars' intention for speed and precision rather than power, and how they would shift when the Forseti meant to unleash a devastating blow.
They fight not as men do, steadily and stubbornly, but as wolves do - wary circling for moments on end, interspersed with sudden, unpredictable bursts of furious motion almost too fast to see.
When Lars breaks suddenly into the attack he's ready for it. The first swing comes at him from the right and Decker snaps the staff around, swatting down to knock the blow aside. They move in a blur. Metal clashes on wood; a cataclysmic instant of impact crashes by, startlingly fast and vicious, and then they spring apart.
Back to wary circling again. Balance low, weapons held low.
Decker waits for the Forseti to attack, and when the next blow comes straight down he throws up the metal pole, blocking with the middle, grunting with impact, twisting the staff around the axis of the hammer's shaft to swing around over the deflected attack. The end of the staff slams sideways into Lars' head. Tough as a tank, the Forseti takes it without a wince. There's another blow coming; the staff rebounds off the side of the Forseti's head, reverses, and rams straight forward --
-- and is deflected by the center of the maul, forcing Decker to stagger a step back.
Another blurring sequence of actions ends. Quiescence, the wary watching of the opponent.
(imogen)
There is something to be said of non-chalance. James and Tristan hold a conversation that Imogen's attention flicks to, and then dismisses, because surely, the woman, only slightly over five feet, would not be sparring with the Ahroun or his kinsman.She rubs her shoulder idly with her free hand, as she steps back to her previous seat, as Decker and Lars circle each other, boots whisper-quiet against concrete. Her head turns when the first sound of the blows echoes off the high walls and ceiling of the warehouse, an automatic reaction as metal clashes on wood. Things are too fast to catch each motion, and too fast to seperate them into details and information.
The slender woman's interest in the fight is detached, at best. Clinical interest of not-quite-human creatures following not-quite-human laws.
(tristan)
He chuckles and nods, finishing off the salty treat in hand, fingers brushing at the denim across his thigh before that bottle is tipped back again. “I’ll keep that in mind next time.”It’s grinned, easily, as he too watches. James moves the more comfortable pieces further out of harms way, and Tristan judges the differences between the two fenrir. Thuggish gait is deceptive really when it comes to the power with which the Modi can attack. No movement is spared, there is no pretty-ing it up, it’s just power. Raw. Sharp. Strong. The other, the Forseti, shows youth, power, and spirit. There’s something to be said about the heart that is put behind each swing.
It’s no battle to the death, of course, but it’s enough to give anyone pause.
Beer is set on the floor at his feet so that he can slip from jacket and flannel draping them over a thigh, leaving him in tattered tank top. Cigarette and lighter found, the former lit with the latter before they’re tucked away again, and then beer is retrieved. A nod for the comment of enough space, and a chuckle. “Yeah, there is. Course, here people I know will see you wipe the floor with me...”
(lars)
*Lars bends his head from one side to the other cracking his neck. The Modi was what he expected, strong and skilled.His teeth bare, and a low growl escapes his lips even in homid, as he charges forth once more. This time swinging as hard as he could at the middle of the staff, and then pulling his swing with his hip, to hook the staff with the ledge of the hammer.
And old tactic. Stun the hands, then try to pull at the weaken grip. If the grip is too strong, reverse again and punch forward with the hilt like a fist sliding across the staff.The fenrir way, power, strength and skill. And if it didn't work, he'd be pounded up against the nearest wall. But he was prepared to accept that risk.*
(james)
there's a low chuckle at Imogen's breif glance
surely the slight kin, barely over five feet, would not be sparring with the Ahroun or his kin
rather, the slight kin would unload a gun in their face, or drive six inches of silver into somewhere tender
just like the Modi's thuggish swagger - certain things can be exceedingly deceptive
(after all, James never made a point to clarify just how that Spiral died out in the woods....)"What.... y'ain't learn 'nuff a duck yet?"
view askew beneath a lifted brow
harshly accented words further mumbled by the newly lit Camel perched between lips that does nothing to help the lockjaw-slur
the pack's offered to Tris, then tossed over to Imogen
who with her negligently quiet "ta" yet remains out their conversationit's a varied peanut gallery, watching this friendly Fenrir hello
Imogen's clinical objectiveness
Tristan's critical judging
James'... literally picking apart every strike and block and blow
the Ahroun's quite familiar with the staff
but a hammer or axe is totally new territory"'ll track dow' s'me glove, then we c'n sta't ag'in."
