December 13, 2003.12.12.03. - lyrical [imogen-decker] *me[riverfront]
(imogen)
There is something about Chicago that speaks of absolute violence. Newark was worse off than here, Chicago has more money. But there's something seedy and surging just beneath the surface, just before the point of boiling over.The city is under siege in ways that most cannot comprehend, and even those who do, sometimes it must be amazing to comprehend. The caern is failing. The sept is dismembered. The spirits turn on the Garou. And tonight, the sky is blanketed in clouds, a dimness that only winter can have, as snow falls. Movies and books are often inclined to give the misconception that snow fall is soft, delicate and picturesque. Here, the snow fall is whipped by the wind and swirling in eddies, flakes twisting and snapping before coming to a final fall on the ground. It's cold enough for the snow to stay. What has accumulated is small, but greying quickly. It is not white. It is grey, tainted by the street's filth in a matter of minutes.
Her head ducks as the wind plays havok through her hair, half bound, but quickly losing that coherency, strands of roan and flame flying free to get in her eyes, pausing her attempt to light her cigarette paused in the alcove of the coffee shop, where the wind seems to get her, even there. The coffee cup is placed on the window's ledge, before she pushes back the strands, out of the possibility of flame's way. Cigarette in mouth, she cups her lighter's flame and lights up.
(james)
the good doctor isn't the only one with which the wind is playing havoc
in fact, the persistent strikes of whipping air are having their way with just about any and everybody on the street
little Bryan clinging to his mother's gloved hand else be carried away by the stinging flurries
two lovers huddling together like mourning doves to coo sweet nothings of warm into each other's ears
a various after-hours denizen jumping into a waiting cab's heated, protective shell
and even one Bone Gnawer - who seems to be destined to face such assaults alonedreads are held back by not only the infamous grey bandana
but this time he's got a double-layered beanie pulled down tight over the tangled mess
and it almost matches the scarf wrapped around his neck, tails shoved into the front of the buttoned trench
half the buttons are missing on the battered and beloved coat - but it serves its purpose
capturing the warmth that seeps outwards as if with each breath
only the extremities of the tattered tails below his thighs flapping in erulent gusts
even as his head tucks to brace against the onslaught of weather and windboots crunch through the gathering snow
quickening soft white's journey to slushy grey
there's a look in dark eyes as they skim the road and sidewalk
but it's one that is so far unreadable(imogen)
The cigarette is lit, and smoke spills from her mouth with her exhale as she retrieves her coffee cup, steaming in the chill and steps out into the full force of the wind.She's considerably better off than James. Her jacket has all its buttons and is probably warmer than his, the wool not quite a perfect barrier for the wind, but it protects some, nonetheless.
She watches James as he walks for a minute or two, her eyes narrowing in the wind, before her course alters and she crosses to fall into step beside him. Casual and without commentary. She might actually understand the concept of 'pack' and the comfort of it, more than she lets on. Or she simply has some knowledge that it would be rude to see the Garou, watch him wake away, and then, having stepped up beside him, finding she has nothing to say.
The cigarette is taken from her mouth, the filter caught between her fingers curved against the coffee cup as she exhales. It's cold enough that no matter what, their breath is visible, and her cigarette smoke scattered by the wind as her head ducks briefly, reaching into her pocket with her free hand, pulling the cigarette package free from her pocket. The packet is gestured in the Gnawer's direction in offering, a ruddy eyebrow arching in query.
Imogen's presence is always noticeable. It does not have the punch of rage, more subtle, the scent of her breeding, the ache of her purity, the story in her blood. And then more, familiar and not, the crawl of silver, enough to set any Garou's teeth on edge. The weapon meant to kill a Garou. The weapon used only for their kind.
The slender redhead's hand brushes against the thigh of her jeans briefly as James takes the cigarettes, if he does, her attention flicking briefly forward, dark blue eyes narrowing in the snow. "S'official," she says finally, low british tones as she takes a sip of her coffee. "S'fuckin' winter."
