January 14, 2004.01.14.04. - from one to the next [decker-nelly][riverfront, warehouse, forums]
From One To The Next: Searching For The Eagles
(nelly bell crenshaw)
The aftermath was spent in termoil. She and LeRoy both recouping at thier own safehouse.. better known as Ted and Emmit's. For two days her crinosed form had lingered in the two story house, taking great joy in the care of her baby girl whom she had so desperatly wanted to see again. It was difficult being a full time mother, a full time gibbious moon, a full time garou. The phone was ringing off the hook... her personal secretary, Ted, answering all incoming calls from the pack and relaying their status to she and Butta. She had even forced Mesk to come down from the attick and have a propper meal.But another face has flickered thru her mind in the sad passing hours. A familiar face, scarred, bloodied. It had plauged her till she simply had to see for herself. In the early hours of Friday morning, she pulled herself from the safe house and headed towards the newfound destination. On a Huffy bike, traversing the chilled air, she headed towards the warehouse where last she knew the Eagle Pack gathered.
Her face was flushed from the bite in the wind by the time she got there... body shivering from the cold.. and anxiety, anticipation. She leaned the bike against the side of the wearhouse, pausing just at the door. Her hand tucking those platinum blonde locks behind her ears... straightening the black leather thigh length coat over once. Then she knocked, with the soft side of her fist... wincing at the sharp annoying pain of the metal door and her own skin's frostbite. Maybe they'd be here... maybe they relocated. Worth a try either way... better then sending in a bee spirit in the midst of a pack of full moons.
(decker)
Since she was knocking at the metal door - the bay door - Decker pulling up in his truck damn near runs her over. The recently souped-up black Tacoma screeches to a rocking halt and then idles. Driver's side door shoves open and the Modi plants one foot on the running board, leaning out of the door to eye the platinum-blonde Walker."Well haail," deliberately drawing out the deep-southern drawl, "if it ain't Nelly Bell Crenshaw from Skid Row. Hell you want with th'Eagles?"
(nelly)
Heart attack. Thats what it was... weavern to boot, barreling top speed at her. She knew that the weaver would be her undoing, sooner or later; but she didn't expect Death's black wings to take the form of a damn 'played with' truck.She did what any southern blonde would do in this situation: she clutched her heart... one hand rising firmly upon her left breast... slammed herself against the metal bay door, closed tightly those bedroom blues and hoped to God she had on clean underwear.
Painfree sensation after a minute of silence is what brought one eye open, then the next. Sighing relief, her hands rising to push back stray locks of hair. At least she wasn't cold anymore...
"Tsk tsk, and here Ah thought Ah was in the welcome company of 'notha Rebel." She stepped out of the way of the truck, her lashes fluttering with the onslaught of chilled winds, "Why don't ya climb ya fine ass out of that truck and come see, sugah?" already stripping gloves from her dirt stained hands as one blonde eyebrow gracefully arches.
(james)
1. there's a knock on the big bay doors
2. there's the screech of brakes and familiar idle of the Tacoma's engine
3. there's the thunk of something slamming against the door in far more purposeful "knock"
4. there's an exchange of voices just outside5. just as Nelly takes a step foward the metal doors rattle on rusted chains
what used to be operated by hydraulics now bearing the brunt of Bone Gnawer leverage
rubber insulation strip lining the bottom lifted until it hovers a comfortable distance above his head
grinding protest of old metal echoing through the cavernous space of the mostly empty warehouse
calloused fingertips lazily perched on the lower rim as James takes in the situation before him
body resting in slow stretch to work out the kinks in all-but-healed musclesone Yank facing two Rebels
in another time and place this would probably be amusing
right now: it's one Southern Gibbous flanked by two of Eagle's Full Moons
(and one black truck of winged death)chin tilts up in a slow nod up to his packmate
dark eyes roaming away from Decker to stop on the Walker(nelly)
It was metal against metal that brought her head around; those bedroom blues lazily narrowing upon the slow acention of the bay door. She saw sneakers... and her heart began to speed with anticipation. The wanting for one face playing in her head... scarred, bloodied, bruised... absolutely beautiful. Time began to slow as her hearing drowned of all but the sound of her own blood racing thru veins. The frigid air, the idal of the truck, the dagger eyes of the Fenrir... all dissappaited like early morning fog. The sun she wished to see... her sun, her muse... the first bright ray in a millineum it seemed.But it was dissapointment which stole her heart away. The sight of a face she not expected, she did not yearn for. Though beautiful in its ownright, it was not HIM.
