December 14, 2003.12.14.03. - rite of manflesh [mother larissa] *me[new york city, central park, sept of the green - RETRO]
(james)
for one thing, it would have been a helluva lot easier to go back to Albany
the city was home, the Sept was Family - but that was only the silver lining
the crux of the problem presented itself in the black stormcloud of which the glittering lining surrounded
several years ago he did not depart the city on the best of terms
the subsequent visit to honor Sledge's mother's passing also didn't go incredibly wellJames had hoped to avoid confrontation in the breif journey home
remaining anonymous and distant throughout the solem ceremony ending in celebration of the respected kin's life
to this day, the challenge issued by his ex-packmate's younger brother weighs heavily on his heart
as a child the Ahroun learned a Garou's life was too short to harbor regrets
yet he finds painful memories continue to gather dark pool lapping acid at the shores of his mind
the skirmish with the greiving Ragabash remains a rare thorn invsably worming into his side
Kyle never forgave him Sledge's death, no matter the undeniable fact she had fallen to the Wyrm
not even a Cliath at the time, the No Moon refused to believe a great Ahroun could do nothing to stop it
distraught, he could not forgive the perceived insult of the Gnawer's returned presence
removed from the celebration, the night ended in the frightening display of blood and fursince, James has only returned to a small, deserted field north of the city
accompanied by nothing more than deep sorrow and - only once - his matesuch sorrows find themselves floating in the depths of umber eyes
reflecting liquidly the letters proclaiming the approach of Warrior's Gate
now was not the night to risk confrontation in such a time of need
these things are cast away when his mind clears passing beneath the barrier
they are not needed for completion of his task at hand
instead he remembers the success of earning rank few months pastfrom a strategic strap on the small duffle bag slung over his shoulder
two lengths of rebar find their way into his hands
at the site of a convenient boulder of granite the bag is lain beside his boots
and a series of strikes creates echoing rhythm offered at the feet of the bawnbone rhythms
the high pitched melody which croons to the distant presence of Mera at Bethseda Fountain
the softer harmony to murmur in Mouse's meek ears nestled in the grasses of the Great Lawn
the strengthened beat which announces his presenceto any others, his departure would seem nothing more than a street performer unsatisfied with the acoustics of the rock
winter creates another landscape of Central Park
gone are the lazing citizens enjoying picnics on fields of lush green
the summer flowers that seemed to bloom for his acceptance as Fostern had become dormant
white dunes from recent storms throw glittering stars against the night's velvet sky
the trees reach for the ground beneath the weight of pristine, icy ornaments
frosted snow crunches mutely beneath the soles of secondhand boots
the tails of tattered trench flutter and play in the flurries of passage aftermath
dreads hang heavy to insulate warmth about his head and shoulders
breath plumes steam into the lamplit darknessthe path takes him past Stranger's Gate and around the slopes of The Great Hill
a quiet nod all that greets the curious looks, or perhaps the beginning of a (forever) lopsided smile
patience a virtue as whispers rocket through the Park's proverbial grapevine
he does not need to add to the cacophany of sound creeping in from the surrounding metropolis
there is a reason he chose to enter at the Park's northern border
it is not until he nears the path's split towards the Precinct that words pass his lips"Flaaaash."
the familiar greeting offered as the public relations Garou materializes slickly out of the shadows
dark eyes slanted to the side when the Glasswalker joins his trek
and soon the two pause beside a bench to exchange a concise set of pleasentries
all a means of returning to another's territory covered before the Gnawer attends to the matter
while desperately ignoring the overwhelming Pine Sol scent burning his sinuses from the nearby Ross Pinetum"I need Moth'r's help." Chiminage paid in the form of bills pressed into Simon Gentle's hand, the sheer amount donated to the park's maintenance perhaps explaining the depth of his need. "Will sh' see me?"
A brow on Simon's head lifts in curiosity at the change in James' pattern of speech, the tell-tale ridge along the line of his jaw which inspires query to the battlescar, and remains lofted during a quick thumb through of the cash; but the Philodox's cool and calm demeanor never once betrays a thought. Moments stretch to minutes before the nod comes. Slowly. Controlled. "Wait by the Elm."
"As Sim'n se'z." Countered with a showman's wink - he understands Flash's need for acceptance and reinforcement though makes nothing of it, overtly - the duffle stuffed with several sets of winter clothing and two blankets wrapped around four family size cans of Thick'n'Chunky soup for those that need it left on the bench for the other to take. "Chim." Bag tapped lightly with the tips of rebar. "S'f'r Spotli'."
Posted by james at December 14, 2003 12:00 AM
CommentsPost a comment