January 25, 2004.01.25.04. - blowin' off steam [decker-imogen-tristan-barny][riverfront]
(tristan)
There’s movement in the warehouse, which isn’t all that unusual. The big bay door is actually open about 4 feet even (don’t even ask how much he had to fight the aging hydrolics to get it there) and there’s steam billowing out into the cold air, as well as the spill of water. Only if one looks (scents) can you see the tinge of pink (crimson) to the water as it flows through the shoveled path direct to the drain by the curb. He’s taken careful pains to be sure that he’s not just up and staining the snow outside into the remnant of a bloodbath.Mopped and scrubbed the cement first, to get the majority off. Then follow it with a hose pilfered from some construction site nearby – the high powered type that doesn’t just rinse away the blood but BEATS it into beaded submission, sending it into the carefully shoveled path. Which is here he is now.
He tossed a coat on and zipped it up over bare skin that glistened with sweat for the work he’d been doing, pulled on his gloves and cap, and is now just outside the bay door, making sure the last of any pink (crimson) tinged snow is sent into the gurgling drain as well. Fucking Get and their dick waving contests.
(james)
imagine this:one Bone Gnawer
parked sideways on a sort'vebench
faded BDUs forming an arch between boots planted on either side
dreads hanging in tangled organization across bare shoulders
creating a strangely latticed pattern over the haphazard dark of ashen scars spreading over his back
some falling forward, as if reaching for the take-out platter of Chinese between his thighs
free hand is balancing a bottle of beer on his knee
the other is returning from the latest page-flip of the book spread open on the other side of the foodfrom the dent already in the box of take-out
it would seem he had been sitting here for awhile
when in reality he's sure to have helped the kinsman clean up whatever it was the Get were doing in their form of interior decorating
the Ahroun was just quicker to subsequently distract himself when the job was done
making diligent efforts to move away from the open bay door and return to the warehouse's welcoming heat
plastic bags of food brought back for the pack resting by the cooler
which, also, is healthily stocked with a new source of beer(decker)
He frowns at her for a moment, though the smirk doesn't quite fade. Finally, as she's pulling up, he glances out the window - a halfhearted glance, just habit, just instinct to make sure he's where he should be - and then back. A resurfacing curve to his mouth doesn't quite obliterate the line between his eyebrows, but it's still more than most people have ever seen."...now yer pokin' fun at me."
Getting out before the vehicle was quite stopped, he unzips his jacket and then makes his way to the bay doors, throwing them up and open. He hadn't closed the passenger's side door yet on her car. Turning back, leaning in, he adds, "'S purty sad when the best the Fianna kin do is send their kin out with insults."
Yeah, it took him that long to think up a good retort.
Straightening up, nudging the door shut, he adds, "Park inside if ya want."
Whether she does or not, he heads on it. Oh look, clean floor. Aw. Guess Tristan couldn't stand the thought of a dirty floor, no matter what his resolve for making the Get take care of their own damn messes. Good thing Tristan did that, too. Decker had forgotten all about the mess, and fuck knows how he woulda explained it if Imogen walked in and got her shoes stuck to the floor.
Some of that formidable wall goes back up as he's crossing the distance between bay doors and domestic circle. Every layer of outerwear stripped off is, ironically, a layer of armor laid on. The faint hint of a smirk vanishes when he ditches the jacket. The frown screws back into place when he's unzipping his sweatshirt, leaving it in a puddle on the seat of one of those 'chairs' he made. For a while his head disappears into the fridge. Then, rearing up, "Ain't we got no more--" his eyes fall on the cooler. He shuts up, heads over. Picks one out.
All casual-like, "Place looks clean."
(barney)
Barny is moving along the dark streets. He had to get out fo the house for a while, his head swimming at the moment.
'Awake, and calmer, the girl has clung to him like a necklace almost all of the time he was home. While he gladly offers his protection, his inability to even speak to the young girl left him flustered, and not so little aggrevated. Throwinghis hand sup int the air, he let Faith take the girl, as he stalked out into the winter's chill, almost slamming the door behind him, his rage boiling i his bones, threatening to burst out in some violent action that would damn him utterly. That was 2 hours ago, and the rage is still a furnace in his blood, keeping him warm.'
He hasnt really thought about were he was heading. he just walked, but the nise of a car passing not far from him, just a warehouse down makes him blink, and look around. Familiar neighbourhood, he loks to the gas station, then shrugs. As long as he is here, he might as well see if any of the Eagles are at their place. He doubt's it though. After all, twicehe has been there, and twice no one was home. Well, none of the eagles anyway. Stalking through the winter night, he turns, heading between two of the large structures,, heading for a third. Which has a car infront of it. Interesting. The huge ahroun stalks on, boots pounding the ground. He has no need for stealth.(imogen)
It took him that long to come up with the retort, and it took her a moment or two longer to decipher it. The barrier came when kin and can for him was the same sounding word, with meanings different, and for a moment she misunderstands one for the other, and the sentence cycles in her mind in a loop that doesn't make sense. When it does, she smirks briefly in reply, "S'not particularly tha' hard when the Fenrir take so much as insulting," her retort faster in coming, though the moments of her own confusion lost her precious seconds.The kin doesn't park inside, not when the floor looks recently cleaned, and perhaps even if it wasn't. Instead, she gets out of the car, shutting it behind her with a careless motion of a gloved hand, shoulders shifting beneath the weight of her jacket as the cold strips her of what warmth she'd gotten from the car ride.
