November 24, 2003.11.24.13. - maneaters [imogen-tristan-lars-lexi] *me[riverfront]
(imogen)
It was barely this cold in the dead of winter, in New Jersey, she reflects bitterly. Possibly not this cold elsewhere she's been, either. But everything is relative, and perhaps she'll get used to this soon enough.It's not just the cold, really. According to the thermometre it was twenty eight degrees. Her skin was convinced it was much colder, by the wind. It whipped through the city blocks, creating corridors of wind, and slightly more pleasant alleyways of windless refuge while the wind screamed on either side. The pack warehouse was in one of the corridors, unfortunately, not one of the refuges, and the wind nearly tore the car door from her hand as she pushes it open, and sends her hair spilling into her face, into her eyes as she shuts the door behind her, pausing by the cab's driver side door to pay the man, tipping him, despite the annoyance that the mediterranean man would not shut up throughout the entire drive to the riverfront. Talkative drivers are usually considered pleasant. Unless you are someone who craves the silence.
Her jaw sets briefly, gloved hands flexing slowly in the chill. She glances down the block, dark eyes picking out where her car was parked. And that it was not yet on cinder blocks, so she might leave it an hour or two more. And then she crosses the street, glancing behind her as the taxi driver sped off, one hand reaching up to catch the wind tossed strands of hair to push them away from her face, hold them back as she walked to the warehouse door. Hair spills free to catch in her eyes once more as her hand leaves to knock solidly against the warehouse door, her dark eyes sliding upward toward the dark sky and the scatter of stars, half hazed by the city lights.
(james)
her hand, slender as it is, knocks solidly against the warehouse door
beyond the wind's keening course through the buildings, the sound echoes
bouncing up against the consistently low hum of the generator
then filters off into silence
for there is not shuffling response of someone heading to answer
in inside of the warehouse, for the better part, is empty
the spiders and moths resident in the sky-high rafters uninclined to pity her slow popsicling just outsidein fact, it seems as if the good Doctor is going to freeze to death before she gets inside
at least until a set of keys jangles off to her left
they're accompanied by a boot's scuff on the cracked and windswept walkway
announcing the presence of one Bone Gnawer
(he knows better than to surprise her)
returning from.... wherever he went.... the previous night
looking much the same save the near emptiness in the hang of the pack
and the yellowing black eye that accompanies a healing split across his cheeka grin - lopsided - flits over his features
but chilled as the redhead must surely be
he doesn't waste any time on salutations
instead concentrating on unlocking the door
fingers moving a bit more uncoordinately than normal surely due to the cold
but soon enough, the door swings - noisily - open(imogen)
She'd been about to turn away, hand lifting to cross her frame and rub briefly against the opposite shoulder; the sound of James catches her attention instead and the good Doctor's change of weight, turn on the axis of her balance, abruptly alters, reverses and turns to look at him. Her hand falls away from her shoulder as she looks him over. Hers is the type of complexion to pale when cold, as if her blood retreated inward, seeking warmer climates, farther from the chill.She dispenses with speech, until they get inside, before raising her voice, low and quiet, as she begins to remove her gloves, finger by finger as she arches an eyebrow at his back, "Who hit yeh?" mildy query as her hand, now free of the leather binding of her glove, digging through her thick hair, finding some control at least in pushing it away from her eyes.
(james)
just within, James bends down to pick up what looks like an old candle
after a moment's squinting inspection, lips purse, cheeks puff, then air blows away some offending speck of dust
one of those inch around columns that had once been probably twelve inches tall
it had been reduced to about three inches over some period of time
and now the Ahroun is about to make it shorter with a... slow.... retrieval of the Zippo from a pocket
but as soon as the wick is lit.... whatever chill the warehouse grew in his absence begins to dissipatenifty little trick, that
half a minute strolls between them
then flame is blown out, and leaves a smokey trail following the candle's return to the floor
only then does he turn to answer her query"Ov'er'hub'rant bum....."