(james)
the Ahroun takes the cigarettes allright
while all smoking does is provide the stimulus that only makes you think you're getting warmer
it's the very act of playing with fire that is enough to seal the deal
not to mention it gives him something to do with his hands other than clench fists in his pockets
the movements of extracting a cancerous stick a little slower than normal
the good doctor far better off than he, especially when one takes into consideration his gloves
or, for the most part, the lack thereof
the tips of most of the fingers are gone
and the rebar sticks have worn through a better part of the palms
you can make a Gnawer replace a hat, even adopt a scarf - but don't even think about taking his gloveshe doesn't quite have the same issues with the lighter, however
once Imogen's pack is returned, he reaches up to sheild the almighty firing
there's a thick snp followed by a minute green glowwindproof. baby.
awwww yeah"Leas' Alb'ny was white whennit snow'."
comment spilling on a torrent of crystalizing breath and smoke
as if they were permanently writ into the chilly air they passed when spoken
they must be quite the pair:
she - of dulcet British tones, university training, and purest breeding backed by the constant nerve-jarring crawl of silver, buttoned up in a warm wintercoat that precisely defines a certain unspoken class within her slender, just past five foot frame
he - of slurred and thickly accented words covered by dreadlocks and tattered second-hand clothing, there could never be a thing remotely "pure" about him - except, perhaps, his Rage, which even though he sets a pace which is a stroll (one step for ever one and a half of hers, even if she adjusts to keep up with him) seems to roll and bounce infront of them no matter how much the moon is slimming in the sky high aboveeach carries the weapon which was made to, quite easily, inflict irreversible damage on the other
perhaps they both understand the intricate concept of pack no matter how its purpose shifts between Garou and Kin(imogen)
Cigarettes are pocketed and she smirks briefly, her boot scraping against the gritty grimy snow, glancing downward at the greyed substance. "Makes yeh realize," she says, idly, as her steps readjust. She walks at his pace. Slender and petite, Imogen is much smaller than James, dwarfed by his lanky frame. It is not as pronounced as it is with some of his heftier breathren, but there, nonetheless. "Just 'ow dirty th'city is if it's only just started snow, an' it looks like this." Later in the winter, when the snow was thicker, it would not be so grey. But even that was deceptive. White snow upon slightly dingier snow, upon dingier snow, upon dirty snow that was hidden by the white. Certainly, this was not like Albany. And it was likely not like Britain, either.Disguising what was there.
She was better off in that she wears gloves, leather slides over her slender fingers, taut against her knuckles. It creaks softly as she places the cigarette back in her mouth. Their own little contribution to the pollution of Chicago.
The sun has set completely, leaving the street lights to be the only illumination. At best, seventy five percent of the lamps work, their orange illumination dull and dismal, as it catches in the swirling white flakes, it truly does very little to brighten the night, more simply chases away the shadows from parts of the sidewalk, parts of the road.
The moon was waning now, and it was perhaps safer for her to carry her weaponry beneath her clothing, hidden at the base of her back (he's seen her with it often enough, stayed on her damned couch often enough when she's needed to wear it, to know where she keeps it). Safer because the People it irritates (the People it protects her from) are less irritable now. The moon is waning, and rage begins to ebb.
The snow has made the roadways treacherous. Her head turns to watch a car, poor make, old tyres, drive down the road several blocks away. The tyres squeal their fury as the driver, taking the road too fast, turns a hard left, the back tyres losing their grip, fish tailing wildly before the impatient driver finds his grip once more and revs out of sight, his lesson unlearned.