Her steps pause briefly as she catches sight of Barny a block down, head turning his way to consider, briefly before stepping inside, hands shoving into the pockets of her jacket.
(tristan)
He most assuredly did help with the clean up once he arrived to find the Pretty boy kin pretty well drenched in an amount of blood that would make the normal boys turn white, and/or get sick. (Remember that gay boy who won fear factor? He ain’t got nuthin on Tristan. Who else would start a meal for all the crazy fuckers while the blood was still pouring, knowing they’d be starved afterwards?) James had taken a look, and pitched in without question. He loves that about him. Really.Finally he gets the last bit into the drain, satisfied there is not enough of a scent or a drop of anything that resembles blood on the path to the warehouse, or most importantly, on the cement inside. As the car is pulling up, he’s coiling the hose back into his hand, and leaving it just inside the now wide open bay doors. Straight to the water spicket to turn off the water, and unhook the hose, backtrack, coiling as he goes, dropping it on the floor, watching as Decker peels down heading to join James in the island of domesticity.
Decker’s oh so absently tossed out half assed compliment brings a grin, though it’s hidden mostly from sight. It’s not much of a compliment, sure, and nothing close to gratitude really, but from Decker, the casual comment is the best your going to get, so you just take it, and never ever really mention it. And there was a lot of blood.
And a lot of it on his jeans. Ugh. To his bunk he heads, stripping off his coat, leaving him shirtless, and grabbing a pair of sweats from his bag. And, since the Fenrir is home and brought Imogen as well, he heads to the small bathroom to peel out of blood encrusted jeans. And to Decker? On the way by “Smells better too.” Grinned, easily, over belly growling with the scent of chinese... boy was huuuuuuuungry.
(james)
Ain't we got no mo....
fingers snap and point before the Modi even finishes the phrase
all without even losing his place on the pagethere is, however, a breif glance upwards feeling his packmate move past
it contains the beginnings of a question
a what the hell did you DO to the place? sort of question
but James doesn't actually put sound to the curiosity
Imogen greeted with an offhand wave(decker)
"Makin' talens," he replies to James' questioning look as he straddles the armrest of the couch, his own eyes downcast to the bottle of beer he was twisting open. Pop-hiss. "Teach you too someday."It's a brief glance he casts his packmate. Something like fondness in it; something like humor in it. Of all the pack now, James is the one he's known the longest. Been around the most.
The bottlecap is flipped like a coin, caught, and tossed by-the-by onto a nearby table. A faint frown as he catches Imogen looking down the street, bringing him halfway to his feet, "Somethin' out there?"
(barny)
That something becomes clear quite quickly. Long powerful strides bring him towards the warehouse, and Imogen, and before long, a heavy knock on the wall beside the dor announces the outlines of a, for almost all of them, a familiar figure. But even before he is fully into view, Imogen can sense the crackling that is Barny's rage, almost burning bright. He should glow. he really should. Its not right.(imogen)
It would be impossible for her to miss a detail, particularly not one to which she was so attuned to, such as blood. The slender woman's dark eyes flick toward Tristan in greeting and then down toward the blood staining his jeans, the easy schooling of her expression keeping any reaction free from her finely carved features, as her attention shifts to the Modi, and for a brief moment, she frowns.It fades and her head tilts gesturing behind her and out the bay doors, toward the gas station and where Barny is still walking. "Th'Gaian," she says, her head turning to complete a glance over her shoulder as Barny scalds across her skin first, and comes into sight second.
"That one," she concludes, succinctly, as she adroitly steps away, her fingers lifting to the collar of her jacket, and beginning to unbutton it, the warmth already seeping through the wool.
(tristan)
He rolls his eyes slightly (teach ya sometime) Great. Hopefully somewhere ELSE next time. A wave to Imogen, and barny, as he slips into the bathroom, only to return a few minutes later, the dirty jeans replaced with softer then soft sweats clinging low on his hips, hands pushing back his curls as he makes straight for the takeout.Foooooooooood.
Chopsticks and random container grabbed – doesn’t matter what it is. It’s still warm, and it smells divine. – and he’s settling to one of the junkyard chairs and digging in.
(james)
"'precia' tha'."the space is left to wonder what kind of talens were made, exactly
not that the Gnawer is surprised by the association of anything Fenrir and blood
it was just the sheer amount that was somewhat.... unique... to previous situations"Shou' prolly teach yeh th' Rite, too, so ya dun' freeze a death if'm gone...."
offered back in the underlying fondness between packmates
colored by a faint twist of expression that could be the beginnings of a (forever) lopsided grin
he didn't catch the look the Modi cast over him
but the feeling is, in a way, returned
Decker being one of the first Garou he met after arriving in Jersey
and most certainly the longest known of Eagle's pack
they've fought at each other's sides more times than James can probably remember, now
it created the unexplainable element of affection and trust that resides deeper than what the totem providesin any event, attention is distracted by the knock near the door
coupled with Imogen's explanation
it inspires a salutory lift of the guttermutt's chin"Evenin', Ba'ny." bottle is lifted to point towards the sacks of food before a few mouthfuls are drained "Hun'ry?"