on the way towards the pile of boxes holding what could be called their kitchen
carefully plucked through to retrieve a pot that's been blackened enough to have a shiney surface
it's scrubbed against his thigh before beginning it's tour of duty as a pseudo-mirror
lip curls in mild distaste, to finally see the mark he only splashed with blood-removing water earlier
it won't leave a lasting mark, by any means, but the neat impression of the pipe isn't pretty
it traces the outward curves of skull structure that met the length from temple diagonally down
luckily James is not the lesser man the likes of such aim would have knocked out".... dun b'lieve I wa'n't there a steal 'is liquer."
pot's dropped back into the box
now begins the process of peeling away the gloves which are actually stuck to his palms(imogen)
Moments like these, it's stark reminder that Imogen is kin, and Imogen has spent much of her time (that he's known her, anyway) purposefully keeping herself ignorant. The candle lights and suddenly it is warm, and Imogen's eyes, dark and suddenly reflective of the candle's mellow orange flame, turn toward him sharply, lips parting for speech, only to exhale with a half sound that is perhaps amusement, or awe. Surprise. "Your trick," she says in a way that is not a question. "Very useful, that." Her fingers flex freed of the leather and move slowly as to work warmth back into them, as she glances quickly around the warehouse, before starting to walk toward one of the makeshift tables, one that has become a bit of a central location for the pack's dirty laundry. She has a good many skills, does Imogen, and acting is one of them, the ability to hide her thoughts beneath a veneer of impenetrability, either deflect it with an icy remark, an offputting phrase. Turn suspicion away with quick thinking; a false smile. What she has yet to manage, however, is the ability to disguise movements that are hitched by aches or pain; keep her walk from showing it, hide away that her ribcage keeps her breath shallow, or that her shoulder keeps her gait stiff because one arm does not move as the other would.She makes up for it with non-chalance.
It isn't laundry she picks up from the flat surface, but her gun, holding it in her left hand, and twisting it briefly in inspection.
"Most men're more jealous o' their liquor 'n they are their women," she notes, mildly, inhaling of the smell of burnt gunpowder and dropping it back to the table with a hollow clang, turning to glance at him as she begins to unbutton her jacket, one handed.
(lars)
*Without much other fanfare there is a loud rap at the door of the warehouse.Outside, a certain german man was waiting trying to get at an itch on his back. The bullet wounds were all but healed, but those darn things itched.*
(james)
"'sa rite." offered over the sound of a trashcan (yes, they do possess one, sort of) being drug towards one of the sortofchairs "c'n make anythin' warm'n waterproof. Even a cardboard box."something about the way he says that - he knows the last part for a fact
probably explains why James has never been one to worry about a place to stay
no matter what the time of year or the state of the weather at hand
it was Tristan, after all, which Imogen had to procure a room for
not the Ahrounhe's settled onto the sortofseat with the bucket turned trashcan between his feet
elbows resting weight on the tops of his knees
but only the bloody and shredded gloves get dumped to the bottom
distraction arises with the rap on the door
and whatever commentary he was expounding upon the state of men and liquor is replaced:"Dare I as' why you 'r bleedin?"
offhand, more than anything
his attention is on the door and the fact he has to get up againonce seeing it's the Forseti outside
there's a nod up which leaves him standing in the open frame
James is heading back to his sortofseat and bucketnowtrash(lars)
*The forseti walks in at the nod with a nod of his own, and closes the door behind him keeping the blowing winds out of the place.He nods his head to Imogen, and seems to be looking around the room for something. Not quite yet taking his seat.*
(imogen)
"Can it, now?" it's the perfect reply, perfectly british and absolutely unsurprising from her. It says utterly nothing about her opinion or curiousity on the rite, or even if she has any.She glances over James's shoulder to Lars as the petite woman continues to unbutton her jacket, a brief flick of her eyes all that really works for a greeting, eyes sliding away and downward, passing across the concrete floor, an absent search for something that comes up fruitless, before she answers James, the muscles of her jaws flexing as a movement is not quite pleasant.