(james)
dark eyes strafe towards the flashing taillights of the fishtailing car
two orbs the color of Gaia's rich, earth moist after the spring rains
such a stark contrast to the filthifying streets absorbing the blanket of once white
he can't help the slight smirk that spreads lopsided around the Camel clenched between his teeth"Like th' city suckin' the v'ry pur'ty outta the frozen rain?"
cancerous stick pinned between two mostly gloved fingers
a prop used to gesture vaguely with the notion to ash the collecting log
(everyone contributes in their own little way)
he's lived in Albany, New York, Hibernia, Newark
even to a Gnawer, all scabworlds have an element of similarity
it's what makes the countryside so shocking
it's what makes the pine-sol smell so damned hard to get out of one's sinuses
that strange happenstance of purity that serves as a stark reminder of what they're fighting for
(spend too long in the city and you can begin to forget)(imogen)
His eyes speak of the ground and earth, loamy colours and tones, and her eyes are of more heavenly things, the space between the stars, the colour of the night. It's hard to tell, now, with the sun down and the lights orange, the exact colour of her eyes, instead the darkness being nearly black, unfathomable as she takes another hit off her cigarette, inhaled, eyes narrowed as she turns her head to look at him, an eyebrow lifting.Smoke drifts out with her words, "Yer feelin' lyrical, tonight," notes the former Fianna, mildly amused. "Or broodin'. Not sure which."
There's something to be said for the wilderness, the lack of civilization. The purity of life that was not able to live in the scabs of the city. Something compelling when the colours are green and bright, rather than grey and dismal.
She sniffs her coffee cup, thinks better of it, and tosses it into a garbage can as they walk. It was easier to smoke or drink coffee, rather than one and the other at the same time, and she chooses her addictions wisely.
(decker)
Down the street there's a clutter of bums in the archway of some old bank-building or other. In the shadow of vaguely gothic grey stone, out of the grey snow, four or five transients huddle for warmth.No, correction. Four of them huddle together all the way on one side of the archway, as close to the wall as they could get. The sour stink of too many months without a bath mingles with the sourer stink of fear.
At the other side of the archway, not quite leaning against the wall, crouches an indistinct shape in grey and black. It stirs; a jolt of grey eyes in the shadow and the thick clothing falls on Imogen and James coming up the street.
The bundle unfolds to its feet and takes on shape: powerful shoulders supporting heavy winter jacket; thick baggy denims falling in folds over scuffed old secondhand shoes. Never one to be called lithe, though beneath the voluminous clothes there is a lean sharklike sparseness to his power, he stands with his feet apart, hands casually held a few inches from his sides. One of them rises to flick back the hood of the greyish (actually, it used to be black, once upon a time) sweatshirt he wears underneath the winter jacket. He looks oddly at home in the snow. Not at ease - too fuckin cold - but right, somehow. His ancestors lived their whole lives in snow. Instead of denim and thick cotton and sweats, they wore fur and leather and skins. Put him in fur and leather and skins and he'd fit right in with them.
Nod up to the two, James and Imogen. The flakes coming down settle on his shoulders, light grey darkening to dark grey fading into small shiny points of wetness as it melts.
(james)
the glance cast towards her mild amusement is nearly sly
lower rim of the beanie inched upwards as a mirroring brow lifts beneath it
the next plume of coiling smoke offered to the night might just be on the wings of a soft laugh"Ain'eith'r." his mentors' fur would go grey, to hear such language "Pro'lly both."
shoulders roll beneath the heavy layers of trench and sweater and thermal and who knows what else
the movement is smooth and absent, negligent of the muscle with surprising strength beneath
it tosses and jumbles the tattered tails dancing around his ankles
it shifts and rummages through the dreads ponytailed over his yoke
aberrant movements further amplified by the whistling play of wind"Dun' like this time'a year, much.... 'n dun' think you ev'r seen me p'form streetside. Leas' when I was waxin' lyr'cal."
meanwhile, behind the quiet thesad of terrified bums:
a Fenrir uncoils
something pulses along the invisable telegraph lines
dark eyes switchstance 1:30 and James' chin lifts
though - he's chuckling softly again, tongue clicking a tsk against teeth"Swear'm gonna have to buy'm a parka f'r Chris'mas... he's g'nna be hyp'thermic by New Year."