(decker)
That one. Uh-huh. Decker's stare is one of those things you can feel. And it shifts off Imogen to pick over Barny, critical, noting the rage and the anger.Not that it takes a perceptive man to see such things.
"Fuck's up wit'you?" mutters Decker, carelessly caring guy that he is. A swig of beer and he settles again. A man getting halfway up and sitting down again usually looks pretty damn awkward. The Modi doesn't. Moves like a well-oiled machine. No, strike that. There's nothing symmetrical about his motion, nothing mechanical, nothing neat and tidy.
He's smooth as oil, but thuggish, deliberately unbalanced in his perfect balance. When he's under the open sky his rage is a tornado cutting a funnel down the sidewalk. When he's indoors, it echoes between the walls like a noise with no name, bullet with no target.
Still. Was a Crescent Moon. He was flat outta weed, and he still wasn't looking as pissed as Barny. A glance at James, a snort. "Naw. Fuck that, don't git cold none."
Right, and that's why he slept under a pile of blankets and old clothes. Only Rune ever gave Decker a run for his money when it came to running up the energy bill.
(barny)
See, this is where a voice would have been perfect. Altho by the looks of Barny, he would be howling, not talking. It doesnt matter. As it is, the massive Child of Gaia just shrugs, then raises his hand slightly, shaking his head to James question of food. With a belly full of rage, there are only a few things that will sate.
Blood.
Alcohol.
Death.
But at the moment, Barny has neither, instead, he loks to Decker, and shrugs again. He is remaining at the door for a few moments, before stepping in, and closing it behind him. After all, he might barge in, but its not polite to let the cold do the same.(imogen)
Silence from the mute, only gestures that pass on his meanings better than his mangled vocal chords ever could anymore. It's one thing to exist in a self-created silence, and completely another to live in an enforced one.It's hardly even a conversation that she does not include herself in, unbuttoning her jacket, but leaving it on, for warmth or no reason at all as she leaves the immediate vicinity of the doorway, even as Barny is closing the door, his silent rage a heavy shroud full of nettles and thorns. Like the others, she too finds a seat amidst the do-it-yourself benches, peeling her gloves off her hands. Tristan digs into the food, though Imogen barely spares the chinese a glance. Her eating habits are sporadic at best, if it could be called a habit at all.
(tristan)
Gaze flicks up and over Barny, brow arching toward curls slowly. “Wanna beer then?” with a nod toward the cooler in the help yourself fashion, before chopsticks are again in motion and he’s inhaling a good portion of the food in the container. Spicy beef, yum.For a few moments, that’s all there is for him, the steady shovel/inhale that marks him as what he is. Bare shoulder flexes with ease – the right shoulder – and there’s not a twinge of pain where just two days ago he was aching with the subtlest of movements still. Imogen will most likely notice the difference, the smooth flex of mended muscle under the scar that shouldn’t be healed to ‘scar’ properties yet. Its a good thing too – he was running low on funds and between he and Dustin they seem to be attracting roommates. Fortunately, the latest one eats like a bird. Unfortunately, she’s a really loudmouthed bird.
But damn that was some good weed.
Speaking of girls.... he tips his head slightly, swallows, then looks up at Barny... “The girl – she survive?”
(james)
a brow most. certainly. lifts.
followed soon by the actual movement of his head to look at his packmate
deep umber eyes studying the Modi with a specific mix of regard and, let's face it, amusement
the greeting between them upon James' arrival in Chicago spoke otherwise
(that, most definitely, one of the more shockingly unforgettable moments)the burning synchronicity of pack reunited crackling like stripped live-wires
the demand of why the hell he took so long because somebody was freezing his ass offriiiiight.
the sound forming in the back of the Gnawer's throat might be laughter
ammend don't get cold much with get cold all the time and he may consider believing it
there is no question which Southern-born Garou of the pack stole the majority of the spare blanketsother than seconding Tristan's offer of the beer, there's no further commentary from the Full Moon
(decker)
Beer revolves a slow circle in the bottom of his bottle: how'd he get there already? Though there was more in these things than just the measly twelve fluid ounces. No comment for the question for Tristan, though there's a darkening to his demeanor. A listening. Of course he'd never hear the answer.Now you got three people choosing to keep their peace, one forced to. Abruptly enough Decker moves. Pack bonds are strange things. Like magnets: put two of a pack together and an energy flows between them. Aligned and in tune.
One gets up and it breaks. A unit of one becomes one and one again, linked only by totem and mind. He finishes off his beer and sets it down on one of the tables. Hell, maybe he even drops it into the trash. 'Cause Tristan's right. It did smell better in here.
He stops off at his mattress and digs through piles of clothes and blankets to find what he'd come here for. A roll of cash - like something he either got off Erik or, more likely, off someone he beat up.
Somehow the latter holds more honor for him. It's too cold to work the docks now. The lakes and rivers were frozen; shipping didn't come in that way anymore, and the rail always was more tightassed on hiring drifters. Just like in the wild, the winter is the lean season. But a beatdown counts as hard work. He'd still be working for his money, wouldn't he?