She puts quite a pause between his question and her answer, long enough to unbutton the wool coat and pick up her gun again, uncleaned so far, and still smelling of smoke, and resettle it in her shoulder holster (the movement results in a suppressed frown, a wince that becomes nothing more than a tightening of her lips) a soft click of the safety clasp being forced into place. The movement causes her hair to spill forward, loose and free over her shoulder, against a pale cheekbone (and it's not just the cold that pales her), strands catching in the corner of her mouth. It's easy to forget how long her hair is, so often bound. Loose, it spills over her shoulders, a riot of curls and waves that will not quite still. Her gaze flicks upward as her left hand slides upward, catching the flamekissed strands between her fingers and glancing toward James, and then back toward Lars and his searching gaze. "Because I was shot," she says, clearing her throat, her chin lifting to gesture in Lars's direction, some subtle difference between that and the ghetto nod of the pack. She means it to gesture, not to affirm, "What are yeh lookin' for?"
(lars)
*The man's hair was long, and spilled out over his shoulders, only his bangs were pulled back at of his face. It swayed slightly as his head spun to look at Imogen. The intensity in his eyes strong.*"Did the kin child make it? After my attack, I ran a different direction, in the hopes some would follow me."
*He explained his absense from the the end of other evening.*(james)
the Fenrir has been at the warehouse before
so James leaves him to his own on the seating arrangement
he's once more taken up the pose of what most would consider a drunkard's
but he's not heaving his guts into the recepticle
rather: diligently picking shards of glass from his palms
(seems he did end up removing the alcohol from the bum after all)
having depended on the healing time to begin pushing them from their comfortable embedmentdark eyes lift in casual observation of Lars' poking around
the path strafing off to check on the kin for her answer, then down again
mostly timed some strange cadence with the tink of each glass piece into the metal bucketnowtrash"Got it look at yet?"
a perfectly flat reply to her perfectly flat answer
there is concern somewhere behind it
but not in the dramatic assessment of whether or not she's allright
if she wasn't - she wouldn't be here on her own mobility
it's more the unspoken offer to fix what she may not be able to for whatever reasonif he can smell the blood, for some reason, she's still bleeding
"Erik was'ere.... lef' with something tha' smell human." broad shoulders roll in a shrug, supporting the last part which functions as excuse at the lack of details: "Been Um'ral."
(imogen)
James speaks before Imogen has a chance to, and she only adds a small bit of her own explanation as the fingers of her right hand flex, slowly, a study of movement, "She made it."She glances back toward James, taking a seat on one of the hard made benches, the movement slow and deliberate as she rests her right elbow on her knee, and leans forward, fingers of the same hand lifting up to push back her curling hair once more. Her answer is half muffled by the motion, her head turned downward, "I did," look at it, apparently.
(lars)
*Lars nods his head at James' words and finds himself one of the junkyard functional art pieces and sits down.He was pleased that the child did survive the hellish scene it was trapped in.*
"good."(tristan)
He, with his excellent timing (ha!) picks that time to grab the handle of the warehouse door and give it a twist. Finding it locked, he knocks instead and slips his hand back into his pocket. The other is occupied with the violin case, the wind whipping through his curls, tangling them into serious disarray. His coat is buttoned up over a thick sweater, over a t-shirt, fingers protected partially with fingerless gloves, jeans and boots. The hat, well that was given a certain little girl kin before she was sent off with the Blood Eagle.He shifts his weight from foot to foot as he waits for one of the voices inside to come and get the door..