(imogen)
He isn't either. He's probably both. A sound of acknowledgement, low in her throat. She's heard what he said. She may agree, or not, the sound is untelling, and uninformative beyond her acknowledgement."Winter in th'city is 'nythin' but picturesque," she replies, vaguely, as she ashes her cigarette, tapping it, the accumulation falling free to the grey of the snow, the cement. "'nd no, I haven't." Seen him perform.
Her attention shifts, a heartbeat after James to see Decker unfolding from his crouch near several deeply traumatized bums (if she inhaled the right way, she might even smell their fear. certainly, James could. Decker could), pushing the hood down off his head. She considers him a minute, a gaze, and there's like an automatic nod in return. James speaks in undertone and she smirks briefly, her gaze flicking his way, and she smirks. "Yeh might have t'. S'only gonna get colder."
That was certainly a cheery thought. The weather was certainly cold enough
(decker)
(don't wait for me to post, guys - i'm feeling amazingly unverbose *LOL*) Without a word he turns and falls into step beside them. Silver allergy: the hints of it on Imogen keeps him unconsciously away from her, flanking her from a distance of six inches or more. Like a minor form of his own rage buffer.Having nothing to say, he punctuates their conversation with faint pops: one gloved hand in the other, and he's methodically popping his knuckles one at a time.
(james)
that's right folks, one Fenrir popsicle - get yours while supplies last
for unlike their coiled and fearsome counterpart, James and Imogen were raised in far colder climates
it leads to a moderate degree of acclimatization to Chicago's rather unfriendly weather"S'hard'r, now. Leas' on the lyr'cal side."
the hand that moves to flick then cast away his cig to the gutter gestures at his jaw
drumming still provides a steady income when there are others braving the weather to hear it
and it's not as if the Ahroun is lacking the inspiration
pain, poverty, heartbreak, insurmountable odds in an unending war - the very lifeblood of art
people just aren't as willing to drop donations into a hat when the barker seems drunk
and perhaps the lack of outlet would be why James popped off just nowhands, now unused, find their way back into his pockets: shoved nice and deep
and if they were a sight to see before, the addition of the Modi must make it really interesting
the good doctor suddenly picking up Guido and Sancelli from the street's likely lots
each keeping a respectable distance to her matriarchy because nobody else would know it's a gut reaction to her hidden silveronce his hand is in his pocket, a paper bag crinkles
(shit, forgot about that, didn't you Jamey-boy)
and fingers wrap fist about the slenderly rolled package
it's extracted for handoff behind Imogen's back towards Decker
length of their arms still providing a nice little safety bubble for the weapons beneath wool
empty hand once more returning to the relative safety of his pocket(decker)
Decker brings the baggie up into the light, grey eyes narrowing to read the inscription on the dealer's sticker. A star of david; 'death grip'. He's spent enough time on the streets to know it has nothing to do with judaism."Ain't see that tag 'fore." He lets the baggie unfurl and opens it up, sticking his nose in for a quick, deep sniff. Then he reseals it, putting it in his pocket. Prime shit. "Who'dja git'it from?"
(imogen)
James and Decker keep their distance because of her silver, the unending shivering pulse of danger that can make their skin crawl. Their distance might actually be a blessing in disguise to the kinfolk; it keeps her out of immediate reach of their dual rage. It does not quite overlap over her, so much as catch her in their borders, sizzling through her flesh. The moon was not yet half, and their Gaia-given gift was still strong, still an effort to bear.Still, that might be a strange experience, to be unable to feel the silver, but know that someone else does, not because it's been said, but because she can see it, has seen it, and will see it again. Reaction to the deadly metal in a way she would never understand.
"No," she says, "I suppose not." If James were human, perhaps operation could be performed to reset the bones, or at least make them more bearable, his speech easier. However, Gaia's gift to her warriors is a double edged sword. Once something heals wrong? it will heal forever wrong, no matter what the skill of the surgeon was.
Her attention shifts, glancing briefly over her shoulder as the Ahroun passes something to the modi behind her. It might be something she can gauge, what was passed behind her, but certainly this isn't much of a conversation she has a part in.