(decker)
Such an old tactic, and yet it works. Perhaps it wouldn't have if he held his grandfather's axe - if only because he would never let that be taken from his grip while he was still alive. But this was just an steel pipe, and when the Forseti yanks hard, Decker, who had been bracing instead against the forward thrust, drops the staff. It clangs to the ground, one end striking first, then the other, then bouncing between the two until it comes to a complete stop.(Ladies and gentlemen, you may NOT unfasten your seatbelts...)
"Clever trick," growls Decker. Pipeless, but not weaponless. The Modi cracks his knuckles by making fists, and then falls into ready. It's not the curled agility of a boxer but the devil-may-care, have-at-you slouch of a bareknuckle street brawler: fists clenched at his sides, slouched deceptively to belie the tensed readiness of his muscles. In a flash he brings his fists up and pounds his knuckles together.
"Come on, Forseti."
Looking at him, grim and murderous, you'd have no idea he was having a good time.
(tristan)
He chuckles, and takes a drag of smoke before he bothers to answer. “Occasionally.” In truth, it’s been a while since he’s been knocked on his ass during their sparring. He doesn’t get in near as many hits as James does, but the ones he does land make their mark. His bruises fade in a few days and he’s not been dumb enough to spar on a full moon again... at least, not lately.Ouch.
Bout all he remembers of that night. Bright light, red glove, sweet darkness, bright light again.
And he loved every minute of it.“You do that..” grinned at James, before his attention is grabbed by the clatter of the pipe pulled to the ground. It’s bare knuckle time, it seems and he continues to watch. Little things can be learned, even by the boy who prefers not to fight with his hands (have you ever tried to play with swollen knuckles? He has. Once. Recently. Hurt like a bitch, it did. So now he protects them – well.) by watching those well used to thuggish ways.
(lars)
*The forseti grins, and even as his own hammer is dropping to the ground, Lars leaps forward at the Modi. In battle he would pound the advantage into his enemies corpse. But in sparring there would be no honor in it. And it's been awhile since he's gone bare kn uckles.*(decker)
And then it's just pandemonium.There never lived a Fenrir who didn't know how to brawl. There have lived a surprising many Fenrir, perhaps, who didn't know how to brawl well, but theirs was a culture of fist and foot, tooth and claw. Decker's not one for battle cries, never has been, but he's one for a good ghettostompin'. Lars charges and so does he, surprisingly fast for all his muscle mass. For the next few minutes it's a chaos of blows raining in from any and all directions. The boxing association would have an apoplexy. Feet are stomping, knees are kneeing, clothes are grabbed and used as leverage to throw one or the other into a wall, the floor, the junk pile, the truck ("Scratch the paint 'n I'll kill ya," inserted panting and grunting somewhere in all the mess) eyes are poked, elbows go flying into teeth and teeth snap for ears. To finish it all off there's always a good helping of knuckle sandwich on both sides.
When the rain of blows lets up and they draw apart out of what had to be sheer exhaustion, the casual bystander would have a hard time saying who won. Hell, with both of them looking like they'd been on the wrong end of a train collision, was there a victor at all? Decker makes his slow way back to his rough-made stool, sits, and pulls his shirt off.
(Any excuse to strip down in front of Imogen...heh.)
Mops his brow with it. Pulls it back on. "Pass 'em," he says to Tristan, meaning the beers, and he tosses the first bottle he gets to Lars. "Ain't half bad, Forseti. Question is, kin ya do that with Wyrmspawn the size o' a three-story house starin' you in the face?"
(james)
head tips when the pipe clatters to the ground
this, perhaps, is one of the few common threads he and the Modi share
a certain penchance and past for brawling in the street
no padding. no excess weapons. no quarter.
(ah, the good ol' days)Camel's pulled from between his lips to dump ashes in the tray
cancerous stick scissored between two fingers to point at the Fenrir
each movement accompanied by soft (slurred) words to structure
footwork. balance. pivot for power. leverage for block.
.... well... as much as he can in the whirlwind"Hear an'thin' more'n that impost'r Garou?"
(lars)
*Blood dripped from many wounds, and he would have to shift later to heal the wounds.
He takes off his own shirt, well what's left of it, and just drops it to the ground.*"Thank you Modi-rhya. I have in the past in the face of wyrmspawn. Although perhaps not as large as three stories, and I will again if Gaia grants me enemies and the guilty to punish before me."