He stuffs his money into his thigh pocket lowers the flap over it. That he'd just left it lying on his bed, no matter how deeply buried, spoke of some measure of trust. Then he's putting his outerwear back on, finally voicing the question.
"What girl?"
(barny)
The look on Barny's face when Tristan mentions the girl, is that of someone in distress. But he nods, then walks over to the cooler. A beer grabbed, and twisted open. And the slightest of sighs, before he takes a long, healthy drink from the bottle. He remains there, by the cooler, further away from Imogen, and looking to each of those present in turn, then shrugs.(imogen)
She glances briefly at Tristan as he speaks, a stirring of a coppery eyebrow. What girl, Decker asks, and perhaps the redhead considers the same, however leaves it unasked even as Barny leaves it unanswered with a brief shrug of his shoulders.She considers the mute Garou briefly, before her gaze flicks away, attention paid now to the removal of her cigarettes from her pocket, tapping the package against the heel of her palm, momentarily, a thin sound that barely resonates against her skin.
(tristan)
He’s watching Barny for his reply, as much as he can get, knowing he’ll have to make the explanation afterwards, as the Coggie certainly cannot. Not without getting writers cramp, though he assuredly knows more about it and could fill in many more missing pieces then he, himself, can.Brow hitches higher at the look of distress, but he merely says “Toss me one there, Barny, would ya?” at first, wiping his hand on his sweats, in order to catch it when/if it does come. Flick of glance to Decker, finally, afterwards. “Lars called me yesterday” before the little dickwaving party. “Asked if there was anyone I could get a hold of to help him with a pretty fucked up little girl. He’d already killed her captors – a bsd, and more. He didn’t have much time on the phone so I don’t have the whole story.”
Shrugs, slight. Then. “Said she was in really bad shape, and needed someone with medical anyway. So called Barny’s beeper, and he dialed back that he was headed over there.” Touch tone phones are a good thing. Specially with only two options that were given for answer. Nod to the large Child of Gaia then. “Apparently they got her out... healed up too?” At least, physically so... from the screams he’d heard over the line, there’s no doubt the mental will take a hell of a lot longer to heal from, and might very well be the reason for Barny’s present ire....
(james)
page is marked, and the book summarily closed
both halves meeting with a muted exhalation of air
deep umber eyes slowly revolving around the room
studying the series of steps taken by the Modi
watching the careful positioning of the firey kin
sensing the pent up frustration of the Gaian
noting the ease of his own kinsman's act as referreehis own bottle and empty platter of food make a path towards the nearest somethinglikeatrashcan
most likely a crate or bucket that was chosen to hold trash before assignment to another (more dire?) job
the Ahroun moves to join the other beside the cooler
raggedyman folding to crouch and find some compromise in the overlapping spheres of Rage
feeling the invisable crackles of restless energy moving like strange tides between them
all the while calmy digging for another bottle for himself and Tristan
third withdrawn to offer Imogen(decker)
Silence from the Modi. It's never complete. Paradox: for as little as he speaks, he never stops moving, quite, and he never stops shedding sound.Quiet steady breathing, slow as a swimmer's. Fabric brushing fabric, scuffing ground. One shoe hissing where the air-chamber bottom ruptured. Ziiiip of zipper drawn up; pause.
True silence, just a beat of it. True stillness, caught out of motion so perfectly he could almost be beautiful.
Resume. Raise his head, and those eyes. Always those eyes. Like stars' hearts - not for the poetry of it, but for the reality of it. Roiling chaos. Flame so hot it burned past the reds, into the pales. Pale is not what his eyes are, but hot is. Angry. Shadowed so often by his lazy eyelids, which shaded those same eyes against a hazy southern sun that could never in a million years bleach the darkness out of them.
Dark grey, flat on Tristan. The zipper on his sweatshirt tracks up his chest and stops somewhere over his breastbone, leaving the collar large enough to slip and glide over his shoulders, collarbones. The sweatshirt is old and thin. It used to be black. Now it's a shade or two darker than his eyes.
"Don't ever fuckin' stop, does'it?" They can figure that one out for themselves. A shake of his head. Draw the hood on up; shadow dims the light in his eyes but not the fire. He picks the thicker jacket off the ground and slings it over his shoulder, beating a path toward the door. "Know how ta find me if Lars finds any more'a 'em."