(james)
prime shit: there's glitters of purple on the deep, moist green
the Ahroun wouldn't bring dirt weed back for the pack"Y'll fin' th' tag out by Hyde." a glance at the Modi, easily over the top of the kinfolk's head - it's not that James was trying to hide anything, just that passing it infront of her would have been rude "Got it fr'm Smokey. Dunna if that his pack 'r jus' his deal'r."
which may, then, make one wonder about the purity of the smoke
he knows that's the pack that cracked some caps at Jim
but the loose ends are still dangling, and he's not sure who's story is true
easily enough, however, his attention drops back to the previous conversation at hand"Guess I missit." smirked "Maybe I shou'd write it all down, nuh, 'n b'come the nex' mod'rn vox-prim'tive Beat."
(decker)
Faint smirk, catching Imogen's mild over-the-shoulder curiosity. Decker holds up the baggie between two fingers. An ounce of the good shit, cellophane wrapped, baggie over that.He could smell it anyway.
"Ain't nothin' yer s'pposed to be in'narested in," Decker slurs, a glimmer of tooth showing behind his crooked smirk. Then shift gears to James, "Who's Smokey?"
(imogen)
A sound low in her throat, harsh enough to be a scoff, amused as it is. ""I never saw a thing," she replies, blandly, a gesture of her chin toward the baggie, before she shakes her head briefly.James receives an absent nod in reply to what he says. The thread of two conversations is too much for her to follow.
(james)
something she's not supposed to be interested in
yet somehow they occasionally find the good doctor smoking with them
helluva lot more reliable than getting her to share a meal
James' amusement is far less harsh"'memb'r th' black kid at th' school? BeeGee w'th a gun ready a cap s'm'nes ass? Him."
(decker)
Fight alongside someone and don't even know their names. Let's hear it for Decker's people skills."Nh." That's an 'oh' that you don't have to open your mouth to say. Good idea, given the temperatures. Decker reaches behind his shoulder to tug the hood back up over his head. James had dreadlocks. Imogen had untameable hair. He had an eighth of an inch of blond bristles. He was losing a lotta heat through the top of his fuckin head.
"Mark found some maneaters chompin' on his kin," he says suddenly. For someone who filters certain topics so carefully and so stringently, he can also spin out random comments as they occur to him with little or no thought. "Killed one, 'n the other got away. See Erik lately?"
(imogen)
She's paying attention. She doesn't pretend not to, though there have been times where she has done that, hidden her intentions, but she doesn't bother too much at this moment.Maneaters are probably why she carries silver now. If they are 'chompin'' on kin, such a precaution hardly seems unlikely.
(james)
"Hm'm."that's a negation backed by a lot of thought
it's accompanied by an expression that drips towards a scowl
(good bet he's more brooding than lyrical)"Mark say wh't the fucker was?"
rarely does James swear, much less cast dispersions or insults
and as his attention focuses very carefully on his packmate
now is probably not the time to filter
(decker)
"Ya see 'im, tell'im Mark wantsta borrow his services."A grunt, then, as they turn the corner and find themselves on the street back to the warehouse. The amazing ability of the Eagles to zone in on home without even trying.
"Dead one's a Gnawer. Other one's a Talon." What else?
(james)
"Fuckin' beaut'ful."more under his breath than a response to present company
'round the bend, and surprisingly enough, they're back on their home street
his chin lifts up, sufficing for a gesture to those gathered ahead
(can't miss that Monte's engine)"Pro'lly ask Lexi a tell'm."
though the underlying acknowledgement is there
Posted by james at December 13, 2003 12:00 AM
even if it seems, at times, the kinfolk see their alpha more than the Garou do
he'll pass the message on
Totemphone it, if nothing else
(what it's fucking there for, isn't it)
though with another of those trademark nod up phrases
the Gnawer veers off towards the snowy night instead of den's warmth
CommentsPost a comment