(james)
"Did you get it." delberately slowed down for the utmost of slurred clarity "Fixed. Answer 'at."the last tossed at the Forseti
he's on his way to where there's a gathering of several tool boxes
one with a red piece of tape on the handle chosen
and carted back to his seat(lars)
*Confusion goes over the forseti's face.*
"huh? Did I get what fixed?"(james)
without even looking up: "The door."(lars)
*ahh, Lars nods his head once and goes to answer the door. Seeing it's Tristan he says Hi, and then walks back to his latest in junkyard deco chair*(imogen)
Her temper is brittle today, and it's something only barely registered by the brief flare of dark eyes as she glances at James's back.Her answers are slow in coming. She's finding words, or preferring not to find words at all, or at worse, finding herself without the energy to form them. "He's askin' me," she explains for the Forseti's benefit, "did I get m'arm fixed." Tristan might be thinking he's to be left out in the cold to freeze, before Imogen pushes her good hand against the bench, and starts to straighten, her gaze leaving its glance toward James long enough to look in Lars's direction to see if he'd answer, or if her motion would continue.
"S'fixed as best as it will be," flatly stated, as she starts to sit back down, Lars having gone for the door.
(tristan)
While Imogen is the type to pale with the cold, he has the misfortune to redden. Cheeks, nose, tip of his ears, all show signs of the chill he walked through.And underneath it, is the faint scent of blood.
The flannel was ditched, the jeans changed, the t-shirt shredded, the wound cleaned, but it still seeps a bit into the bandaged that he finally managed to haphazardly get taped in place. Not exactly the easiest of places to reach on your own, after all.
He’s lifting his hand to knock again – he can hear them inside, maybe then didn’t hear him, and about then the door opens. He nods to Lars with a quick. “hey.” Before scooting inside to the welcome warmth of James’ rite. He kicks the door shut behind them, thumbs the lock automatically, and heads toward the little domesticated island in the big cement sea.
Eyes find Imogen first, and a quick look over her to check – much as she does but without the expertise behind it – and see if she’s all right, sees the tightened jaw, the flash of annoyance, and just offers something of a grin that fades. “Hey, Imogen, James” before he finds a safe shelf to stash the warm violin case. He treats it better then he does himself, it seems.
(james)
"Thank'."tossed after Lars
her temper is brittle today
after the amount of flesh-peeling glares he's endured
he doesn't have to look up to feel that flaring glance
he knows he's pushing her limits
and there might even be the breifest flare of amusement
getting backhanded with a steel pipe makes one brittly tempered, toobut instead of lecturing the good Doctor as a part of him is tempted to
James opens the toolbox to reveal it's contents as a med kit
rummaging a few cotton-tipped applicators from its depths"Tris." there's a hint of annoyance as the word draws out, whether it's at Imogen's icyness, the additional scent of blood, or that he's using one of the lengthy Q-tips to clean out a particularly stubborn sliver of glass at the bottom of a gapine laceration which isn't easy with one eye only beginning it's return journey from being swollen completely closed - it's up to them to decide "You in on th' night's fun, too?"
(lars)
"Sure."
*Lars answers simply. Never one to waste words he sits back down and watches the interaction between kinfolk and James*(imogen)
She watches, idly as James works out the shard of glass from his hand, watches the blood begin to drip from his palm to the concrete floor. There were other blood stains, too, and were likely to be more in the future. The benefit to this warehouse in comparison to the cleanliness of the condominium is that the blood spilled does not look as bad. It's almost expected. After a moment, she draws breath, like a signal, and stands to depart.The interaction of this kinfolk, and James is come to a direct halt.
She had looked at Tristan, a brief up down glance that was more clinical than the look he'd given her. Something practiced in the gaze. Her left hand tugs through her hair again, before she starts to button up her jacket, walking toward the door. "'ave a good night," is tossed over her shoulder as her hand leaves the collar of her jacket to unlock the warehouse door, the click of the lock soft and hollow.
(tristan)
“Yeah.” Comes the somewhat terse reply. Tempers all around it seems – though in all honesty, if Tris had a tail it’d be tucked right about now. “Was the driver and babysitter till Erik picked up the kin early this morning.” Glance to Lars, then. “Glad to see you made it, man. Got pretty hairy there when I stalled the damn truck. You can bet it won’t happen again.” And it won’t. He and a new friend down near the park who had lifted a car tore up some parking lot in making sure the kin can handle himself confidently in a standard now.Panic is the best teacher. Cold remorse factors the same.