(barny)
About to pick up a beer for Tristan, the Gnawer beats him to it, and he shrugs, and instead finishes his own. Sighing softly, only james would hear the escape of breath, he looks to Decker. Shaking his head, a glance of sadness pass the large mans features, before it again is overun by the sheer power of rage. A rage that boils and simmers and burns all at the same time. His own or james? He doesnt know, doesnt care. In some ways, it is a true comfort to have it there. It keeps the darker things in him away, keeps them from preying on him. but at times like this, it is an inferno that he cannot control, and barely survive. He looks to Tristan again, nodding slightly in affirmation. The girl had been healed, and she lives. Well, if it can be called that. Reaching down, he grabs another beer, before walking to the 'trashcan' and dropping the empty bottle into it. Two corks follow the bottle as well, and he moves over towards Tristan. His free hand going into one of the many pockets of his City Camo BDU's, only to re emerge with a note pad (a new one, again) and a pen.(imogen)
A glance toward James and his offer of beer, a brief shake of her head, "Ta," following the negation, a brief half smirk curving her mouth. It's a smirk that comes and goes quickly, and the flame-haired kin's eyes flick toward Decker as he makes his abrupt departure. The cigarette package in her hand taps briefly against her fingers, a movement that might denote thoughtfulness that her eyes do not quite bely, before she is pocketing her cancer sticks, straightening from what is a likely uncomfortable perch on the bench.Barny is about to write to the Gnawer kin, but the former Fianna speaks up anyway, her voice low when she says his name, "Tristan," to catch his attention, "If yer shoulder is feelin' up t'it," clearly she had noticed the change in mobility. "Gi' me a shout and yeh can get a slightly more useful lesson out o' me."
Fingers button up her jacket, tips still numbed from the cold.
(tristan)
He meets the Modi’s gaze, evenly, calmly – though not so flatly as Decker’s. His own dark eyes are constantly a reflection of thought, he hides very little – never has. It’s just not something he does. Very few people are as open as he. Hell, no one in the pack is as open as he, except perhaps Hyde from the brief meetings, and he’s not entirely sure that’s a good thing. Perhaps the other fenrir will rub off of him and stop rubbing off on Kemp.Fat chance there, he knows, but there’s always a bit of hope.
Gaze drops when Decker finally speaks, the curl of his lips into a smirk, with a bit of an wry, perhaps even pained, amused sound that follows. It never fuckin stops – and hasn’t since the day Imogen dropped him off at the seedy hotel that was home for the first week in town.
Decker heads off, and there’s a slight nod of agreement. He does know how to get ahold of the modi – right now, it’s simple. With James near, the totem phone is only a second away. Barny moves toward him digging out his pad, and he looks up (and up and up – he is taller then the Kin, who’s taller then everyone else in the room. Seated, of course, such things are negated into the crane of neck no matter what) and simply waits for the message to be inscribed.
Imogen speaks, and he turns to look at her, the smile spreading warm across his lips. “Thanks, Imogen. I’ll give a call tomorrow. Thanks to Barny here, I think I can handle the kick a lot better now.” Chuckled, wryly. And he MISSED the target too. Glad Decker hadn’t seen that – he’d never live it down and he’d been insufferable enough.
(james)
there's a nod from the dreadlocked Gnawer
fairly used to Imogen's declinations
however he continues to offer (at least beer and smokes) as a matter of routinewith the current round of beers seemingly doled out
one Full Moon quickly exiting, and the other having moved away
James takes a seat on the cooler itself
still quiet, still just watching, slowly draining his beer(barny)
Sitting down on the flor, across the table fromTristan, he takes a sip of the beer before slamming it onto the table, flipping the pad open, and starst writing. Indeed, writers cramp seems likely.Written> Got there. The girl had been violated (pen pressed so har dhe nearly rips the paper) and tortured, then laid spread eagle, with railroad spikes through her hands and feet. Got her lose and healed her up, only to have her attach to my neck like a fucking necklace. Basicly been that way since. Had to feed her tea with lots of Brandy to get her to sleep, and off my neck. When I wokethis morning, sleeping on the bloody flor beside the kid to make sure I was there if she woke somewhere strange, She had crawled out of bed, and was sleeping, curled up next to me, with her bloody arms around my neck. I cant talk to her and try to get her out of it either, and she doesnt listen to anyone else. And I cant reach my old sept that could care for her in a good way until thursday earliest,, when someone is going to have to call them and speak to them for me. So yeah, she is alive, but not very well.
Finishing, he tears the note off, and pushes it over the table to Tristan before leaning back slightly, the bottle once again in his hand.
(imogen)
"Good," she answers, "Gi' me a page or somethin'," she replies, as she completes the last button at her throat, and pulls out her gloves, sliding them on. "Night."Pager means she's working. Theoretically. Always. Whatever. She'd have her pager on, and she'd call him back. Her gloved hands push back strands of hair from her face as she walks toward the warehouse door, and the bitter cold outside.
(tristan)
“Night, Imogen.” He waves, before he again watches Barny write, while scraping the last bite out of his container, and tossing it into the nearest trash can like thing. Chopsticks are licked clean, then set on the table. Still writing. Grabs the beer that was tossed, pops the top and tosses that into the trash as well, before lifting the beer to his lips, and swallowing a few times.There’s a glance up at James, and a bring quirk of his lips in belated thanks for the beer. When he’d arrived, there’d been a quick glance over his brother, making sure that he’d healed well, and clean, after that shower. But he still has yet to tease him about it. Though now that he is 100% again, he just might. Soon. He finally got into his pants, after all........ even if it was for something other then enjoyment. And though James has not been teased, the pretty boy has gotten a load of it from the other Gnawer kin.