She frowned, softly, and tossed her hair back with a flick of her head, "An' then there were two..." her smile widening, regaining that sweet yes-i'm-a-blonde composure shown for one and all. Her gaze swept back to the truck, to Deker, then returned upon James...., "Well, aren't ya gonna invite a gal in from this weatha? Got a bit to chat about and Ah'd rather not like mah lips freezin' off in the meantime...."
(decker)
Decker's eyes don't flicker between Nelly and James.
They don't flicker to the door.
They don't move from her.
They don't blink.Like steel, solid and unflinching, his gaze holds for a long, expressionless, unpleasant moment. Then, reanimation: a slow low snort that might've been a chuckle in a past life. He reaches over and kills the ignition on the truck, yanking the keys out, dropping them in his pocket. Then he climbs out of the Tacoma and slams the door behind him.
Walking past James and Nelly both, he enters the warehouse through the rolling bay door.
"Chat 'bout what?"
The inside of the warehouse is dark. The only lighting comes from the emergency lights ringing the sides about 9' off the bare concrete floor. Power comes from a diesel generator sitting by the wall. The ceiling is gently sloped, perhaps 20' off the ground on average, and small, fogged windows are set high in the sides. Apart from a small bathroom, the entire warehouse is one enormous room. Sleeping pads and mattresses encircle a domestic circle at the rough center of the warehouse: a few roughshod, homemade chairs and tables, an electric stove, a buzzing college-sized fridge. A much larger icebox, from which Decker fishes a beer.
Popping it open with a hiss, he turns back to the Glass Walker, a decision made in the meantime.
"Ya comin' in?" If that careless drawl was an invitation, it certainly wasn't engraved.
(james)
when the first response to Nelly's query runs along the lines of Haven't slammed the door shut, have I?
there may be something to be said about a Gnawer packing up with a bunch of Fenrir
most specifically focused on the detail of "too long"
James, however, keeps such a phrase to himself
highlighting why he still retains the title of pack's PR guythe Modi stalks past - thug's swagger coiled into deceptively deliberate steps
beer hisses open, and the raggedyman's hand gestures secondary invitation
sweeping with open palm in towards the dark interior
as close to a formal doorman's sweeping bow as anyone gets around Eagle pack
soon as she passes within the door rattles back towards the ground
visual barrier acting to retain the generator's cast-off heat
regardless if his Cardboard Palace rite would do it anyway
and that's the funny thing about the warehouse itself - it's warm
even with the metal walls and cracks in some of the blacked out windows
Chicago's unforgiving winter doing all it can to suck away the precious heat
the inside of the darkly cavernous space is downright comfortableother than the questionability of the Junk Yard Wars reject furniture....
though they may not be remotely recognizable as an inviting much less pleasent place to sit
at least the pseudochairs and kindoftables have survived the pack for this long
so it must be safe to assume they're sturdy enough to hold someone's weight for a conversation
within the veritable swamp of scrounged and make-shift materials
there is one shining beacon of domesticity on the island of inhabitance
hiding in the shadows created by the emergency lights haloing above
a single piece of decent furniture: one leather couch gleaned from the GlassWalker's posh apartment
it's seen better days, and most of those prior to several months ago
stains, tears and insults with origins as questionable as the other furniture's components
but it does offer a choice in the risky search for a safe location to sitonce inside, the blond Southern gal is left to her own devices
little more than another wave of the Gnawer's hand giving her the choice to stand or sit
his secondhand Cochran's thump muted cadence across the cement floor
(high time you found another pair of boots, Jamey-boy)
ice rattles in the chest as another two longnecks are pulled free
low whistle serves to catch Nelly's attention, brow and second bottle lift in questionshould she accept, the beer slings lazy arch crossing the distance between so she can catch it without the majority of contents turning to foam, otherwise the bottle's shoved back into the cooler until needed
Posted by james at January 14, 2004 12:00 AM
[in progress]
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