“Little girl was in good shape when Erik got here – fed and dry and finally not screaming.” General info offered, in case Lars had yet to find out. Gnawers make due – and when Erik took to long with the bottle, emptied, cleaned, filled with milk beer bottle with a well cleaned condom nipple worked just as well. His own spare sweater and hat kept her warm for the trip.
Imogen stands, and he nods. “Night, Imogen.”
(james)
blood drips into a little puddle on the floor
soon enough it's moved over the trashcan where the applicator - with glass sliver! - is dropped
dark eyes lift slowly to watch Imogen take her stand and leave"Watch yer back.... maneat'rs out."
(imogen)
A quick glance over her shoulder, a brief arch of an eyebrow, that stills, and she raises a hand in acknowledgement, and steps outside into the cold, wrestling the door from the wind, one handed to shut it once more.Maneaters. Beautiful.
(tristan)
He unbuttons his coat, and slides it off, but leaves the sweater in place for now. He watches James, as blood pools under him then he ditches the sliver into the garbage can... a beat, two. “Need any help with that?” Nods, indicating whatever glass might be left under the skin, or clean up, or whatever.“Maneaters – you got Jim’s other messages then. Talked to him early this morning, got the skinny on the imposter, and the warning of the man eaters. Said he’d send message through soon as I took off.”
(lars)
*Lars' eyebrow raises, and he sits a bit more straight up at the declaration*
"Maneaters?"(james)
yeh
maneaters
just. fucking. peachy.this could also explain the Ahroun's shortened temper
"Break a seal a that."
quick followup with a new bottle of isopropyl that's sailing through the air at the kin
much easier to open and unseal with two fully functioning hands
the pad of James' other thumb is pressing over his palm to check for leftover slivers
blood wells in the aftermath - must've been quite an impact to penetrate the drummer's callouses"Yeh, hear'm when I got back fr'm spirit side bit ago." gaze flicks to the Fenrir "Know their story?"
it's not something he'll explain if he doesn't have to
(lars)
"A little. After all it's a lesson of why that part of the litany is there."
*He replies.*(tristan)
He snatches the bottle from the air, he opens it easily, peeling the seal off the top of the bottle as he moves to James’ side. He glances at Lars, then back again as he holds the bottle towards his friend. He only knows the vaguest of the stories behind them, but knowing why the rumors have started is enough to give one pause.(james)
"Ain't'n ev'rybody lit'ny."his voice softens a bit, at the admission
taking the bottle from Tristan in the pause
not exactly looking forward to this next part"Leas'..... wh'n I was a cub, th' 'weilers tol' me issa part a th' lit'ny some chose t'forget cause they got too hungry. Thought they top a th' food chain, 'n all tha', so i's allright a break the Banaman an' eat manflesh. Ain't easy a tell'm 'part fr'm th' res' of us.... less ya got some'ne tha' knows the Rite."
the last part hisses between his teeth
mostly due to the liberal amount of alcohol dumped across his hand
fist clenching a few times to work it into the wounds
but a clean wound itches a helluva lot less when it's healing
deep umber gaze lifts to Tristan"What'd Jim tellya 'bout it?"
(tristan)
There’s a sympathy wince as James pours the alcohol over his hand, having had most of a bottle poured over/into his back the night before. Blunt nails scritch over the line of his jaw before he answers, letting the information of the eaters sink in fully, before he fills in what pieces he knows.“Said there’s been disappearences. No Garou or kin yet, just regular folk at random from what he’s heard. They turn up later with bites taken out of them... folks are blaming it on rabid dogs – but he fears it’s man eaters instead. Figured they’re setting in because of the weakened caern and pissed off spirits..”
(james)
Gaia that burns
the Ahroun is quiet a moment
he's... uh.... thinking
waiting for the subdermal sting to subside"Make sense. Happen a mention if he know've anyone wi' th' Rite?"
attention turns towards the departing Fenrir
"Keep y'r mouth shut 'bout this 'til I find out more, 'lright?"
(lars)
*Lars nods his head*
"I didn't hear anything."