Back to Barny as he finishes writing and tears the note off, musician’s fingers reaching to grasp the note and pull it close to read. If he could growl, convincingly, he probably would, reading of the state of the girl and how she was found. The rest serves to darken his look even further, dark eyes flashing before he looks up to Meet Barny’s gaze. It’s a confirmation, in the look, that that is what has the Coggie so worked up. He clears his throat, and nods. Speaking out loud a brief (and not quite thorough – he loves his brother something feirce, and with the softspot for kids.... something they both share, he will not clarify whatever his imagination already denoted as the shape of the girl when she was found. “Yeah, the girls physically ok, but scared out of her mind. Clinging to Barny here as her savior, and making it hard for him to handle what with being unable to sooth her and talk her down.”
A pause. He drags his hands through his hair, and then softly. “Want me to try to help, Barny? I’d be happy to talk with her....” well, happy, perhaps, is too strong a word. Willing, and concerned - most certainly. “..and help any way I can.” Lack of rage, the patience of kings (he cleans up after a pack of get, and is the one who primarily deals with Kemp. The boy has more patience then most, that’s for sure.) is certain to be useful... being pretty, and approachable, with empathy for the aches of the girl an added bonus.
(barny)
Taking another long swig of the beer, he looks to Tristan. He certainly feels like growling a little himself, but it just isnt the same when all that comes is a wheeze of air. But maybe Tristan hasnt the whole gist. Not beeing able to help is a part of what has Barny so worked up. The fact that his rage has done nothing but rise steadily, simply because he has found himself helpless is even more a part of it. but he nods slightly at Tristan at his offer to help. He doesnt know how the boy could help, but hell, anything is better then having her around his own neck for a while. He almost feels sorry for Faith that she is the one having to keep the girl close now, but then just smirks. She might follow the shadow of unicorn, but she is more of a simpering healer then any other in the pack, and that has given him some trouble, if not much. He doesnt know her that well yet. Looking to Imogen and Decker, he raises a hand in good bye to them, then takes another swig of the beer. Perhaps he can find a decent liqour store around here.(tristan)
He knows more then it would seem. He’s been hanging with Ahrouns, and Get, and Get Ahrouns for over a year now. There are levels to frustrations, and keys that make some thing simply not have to be said. That it’s driving him mad is obvious, and if Tristan can earn the girls trust for a little while, to let the Coggie go out and put the beat down on something in revenge and get a better hold of his rage...Well, it will be worth it.
Helplessness is not pretty. He knows that all too well. “Alright. When your ready and all, we’ll leave a note for Dustin so he doesn’t worry, and we’ll see if there’s anything I can do...” Kids of all ages tend to instinctively trust him. Most adults do as well, perhaps because he’s always done all he can to earn, and keep, that trust.
(james)
Decker and Imogen leave
that is noted by the raggedy Gnawer
but little else is done in regards to their departure
both habitually disappearing with hardly any notice
the far more important fact is whether or not they later returnhe doesn't have to hear the conversation between the other Full Moon and his brother to glean the gist of it
aware enough of the changing tides of restrained Rage
picking up the scents of anger and concern wafting off the kinsman
but it is not until his beer is empty that the Fostern decides to movebody unfolds from the perch on the cooler
a careful concert of muscle and tendon pulling weight to his feet
the drained bottle finds its way to the nearest somethinglikeatrashcan
weight of the glass compressing whatever contents lay already within
for the next few moments, there are only a handful of other sounds:the constant growling hum of the generator
the flickering buzz of emergency lights
the distant whistle of wind the warehouse keeps at bay
the muted footsteps of his soon-to-be-replaced second-hand boots
the solid clang of two six foot long scraps of metal pips settling on the concrete just next to Barny and Tristan"Need a let 'ff s'me steam?"
dreads wander across bare shoulder when the Ahroun's head tips
dark eyes on the ever-silent Gaian
others need - a Hood provides
and it isn't like he hasn't been itching for a fight himself(barny)
He blinks, and looks to the pipes, then stands, slowly. Beer drained in a matter of two gulps, he bottle tossed into the trashcan, and he looks to the pipes. Leaning down, he picks them up, weighing them, then tosses one to James with a smile that all too clearly says that he would be more then happy too. He rolls his shoulders, looking first to Tristan, then to an area where they can have the room needed, without breaking anything but themselves. Such an insane concept, to beat the hell out fo each other with metal pipes. he loves it.(decker)
Outside he's somewhere halfway down the block. Jacket on. Collar up. Hood up. Shoulders up. Hands in pockets.Outside it's all white and ghostly blue, grey and brown, ochre and black. The spill of light from inside the warehouse and the brief burst of sparse conversation catches his attention out of the corner of his eye and he pauses. Turns a moment later, crunching snow all the way back. By then the door is closed. It's a world of shadows and paleness. Snow isn't white. Snow is clear. Whatever light falls, snow reflects. In the night it's the color of the streetlights, starlight, night-black turned grey.
But it's not the snow he looks at, no matter how great a surprise it still is after so many months. Standing, he leaves his bare hands in his pockets and just looks at her. Not a word, not a sound, not a motion beyond breathing.
It doesn't ever end, does it.
It's starting to snow again. A drifting flake catches his eye for a second. Then he shifts, the intensity of the moment diluting; he reaches out to thread her hair behind her ear. He's done this before, will do it again - so many times that there's a certain familiarity to the gesture now, a certain expertise that allows his fingers to almost carry some measure of deftness.
