December 02, 2003
.12.02.03. - it's more than one [imogen] *me

[riverfront]

(imogen)
In some ways, there is a benefit to smoking: It gives the illusion of warmth, even if it is frigidly cold outside, the wind howling as it is. The smoke drawn into the lungs is warm, and the rush of nicotine to addicted blood vessels and brain cells is likewise, warm. The ember is burning hot, of course, but is too small to offer but the smallest of consolations, and truely, she can barely feel that, anyway.

The sky is cloudy, and the clear nights are always the coldest, so in a way, she fears what it will be like when it is clear, because it feels cold enough already, the mercury dipping to just above freezing, but her skin, wind whipped, feels that it is much colder. The wind comes from the west and is unforgiving, whining through the channels made by high city buildings.

Her jacket is buttoned to her neck, the collar flipped up for the added suggestion of warmth. She was, however, without the protection of gloves, her right hand in the pocket of her jacket (uncomfortable be damned, her hands getting frost bite was worse than her injured shoulder being put out by her posture), while the other hand sucks in what meager warmth can be offered by the cigarette smoking between her index and middle finger. And even that warmth is taken away, as she places the nearly finished fag between her lips for one final drag, her hand now freed reaching out to rap firmly on the packwarehouse door.

(james)
"Wou'n think yeh c'ld get any paler...."

the words follow blast of furnace heat from within the warehouse
that really is a useful little trick
especially when one's sleeping on the streets of Albany or NYC at this particular time of year
the burgeoning spirits of Christmas Cheer can only keep one so warm

in comparison to her covering neck and wrists and any other available bit of flesh
he's stripped down to little more than pants, socks, and boots
the faded kakhi cargos hang, baggy, belted low on his hips
(lean winter weight'll do that to a Gnawer)
cuffs wrinkled and broken about the ankles of dull leather boots
one shoulder rests against the rapidly cooling doorframe
covered by dreads that fall in haphazard gathering of jungle vines reaching for the floor
the opposite hand rests on top of the held-open door
forming a nice little frame in and of itself for the kin to walk through

"Y'r jus'in time f'r tea."

(imogen)
The blast of heat from inside almost makes her feel colder, reminding her of the chill she experiences from the outside, the chill that cuts straight through her, as she casts him a dry glance over the 'pale' comment. He has seen her pale, paler, but those are much bloodier moments, and this is nothing more than cold. It is slightly shocking how much paler she can get with this chill. Pale to begin with, the rushing of her blood away from her frigid skin toward her body's centre core leaves her skin almost translucent with the chill. The cigarette is taken from her mouth and flicked away, the ember killed as it strikes the warehouse wall.

She wastes no time getting into the cold, as she bends her head to dip beneath James's self-made door frame and into the more than welcome warmth controlled by the Gnawer's gift.

That still piques her interest, really. How it works. Air moloecules speed up when heated; what sped up these? The science of things. Searching for a reason why when things truely work on a level she cannot understand. "Figgered I'd come back 'bout th' man-eaters when yeh had less company," she explains, soaking in the warmth. "'nd tea sounds just bloody brilliant right about now, thank you."

(james)
James, apparently, is still in that good mood
rather jovial even with the prospect of what she's come to discuss
allowing the door to squeal closed on grinding hinges behind them
boots slough-scuff a slow tattoo of his strolling passage
heading towards the domestic island of Junkyard Wars rejects

"Dun jinx it." admonished in cavalier aside "Mention s'm'ne 'n they'll fuckin' appear."

perhaps there is a hint of superstition within that flagrant tone
(they should really start charging admission, at this rate)

boot connects one of the more recognizable sortofchairs
scooting in to scrape across the slab concrete flooring to situate just infront of the spaceheater
just because the inner air is downright tropical doesn't mean her core temperature will change instantly
most spaceheaters would have a coronary at the prospect of supporting a cavernous space such as this
but that little rite needs only a hint of warmth to insulate a space even such as this
and you can bet he's had that heater running since morning

the sortofchair is between the spaceheater and his bedspace
across the mattress is a smattering of papers, including the mapbook the good Doctor marked last night
the Ahroun, however continues past to the space that might, in another light, resemble a kitchen
the coffeepot is turned on to heat water
and he sets to searching for a rogue box of something soluble

"Wh't else y' got?"

(imogen)
Don't jinx it, and she smirks, her hand raising in a brief gesture as if to ward off the evil that her words might bring down on them both.

She watches him navigate his way through the warehouse, not yet sitting, instead standing near the space heater, and beginning to unbutton her jacket. Both hands. Her shoulder is healing.

"Want help?" offered as she pulls the jacket off, first one arm, then the other, more cautiously, the shoulder stiff and not able to perform the variety of movement that she expects of it. She's armed, though almost casually so, perhaps because she's been armed before, and treats the gun in the shoulder holster as a part of her daily apparel (like braiding her hair, brushing her teeth) rather than something to be considered as something more. The jacket is laid near the heater and she turns to walk toward the poor excuse for a kitchen. "Meant t'tell yeh. S'not jes' one Garou, s'gotta be... five or six, maybe more. It's a pack size. No way it could be less than five, I can guarantee that."