(tristan)
in.fucking.credible.He watches the brawl with something akin to awe, really, though outward expression is still mild, closely watching what he can, listening to James, chuckling. They pull apart, Decker strips down (and without showing it outwardly, pretty boy here enjoys the view. ) and demands. Two bottles grabbed tossed one at a time, easily so they can be caught and opened without loosing half of them to foam.
Brow lifts at the question from James, curious. This was new...
“Can’t say as I have – what imposter Garou?”
(james)
"Good ques'n." muscular, scarred shoulders roll in a shrug, and now that the boxingtornado has ceased, he makes sure the words carry far enough to Imogen's ears as well "Warnin' came through th' Chain oth'r day. Impost'r Garou. Pr'tect kin. No oth'r detail. No location... 'n no follow up. Ain't been able a fin' th' sender. D'no if yeh heard anythin' streetside."
(tristan)
“Hm.” The all encompassing comment. New in town he’s not got the inside line on things on the street yet (give him another week, and very little will happen he won’t have at least heard about..) before after a few moments. “I’ll grab Jim and see if he’s heard anything. He and his hang in Chinatown. I’ve a sudden hankering for some decent Chinese food I’ll have to appease tomorrow first thing.”A stretch brings cigarette to an early death in the tray on James’ bench, last bit of smoke exhaled before he finishes his beer and grabs and opens another.
(decker)
(sorry man, i somehow missed that you'd posted)Decker smirks a little, popping his own beer open. "Yeah well, ain't seen a three-story wyrmlin' neither, myself. But was gonna head down to Wyrm Park later on, see if I kin find some ass t' kick." Knocking the beer back, he's quiet for a while, his throat working down the amounts he's chugging. Lower the bottle and his head together, grimacing against the upswell of carbonation. The belch shoots it right up his battered nose and Decker grabs it. "Ngh."
Then, looking up and over at James and Tristan, his attention caught briefly - "Imposter Garou?"
(imogen)
Cigarettes are thrown at her, and caught in the air, as the sparring goes on, something from which her attention never quite wavers. It's part interest, part survival instinct. If one wants to avoid the fists, one must know where the fists are and get out of the way.Her movements are automatic as she taps out a cigarette, catching the filter between her fingers and drawing it free of the package. She lights up, attention flicking toward James as he speaks about imposter Garou, an eyebrow lifting as she leans down to pick up her beer bottle, exhaling smoke through her nose. The bottle almost empty, she takes the cigarette from her mouth, and drains the amber fluid. The beer bottle will now serve as an ashtray.
Everyone has steadily been losing clothing. James, his shirt. Tristan, his jacket. Decker, his shirt. Imogen remains as she was outside, despite the warmth, one hand even absently tugging briefly at the collar of her jacket, pulling it absently up over her shoulder, listening, as her attention flicks toward Lars and his blood, bright red, and pausing briefly on the Fenrir Modi. Her dark gaze rests there a moment, before glancing toward James, perhaps waiting for some elucidation that might give her something - anything - to go on.
(lars)
"I would be honored to join battle with you and your pack Decker-rhya. IF you would allow it."
*He says. BAh, they were inside now, he's using his taught ettiquette.*
"But first, I should probably shift and heal to be fully prepared for it."(james)
chin nudges up in a half-nod
dark eyes slant towards his packmate"Exten' I know. Tris'll dig t'morra. 'll go wi'h'im if'm back'n time."
all of this said as the Ahroun rises and strolls across the island living space in the concrete sea
rummaging through one or two as-of-yet unpacked boxes until he finds the buried treasure
a towel balled up and thrown at the Forseti
okay, yes, Fenrir glory to bleed honorably and all that
but if nobody's going to vaccuum, they sure as hell aren't going to mop
and just because it's a warehouse.....(lars)
*The forseti catches the towel and holds it against his wounds. Even as he shifts up to glabro. No sense in wasting time that could be spent healing if they were going to hunt the wyrm tonight.*(decker)
"N-hnh." Some sort of agreement, an uh-huh mashed flat and stripped of all but the most rudimentary vowel sounds. His head was still down, and a bloody hand rubs over the curve of his skull. But look upon the beast and the beast looks upon you. He turns on the instinct that he is watched, meets Imogen's stare head-on. The impact of his glance is a train wreck. Just for a moment.Moving on, moving back, "Jus' Decker," he reminded the other again, if only because at ninet--no; strike that, twenty.