*He smiles slightly, and then heads out the door*(tristan)
He shakes his head slightly. “Didn’t mention it, no, and I didn’t think to ask. Didn’t know there was a rite –but I owe him breakfast, will ask then.”He looks over at Lars and lifts a hand in a wave. “Night, Lars.”
It’s gotten too warm in the warehouse for the sweater, and he takes a seat on one of the makeshift chairs, and pulls off the thick garment and drops it near his coat, pulling the tank top away from his back lightly, before searching his pockets for pack and lighter, shaking one free, lighting, and offering the pack and lighter to James.
(lexi)
She walks up the street. Intimidating looking to the normal person. She is not far from 6 foot. Long blond hair pulled up into a ponytail. Eriks green burlap backpack on her shoulders. One of the straps MacGuivered together from when it fell apart a few nights ago. Thank Gaia for duct tape.
Jeans, flannel shirt and denim jacket. She would be pretty if you could see through the intimidating look. Eerie feral grey eyes peer along as sshe heads to teh werehouse she had last left Decker and that other girl. Erik still hadnt been in touch, her guess, the monte didnt make it.
Might as well see who else had come. Finally she had earned a place in the pack, even as kinfolk. [Merely kinfolk]
She had proven herself..to everyone even Erik, everyone ecxpet herself...she was never truly happy with herself..she always wished she had been more..truly a pure blood. Even with the pureness in her blood...she still wasnt Truly one of them.
She opens the door and walks in...looking around...
"Hey anyone here?"(james)
there's a wave after the Forseti
mostly it's further drying the alcohol on his hand
blood's still dripping into the bucketturnedtrashcan between his feet
and nasty as that split on his cheek is
that can itch all it wants on healing
washing it out earlier was good enough, thank you
but damn it makes his skull ache"Yeh.... Rite a Man Taint. S'pose a be able t' make the manflesh come outta th' body shortes' route possible."
ain't that a pretty sight.
even if he can hear the kinsman approaching
Tristan being on his temporarily half-blind side makes his head snap in that direction
it's more instinct than actually being startled
taking the pack with a nod"Thank." a pause. then quietly. "You allr...."
it stops as the door abruptly opens
(gotta work on that fucking lock)
and a brow over the deeply bruised eye lifts
(.... ow)
seeing just what blond bombshell walks in"Only strangers....."
(tris)
He blinks and stares at James, and then shakes his head with a disgusted grimace at the mental picture.. “now there’s a stunt for Fear Factor.. thats revolting man..” he can’t help the slight chuckle at the whip of head around, before he nods his welcome...He’s about to answer, the almost completed question when he too turns to the blond bombshell.
And he might be gay as a three dollar bill and pretty as a picture, but you cannot blame him for the low whistle.(lexi)
"Holy shit" she stops and the backpack hits thr ground...She doesnt exactly smile..her face would probably break if she actually fully smiled..but she does smirk slightly...the other person she doesnt recognize...
She doesnt waste time with a lot of small talk or happy greetings - but she is happy to see a familiar pack face.
"You seen Erik yet? I swear that fuckin monte aint gonna make it"(james)
she doesn't exactly smile for her face may break
James doesn't have that problem - his face has already been broken
that would explain the slur caused by bones that didn't heal right
but explaining that will come in time
needless, with the last night's injuries added, Tristan is the far prettier picture
so the Ahroun just laughs, soft and low"Ain't thatta sight f'r sore eye." mostly at his kinsman's reaction "Tris.... that's Lexi, Erik's Tribe." words chosen specifically because that's right, she's been accepted among them, and he knows how much she wanted to be of the Chosen - but to him kinfolk are just as good as Garou when it comes down to pack "Lexi.... this my kin'man, Tristan. n' he made it while 'go.....who y'think fund this place?"
head tips in gesture
warehouse that's mainly empty save the little island of bedrolls and meager amenities
all powered by the make-shift generator
and his Rite that keeps the place warm even with the broken windows
this is not a Rune-style condo(tristan)
He chuckles and grins at James. And well, if that doesn’t answer the ‘are you allright’ question, nothing he says will. He has no problem grinning, and he’s far from broken. Just... slightly... mangled? And the only thing wrong from the neck up is the sore spot on the back of his head where Decker smacked him one. That’s covered by those mismanaged curls that tickle under his jaw, across the nape of his neck.“S’a pleasure, Lexi. And yeah, saw Erik this morning briefly. Don’t know about the monte, though.”