(james)
"If y'act'lly want tea 'stead'a hot chocolate....."

it's an offhand comment, really
they would be blessed to find anything more cultured than Swiss Miss amongst the pack's kitchen uh.... menities
and even though he has a feeling she's armed
his back is still towards her
attention focused on the boxes
long lines of muscle folding in smooth curve
dark scars standing out starkly on winter's paling flesh
lattice work crisscrossing as if he were crouched beneath some shadow-casting veranda
however he's not, and those marks will remain no matter what light he may one day walk into

and from the position - she can see his shoulders sag as she adds the last
the rustling of Mac'n'Cheese and other such boxes hitches into a silent pause
(a chill runs through him, but she can't see that)
but soon enough begins again as chin drops in sharp nod
(apparently something can dampen that formerly brilliant mood)

"....an?"

(imogen)
"Tea's fine," she answers as she crosses the unrefined barrier to the pseudo-kitchen, attention flicking across the area. Tea really is a one person affair, and despite her offer, there's not likely anything she can do.

There's a pause, and she gathers her thoughts, reorganizes the details, and steps through them one by one. "And I'm not sure what else I can tell yeh. They're definitely eatin' humans. It's not a random attack'r ... jus' bit marks. They're tearin' em apart," she stops short of actually describing the awful damage done to human flesh and bone, tucking that away in a box labelled for such gruesome deaths that have come across her table. "Swallowin' it." Unfamiliar with some of the Garou laws Imogen may be, but perhaps she knows of that particular tenet of the litany. Or equally possible, she simply has a distaste for this.

"Yer... fur," the tangent abruptly takes a detour and she alters from answering the questions to asking one. It's slow in coming, as she phrases it just so, "does it vary mostly by tribe? There are samples o' fur, an'.... well. F'r lack o' better explanation, if this weren't Garou fur, but wolf, I would say some o' 'em were different wolves, but same breed. If it works th'same f'r Garou, it might mean somethin'."

(james)
he's purposefully continuing to face away from her
box of Lipton unearthed from the box as a buried treasure
it's held, coveted, in broad hands, as deep umber studies the contents for some reason
(he won't let her see the fear surfacing in his eyes)

"I.... hear' stories'vit, when I w's a cub."

translation: she doesn't need to go into detail
they were horror stories told to those of his age
but that's not all that's getting to him
it's the stories of what happened to those simply suspected of it
(ManEaters are a Bone Gnawer camp....)
it's shaken off near visably

mug, hot water, tea bag
the steps done in quick succession
and the seeping bag in mug now held out to the kin

"Dun'a.... norm'lly texture'n color nev'r looked pas' - though I'd s'spect' Decker's coat'd look diffr'nt'n mine un'er a 'scope. I'd give yeh sample if'r when yeh wan' a test th' theory." shoulders roll in a shrug, helpess when it comes to scientific means of discovery "'m hopin' Jim'll know s'm'ne wi' the Rite t' get this ov'r wi' soon."

(imogen)
She can feel the weight of James's moodshift like she feels his rage hang in the air. She is a perceptive woman, and empathic regardless of her callousness that leads to the contrary. She regards James's scarred back for a long moment, as if by watching the line of his stooped shoulders, she might read his mind. Her gaze shifts as he speaks, and finds a point of interest that really isn't interesting at all. She won't remember it later, so it could not be of much note.

She takes the tea from him as he hands it to her, "Ta," she says, lifting the tea to inhale of the steam, her fingers catch the string of the tea bag, pulling on it slightly to allow more water to seep through the bag, and let the tea steep. She shakes her head slightly, "I don't know. Yeh all look th'same t'me, in that form," a wry smirk. "No offense."

A consideration, "I don't think yeh would make a difference. It won't prove t'me tha' s'tribe that makes th'difference in fur, it would only prove that yer fur is either like, or not like th'fur I have already." A lift of a shoulder, one sided shrug, "S'really all it is, under a microscope, anyway. Texture 'nd colour. Just I'm lookin' on it on a different level." She simplifies it, automatically, "th'shape o' the fur, th'shape o' the cells. On a larger size, that's texture 'nd colour. If that's specific t'tribe, I might be able t'say there's a possibility tha' some o' 'em are one tribe. Possibility, but not f'r sure." A smirk, "Never hold up on th'witness stand, but maybe it'll mean somethin', eventually."

She takes a swallow of the tea, wincing slightly, either at the taste or the heat, before she glances at the silver-grey watch on her wrist, "I've got t'go. I've got tests that're supposed to be done this evening," and she'd better be there to receive the responses after making them work that evening. "Thanks fer the tea," draining the cup and putting it down, probably near an accumulation of dirty dishes, before she turns, striding to her jacket, picking it up, beginning the steps of going back into the cold. Do up her buttons, tug up her collar for warmth.

"Oh, and.." as she tugs her hair free of the jacket, the braid pulled over one shoulder as she glances over at the Gnawer, "The veil's in no danger, yet. Witnesses are sayin' th'usual." But it might not always be that way, her tone suggests, but she does not say.

"Night," and she pulls open the warehouse door, and steps back out into the cold.

Posted by james at December 02, 2003 12:00 AM
Comments
Post a comment
Name:


Email Address:


URL:


Comments:


Remember info?