--
Somewhat later, and still in the dark and the paleness. The bleached dim no-colors of night: the woodtones and the creamtones reduced to grey and gray. She reaches for the light switch, or maybe she doesn't; either way, he catches her wrist, loosens his grip, takes her fingers instead. Somehow, gloves or not, his still manage to retain or regain a warmth hers will never watch.
A hesitance.
A charged quality to the air, like he'd been thinking about this for the past half hour, like he'd been wrestling about this for the past half month.
Some things can only be said in darkness, half-hushed, like a whisper given timbre: "Y'know. If y'ever told me to not... fight no more, think I just might lissen."
Eyes a glimmer in the darkness. Clothes and form a smear. Solidity in his fingers clasping hers, threading through hers, his thicker bones and tougher flesh, his calloused palm to hers.
"So..."
(don't/tell me)(imogen)
She'd walked out to meet him in the snow, the door shutting behind her with a hollow sound of metal vibrating in cement. Snow crunches underfoot, and the wind hits her like a near physical blow. It's been going steadily colder, even from the time she had left her car to now. Since she'd first seen him tonight, until now. There isn't anything but silence between them, and snow and air and the briefest mist of breath, and she looks at him, and he's looking at her. The moment becomes something else completely as he reaches out to tender back a few strands of her hair.The point of her gaze alters to follow his motion, the deft movement of his hand. She knows he's good with his hands, she has proof of his ability in the form of woodwork, a single bead that could be worn a chain or a leather thong, a small disk that could snap between her fingers, if she dared to ask for help and there was no one nearby. She's had more poignant proof of it, more immediate, his hands touching her, and he bruises her at the best of times, and the gruesome and bloody work of an animal killing its prey, or more accurate, its life time enemy, the source of every moment of strife and nearly every scar on her skin.
Later, when she reaches for the light, his hand catches her wrist in the darkness. This action, like his touching of her hair, the push of it away from her face, is familiar. Stop her from chasing away the shadows with unforgiving light that gives no room for obfuscation. He can feel a stillness beneath her skin, a moment of stasis, before his fingers begin to thread with hers, and her own close around his hand, pale long fingers brushing against the space between his knuckles. They are scraped, still, from fighting, knuckles cracked because he does not wrap them (more immediate to feel his knuckles cracking on flesh; rather than tape bound knuckles), scraped because sometimes he fought for the fun of it. Or for the need of it.
He draws breath to speak, and her eyes focus on him in the darkness, face defined by the thickness of shadows and the absence of it, rather than the introduction of light. It's dark enough to soften the directness of her gaze (but it can never be dark enough so he cannot feel it), and dark enough that the colour of her eyes is obscured by shadow and darkness.
Dark enough that he cannot read her, a feat that is often impossible in the light. So.. he says his palm against hers, and her eyes drop away, to her fingers entwined with his, and while she cannot see the scraps, she can feel them beneath the sensitive pads of her fingers, details of small tears in flesh felt against the whorls of her fingerprint.
"I'd never ask it," said simply and quietly. This close she doesn't need to speak loudly, and this close her low words are easily heard across the distance that can at seconds seem like miles and at seconds seem like scalding inches. "And... if I did. And you agreed. I doubt I could live with that." It's not a statement of morbidity, so much as a statement of fact: she would not be able to continue with that. She would have to change it, eventually. She has more honour than she gives herself credit for.
(tristan)
He looked up as James stood, and he looks down as the pipes are dropped, and he can’t help the slight chuckle. While he understands on some level the need to do this – he himself has stepped in the ring with James, on a full moon, and come out with only a concussion and bruises (it could have been worse, at least he passed out first...) and he will do it again.But with metal pipes? Nope. He doesn’t look forward to being pretty boy mush. Heck, he’s got that centerfold to keep posing for, right? Scars are sexy, boneless pulp is. well. Not.
He chuckles though, as Barny rises to the challenge, and simple reaches for the back of cooled chinese and another carton, reclaiming his chopsticks and awaiting the show.
(james)
when the Coggie accepts
there's a peculiar grin creeping across the Gnawer's faceyes, it is an absolutely insane concept to beat the hell out of each other to blow off steam
they could just as easily go search out some punks on the street for just the same result
that, however, would take time and coordination, even if there's a good probability of finding so on a lovely Saturday night
not to mention hat means venturing out into the cold
much more convenient to stay in the pleasent surroundings of the warehouse
rationalize it down to the essence of sparring
(or that James has hung around Fenrir FAR too long)his own bar caught and slung across his shoulders
arms winding around the make-shift yolk to stretch the muscles through his torso
long strides carrying him easily into the area used to park the vehicles
more than enough room to hash it out and not break anything
hand digs into a pocket and pulls out the ever-faithful grey bandana
tangle of dreads gathered back into to some semblance of "out of the way"then the discarded length of steel pipe turns into a staff in his hands
weight hefted then settles to rest loosely across the calloused skin of his palms
his own body falls into a stance bred from practice
years of training mix with a streetbrawler's easy leverage
lips part to flash a wolfish grin
Ready when you are(barny)
He follows James to the empty space, and moves to stand facing him, a few steps apart, out of reach for those pipes atleast to start with. Seeing James stretch, he smiles, then shakes his head some. And raising his free hand from his side, palm up, as if lifting something unseen, he shakes his head, then tenses. and tranforms, growing easily into the glabro shape, gainaing another 6 or 7 inches, and easily 100 pounds of bone and muscle, if not more. And he looks to james, smiling like a predator, and waits, the pipe still held easily at his side.(tristan)
The Garou move away, taking the press of Rage with them to the open area, and he stands, grasping his beer, finishing it off and tossing it into the trash. Another grabbed from the cooler, and he’s moving over to the couch, flopping there comfortably to watch.When it happens, he knows it could be in blurs so quick and furious that he may not be able to see anything at all – nothing that will give his eyes enough to focus on, to make sense of the movement. Or they could go slower, more deliberate, with careful planning if each strike. Things are often varied so in this, a (never) simple spar.