Fuck, twenty. Two whole decades on this earth. More time than he'd ever thought he'd had. Digression. Subject: at twenty, a human kid would be just getting into the swing of things in college. Still partying hard. Still drinking hard. Him, he's out crushing monster skulls. The idea of being a rhya to someone was still a little beyond the grasp.
Nod to James, wordless. Then the Modi gets to his feet as well.
"Got some shit to take care'a, y'all." He pulls his bloody shirt away from his skin and then lets it snap back, sodden. Fuckit. Throw a jacket over it, who'll see? Huh? Directing this to Lars, "You stay put."
Then he heads to the doors, a quick shift to Glabro en route reknitting flesh and cracked bone.
(supermarket run! be back in 30-45.)
(tristan)
A nod agrees to James’ going along, (as if he’d disagree) but he remains quiet other then the steady drain of his beer. Decker makes his normal exit, just up and goes, demanding Lars stay put for the time being. That gets a slight chuckle, but all in all, he’s quiet again.(imogen)
It's a clash of gazes, for a moment, because Imogen simply, never, looks away. And then he does, and she does, and she gives some sort of vague movement of her head, a half nod acknowledging what James has said, more absent than actually because she felt he needed her feedback.She shifts, in her seat, before she too, stands, glancing over her shoulder as the Modi leaves. Her rising to her feet is not quite the same motive. She isn't intending on moving, so much as finding outlet for energy. Her action is even and slow, economical. Grace stripped to its barest requirements as she rubs absently where her neck meets her shoulder. The moment the action is recognized, the hand drops away, sliding down to pull her pager free from her hip, glancing at the small display. Checking the time, or checking the batteries, perhaps.
The other hand holds her cigarette, burning slowly, a pale sullen ember. Reminded of it, she rehooks her pager to her pocket, and lifts the cigarette to her lips, listening to the silence.
She breaks it, lifting her chin toward Tristan in a gesture - not a nod, there's a difference, "'ave any more beer?"
(tristan)
There’s a chuckle and nod. “For you, Imogen, I always have more beer.” Playful grin as he reaches into the bag, checks what’s left, finding five more, he grabs one, pops the top, and offers it to the pretty redhead.Some would be offended by the minute flirtation. Who knows, Imogen may be offended. But she’s used to it, none the less, and no one expects him to be anything other then what he is. A good old fashioned dawg, through and through. Course, it helps to know he isn’t into pretty redheaded women anyway.
A stretch lengthens torso before arms fall again to rest elbows on thighs, bottle of his own tipped back and near finished.
(james)
the other full moon's response was a flattened grunt translation of understanding accompanied by a nod
(your basic Modi-speak 101)
though James' explanation wasn't all that excurtient to begin with
however there's something between the packmates that doesn't necessitate lengthy explanation
to see them in battle would make others wonder if they even communicate at all
but something functions deeper than instinct which makes the pack operate as a well-oiled machinethe Gnawer never returns to his seat
after the progressional stripping - he, on the other hand, is returning to his layered fashion
Camel's crushed in the tray en route to his corner
thermal's pulled over the once-white wifebeater
patchwork quilt of a trenchcoat covering that
faded grey bandana used to tie back his dreads
smaller pack of books and papers dumped out onto the mattress:there's the cartographic history Imogen had vaguely inspected earlier
a few newspapers that may or may not contain pertinent articles on the stranger side of revent events
a Thomas Guide to Chicago and its suburbs
various other books which would only serve to acquaint one with the town
including a selection of things from the tourism bureau
and last but not least: a book on do-it-yourself indoor plumbingso far the one thing the warehouse lacks is a fully functioning bathroom
the closet-sized space once dedicated to the job is in need of some repair
at the very least, a properly installed water heaterand it doesn't look like any of the volumes have a due date card on them, either
James may be a born and bred Hood, but he hasn't forgotten his Frankenweiler mentorship
from the Alice pack are plucked a few choice objects which refill the space in the small pack"Tris.... shou'd be back by mornin'.... look me up 'fore yeh seek out Jim. Good job, kid."
the last shot towards Lars as long strides take the Ahroun to the door
Imogen gets the patented chin-lift nod of a departure((just had ONE more post *mutter* I'm outta here, thanks for the play folks!))
Posted by james at November 22, 2003 12:00 AM
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