(lexi)
This is NOT a Rune style condo...and she takes note that there was no Rune style car outside as well."Tris" she nods..a greeting of sorts...
Looking back at James.."sight for sore eyes..what the hell happened to you?" she tilts her head a bit...pulling the backpack towards her..."wanna beer?" she reaches in...the offer was to both of them...
Pulling one out for herself and holding out another, in case one of them wanted one.As private as Rune and James had been about certain unspoken things...as much as Decker and Imogen were barely affectionate in public, thats how Erik and Lexi were..no one knew truly if she was mated with the alpha, or if he had just taken her under his wing and believed in her...and for some reason...no one ever asked..
probably better that way..she had proven herself in her ways and was accepted, even by some of the tougher of the pack.
"You saw him?" she shakes her head and actually barks out what seems like a chuckle.."Fucker made it and im the last to know" she shakes her head..."good cause the money i got from him got me a shitty fuckin hotel room and its about to run out anyways...so im glad he finally got his ass here.."
(james)
the Ahroun huffs what could be a laugh"Bum thought I w's gonna take 'is booze.... dun b 'lieve me 'til I crush it infron' a him that all I wanna as' is quest'n." palm littered with lacerations held up for case in point "Backhan' me wi' is pipe."
then chin tips up in an affirmation for the beer
(allright, one beer, then sleep this headache off)(tristan)
“Oh and she brings beer! Lexi? You are my new hero.” Chuckled as he steps forward and takes the bottle gratefully, popping the top and tipping it back. He’s gotta play his corner for a while before he can stock up the warehouse proper with enough beer to see them through a couple of days.James and Rune were private – as is the pain James is now in, except with his kin. Erik and Lexi is a new one on Tris, and well no one ever questions Decker about Imogen. Or vice versa. Unless you enjoy the paint peeling stairs and the smacks upside the head. On the other hand, everyone knows that Tris is James’ kin, and there is a brotherly love, worry, throw yourself on a grenade for the other kind of connection there. Probably the only reason all them damn Get put up with the pretty boy kin.
He arches a brow as James gives the short and dirty version of what happened, and he can’t resist the grin.. “What, ya ain’t learned enough to duck yet?” mimic of what was said just the other night in reverse.
(lexi)
Giving Trustan the one beer in her hand, she tosses the one beer towards James, a nice toss, he shouldnt have much trouble catching it, and it is tossed [not like a girl] so it remains neck up and doesnt shake up...
a talent of sorts...
"Id hate to see the bum now.." she nods..then kinda chuckles slightly at the ducking comment.
Pulling another beer out, now for herself she opens it and drinks it....wiping her mouth on her sleeve [classic erik move]
She looks to Tristan.."I always bring beer" she nods..
and she did.
"So everyone pretty much made it i see...Ive been here 2 weeks...Chicago aint bad...it aint the south, colder then a witches tit in a brass bra, wind is a motherfucker....but better then Jersey thats for fucking sure"
(james)
the Ahroun stretches, and with his good hand catches the beer with a lot of give"Fuck you, Tris."
knowing he full and well deserved the dig
it shows in the (forever) lopsided grin that passes over his face
though at the mention of everyone showing up.... well...
he downs about half that beer before speaking"Erik, Deck'r, Im'gen, Tris, n' me made it, 'bout over pas' two'r three week'. Rune in Cali..... n' the res' sorta dis'pear."