He props his feet up on the coffee table, beer between his thighs, as he munches his way through the chow mein in hand. Last night, he sat here, and watched Fenrir bleed themselves all but to death in order to make a talon and bond together. Then served them dinner with the scent heavy in the air – thick, cloying, metallic... so that it was felt with every inhale, in every swallow. Now, he sits, and watches again, the effects of Rage and frustrations and one of the many ways to fight it, so that it does not eat you alive.
And he’s as silent tonight through it all, as he was the last. Some days are harder then others to be just a kin – today, last night.... these are, were, not them. He’s perfectly content to watch.
(barny)
And Action!
From standing still, half smiling, the 450 pound, 7'4 Ahroun flows into motion. Rushing towards james the pipe raised, only to be tossed away, to lazily single through the air. Fist's balled, Barny comes within range of James, and throws a heavy punch, that connects, but just slides of James ribs. In a semi crouch, trying to get inside the weaving pipe james now uses for defence, Barny attempts an upercut to the gnawers jaw, but the steel pipe is in the way, and makes his blow slide uselessly to the side.(james)
two Full moons: both in Glabrothe one with raggedy dreads lifts a brow when the pipe is thrown away
it's enough to distract him and let the first punch land
glancing off ribs that. just. healed.
not a fan of revisiting such pains
the next swing leaves only the sound of knuckles connecting to pipe echoing through the warehouse(Rage flares)
and the Gnawer steps foreward to press his own attack
steel pipe swiveling to catch the low glow off emergency lights
metal connecting solidly with the other Garou
the first smashes Barny's jaw, the other making a bone in his arm snaponly then does James back away
challenging the Gaian with mirrored predatory grin
somehow so menacing on the mellow musician's Glabro face(barny)
Oh Gaia, it feels good. At times, he can ask for Gaia's blessing, and not feel the pain inflicted upon him. This time, he relishes in it. He doesnt even try to avoid the blows from James, but takes them, like a warrior, and like a man in need of distraction so bad, he can only smile (Or would, if his jaw would respond) to his own jaw being crushed,, andhis arm broken. Indeed, he had expected nothing less from the Ahroun he faces. A bit groggy, he takes a few steps back, his good arm moving to the one broken, and with a Snap sets it in place to heal. A deep breath, and he reaches up to do the same with his jaw, setting it straight again. indeed, it is good to be alive, and feel the pain. his eyes refocus on james, and he shakes his head, growling without sound as his body regenerates. The reason he choose to fight in glabro. It will make this last longer. The n he gets into stance, facing James again.Discarded, the pipe clatters to the ground not far from Tristan, forgotten, and shunned by the huge Gaian.
(james)
this isn't a deathmatch
so the Gnawer allows the other time to right himself
bones crackling as they resetbeyond the Full Moon's need within him to fight, perhaps there is an element of regret settled within James' proverbial soul: the very beast he's beating down now is the one that saved his life mere months ago
however the life of such regrets is breif
they both agreed to letting off a little steam
he can see the fight's thrill in the Gaian's eyes
the metal pipe flashes again as he steps in beneath the larger Ahroun's guard
steel connecting with flank to send him back a few steps(barny)
Struck over the ribs makes him grunt, an exhale of breath blasted from his lungs as his ribs groan under the onslaught. But Barny is is quick in the return, slippingpast the swirling pipe with not one, but two full blows. Blows that slide all bt unfelt from muscle and bone, and Barny dances back again, grinning through the pain. Then he raises both hands to the Gnawer, and nods deeply, smiling. a fair fight. And they both know the outcome of it. Straightening, Barny walks up to james, extending a hand to him, the giant mute truly happy.(james)
the Gnawer stood braced and ready for the next round
but as the Gaian raised his hands
James' chin dropped in a nod
enough is enough in a fair fight
and he will not beat the other to the ground
no reason when they're only doing it to relaxsteel pipe in his hand traded to shake the other's
the snarl on his lips traded for an easy, if lopsided, grin
glad to see the other happy"C'mon." head tipping towards the cooler and where the kinsman sits in open mouthed awe "Think I owe yeh a beer."
[and yes, all rolls taken out of the damn log but still in file]
Posted by james at January 25, 2004 12:00 AM
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