(tristan)
He chuckles and spits back “tease” even though he’s chuckling too. Until there’s that drowned half of beer, and even tristan looks down at the bottle in his hand before he finally takes one of the decker made chairs (which tells you just how comfy it is) and sits, propping his foot on the edge, arm hanging over his knee.He feels for his friend – because he knows the feeling.
But he can’t help but chuckle a bit at Lexi’s comments about Chicago. “Money’s better here, so far. They were generous in Newark, but someone playing a street corner in sub zero gets extra coinage for having the balls to stand in the wind.”
(lexi)
She nods..."i dont do street corners well, i dont like people enough" she shrugs...
that was true enough..."But you got the tourists here, you hit Michigan ave, you will make good coinage.." she nods..drinking from the bottle.."How long you been here?"
(james)
the chairs are something else
mostly constructed by anything that would hold the upside-down U shape
and stress the ANYthing - boards, pipes, palettes, plastic, crates
it's a serious competition for Junkyard Wars
the couch and coffeetable pilfered from the condo about the only two things that look like real furniture
but, well, without Rune's pampering influence, the boys chosen by Eagle know how to live with minimal"Im'gen brought us ov'r bout..." an askance glance at Tristan "Two week 'go?"
(tristan)
He chuckles. “Doing street corners has kept me fed for the past 3-4 years now. All the way cross country and back till I met up with James in Jersey n settled down for a bit. I’ll give Michigan ave a try tomorrow. Thanks for the tip...”With James’ handy dandy warming rites, they only need the minimum. As long as there’s warmth, as long as there’s a place to lay their head, it’s all good. Everyone’s picked a bedroll, but Tristan. He’s not Eagles chosen any more then Lexi is, though seems a far cry easier about his status. He has a corner of a shelf that’s out of the way where he can keep his violin... other then the occasional night on the couch, it’s still ratty hotel for him.
He nods, slightly, confirming James’ time frame. “Bout that... just before that first cold snap. Damn, never thought I’d miss Jersey’s rain..”
(lexi)
"Well shit we been here ame amount of time and havent bumped into each other yet...funny i saw Decker the first day i got here, but no one else was here yet"
She looks around..."n this place wasnt so...furnished" she gives the place another look over..
She wondered why Rune was in California...but doesnt dare ask...
She hadnt been stayin here, erik said syat in the shit hole hotel till he got there, and so she had been...that was about it.
Never really even thought of stayin here..."Thinkin i should stick around here till Erik shows up here..."
(james)
it's probably not a good idea to ask why Rune is not here
it's probably not a good idea to ask how long Rune has not been here
by the way James bolts down the rest of that beer (it's a slender moon)
and the haunted look that lingers deeply hidden behind the umber of the un-black eye
it's definitely better not to ask
at least - not ask him"Think Deck'r thought 'e saw a ghos' firs' day I show up in Wick'r."
chuckled in something of a strange amusement at the memory
the actual hug from the Modi is not something that happens on any plane of reality
now that his hand isn't dripping anymore, the lanky Gnawer stands"I brought more'n 'nuff mattress fr'm the Newark place." chin lifts, nodding towards a corner beyond the bubble of light that the emergency stuff creates for their little domestic island "Pro'lly bett'r if ya both stay here 'til we get this Maneat'r thing sort out. Gonna sleep this headache off...."
empty bottle dropped into the bucketnowtrash can that was between his feet
some excuse offered for why he retreates to his bedspace
bcause it's not just the headache and bitter temper that propagated the sudden sketchiness(lexi)
"Maneater?" she looks at Tristan..."what the hell is he talking bout?" she drinks from the bottle...looking slightly perplexed...(tristan)
He looks up, and then just nods. He’ll make a trip to grab his pack from the hotel, and find one of the mattresses and bed down here. He don’t mind staying close to James – not with that haunted look in his eye and the way he slammed the beer. “Sure thing, Pa.” Tossed at him, with something of a tease.But he lifts his beer in a g’night to his friend, before nodding to Lexi. “Yeah, been some attacks, they think a cults setting up shop...”
Posted by james at November 24, 2003 12:00 AM
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